Post Scriptum: Handwritten letter from H. Justin Pierce, c/o New England Opera Lovers' Society; Wednesday 17 December, close to Midnight, somewhere north of Lake Verret, Assumption Parish, Louisiana

Post Scriptum (December 18, around 1 AM): Best of times, worst of times. Bad news first – we lost one of the students. As we were plotting the best course for Pigeon and the chicklets, a shot knocked a couple of square feet of wood out of the outpost wall, and went through Jenny's chest. 50 cal, definitely. Poor girl died instantly. Or maybe it will turn out she was the luckiest of us all.

We dropped to the deck immediately, and ushered the screaming students into another room, as far opposite the origin of the shot as possible.

Wilmot gets on IR, and I get out the M21. It's not my favourite weapon. Frost is a better rifleman, but Frost is still lying there gasping. We have to wait for the second shot, which smashes the window frame next to my face, and sends some splinters flying. Good thing I have protection. Isis – if you ever leave home without her, make sure you bring her back with you. Wilmot spots him, and I get him in the scope. It's that mother-and-goat-and-sister-and-swamp-possum-fucker of a Deputy Bean. He knows I'm watching, as he flips me the bird. Yeah, right back at you, sister-fucker. Of more concern is the gun he's holding. Barrett semi-auto. 50 cal. Thermal imagery scope. I take the shot, but he steps aside. Or rather, he flashes aside. Bastard moves faster than a man could or should. And then we've lost him.

Our situation is desperate. We have a psycho out there, who has the kind of gun that can shoot through this hovel end-to-end, and can spot us even on the inside. We need a plan. Chief shows the worth of his degree in psychology by pointing out that Bean is a sexual predator. That his base desires could well overcome his common sense if presented with the right enticement. Of course, we have enticement aplenty: five women. I see Wilmot tremble when Chief brings up the subject. Maybe Bean plays both sides of the field. He's fast, and he can outshoot us from any range without us being having a snowflake's chance in hell of getting him. We cannot just go after him, because he can probably outrun us, and THEN shoot us anyway. We need him stationary and up close. I come up with a desperate plan – I take one or two of the girls (volunteers, ideally) out, in the hope that he shoots me and that my protection keeps me alive. Two big ifs. Then let him come in, fire the flare gun to light the scenery up, and then rely on my survival and the AK to make short work of him, while Wilmot or Frost try to drop him with the M21. It's the best we can think of, until Ranger Pigeon shows up. We explain the situation, and then she shows ball of steel. Metaphorically, I mean. She strips off her top, grabs the flare gun, and announces that she will make a run for it, alone, to draw out Bean. It's a plan. Wilmot and I will follow her and try to get to Bean before Bean gets to her, while Chief and Frost stay behind to protect the students.

Plan Sudden Death is a go – Chief lobs an explosive-tipped crossbow bolt across the creek, in the direction where we last saw the Beanie Man, to provide some distraction. Pigeon jumps in the creek and goes across. Wilmot and I slip out back, cross the creek in turn, and start off in the direction that Pigeon went in. Maybe Wilmot has done this before, but I haven't. There's the rain, there's some critter or the other chirping at the moon, thinking it's god damn Elvis Presley. Oh, and there's a psychoperv with a 50 cal sniper rifle around, and Ranger Pigeon, whose life and general wellbeing depends on me not fucking up. No pressure, no stress. Wilmot suggests that we advance and cover the other in turn.

The going is a bit slower, but it improves our chances of survival. Going IS slow, not helped by the fact that during the creek crossing, Wilmot got his foot caught in some roots, and twisted his ankle while getting loose. Nice. We spot some light up ahead, maybe a glowstick. Wilmot stays stationary, and covers the light with the rifle, while I will veer off to the left, and try to approach it at an angle. This is hair-raising stuff, but I get closer. Until there's a shot behind me, and a howl. The shot was Wilmot, who popped on off at the figure charging at my back with an axe and a machete. He's clearly outlined against the dying light of the fire started by the explosive bolt. It's the damn Reverend. There's no way I can get out of the way, and I remember how he shrugged off Wilmot's volleys back on the cabin cruiser. I also remember that no shield lasts forever, and surviving an exploding napalm tank may well have depleted his. So, it's bang-bang time. Two shots go wide, but I get him in the chest. Three times. Two dead-on, one glancing his rib cage. The AK works as advertised, and blows entire chunks of flesh, through and through. The reverend goes down and lies very still. I pull out my nine-mill, and pop him one in the neck for good measure.

