Hunt Along the Iron River and Other Timeless Tales

by Orrin Jason Bradford

  "Hell if I know," Taylor replied.

  After another moment, from Moises, "We'll increase the sapo."

  "Oh, great."

  ****

  Cal leaned over the fence of the loading gate and slapped the large sow on her backside. "Get a move on it. Ya clogging up the works." The sow turned her head, squealed her indignation but moved on down the narrow throughway and into the holding pen.

  "Hey blowhard, what time it getting to be?" Cal yelled across the yard to a co-worker.

  "Five til five," the black man yelled back. "You headed down to the Boar's Head for a beer?"

  "Ya, maybe. Maybe not," he replied. It had been almost four days since he'd had a brew. Cal couldn't remember ever going so long on the wagon. What the hell? He'd had no more of those weird visions. Shit. He'd seen bunches of strange things while drinking or shooting up. Never had stopped him before. He'd worked hard this week. Well, at least, he'd shown up every day after Monday. That deserved something. It was time to tie one on.

  "Yeah. I'll be there," he yelled across the yard. As he did so, the whistle blew the end of the workweek. He made one last swipe at the last pig, jumped off the fence and headed for his truck.

  As he neared the truck, he noticed someone had stopped on the overpass and was looking down on the freight yard. Damn fools. Maybe they were thinking of killing themselves. The overpass was sure high enough for it.

  He opened his mouth to give the two distant figures a word of encouragement but stopped at the last moment. Something wasn't right. Suddenly, he had a vague and disturbing feeling...like the other night…like someone was walking over his grave. No, worse. They were digging the damn thing up.

  He turned and jumped in his truck. Maybe he'd forget the beer. Go home and see if he could dig up the old family Bible his mom had left him.

  ****

  The five circular welts reminded Taylor of the markings on a die. Add two more on my other arm, he thought, and I’d have lucky seven.

  He took a wad of cotton, placed it over the mouth of the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and soaked the cotton. He had searched the apartment for rubbing alcohol with no luck. The whiskey would have to serve the same purpose. He cleansed the painful wounds and then took a swig of Jack for good measure. He would like to down the whole thing. Drink himself into oblivion. Forget about this mad hunt. More importantly, forget the reason behind the hunt. Forget Peter's death.

  He set the liquor bottle back down on the table a little harder than necessary. Moises raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He finished mixing the sapo, and started rubbing it into the five new wounds.

  "Pablo said sapo in high doses like this will release your animas— your spirit. It will lure your prey into the trap."

  What trap? Taylor wondered but did not ask. Trust the magic. Just trust the fucking magic. He closed his eyes and slept.

  He was back at the headwaters of the river. The elephants grazed on tree leaves nearby. He was not looking down on the scene this time but was instead standing near the fire, looking through the flames towards the river. They were hot against his face and bare chest. He sweated, and the beads of sweat felt as though they'd boil at any minute. Strong, powerful, aware. He stared through the flames, waiting, watching for the boar.

  It appeared, pulling itself out of the water. It stood on the bank of the shore and shook itself, the droplets of water flying in all directions. Then it started towards the fire, snorting and kicking up clouds of dirt as it ran. It picked up speed and anger with every step, its beady narrow eyes penetrating, peering through the fire and straight into Taylor's heart. Squeezing his heart. It shook its head. Its tusks reflected the flickering flames. It charged straight into the fire.

  As it hit the wall of flames, it did not stop but continued on, bellowing in pain and hatred. Its short limbs kept pumping, digging into the blackened logs for traction, tossing its head from side to side, sending splinters of flaming ash into the night sky. It kept coming; kept pumping its short legs that were now engulfed in flames. It bellowed, the scream not of a wild boar but of a young child—a young boy crying out in pain, crying for the father who was never home. Suddenly the flaming creature was no longer the boar but Peter. Lovely Peter.

  Taylor awoke early in the morning, the sheets wet from sweat. Moises had put him to bed then stretched out on the floor beside him. As Taylor sat up, the light sleeping Moises opened one eye.

