Static Road

Noon presses down on the flooded bayou, thick and hot on the boy’s neck. Yet every streetlamp along the rickety pier glows white, humming over sunlit water. He nudges his board across warped planks; each bulb gives off a dull vibration that crawls along his jaw.

Ruckus sniffs between boards, uneasy. Hunger curls tight in the boy’s gut. He tears his last granola bar in half, gives the larger piece to the dog. Ruckus eats it slowly, tail tapping once against the wood.

At the pier’s end, three fishermen stand in a perfect row. Lines vanish into green water, but none of them reel or blink. Their eyes shine the same cold white as the lamps.

The boy taps his bat once against a plank. A single firefly—its belly glowing too bright—drifts toward a nearby bulb. He swats it. The bug pops in a flash that smells like scorched wire. The fishermen don’t move.

He pulls the map from his pocket. The trail runs straight across the bayou, ignoring the water and the lights. Ruckus lets out a low, broken sound—not quite a growl, not quite a whine.

“We’ll find a bridge,” the boy says, and backs away. His wheels clack against the uneven wood.

Halfway down the planks, the lamps flicker. One by one they snap dark, chasing them toward shore. The fishermen lift their heads in unison. Smiles spread too wide across their faces.

The boy freezes—then bolts. Ruckus sprints beside him, paws splashing through shallow puddles. Behind them, the last lamp dies.

Footsteps follow. Soft. In sync. Like something practicing human.

Lake Charles, Louisiana – 30.2° North, 93.2° West