Confederate Crypt Isle

   The Texas lighthouse, Hope Isle, has been a sentinel of protection from the dangerous shoals of the East Texas coastline since 1862 when the port of Bull Run Bay, Texas, was one of the leading cattle exporters to the Confederate states of Florida and Georgia. Now, it protected merchant vessels for the United States of America.

  On the tiny rock of an island surrounded by the meditative sound of steady waves washing on it, the three-man crew of lighthouse keepers were taking advantage of the sunny, brisk spring morning to complete their outside chores.

  Ricky Compton emerged from the quarter's portion of the 130' lighthouse (the tallest functioning on the Texas coastline), shielding his eyes from the sharp morning sun. Ricky, the crew foreman who manned Hope Isle, had been tending to the lighthouse's needs for the past twenty-three years. He loved the solitude Hope Isle offered him away from the judgments of the good Southern Baptists of Bull Run Bay.

  Ricky walked to the west side of the lighthouse in search of his crew, Buddy and Chet. Buddy and Chet stood fifteen feet on scaffolding, listening to 'Sympathy for the Devil' by the Rolling Stones and painting Hope Isle's sunbleached lower black ring. Ricky caught their attention when he turned down the volume to the portable Bluetooth radio before addressing the pair.

  "Hey boys, I'm gonna work on the faulty wiring to the outside lights this mornin'. Do y'all have everything y'all need?"

  "Yup," replied Buddy with a Marlboro 100 dangling from his mouth. Buddy was a squat thirty-five-year-old who, on most days, could be found wearing worn-out overalls, a stained white American flag t-shirt, and his worn sweat-salt-stained tree camo Trump cap with

  "Chet, you need to go back into the galley and clean up your breakfast mess before you do anything else," Ricky said in his gruff voice.

  "Damn, I forgot, sir. I'll go do it now," the rangy twenty-four-year-old said in his nasally East Texan accent. He climbed down from the scaffolding, shook his dark brown hair out of his face, gave Ricky a nervous smile, and made his way to the galley.

  "Chet, don't forget to contact NWS (National Weather Service) in two hours to give 'em your update."

  "I won't, Ricky. I've set a reminder."

  "Good deal." Ricky looked up at Buddy. "Please go to the helipad and make sure there's no debris, 'cause Javier will be here for a supply run at 07 tomorrow."

  "I got it on my list already," Buddy winked, causing ash to fall off the end of his Marlboro.

  "You and Chet, meet me in the galley at noon. The pot roast I have in the crockpot will be ready by then."

  "Shet, we won't be late for lunch," Buddy chuckled.

  "Y'all ain't ever late to eat; it's the only time I can count on y'all," Ricky said, giving a Buddy sly wink.

  He fished around in his pants right pocket, produced his Bluetooth earbuds case, put one in his left ear, scrolled on his phone to the YouTube app, and started his playlist with Goerge Strait's 'Fool Hearted Memory.' He began humming along with the ol' Texas troubadour while buckling his tool belt around his thick, not out-of-shape, waist. He looked south towards Bull Run Bay's docks, which could just be seen in the clear blue Texas horizon; a smile spread across his thin lips.

  At noon, the crew met in the galley. Ricky and Buddy began setting out the bowels and silverware while Chet was on the radio updating the NSA with the 12 p.m. weather and waves update. The morning had been clear skies with a few lazy clouds, and the smell of salt perfumed the light breeze from east over the Gulf of Mexico.

  "That pot roast smells amazin' Ricky, thank ya," remarked Chet as he came from the radio room into the galley.

  "Let's hope it tastes as good as it smells," Rick replied as he pumped three strong dashes of Tabasco sauce into his bowl.

 After grabbing the last pack of Premium brand saltine crackers, Buddy was the last to sit at the table. Once he sat in his chair, they bowed their heads, ready for Ricky to say grace over their lunch. Ricky never allowed anyone to eat any meal in his lighthouse without giving proper thanks to God. Coming from a poor background, he was forever grateful for every meal.

  After Ricky said grace, they began digging into their bowls of pot roast. Chet joked with Buddy about how soon his Dallas Cowboys would get knocked out of the playoffs, to which Buddy gave him the bird. Ricky told them he'd gotten enough volunteers to help with the special needs children who would take part in a calf scramble geared to them at the upcoming Sherrif's Posse rodeo.

  Their lunch was interrupted when, from the communications room, the radio gave out a high-pitched squeal, causing the trio to cover their ears with their hands and grit their teeth.

  "God damn it!"

  "Don't use God's name that way, Chet," chastised Ricky while getting up from his seat and going to the communications room. The radio squealed until he walked into the room, and then it gave out a loud popping sound. Electricity arched out of it, and then the radio died with a puff of a black, ozone-smelling cloud.

   A blinding lightning bolt pounded the small rock so close to Hope Isle that the men gasped and had to shield their eyes. The roar and violent vibrations from the thunder that followed caused them to become momentarily disoriented. The thunder shook Hope Isle so much that books fell from their shelves, and silverware and plates in the galley reverberated after the thunder stopped.

