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The wooden floorboards of Swamp’s End General Store groan beneath Zeb Perkins’ leather boots as he leans heavily over the scuffed counter. Outside, the thick November fog clings to the surrounding timber of Zaleski State Forest, turning the stagnant waters of Lake Hope into a gray mirror. At fifty-five, Zeb moves with a deliberate, slow-burning authority, his hands calloused from decades in the Ohio bayou. In front of him lies a battered, water-stained topographical map of Coolsville’s outer marshlands, crisscrossed with faded pencil marks.
His eyes, sharp and calculating behind deep-set lines, trace the grid lines down to a shallow, murky channel just a mile off the main trail. Five years ago, he and Zeke watched an armored truck break through the rusted guardrail and sink like a stone into the black peat, carrying a fortune in stolen cash straight to the bottom. Zeb runs a thumb over the spot, maintaining the crisp white apron and neat posture of an honest businessman for any fool who might wander in, even as his mind meticulously plots the final retrieval.
A brass bell clatters sharply against the front doorframe. Zeb snaps upright on instinct, smoothing his shirt and adjusting his spectacles, a rehearsed, mundane greeting rising in his throat. The customer service smile vanishes the moment he takes in the figure standing in the doorway. It isn't a customer. It's Zeke.
At forty-five, Zeke Harkins is built like a cypress trunk, broad-shouldered and thick-chested, carrying a quiet strength that Zeb has relied on for over two decades. Today, however, Zeke is draped in tattered, mud-caked brown trousers and a ragged blue-green overcoat layered over a dark pine-green work shirt. Thick, gray-green greasepaint coats his face and forearms, giving his skin the corpselike pallor of a drowned man. Zeb lets out an irritated breath, though the annoyance in his chest melts into familiar warmth at the sight of his husband. The makeup only ever means one thing.
"How many tourists have we got?" Zeb asks, resting his knuckles against the counter.
Zeke leans against the jamb, wiping a bit of swamp muck from his knuckle with a heavy sigh. "Four and a dog. Teenagers who got caught in the fog during their fishing trip." His voice is low, carrying the gravelly cadence of the local working class.
Zeb pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, heavy breath that rattles in his chest. "Of course. I hate teenagers." He sighs, his tone shifting into something far darker, far more intentional as he reaches beneath the counter toward a velvet pouch filled with wax, hair, and dried herbs. "Get a good image of them, and I'll make the voodoo dolls."
Zeke takes two heavy steps forward, closing the space between them. Zeb reaches up, taking Zeke’s chin in his palm—careful to avoid the wet greasepaint—and pulls him down into a firm, lingering kiss. The contrast between Zeb’s sharp, disciplined mind and Zeke’s grounding, physical presence is the tether that keeps their lives intact. "Be careful out there," Zeb murmurs against his lips.
With a subtle nod, Zeb slips out the back door, melting into the mist toward their secluded workshop to prepare the ritual materials. Alone in the shop, Zeke grunts and heads for the utility sink in the corner. He turns the brass faucet, splashing ice-cold well water onto his face and scrubbing at the heavy gray makeup coating his arms. Greasepaint smears against the enamel as he works fast, his broad shoulders flexing beneath his damp work shirt. He’s halfway done when the front bell chiming again cuts through the sound of running water.
Swiping a rag across his face, Zeke steps out from behind the curtain to face the intrusion. Standing near the register are four far-out looking kids in colorful mod clothes and an absurdly large Great Dane. Zeke leans heavily over the counter, putting on a grim, superstitious drawl to deliver the local lore. He tells them straight: a dark, mysterious witch lives deep in the swamp, using ancient voodoo powers to conjure the undead to guard her domain. To drive the point home, he adds that he and his partner, Zeb, were out hunting frogs in the marsh six months back when they saw the hag herself performing the dark ritual, bringing the swamp zombie to life right before their eyes.
He watches their reactions closely, genuinely hoping the tale is heavy enough to make them dig their loafers into the dirt and head straight back to Coolsville. Zeke prefers the bayou when it’s quiet—just the fog, the owls, and the two of them. As the kids exchange uneasy looks, Zeke reaches beneath the counter and pulls out an old, boxy instant camera.
"Mind if I take a quick Polaroid of you folks?" he asks, holding it up. "Store tradition. We keep a guest book of travelers passing through the bayou."
The gang nods, completely going along with it. The handsome blond leader aligns everyone together, and the group strikes a quick, cheerful pose, even the big dog poking his snout into the frame. The camera clicks, giving off a sharp flash that momentarily brightens the shadowy store before spitting out a slick square of film. Zeke carefully lays it aside to dry, securing the vivid visual image Zeb will need to carve their likenesses accurately into the wax.
"Now then," Zeke continues, turning back to the group. "Custom around here also says all folks passing through gotta wear the local headgear for luck against the swamp spirits. The Athens Akubra."
He pulls a coarse felt hat from behind the counter and tosses it toward the tallest teen—a lanky kid in a green shirt and brown bell-bottoms. The gang inspects the headwear. The girl in the purple dress and matching headband gives it a skeptical look, making a passing remark about its odd, out-of-place look. The shorter girl, adjusting her thick square glasses, immediately chimed in with sharp precision, informing the group that it’s actually a well-known style of wide-brimmed Australian bush hat crafted from pure rabbit-fur felt.
The tall, shaggy-haired kid mutters a complaint about how the hat is pulling on his messy hair, but curiosity wins out. All four teenagers—and even the massive, timid dog—take turns placing the Akubra on their heads to test the fit. satisfied they’ve satisfied the local weirdness, the handsome blond leader in the white ascot hands the hat back across the counter.
"Thanks for the tip, mister," the blond says with a cheerful wave as the group finally pile out into the damp, heavy air.
"Yeah, drive safe," Zeke grunts.
The moment the door latches shut, Zeke looks down at the hat in his hands. Embedded along the inner leather sweatband are several stray strands of hair left behind by the teenagers. Zeke carefully plucks the hairs one by one, wrapping them neatly into a scrap of paper. Perfect material for Zeb’s wax dolls.
Leaving the general store locked behind him, Zeke slips out the back door and follows a hidden deer trail through the cypress knees. Deep in the wood, shrouded by hanging Spanish moss, sits a dilapidated, weathered shack. Sunlight barely pierces the thick canopy above. Zeke pushes the heavy oak door open and steps inside. The air smells of sulfur, beeswax, and damp earth. Zeb is already sitting at a small workbench, candles flickering around him, carefully carving small blocks of wax with a paring knife.
Zeke tosses the wrapped hair onto the table and sinks onto a wooden stool beside his husband, letting out a low, weary whine. "I swear, Zeb, those kids are gonna drive me up a wall. Running around in bright clothes, asking a million questions... I just want this done so we can dig up that truck and be clear of this place."
Zeb stops his carving and looks up. On anyone else, that kind of whining would earn a sharp rebuke from the older man, but looking at Zeke—his hair still damp from the well water, his jaw set in an anxious pout—Zeb feels only a deep, familiar fondness. He sets the knife down, reaches out, and cups Zeke’s face in both hands. He pulls him close, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his husband’s forehead, then down to his lips.
"I know, broad-shoulders," Zeb whispers gently, his thumb tracing the rough line of Zeke’s jawline. "I know. But teenagers are fragile things. A few strange noises, a glimpse of the zombie in the mist, and they’ll be running scared back to the highway. Just let the voodoo do its work. It won't be long now, Zeke. Soon as they're gone, it's just you and me out here again. Just like always."
Zeke lets out a slow breath, leaning his forehead against Zeb’s shoulder, trusting the old man's plan completely as the fog outside thickens around their hidden home.