  "Tonight we go to the freight yard," Taylor said. "The trap is ready to be sprung."

  ****

  Cal stared at the double image of the bourbon bottles sitting next to the creased black surface of the Bible. Strange, he thought, he hadn't remembered buying two bottles and for sure he hadn't drunk that much, or had he? He looked around at the familiar squalor of the trailer: the carpet of dirty clothes that covered most of the linoleum floor, the stack of food-encrusted dishes, billowing out of the sink and onto the counters on either side. A knife rested on the edge of the counter, its dried peanut butter starting to collect a thin veneer of grayish-green mold.

  Good, he thought. Everything as it should be. It was reassuring to know he could drink himself into oblivion in the comfort of his own home without worrying about little Hawaiian men in a skimpy dress showing up on his doorstep.

  He leaned back in his chair, almost losing his balance and falling all the way over. He grabbed the edge of the kitchen table at the last second, pulled himself to a stable position and opened the drawer with his other hand.

  There it was—the trouble maker. The .38 revolver he'd purchased a little over a week ago from Remus. They'd been drinking pretty heavy when the topic came up. It had seemed like a good deal. Remus had been hard up for money, gambling debts again, but the purchase price was just the start of it. He'd had to go and try the pistol out. Shit, you couldn't have a gun in your arsenal without knowing how it handled.

  It had handled fine. Just fine. Too fine. Now, an innocent kid was dead and Cal's soul was destined to burn in hell unless he could figure out some way to make a deal with the devil. His mom, may she rest in peace, had told him tales when he was just knee-high to a grasshopper about such deals, but he couldn't remember anyone ever coming out on top.

  "Cal, you're in a heap of trouble,” he muttered as he threw his head back and slugged down the half glass of whiskey. Shit, that's good stuff for being so cheap. He smacked the glass down on the table and was about to pour himself another one when he was interrupted. At first, he thought his trailer was on fire, the stained curtains in the kitchen in flames, but at he continued to stare, it became apparent the flames weren't attached to anything. They just floated in the air, growing in brilliance and clarity.

  He could feel the heat on his face, smell the smoke of some exotic wood as it burned. The fire appeared so real—as real as the face shimmering amongst the flames. The earring a dead giveaway. He instantly recognized the face from the other evening. The devil had come calling again.

  "We need to talk, you and me. Whatta you say?" Cal poured himself another drink, spilling most of it since he didn't dare take his eyes off the apparition in front of him. He picked up the glass, started to take a swig then offered it to his visitor. When the figure didn't move, he shrugged and belted it down.

  "What you want from me?" he asked, realizing as soon as the words were out of his mouth how stupid a question it was. What did the devil always want? His soul. Try again.

  "What say you and I do some trading? I'd kinda like to keep my soul for a while. Grown used to it. How 'bout my . . . " Fuck, what the hell would the devil want that he had?

  "How 'bout my truck?" Shit, that was dumb. What if the devil turned it down? It was the only thing he owned that was worth anything, and it had a loan on it big enough to choke a mule. Maybe, demons of the night didn't keep up with those kinds of things.

  "Yeah, my truck and . . . and . . . how about a gun? Yeah, the gun that shot the kid."

  The figure continued to float in front of him, his words apparently
having no effect. Cal was just about to offer him the trailer when the spirit's mouth opened wide, then wider still. Opened so wide as to become a chasm of darkness.

  Cal watched in rapt horror the distortion of the spirit's face, then noticed an image taking form out of the blackness. He continued to watch as a picture formed.

  "It's the freight yard," he said after a moment. "Yeah, I recognize those cars. What, you want to meet me there? Is that it? Yeah, okay. I'll drive the truck . . . and the gun. I'll bring the gun."

  The spirit closed its mouth, flashed a sardonic smile before bursting into flames and disappearing.

  Maybe he should go tonight? Is that what the devil had suggested? Yeah, he would go tonight, Cal thought — just before he passed out.

