Apocalypsis 01 - Kahayatle

she’d tried to beat to death two minutes earlier for a hug.   I looked at Bodo, busy packing up our brochures, and Peter pouring out some water for a happily expectant Buster - and once again thanked my lucky stars I had found them.   Or that they had found me.
    We were almost to our goal, and knock on wood, we were all still alive - over two hundred and fifty miles later.   Now all we had to do was find some water transportation, figure out how to use it, and not get eaten by alligators or deer-eating snakes before we found a place to live.   Simple.
    ***
    Our ride over to the canoe rental place was uneventful.   We were no longer on the highway and there were very few abandoned cars on this simple, two-lane side road.   We passed an occasional broken down roadside fruit stand, but saw no signs of life aside from ourselves.   To our left and right were big waterways, some of them flowing and some of them still, dotted with large sections of treed areas, the edges made up of huge roots that looked like elephant trunks, growing right down into the water.
    “Look,” said Peter, pointing up ahead.   “There’s a sign for the canoes.”
    It promised a turn-off in two-tenths of a mile, and a few minutes later there was a faded red arrow pointing us towards a dirt road that disappeared into a forest of pines and high shrubs.   The thick vegetation made it impossible to see more than a few feet in.
    A strange harmony, unique to the singing cicada bug, rose up around us, lending a spooky air to the place, as we slowly pedaled our way over the sand and pine-needled pathway.   We had to slow down for Peter because his bike tires kept catching in the soft surface, throwing him off balance.   Eventually he gave up and walked instead, pushing his bike next to him.
    “I luff dat sound,” said Bodo, “but I’ve never seen da bugs dat make it.”
    “Yeah, me neither, and I’ve lived my entire life in Florida,” I said.
    “I have.   In a bug museum once, stuck with a pin.   They’re like a big fly, but longer rather than wide.”
    “It always reminds me of humidity for some reason,” I said quietly.  
    “They come out in summer, so that’s probably why.”
    Busters head came up and he sniffed the air.   I was a little nervous about his reaction to the area, but when he didn’t growl or bark, I figured it wasn’t a person he was smelling.   Even so, I kept glancing towards him as we moved down the road, ready to take his clues for my early warning sign that something was up.
    We came around a bend in the road and a smallish green shack came into view.   Next to it was a small picnic area and a pitiful looking playground with a single swing and a faded fiberglass slide.   I got off my bike and moved closer to Peter.   Bodo dismounted too and moved in front of us, the trailer following smoothly behind.  
    I stopped for a minute, lifting Buster out of the basket and putting him on the ground.   “Go see if anyone’s there, Buster.”
    Peter looked at me and frowned.
    “What?” I asked, defensively.
    “You’re sending the bald poodle in as our front line of attack?”
    “Why not?   He’s little and fast.   No one’s going to hurt him.   And he’ll bark if he sees or hears anyone.”
    Peter shrugged.   “I guess.”
    I pulled my gun out of my backpack, deciding that if someone was hungry enough, they might see Buster as a nice little Happy Meal, and maybe I should be prepared to back him up.  
    But Buster was totally unconcerned for his safety.   He sniffed around gaily, peeing on the edge of the slide, the swing set pole, and then the side of the building before wandering off into the bushes to scare some birds.   He only hesitated at the door of the shack and sniffed the air a few seconds before moving on.
    Bodo parked his bike near the front door of the shack.   It was shut and locked.   He rattled the handle a couple times just to be sure.
    I put my bike next to his and walked a little farther past where we had stopped.   Just beyond the shack was a drop-off that led down to a dock.   On a small beach next to the dock was a tall rack with six canoes all stacked on it, three by three, chained together and locked up tight.   There were two rowboats and one small outboard motor boat, pulled up on the beach, also chained together.
    “We have to get into that shack.   All the boats and canoes are locked up.   Maybe the key’s inside.”
    Bodo disappeared around the right