  Chet and Buddy let out several curse words. Ricky looked wild-eyed out the window as he watched the skies turn an ominous black over Hope Isle. The sudden storm showed the sun, who was lord of the skies, by removing any trace of the glowing orb. The furious gale howled its discontent that Hope Isle and its inhabitants dared to stand before it.

  The lights began to flicker throughout Hope Isle, and then they, too, burst, shrouding the men in the darkness of the storm. The scaffolding that Chet and Buddy had been working on began to rattle, giving way to the storm's might, and was propelled out to sea.

  "Everyone, do a window and

hatch check," Ricky ordered. I'm gonna check the breaker panel and the genny to see why it hasn't fired up."

The crew set out to secure Hope Isle from being overtaken by the wicked weather. Ricky wrestled with the wind to open the door to the main walkway so he could go outside. He fought with all his might until he could force the door open, and he was greeted with the hue and cry of the maelstrom.

  Outside, Ricky was soaked in an instant and had to shield his face from the rain that was doing its best to pressure wash his flesh from his face. Ricky reached the 25 yards to the engine room, or more to the point where it should have been. He was shaken to find the structure had been wiped away and the generator was in shambles. Ricky checked the machine anyway in vain hope, but the generator was kaput. Fighting the strong wind gusts that threatened to send him into the turbulent Gulf waters, Ricky fought his way back into Hope Isle's sanctuary. 

  Ricky stumbled into the main entrance's hallway, took a second to compose himself, and used his hands to remove the rainwater from his cropped, short brown hair and face. He could never think of a time when a storm of this magnitude had snuck up on him. He felt like a robber had snuck up and clubbed him from behind.

  He walked past through the galley, entered the living quarters, and found Buddy and Chet holding their phones in their hands and fear in their eyes.

  "All windows and hatches secure?"

  "Yes, sir," they both said, not looking away from their phones.

  "There's no cell signal," Chet said, a slight tremble in his voice; Ricky expected him to be nervous. This was Chet's first month serving and the first significant storm he experienced at Hope Isle. Everyone was nervous about their first brutal storm, and this experience would make or break him. 

  Ricky checked his phone; no signal. He did not expect to have a signal, as cell service at Hope Isle was weak on a clear day.

  "Alrighty boys, there's not much we can do now but wait this nasty booger ova' storm out. We'll stay in the living quarters (the living quarters did not have any windows to avoid flooding and to keep the daylight out for any of the crew that day slept for the night watch). Then we'll call inland to let 'em know our predicament and get Javier to hustle us a new radio," Ricky said in as untroubled a voice as he could muster. Keeping the crew calm and himself was paramount.

  The wind roared like the breath of a towering kaiju.

  Buddy gave a nervous chuckle and said, "Damn, Ricky, I think I shat my drawers!"

  "I wouldn't know if you had because you always smell like manure." This bit of banter got a laugh from the crew and brought peace, if only for a second, because a knock came at the main door a second later.

  The men looked at each other with puzzled faces. The knocking came again. It was not a loud banging but a polite three raps, and they could all hear with clarity over the storm's violent winds.

 'What the Hell? ' cried Chet. "Tell me I'mn't the only one who heard someone knocking at the front door."

  "I heard it too," responded Ricky.

  "Me too," muttered Buddy.

  The knocks at the door came again in the same cadence and politeness.

  "I'm gonna check the door; y'all stay put, "ordered Ricky. There's gotta be something stuck against the door." Ricky could tell by their faces that they doubted his theory.

  Ricky went towards the door, and the three knocks came again. Ricky paused before opening the door, inhaled a deep breath, and exhaled it, and with apprehension, his hand reached for the large white door knob.

  Before Ricky turned it, he noticed Buddy and Chet had disobeyed him and stood behind, trying to peek past him. They both had large carving knives they retrieved from their magnetic holder in the galley in their hands.

  "Really," Ricky said, narrowing his eyes at them, but neither answered him. The fear in their eyes said it all. They were spooked, and the knocks came again, causing all three men to gasp.

  Ricky opened the door, and there stood the knocker, an old gentleman with a polite smile. He wore a nice dark blue suit with gold cuff links and dark tan dress shoes. In his right hand, he held an umbrella. The umbrella should have been impossible to hold in the maelstrom, but the caller held it as if there was only a tranquil afternoon rain.

  "Hello, gentlemen (his voice held an aristocratic Scandinavian inflection that matched his visage). My name is Nikulás Hudič," he said, bowing his head while maintaining eye contact with the men. I apologize for arriving at your doorstep unannounced. May I be permitted to enter?" The wind screamed.

  Ricky stood aside, making room for the gentleman to enter Hope Isle. After Nikulás Hudič entered, Ricky shut the door behind him, and the old man gave a slight shake of his umbrella as he folded it up and sat it by the front door. He looked at the knives that Buddy and Chet held in their hands. "Are there chickens here needing carving?"

