Bob came out of the tent that had been set up as a temporary shelter. He had snuck back to his house and found a bottle of wild turkey which he worked on finishing off. It burned his throat. He wandered through the broken-down trailer park, feeling sad at the sight. Feeling sad for his neighbors. He took another drink and gazed off into the marshes. That was when he saw it —a flicker of blue. His interest was perked up as he paused in the midst of taking another drink. Whatever it was, it was beautiful. It flickered brightly and seemed to beckon him.
Of course, it was just bog lights, nothing special, but somehow, this was special. It was like spotting the end of a rainbow. He found his feet heading toward it, carrying the rest of his drunken self along. What was the big deal if he wanted a better look? What the hell? He was a grown man; he could look if he wanted.
The closer he got to it, the more it seemed to glow until it was no longer flickering but casting a steady light in the fog. Was it bog lights? Maybe it was a flashlight. Suddenly, he realized he could hear voices. They sounded familiar, like the voices of family greeting him, urging him to join them.
The light flickered and seemed to hum, drifting lazily back and forth over the road. Bob got closer and closer to it, listening to the voices. Just as he thought he'd get to touch it, his foot came down onto the ground and kept sinking. A hand burst out and grabbed his leg, dragging him down into the marshy quicksand. It was so fast that the shock pulled him out of his trance, and he opened his mouth to scream for help, but it was too late. The grit and dirt poured into his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut, catching dirt that painfully scratched at his eyes and he clawed, trying to get back out to get to air.
There was no air. The horrible feeling of drowning made Bob's chest ache as he tried to scream through the bog. Before he passed out for his final journey to death, he realized he was being dragged further down to his grave. The night was once again silent.
***
The next day Father Barnes gazed sadly out at his flock. They looked worn and tired, and he sympathized with them. He had volunteered to help pass supplies and set up the bunk beds under the military tent. Several people were homeless now, and he felt almost bad about passing around the collection plate, although he knew some of his parishioners were not only unaffected by the tragedy but very well off to boot.
He crossed himself and then led a prayer. His sermon was one of hope and love and heavily focused on how God would reward those who helped others, not just themselves. By the time he was ready to lead the songs, most of his parishioners had looked a bit better now that he reminded them they weren't alone and God worked in mysterious ways.
Father Barnes had been a priest for over thirty years and had seen his fair share of disasters, but the earthquake was a new experience. He had never felt one before. The vibrations woke him up and rattled his shelves, and spooked him enough to be scared of it happening again. He sustained minor roof damage, and his church had no damage at all that he could see. Finding out some had lost their home had been devastating, and he hoped the governor would reach out to get a roof over those people's heads.
He gave a final speech and wished all of them a good day and to embrace God's love. He went out to personally say goodbye to all of them. He would be doing more volunteer work, and he hoped the day would be uneventful.
After his sermon, he made his way to the trailer park. Father Barnes could honestly say if God was ever mad at the faithful, He would show it. Show it He had. Most of the trailers had been knocked over. Tents were set up by the military to provide food and shelter. Father Barnes was grateful for that and wanted to show his parishioners he was still available and reminded them God was good if they had lived through the quake.
He did compassionate work and tried to spend time with people and do what he could to help them ease the pain and shock of losing so much in such a little time. For sure, he felt awful for the children who were not only homeless now but some who had lost someone in the quake. They were shocked and grief-stricken, and he knew no amount of words would comfort them as they were forced to deal with the fragility of life.
The military tents set up held cots and small one-drawer dressers. One hundred and twenty people, mostly from the trailer park who had been displaced by the earthquake, jostled about trying to keep out of each other's hair. Nerves were frayed, and Father Barnes tried hard to keep their hopes up.
The insurance company was already assessing damage, and most of the park was considered a total loss, but money wouldn't be paid out anytime soon until a complete investigation was done. In which case, the investigation was merely there to plod along, taking as long as possible before the insurance companies would part with any money.
Father Barnes glanced around. He had just spent an hour doling out supplies and food. The food was military rations, but it was hot, and people were hungry and cross from the heat. He thought he might see if the volunteers or even if his church would spring for some cold ice cream. People needed something other than this depressing shelter so they could remember the good things in life.
Especially the children.
As he started his rounds to talk to people a chilling scream ripped through the air. A child's scream. There was panic and a rush to find the one making that god-awful noise. As they exited the tents, Barnes pulled ahead, slightly pushing past those who stood outside. He had been a fireman once upon a time before he got his calling. The scream was repeated. It was coming from the swamp. He and several others burst through a crop of trees to a clearing. There was indeed a child there, Mrs. Compton's little girl Alice and she was screaming because something was resting on the ground, half in and half out of the swamp. Barnes immediately knew it was a man. Despite the build-up of crud and mud all over him, it was definitely a man. He knelt and nudged him. "Sir? Sir?"
There was no response. Barns reached for his neck and found no pulse. The figure was also cold, not just from the mud but from the touch of death.
The little girl was in her mother's arms sobbing.
"Father Barnes, who is it?" someone called.
Barnes shook his head. "I don't know, someone call the police."
"Was he killed ?" someone asked in a thin voice.
Barnes shook his head. "Let's not be hasty, folks. The police will give us the answers we can't get ourselves." He hesitated a moment longer, then leaned forward and brushed the mud off the corpse's face.
"That's Bob!" someone said.
There was a babble of noise.
"He fell in the bog!"
"Drunk, no doubt."
"You don't know that!"
"It's Bob. He is always drunk."
"Why did he come to the swamp in the first place?"
"Yes, why?"
"Alright, folks that enough. Please clear out of here. The police will want to cordon this area off. Let's not be hasty; we'll know as soon as the police know. In the meantime, I think it would be wise for everyone to stay out of the swamp."
There were murmurs of agreement.
While he shooed them away, Barnes took one last look at the luckless Bob and shivered. To drown in the bog of the swamp seemed to be a truly horrible way to go. He hoped he didn't see such a thing again for as long as he lived.