Discretion be damned. Good thing I bowed down a bit, 'cause just as I do, I hear a shot and the tell-tale whistle of a bullet passing where my head used to be. A dull pop where the light was, and flare goes up. And clearly outlines Bean. Rifle shot off to my right. That must be Wilmot, I hope. Off to my left and ahead two dull booms – a 357 magnum. Must be Pigeon. I hope. There's nothing for it now, only to charge ahead, and close the distance. So I do. I have to swerve to the left to avoid burying myself in a bog, but I manage to keep my eye on the prize. I hear another rifle shot, and I see Bean stagger and grab his left leg. Go Wilmot. I can now see Pigeon in a crouch, blasting away at Bean, as I run past her. Bean runs too fast for a man that's just taken a 7.62 FMJ in the leg, but he's no faster than I am. And he's zigzagging, whereas I am not. More shots, and I'm close enough. I drop to a crouch, and pop off a five-round burst. He just swerves away as I shoot. First two shots go wide. Third takes him in the right knee. Forth goes between his legs (what I would not have given for that one to have been ten inches higher). Fifth takes him in the right knee. Basics. Immobilize. Then incapacitate. His rifle goes wide, and I see him twitching. I pop off another burst, and hit him in the back. He goes still.

Then everything goes white. I think I shouted “hit the deck”, and then there's white all over me. Including a searing hot pain in my ass. Where the protection has worn off. Ranger Pigeon is howling in pain, holes in her left trouser legs, and fragments of white stuff glowing. Willy-Pete. White Phosphorus. I have no idea how I kept enough cool to grab her under the arm, drag her to the bog I just bypassed, and half-throw, half-drag her in. It hurts like hell, but at least it's starved of oxygen. Wilmot goes off to get Chief the Magic Healer, while I sit in the bog, peering around and an itchy trigger finger on the AK. After what seems like an eternity (having pieces of phosphorus stuck in your ass changes your perception of time), Wilmot shows up. Chief is with him (good news). The Reverend's corpse is nowhere to be found (bad news). Chief works his magic, on Pigeon first, then on me, and we're heading back to the cabin. We're in a hurry, as I have the nagging suspicion that we have not seen the last of the Reverend.

And guess what. We have not. Frost, in particular, is getting intimately acquainted with a somewhat altered Reverend (Brooks, pay attention). His wounds are still clearly visible, they are filled a mass of wriggling black tendrils. This is worse than I expected. Wilmot grabs his leaf-like talisman, and charges the Rev. Slices down, takes the Rev's right arm clean off. Tendrils erupt from both ends, and the severed limb, uhm, wriggles on the floor. Chief lands a kidney punch, and tendrils rush out and try to grab him... only to wither away at his touch. Interesting. Wilmot follows up with a punch to the head, that goes through and through. Only to reveal a mass of tentacles with a mouth and what seems to be multiple eyes. Then the entire mass jumps out and attaches itself to Wilmot's face, and he freaks out. So do I, frankly. I remember shouting for Chief to grab it, as his touch seems to mean death to this monster. A sidelong glance reveals that the Reverend is now on the floor, limp as a boned fish, and Frost is trying to get some air. I return my attention to Wilmot and Chief. True to form, Chief HAS managed to rip the critter (flashback to “Alien”), and tosses it out the window.

Sometimes an impending sense of doom is palpable. There's something nagging at the back of my head, but I cannot remember. Too many things have happened. Then I stop thinking as massive tentacles shout out from the murky creek, and fly through the window. We dive into the corridor. The walls start to come down and Ranger Pigeon, being quick on the uptake, understands that we're all nostril-deep in shit, and starts pushing the students out the window. Surprisingly, everybody keeps it together as we all head out the backdoor. The girls and Ranger Pigeon run inland, even as we just stop to look around. I hear Chief mutter “the Swamp God – he invoked the Swamp God, and in the water it finds its power...”  Whatever it is, it is massive. Dozens of feet wide, a mass of glittering, slimy, massive tentacles, with the occasional eye and maw thrown in. And it's heaving itself onland. We four look at each other, and for me, at least, the course is as clear as it's going to get. We line up, we take aim, and we let loose. Explosive-tipped crossbow bolt, 7.62 full metal jacket, Stoner and AK on full auto. At this distance, and with such a massive target, we cannot miss.  Our barrage is met with shrieks and the satisfying bursts of tissue. While I am wondering whether I'll be able to reload before its tentacles get at me, and if I am, whether I should use the clip on the thing or on the co-eds, as a mercy killing, the tentacles go limp, and the entire mass slides back into the creek, disappearing under water.

I know – I am certain – that there is no way that the thing can submerge entirely in the creek, but it does. No trace left of it. Palpable dread makes way for palpable relief, which makes way again for palpable alarm as a searchlight pierces the darkness. Another boat. Oh well, since we are on a roll anyway... I tell Frost and Chief to stay with Ranger Pigeon and the students, as Wilmot and I make for the water's edge. Ready to rock 'n roll with our last clips...

And then it's relief again. Hamblin and Clete Purcel, in a boat. Loaded with contraband of the rifle-kind type. Night vision, comms, the works. Praise the Lord, pass the ammunition, and Sheriff? Call your sister, and tell her to come over, 'cause it's the last time – You fuck her as you always do (ten seconds), and you fucked us, and now the Federal Bureau of Extermination is coming to fuck you...