  ****

  A low cloud cover made the night seem darker than most. The sparse street lamps seemed to have their light sucked into the sky, casting little glare down on the freight yard. Moises stood beside the car for a couple of minutes, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  Despite the darkness, Taylor could make out the details of the freight yard as though it were noon. He picked up his surroundings not only by his heightened vision but also by his sense of smell, hearing and touch. He could feel the light breeze play across the tiny hairs on the back of his neck, smell the myriad odors of livestock, pigs, cows, and chickens mingled with the smell of oil and diesel fuel. He could pick out each smell from the others as though turning the dial of a radio to the exact station he desired.

  "Wait here," Taylor said. "I'm going to look around."

  Moises nodded as he lit a cigar. Taylor cringed a little, the smell of the acrid cigar smoke reminding him of the multiple burns on his arms. He strolled along the rails, approaching the burned out freight cars he'd noticed the other day. Since his visions had been filled with images of fire, the burned out cars seemed the logical place to start. He walked around the cars, inspecting them carefully, top to bottom. Finally, he was satisfied that he had his plan worked out as much as he could work out any plan given the uncertainty with which he was working.

  Would the boar appear?

  He returned to the car just as Moises ground out the cigar with his boot. Taylor opened the car door and pulled out the carved staff, a souvenir from a previous trip to the Amazon. He wasn't sure why he had brought it. A gun or rifle made more sense but over the last few days, he'd learned to trust his instincts—the sapo heightened instincts that had suggested the staff.

  "It's time," Taylor said finally.

  Moises pushed himself away from the car he'd been leaning on.

  "Time for you to leave."

  Moises didn't respond at first. "Are you sure?"

  Taylor nodded as he grasped Moises' arm firmly. "Thanks for coming this far with me. The rest of the hunt I must do alone."

  "You're beginning to talk like Pablo. Maybe I gave too much sapo,” Moises said with a smile but accepted the keys Taylor held out to him.

  "I'll find my way home," Taylor said as Moises climbed into the car. After another short pause, his friend started the engine and drove away.

  Taylor strolled towards the burned out cars, his senses bristling. It won't be a long wait, they told him. The boar is about to charge.

  As he neared the line of freight cars, he saw the hulking form lumbering towards him. Taylor walked to the position he had selected then stopped, waiting for the other man to approach.

  When the man was twenty feet from Taylor he stopped. Taylor wondered how well his adversary could see in the dark. He could make out every detail of the man's slovenly dress; could see the pimples on his face, smell the foul breath—a mixture of chili dogs and beer. This had to be the wild boar who had killed his son.

  Taylor reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. He flicked the flame and held it under his chin to give the man a better look. He held it there several seconds before letting it go out.

  "Why, you ain't no devil at all. You're just a man, just like me—only smaller, much smaller." The giant slurred his words. It was obvious he'd been drinking. Still, Taylor figured the man outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds, maybe more. He was beginning to think his instincts had led him astray. Moises would have been good company right about now. That or a really big gun.

  "You the pig that killed my boy?" Taylor asked in a voice that carried despite its soft tone.

  The man glanced around before answering. "Yeah, maybe. I don't know for sure. Didn't make time for no introductions."

  The words slapped Taylor in the face, like someone calling him out to a duel. "It's time you paid, pig."

  The giant form threw his head back and laughed. "It's Hawg. Mr. Hawg to you." He looked around again as though expecting others to jump out of the shadows. When no one did, he turned his attention back to Taylor.

  "Man, you've got balls. Not much sense, but a lot of balls. I've got to hand it to you. In fact, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to hand you your balls on a silver plate." He started walking towards Taylor.

  Taylor braced himself, pulling the staff across his chest in the ready position. The distance between the two men had been closed by half when the larger man reached behind his back with his right hand and pulled out a revolver.

  "You stupid son-of-bitch," Cal said as he aimed and fired.

  Taylor's sharpened reflexes were the only thing that saved his life. Even so, as he dived to his right and rolled, he felt the impact of the bullet smack against his left shoulder. He rolled twice, grasping the staff close to his body then used it to push himself to a standing position, wincing from the early stabs of pain in his shoulder.

