Clumps of Spanish moss and thick, gnarled vines hung from the cypress and white oaks that surrounded their hidden enclave.  Clayton counted six fox-squirrel nests that dotted the nearby oaks.  He noted several pairs of widely space eyes on the water, staring back at him.

The alligators’ curiosity was emboldened when Clayton made his night runs without lighting.  Often they would drift within several feet of the boat.  Their presence did not bother Clayton or Moses, as long as they were safe in the boat and the alligators remained in the water.

The cool night air was a welcome relief from the southern sun’s relentless barrage.  Clayton hoped the flood was a herald of an early winter.  They desperately needed a sharp frost to stunt the plague of insects.  Their boat was swarmed by mosquitos and gnats as soon as it drifted to a stop.

They waited a half hour and failed to detect any indication of human life in the swamp.  Satisfied that they were indeed alone, Clayton tugged the knot loose from the cypress and eased the boat to an idle. Slowly, they continued on their way.

They idled along the slough for another half hour and then killed the motor again.  Clayton grabbed a long wooden pole and plunged it into the water.  He quietly pushed the boat through the thick vegetation at the slough’s edge until he could see through the cover on the other side.  He peered across the empty lake to the shore beyond.

Sodium-vapor and halogen lamps pierced the darkness on the opposite shore.  They reflected off the lake’s surface, and were a poor celestial substitute for the starless sky.  Dozens of small camps supported by weathered, timber piling towered over the surrounding cypress knots.  Their roofs extended increasingly higher into the night air as they continued up the gentle slopes.  Many of the closest camps already had several feet of water beneath them.  Clayton was surprised to see the small community so well-illuminated; they had not had power for at least two weeks.  The small fishing communities were filled with survivors, however.  Perhaps they had a supply of natural gas to supplement their solar panels.

Clayton scanned the shore near the landing for any signs of movement, but found none.  He scratched Moses’ head and whispered “What about you, see anyone?”

Moses stood up on the bow and sniffed the sweet night air, before turning back and climbing over the dry well.

Clayton sighed and replied, “Me neither; maybe next week.  Let’s head home.”

***

Clayton’s demeanor was much more reserved on their way home.  He reflected on a past life in another world.  He had once been a successful contractor and entrepreneur.  His first million was hard-fought through long days, sleepless nights and relentless ambition.  He tried anything that he thought would turn a profit:  residential developments, industrial shutdowns, offshore – anything.  He particularly loved demolition work because he could get paid to remove the structure, crush the brick and concrete, and resell it as base material for roadways and parking lots.  Besides, slamming a four-ton wrecking ball into a building was about as much fun as a man could have without going to jail.

He soon realized the real money was in being a developer.  He would research an area, purchase the raw land, develop a shopping center, sell a few outlying parcels to help recoup his investment and lease the shops.  He had successfully repeated his formula multiple times.

The next several million were earned much easier than the first.  A new way of doing business came with the territory, however, and he despised it.  The permits, regulations and laws were countless and restrictive.  The government inspectors had an endless repertoire of building and environmental codes that they could deem a developer in violation of, regardless if he actually was or not, seemingly at their whim.  A single owl that was considered endangered could reduce a profitable endeavor to a crawl through red tape with the only light at the end of the tunnel a dim flicker of breaking even.

Of course, there was another way, a way to make all of the troubles disappear.  It started innocent enough and could almost be justified, if you remembered to check your morals at the door.  Before long, it was easier for him to count the people he was not paying off.  It seemed everyone wanted to stick their hands into his pockets.  Clayton Sellers grew to despise the realities of the ‘easy’ life he had sought for so long.

It’s been said that every man should know his number.  He should have an amount, however large it may be, so that if he ever reaches it then he can consider himself a success and politely back away from the table with his soul intact.  If he does not know when cash out of the game, greed will slowly begin to creep in.  He will forsake everything, and everyone, in his pursuits.  The man with a number knows wealth to be a means; the man without knows it only as an end.

Three years ago, Clayton reached his number.   He dumped it all:  the businesses, the swank properties in town, stocks, bonds and all the racketeers that had made a living off of his hard work.  They could keep their broken system.  He would fade away into his gulch, and he was not the only one that was leaving.  A groundswell of principled men were breaking away from the clutches of the leviathan that was crushing them.

He bought two thousand acres in the middle of the river swamp for a song.  Even he was surprised that the timber company had accepted his lowball offer.  Apparently, they had been more desperate for cash than he thought.  It wasn’t prime land by any definition.  Most of the property flooded when the surrounding rivers swelled beyond their banks.  Clayton did not mind the inconvenience, however.

In a typical year the property would flood just enough to foil the poachers. The water was still shallow enough to limit access to all but the most specialized of vessels; a vessel much like his, own.  He leased the surrounding twenty thousand acres from the same timber company as a buffer. Beyond that was mostly state wildlife reserve.

Clayton’s theory of life was one of irony:  sometimes the only way to spit oneself out of the beast was to feign defeat and allow it to swallow you whole, so that one day you might have the leverage to go forth and never look back.

***

After an uneventful ride back, they finally were within sight of home.  Home was a one-room camp on timber piles.  It was nestled in a grove of swamp oaks.  Their gnarled branches help to conceal the brown, metal roof from any prying eyes overhead.  Soon enough, winter would be here and he would be lying in his bed, listening to acorns clatter on the roof like errant golf balls.

Clayton had to float in all of the building materials, which was a daunting task in its own right.  The work was made harder by the remoteness of the site and his determination to keep its location a secret.  It took nearly six months to build the camp. Three of Clayton’s closest friends helped him with most of the work.  Actually, they were probably his only friends, if you were to ask him.  Everybody that knew Clayton liked him, but if he wasn’t certain he could trust a man with his life, they were just acquaintances to him.  The brothers Greene and Teddy Lawson he could trust, he was certain of that.

The screened porch wrapped around the entirety of the camp.  On the front, a wide staircase descended into the muddy waters below.  Clayton estimated the depth to be about two feet at the last step.  He killed the motor and drifted towards the camp.  Moses, who had been napping, awoke and bounded to the bow of the boat.

Clayton guided the vessel alongside the stairs with expert skill. The boat gently came to a stop as he looped the stern rope around one of the rail posts.  He crawled to the bow and did the same, before climbing over the rails and onto solid footing.