  The pair looked at him and then down at their knives, realizing that out of some primal instinct, they held them, pointing directly at Nikulás Hudič; with some reluctance, Buddy and Chet lowered them to their side.

  "How did you get here, sir," asked Ricky.

  "That's a discussion for another time. Let us go to the kitchen for some tea while we discuss the reason for my visit," at that moment, the high-pitched whistle of a tea kettle came from the galley. The men gave each other an astonished look. "Come," Nikulás Hudič said as he strolled past Buddy and Chet towards the galley. The crew of Hope Isle had a surreal moment as if they had somehow managed to mingle their dreams to manifest this moment.

   The crew entered the galley to find Nikulás Hudič sitting at the table. "Please sit down and join me," he said, sipping from an elaborate ivory tea cup whose intricate decorations acted as an ever-changing kaleidoscope. Simple tea cups were filled at the three other places at the table. The trio sat down; Ricky was the only one who dared touch the teacup in front of him, albeit with trembling hands. Nikulás Hudič looked about the galley, "This place has changed since the last time I visited."

  "You've been here before," asked Chet, "You mean on a tour or something."

  "A tour? No, I do not tour. I was here before when this little rock of an island was only populated by greedy seagulls getting fat off the flesh of dead men," Nikulás Hudič responded and sipped his tea.

  "The Hell you mean deadmen," gasped Buddy, "We ain't never lost anyone here, and Hope Isle has been here longer than you and I have been alive. You are trying to fuck with us, you old weirdo."

  "I am no liar," Nikulás Hudič said, giving Buddy a glare that came close to causing him to lose his bladder. I was here the night the ironically named CSS Almo, a Confederate troop ship, ran aground on this rock. They had just come from supporting a supposed uprising of African slaves who the soldiers massacred without mercy." He met each of their gazes. "I still remember the shrieks of those being eaten by the tiger sharks and the pleas of those who died from exposure over the next few days. This small island had another name soon after."

  "Confederate Crypt Isle," Ricky said.

  "Ah, that's correct, Richard." Nikulás Hudič nodded. "Now," he said, placing his ever-evolving tea cup on the table, "let us discuss the reason for my visit. I am here to collect those souls due me like I did years ago." Buddy and Chet made to get up. Nikulás Hudič waved his hand, forcing them back into their chairs. They struggled but found themselves held to their chairs by unseen fetters.

  "Let's start with you, Mr. Berry Edwin Rietz." Chet and Ricky both looked at Buddy. Buddy's bladder couldn't contain itself any longer; urine ran down his legs.

  "How do you know my name," Buddy whimpered.

  Nikulás Hudič ignored his question, "It seems you enjoy torturing the innocent. especially those that you deem unworthy of the sanctuary of your young nation." Buddy's eyes widened, and tears rose, "Did you know that they died, Berry?" Nikulás Hudič looked at Ricky, "Your friend here found a young migrant mother and her two young babes last summer, and instead of offering them shelter from the summer sun, he stripped them of what little supplies they had, butted the woman in the face with his rifle, and then shot at them forcing them to run. Run they did until they could no longer. The summer's heat overcame them; their ending was miserable and drawn out."

  Buddy began blubbering, snot and tears poured over his quivering lips, "But, they were illegal wetbacks! I was doin' what I thought was right for my country!"

  Nikulás Hudič gave him a barracuda smile: "As am I, Berry." With that, Buddy's body began to shake violently. The ground beneath him began to open up, and creatures intent on violence clawed at his body. Buddy tried to struggle free but was pulled into the void, screaming louder than the gale outside.   

   Nikulás Hudič turned his attention to Chet, "Chet Ryan III-"

   "I know why you are here for me," Chet interrupted in a guilt-ridden voice.

   "Yes, there's a family still looking for their three-year-old son. Is there not Chet?" The gale outside picked up its mournful howls, and Chet let tears stream from his clenched eyes and nodded.

  "Oh my God, you murdered a little boy," Ricky said in astonished anger to Chet. Chet did not reply; he sat, his head bowed in shame.

  Nikulás Hudič gave a sarcastic laugh, "Murdered? Yes, but before he ended the boy's life, he took his time with him, playing out all of his corrupt fantasies while the boy pleaded for his freedom."

  Chet wept, and Ricky was filled with rage.

  "How could you?" But before Chet could answer Ricky, the void opened under him, and he was dragged to his eternity of torment.

  "I guess I'm next," Ricky said with stern resignation. "I reckon I know my sin that is sending me to Hell."

  "And, what sin would that be, Richard?"

  Richard looked at Nikulás Hudič, "For the sin of being a gay man, an abomination to God as they say."

  "You have lived a good life, and I regret to tell you that a sudden storm has cut short your life and obliterated Confederate Crypt Isle."

  "I'm dead?"

  "Yes."

  "I ain't going to Hell for being gay?"

  Nikulás Hudič finished his tea and replied, "I'm a humanist, not a monster. Goodbye, Richard."

  A hole formed in the ceiling above Ricky, and warm light engulfed him.

  The storm gave way to the sun.