  He felt the presence of the man behind him without actually seeing him. He ducked as he heard the click, click of two empty chambers followed by loud cursing. He swung the staff behind him a few inches off the ground and felt the satisfying crunch as it hit the man's shins, knocking his feet out from under him.

  For the man's size, he moved with surprising speed as he rolled away from Taylor before he could swing the staff again. It didn't matter. It was time to spring the trap.

  Taylor started running down the line of freight cars, being sure his prey followed close behind. He kept the distance just close enough to give the man hope of catching him. As he rounded the end of the last car, he picked his speed up a little to give himself enough time to catch the rung of the ladder of one of the burned out cars.

  As he pulled himself up, the burst of pain shot through his shoulder and down his left side, almost causing him to fall back into his pursuer's arms. He paused for two heartbeats for the pain to dissipate slightly then forged up the ladder, the man in close pursuit.

  As he reached the top of the freight car, he felt a hand grab his shoe, hold it for a second then release as he kicked his foot away. Close. The bastard was too close. He had to put some distance between them. He jumped to his feet, wavered for an agonizing second, fighting for balance, regained it. He heard the heavy breathing behind him. Stumbled forward. Almost fell. Caught himself with his good arm. Regained his balance and ran along the roof of the car.

  Would it work? He heard the question reverberate in his mind. What if his calculations had been wrong? The man was too close. He would catch him for sure. He could almost feel the butt of the gun being brought down on his skull. Once, twice, again and again, until he finally slipped into unconsciousness. But would he go unconscious, or would the sapo keep him awake for hours of torment? What if his destiny was to fall victim to the same monster that had killed his son?

  No time. Don't think. Just run. React.

  He saw the charred roof ahead. He thought he could feel the hot breath of the childkiller on the nape of his neck. A few more feet. Pump. Just a little harder, a little longer. The charred surface passed beneath his feet. He heard the weakened boards groan in protest. Groan but not give. It wasn't going to work.

  He felt the hand grasping for his collar. He shrugged it away, pulling his shirt out of the pig’s grip. T
hen he heard a sharp snap, like a tree being felled, then a loud snort of dismay followed a second later by the crashing of the body slamming into the floor below.

  The trap was sprung.

  He stopped running and bent over with his hands on his knees. He took several deep breaths and let them out. Despite the sapo, he was tired. Dog tired. But his breath returned quicker than usual despite the wound in his shoulder. The sapo continued to sustain him. He walked back to the edge of the newly formed hole, listening carefully for the warning sounds of a board about to break. His lighter weight had made the difference. He was able to return to within a couple feet of the chasm—enough to look down at his prey.

  The man who'd called himself Hawg lay at the bottom of the freight car groaning softly, his legs twisted in an unnatural position. Was that a fragment of bone sticking out of his left pant leg? Taylor was pretty sure it was. He studied his prey like a hawk might watch a rabbit whose back has just been broken as it flops around in its final throes. More curious than anything else.

  Slowly, Hawg's eyes cleared. As he regained consciousness, he began to scream as much from anger as from pain. "God damn, God damn! You fucking asshole. Don't just stand there. Go get some help, man. I'm hurt—hurt bad."

  After a moment when Taylor didn’t move, Hawg yelled again. "Come on. Give me a break. I'm really hurt bad. I can't move my legs, man. Can't move anything below my waist. Shit, man. I can't fucking move my arms, man. Fuck. Get me outta here."

  Taylor listened for several minutes as he considered his next move. He tossed the staff down the hole then climbed down the side until he was on the ground. He slid the door of the freight car open and climbed inside.

  He gazed around the interior until his eyes adjusted to the near ink-black darkness. He found the staff then noticed the gun where it had fallen several feet away.

  "That the gun you killed my son with?" he asked.

  "What the fuck does that matter? Get me some help, will ya?" A whining tone crept into Hawg’s words.

  "Is it?" Taylor repeated.

  After a long moment, "Yeah. Now, will you go for some help?"