The Swamp by Nidheesh Samant
It is a winding road with many steep curves. Not that I can see it from the boot of the car, but I can feel it all too well. The rag stuffed inside my mouth prevents the built-up bile from spewing out. My hands and feet being tied up leave me no path to escape. I am his prisoner. And soon to be victim.
The worst part is that I know what is approaching, and where I am being taken. What I do not know is how long I have left. Not knowing something is a journalist’s biggest kryptonite. Ironically, it is knowing too much that is going to get me killed. I wonder how he is going to do it. Blow a hole through my brain with one clean shot? Or maybe, he will chop up my body with his carving blade. In all honesty, he can employ any of his many murderous methods. He is after all, the Butcher of Bombay. I never realized that I who had given him the name, would end up as one of his victims. Imagining all the gruesome possibilities has given birth to a fresh batch of puke, drawing tears from my eyes.
I’ve stopped moving now. I can listen to the engine shutting down, the car door opening and getting slammed shut. The approaching footsteps grow louder until they stop right outside. The trunk snaps open and there he stands, looking straight at me with his gelid grey eyes. His bushy moustache crescents over his sneering mouth.
I twist and writhe my body, struggling to get my feet on the ground without the support of my hands. The Butcher sighs and drags me out of the trunk with one hand, tossing me into the mud. He snatches out the rag from my mouth in disgust and tosses it away. A new stench invades my senses, quickly replacing the reek of stale vomit. I can smell a foul mixture of decay and putrefaction in the miasma permeating the air. I scramble to my knees. The stench and the mushy ground indicate only one thing. He has brought me out to the swamp.
My investigations have led me to believe that my tenebrous surroundings hold many graves. It is the Butcher’s place of choice to conduct his misdeeds. I had never found the exact spot in my searches, but considering how desolate the location was, I was not surprised. I can see now why it’s such an ideal spot for the Butcher. It’s remote. It’s eerily silent. And most importantly, the bodies dropped here will slowly be swallowed in by the quagmire, eliminating all evidence. The cold bastard continues staring at me, fiddling with his gun.
“So, do you like the place? You have worked so hard to find it.”
“It suits you, inspector. Definitely your style.”
He seems satisfied with the suppressor fit on his gun muzzle.
“I’m impressed. Even staring in the face of death hasn’t rid you of your sense of humour. I must say I will miss reading your columns. Even though you chose to slander me in almost all of them.”
I shrug my shoulders in response.
“I would hardly call the truth slanderous. I only wanted the world to see the real you.”
The inspector places a hand on his forehead and guffaws heartily.
“You see where that lead you.”
I smile to myself. He isn’t wrong. I knew the risks when I took it upon myself to expose the misdeeds of the police force. If only I had focused on my cardio as well.
Earlier tonight, an anonymous caller had tipped me off, giving me the location of Inspector Shikhawat’s secondary flat. It was off-grid and I knew that had to be where I would find the records of his shady dealings. I managed to sneak into the apartment through the balcony. Confident that the inspector wasn’t around, I began combing the place for clues. I was looking for any sort of proof that could substantiate the claims I made in my columns. No sooner had I unearthed a folder of suspect bank statements, than I heard the turning of the lock on the main door. My informer had betrayed me! I tucked the folder into my tee and snuck out of the balcony as the door slammed open. I was careful enough not to be spotted. Alas, his keen ears caught my descent. He was already on to me by the time I reached the ground floor. I rushed into the stormy night trying to lose the Butcher on my tail in the lonely winding streets. That is when my lack of cardio came to bite me in the ass. I ran out of breath within a few minutes. He caught up to me and struck me down with a heavy fist. I regained consciousness only in the darkness of the boot of his car. I had lost the evidence, and now I was about to lose my life.
The inspector aims the gun directly at my head. From my periphery, I notice movement in the shadows. Is my mind playing tricks on my eyes in my final moments? The Butcher growls at me.
“Have the courtesy to stare death in the face. But then again, what would you know about it?”
I turn back towards the stocky man.
“You’re right. I have no idea about being so nonchalant about ending innocent lives.”
The inspector sniggered, toying with his pistol.
“Still hanging on to your humour, eh? Very well. Rather have a man smiling than slobbering and grovelling at my feet. Any last requests?”
I strain against the constraints on my arms. No good. There really is no way to escape. Suddenly, my eyes catch another movement in the shadows, a vague figure slithering across the ground. I wet my parched lips.
“I want you to admit to the killings. I wanted to publish the proof to the world, but I guess I will have to settle for your confession.”
The inspector retrieves the folder of his misdeeds from inside his jacket and waves it teasingly in front of me.
“Sorry, you aren’t going to get this. However, I’m not cruel. I shall grant you your final request. Yes, I killed dozens of innocents. Right here, in fact. Right where you kneel. And yes, I did it for the money. What can you do about it? What can anyone do about it?”
Almost as a response to his words, a strong gust of wind hits us in the face. A dismal wailing fills the emptiness of the swamp. The wind intensifies as a mass steps out of the shadows from behind the inspector. Its slimy body slithers towards us, squelching through the boggy ground. I can make out an obscure face with a pair of drooping yellow eyes trained on us. The inspector lets out a gasp and begins firing at the moving lump. The bullets seem to have no effect on it. He empties his clip, unable to make a single dent.
The voice is garbled but I can make out the two words clearly. “Not again!”
The stocky man trips over his own feet. There he lies trembling uncontrollably on the ground. He seems to have frozen in shock. Somehow, my fight or flight instinct activates, letting me break free of the constraints on my hands. I immediately begin fumbling around the ones tied to my feet. The greyish slime slowly begins creeping over the inspector. Within seconds, it swallows up the man whole. My heart continues pounding. I’m still unable to get my legs free in face of the approaching doom. However, the slimy mass stops in its tracks. It lets out another wail. This time, it does not seem dismal. To my surprise, I see the inspector’s folder of misdeeds shooting out from inside the slimy entity. It lands directly in front of me. The mass slowly retreats into the shadows, dissipating as it goes along.
I stare at the folder, contemplating in silence. It looks like the truth will make its way into my article after all. And yet, the truth I know will remain stranger than fiction.
Nidheesh has been previously featured in Railroad Tales by Trevor Denyer, The Lost Librarian's Grave by Redwood Press and will feature in the upcoming 99 Tiny Terrors by Pulse Publishing. You can find Nidheesh’s blog at thedarknetizen.wordpress.com and twitter @darthnid.
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