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WINGED TERROR
An Ecothriller in 3 Parts
BY DEVORAH FOX

Blurb

WINGED TERROR
An Ecothriller in 3 Parts
BY DEVORAH FOX

Excerpt

“Then Vulcaine came to town,” Rafe said.

“And the gravy train was overflowing again,” Ochoa said.

“I can tell ya, we were a little surprised,” his buddy piped up. “After all them other companies threw up their hands, we figured there weren’t nothin’ to drill for.”

Ochoa said, “We kinda envied the landowners in Eagle Ford and all them other places where they’re still drilling into the shale. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be for us. Except now here’s Vulcaine.”

The smoke wafting from Ochoa’s cigarette was getting to me. I tried not to cough. I smoked as a teenager, kept on through college, and into the world of work. Nearly everyone in the newsroom smoked. When the paper banned smoking in the building, we hauled our notebooks and laptops out to the street or bars so we could keep puffing away. It was ridiculous and inconvenient, and I got the message: I should quit. So I did. Now the smoke I used to eagerly suck down bothered me.

“Vulcaine digging in—pun intended—that’s a good thing, right?” I was eager to buckle down and organize all this raw material. Vulcaine wanted human interest stories. Audra and the stockholders would be pleased to learn how welcome the operation was in the minds of the locals.

“Yeah,” Ochoa replied.

I’d heard more enthusiastic “yeahs.”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“The money’s nice,” Ochoa’s buddy said.

Ochoa grimaced. “It kinda comes at a price we didn’t expect.”

“How’s that?”

Ochoa took a puff and a swallow from his beer mug. “When all the companies were doin’ was their explorations, like, we didn’t see a lot of them. They moved in some heavy equipment, sure. They didn’t stay, though. I’m guessing it was like that in gold rush days. A lot of commotion at first. When the veins played out, things went back to normal. Then Vulcaine came in and stuck around. Brought in a load of people. And their employees need stuff. It’s not like they’re gonna drive to Bonafides every time. So the Gizmo got crowded—”

“The Gizmo?”

“The General Store and Mercantile. Never used to be crowded. You could go whenever, have a nice chat with Maria while she rang you up. Now she’s too busy. Too many people waiting, in a hurry to get checked out, and there’s always a line. The Gizmo tries to keep up with the demand, except now it’s always running out of stuff.”

“Hiked the prices up, too,” his buddy said.

“And there’s always a crowd at the taqueria. You want to be sure of getting a seat, you need a reservation. For a café, can you believe? Oceana had to hire more help. They had to learn real fast. They try hard. It’s not the same, though. There’s a lot to know. Like how Leo never wants gravy on his mashed potatoes. Gravy on the side is how he likes it. And Pete doesn’t like raw onions in his salad.”

“Hiked up prices, too,” Ochoa’s buddy said. He pulled a cigarette packet from his plaid shirt pocket and tapped one out. He held out the packet to me and raised his eyebrows in a question. I shook my head and smiled my thanks.

“And the traffic. It’s quiet now. You wait until shift change. It’ll be bumper-to-bumper in and out of Inbolec—I mean, Blaireau—and gridlock on Cottonhead. Not to mention the line at the pump at Hernando’s place.”

“The Phil-Up?” I guessed.

“Hernando Phillip, yup, his place. Hiked up prices, too, he did,” Ochoa’s buddy said.

“Well, gents, that’s how the law of supply and demand works.”

“That’s a law I’d like to break.” Ochoa took another puff. On the jukebox, Carrie Underwood snickered about how she keyed some guy’s truck.

“And they’re tearing up the roads. The highway’s full of potholes that’ll swallow your truck.”

I noticed that on the drive. “That’s a state highway. TXDOT will see about fixing those.”

“When they get around to it. And Cottonhead’ll need repaving, and that’s city property. We’ll end up paying for that.”

“I’m surprised they don’t want to rename it Blaireau Road,” Ochoa’s buddy said. He glanced around the bar. “Like they made Rafe rename this place. Been ‘The Cursed Swamp’ long as I can remember.”

“Yet I don’t see any Blaireau people here. I’m guessing y’all are local, am I right?”

“Yeah,” Ochoa said. “They made Rafe change the sign.” Ochoa snorted. “It’s still the same ole ‘Cursed Swamp’ to us. The oilfield workers do their drinking at that new hotel. A lot of them are staying there anyway. Just as well. There’s enough accidents out on the highway as it is. We don’t need no drunk roughnecks crashing around out there.”

“Is that so?”

“Never used to be that way. At least they finally put up that sign. Now not so many big rigs blowing past the turnoff and pulling U-eys in the middle of a 75-mile-an-hour highway.”

Traffic, congestion, crowding, highway accidents, increased prices—the more I lingered, the longer the list of complaints grew. What had looked like a human interest story about how the local community benefited from the operation was shaping up to be a saga about a community that was not happy with its new neighbor.

“So maybe you can tell me something, guys.” I fondled the beer mat. “What’s the story behind the Cursed Swamp? Is that just some in-joke?”

Rafe shook his head. “Nope. There really is one. A little west of town. It’s been there as long as anyone can remember. Even Grandad knew about it.”

“What makes it cursed? Are there ghosts?” That would have nothing to do with Vulcaine’s operations but would make a great story for The Pump or my blog, assuming Vulcaine OK’d it.

“Monsters. According to an Indian legend. Big lizard-like things. With wings. And claws. That can spit fire. They live in the swamp and don’t bother no one unless they’re disturbed.” Ochoa scoffed. “It’s a boogeyman story. It’s a dangerous spot, though: the swamp. Quicksand. Animals get trapped in it. People too if they’re not careful. Generations ago, enough people died there, no matter how much they were told to stay away. Animals still get sucked down now and then.”

“What kind of animals?”

“Oh, you know. Coyote. Foxes. Stray cats and dogs. Lizards and snakes. Deer. Bears. You’d think they’d see the bones and take the hint.”

“Deer and bear? An animal that strong can’t get out?”

“I’m tellin’ ya,” Rafe said. “Dangerous.” He leaned forward, eyebrows drawn. “Cursed,” he intoned.

About Author Devorah Fox…

Links to Devorah’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:

Amazon: https://link.amazon/B07j4hYBr