Swamped!


 
 
 Swamped!
 by Ken Wells with Hillary Wells 
 © Copyright 2023 Ken Wells with Hillary Wells
 ISBN 978-1-64663-886-4
 
 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
 This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
 Published by
 
 3705 Shore Drive
 Virginia Beach, VA 23455
 800-435-4811
 
 This is a work of the imagination. While the Great Atchafalaya Swamp (also known as the Atchafalaya Basin) is a real place, the authors have taken some liberties in descriptions of flora, fauna, and landscapes. 
 SWAMPED!
 
 
 
 
 
 Ken Wells with Hillary Wells
 
 
 CHAPTER 1
 
 JACK CANE LANDRY stirred awake from a deep and troubling fog, a bright sun warming his face.
 Confused at first, he lifted an arm to block the golden orb stabbing at his eyes.
 Where am I? he thought. Is this a dream?
 Glancing to his right brought a shocking sight—and the horror of it cleared his head.
 It was a nightmare—except the nightmare was real. 
 Olivia FitzGerald, motionless, eyes closed, sat slumped in the seat next to him, a smear of blood painting her left cheek. A jagged metal object separated them, something speared into the seat back with obvious violence.
 Had it veered a few inches to either side, it could have severed limbs. Jack shuddered at the thought.
 “Olivia?” he said. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?” 
 She didn’t stir.
 Was she alive?
 A bolt of panic seared through Jack’s fog. God, the plane really went down. We crashed. We—
 Jack shook his head, trying to clear it.
 The glaring sun made it obvious that the sheared-off rear of the aircraft that sheltered them faced east. He stared out at the gaping opening before him. The extended tail section of the Otter float plane sat on an apron of soft marsh, explaining, maybe, why they were alive. The spongy ground had cushioned their fall from the sky.
 Across an expanse of dense marsh, Jack could make out the rest of the plane—the cockpit nose down, jabbing into the swamp bottom, wings bent and broken nearby. Debris lay all around. 
 A memory of terror filled his head—lightning, the violent explosion of thunder, the plane lurching crazily through the blackest clouds Jack had ever seen, Olivia clutching at his arm, screaming, “Oh, God! Oh, God! No, no, no!”
 Joe Desmoreaux, the pilot, yelling, “C’mon, c’mon, gimme some speed!” as the plane coughed and sputtered and spun and then plummeted through the storm clouds.
 Terrence FitzGerald, Olivia’s father in the seat next to Joe, turning back and saying calmly, “It’s okay. We’ll be fine.”
 An opening in the clouds as the plane gained speed and tried to right itself, shuddering and rocking, its stall horn blaring. And then, just as suddenly, a shadowy line of trees appearing in the fading, eerie light, and a jarring bang, the shock rattling the cabin as the plane broke apart.
 Jack could remember the blistering rain on his face; the slap of cool, wet air; the sickening, sideways roller-coaster gyrations as they spun around and hit the ground; objects flying around the cabin as they skidded upright across the marsh; Olivia’s shriek; the scream that formed in his own head but that was swallowed by his terror.
 A loud thump as they rolled across what might have been a log. And then, for a long while . . . nothing.
 Until now.
 How could they even be alive?
 Cupping his hands to his mouth, Jack called out toward the wreckage of the cockpit. “Joe, are you there? Joe! Mr. FitzGerald, can you hear me? Anybody out there? If you can hear me, say something!”
 He held his breath, waiting, but the swamp swallowed the fading echoes of his voice. 
 Silence.
 The storm had clearly blown past, leaving behind a perfect autumn morning. The sky preened blue and calm. Layers of fog lazed in the nearby cypress tops.
 A crow cawed in the distance, breaking the silence.
 Jack forced himself to move. Unbuckling the three-point harness that had kept him in his seat and no doubt saved his life, he shifted gingerly at first, testing his arms and legs. Nothing seemed broken. A long, shallow gash on his right forearm still oozed blood. Something crowded the vision in his right eye. He reached up, his hand touching a large knot above his eyebrow.
 It didn’t hurt.
 None of it hurt, though it should.
 Shock? Jack wondered.
 He shook his head. Swiveling in his seat, he looked into the compartment behind him. A pair of dirty work gloves sat atop a stack of life vests. How hadn’t they been blown from the wreckage?
 Everything else of value unsecured seemed to have been tossed into the void. Jack suddenly realized that their backpacks, which had been at their feet with bottles of water, energy bars, and their iPhones, were gone. 
 “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. 
 Not that cellphones would work in the cover of the deep swamp. But Jack could see maybe getting a signal if he climbed to the top of a tall cypress tree. No use thinking of that now. 
 Jack pulled on the work gloves and tackled the jagged piece of metal between him and Olivia, clearly some torn-off part of the fuselage. He grabbed it top and bottom and, with a sawing motion, worked it back and forth until it broke free. He pitched it out of the gaping opening in front of him and heard it