Terror descends with the night in the murky swamps of Lemoyne.
In Red Dead Redemption 2’s Louisiana stand-in, Rockstar’s open world game—equally beloved and reviled for its languid pace— slows to a molasses trickle. And at high noon, I take advantage of the lead-footed way of life.
I crouch on little islands of sedge grass —rolling block rifle on my knee— and pick off sluggish alligators, using the scope to plug bullets between their beady eyes, where dead eye’s heat scan glows scarlet red. When the cops pursue me from Saint Denis, I hide behind walls of peet, taking potshots as the boys in blue struggle through root systems and standing water. I smoke cigars, I drink Kentucky bourbon, I poach alligator eggs.
I don’t rule the swamp. The system is too large and too intricate for that. But, I do infect it; a pathogen borne along brackish water, pursued—if at all—by police and predators too unhurried to stop my spree. As I disappear through curtains of moss under willow boughs, I imagine the police tugging at their sweat-soaked woolen collars, deciding to cut their losses and head back to the precinct. The electric chair’s first demonstration is set to take place any day now; they wouldn’t want to miss the show.
As the light streaming through the ghostly foliage dims, I rely increasingly on sound. The thick splashing of sludgy water at the thigh of my patched work pants. Mosquitoes whining in zigzags past my right ear. Sticks crunching along the river bank. Something big sliding off the mud and into the water behind me.
And the rumble. As night falls, I remember what those alligators—alligators I’ve been murdering in blood as cold as theirs— are: the grandchildren of the kings and queens of prehistory. The rumble reminds me. It’s a low, bassy, growl, stirring up enough buzzing air that I imagine gastroliths rolling frantically around their lizard stomachs like pool balls after a well-executed break.
When the sun is high, these lowrider dinosaurs lay like logs; lazy as fallen trees. As the sun glints on their muddy scales, they seem like easy prey. Their demeanor doesn’t change at night, but when the sun goes down, the way I see them does. Now, they lay like bear traps, ready to snap if I get too close; to shut their jaws on my boot-clad calf.
To wade through the swamps at night is to be tense at all times. Arthur’s gait is always leisurely, and when our cowboy is waterlogged, he moves impossibly slowly, prime bait for any passing alligator. But, to ride through the swamps at night is to be terrified. As my horse wades through standing water up to his withers—dynamic testicles shrunken, I imagine, to Costanza-levels of puniness—I can see the jaws closing on his jet black haunches. I can imagine serrated teeth sinking in and tearing a chunk out of my well-groomed, well-fed, well-petted, frequently “Easy boy”-ed companion. I fear for Absolute Unit’s life much more than I fear for my own.
“I’ve been killing animals just for fun,” Arthur confesses to Mary-Beth, if you take the time to talk to her in camp after one of these swamp-spanning sprees. She encourages you to be a better person, but she can’t and won’t absolve you.
My horse hasn’t fallen in the swamps yet. But, I fear that Red Dead Redemption 2 will demand his blood. I’ve been killing animals just for fun. And, I fear, the swamps may have similar tastes.
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