"Beg pardon?"
"I said," Jenny seethed, "'I wouldn't do that if I were you.'"
Darius's smile broadened. "Oh you wouldn't, would you?"
Jenny shook her head with a look of warning. Her feet stopped swinging.
The counsellor held her gaze a moment, then shook his head, chuckling derisively, and picked up the phone. He smirked at her while she stared daggers at him. In a moment, Jenny heard the dull sound of the telephone beginning to ring at his ear.
"Yes, hi, Mr. Cooper? I'm sorry to disrupt you so late in the evening. It's about your daughter." Darius stuck out his tongue at her. Jenny felt her brother's presence, very near. A sly smile crept onto her freckled face. The young man's smile vanished, and he swiveled his chair to face the wall. "Yes, that's right. I'm afraid she's been acting up. Well, we have a policy--"
Oh yes, Aaron was close now. She could feel him, and his presence emboldened her. Made her weakness solidify into raw animal strength. Made her grow armor. Made her invincible.
"Absolutely," Darius told her father on the phone. "No, that's no trouble. Tomorrow. That's fine. All right, see you then."
With a toothy grin, he swiveled back to cradle the phone. Surprise registered on his face when he saw Jenny standing over him.
"Pick on someone your own size!" She thrust the heavy flashlight down with both hands. "Pick on someone your own size!" The base struck his head with a metallic ping, stripping flesh from bone in a ragged flap. "Pick on someone your own size!" It obliterated his eye. Shattered finger bones when he raised his hand to protect his face. Cracked the top of his skull. Pulverized the gelatinous meat inside. He pitched forward, dropping the receiver, landing solidly on the floor.
Jenny panted heavily, standing over the counsellor's corpse as his blood soaked into the carpet. She dropped the flashlight beside him, then casually bent to pick up the phone.
"Dad...?"
The crackle of distance filled the long pause. "Jenny?"
She sighed heavily. "Can you come pick us up?"
Her father said nothing... but she knew he would come. He'd have to, if he'd heard what Aaron had done to the mean old camp counsellor. She cradled the phone then, and sat with her brother, who smiled silently from the seat beside her, waiting for their parents to arrive.
SANCTUARY
THE EAST TEXAS sun beat down on my head as I jogged the marsh trail through the animal sanctuary. Sweat poured down my back, matting my hair to my scalp. Togo, the four-year-old mutt my ex-wife stuck me with in the divorce, panted heavily as he ran along beside me.
The ex used to say--before the divorce made anything she'd said fall on deaf ears--I should exercise more. Exercise is fine, but the gravel crunching under my feet is a meditation thing for me, hypnotic. It cleared the head. The sanctuary was one of my favorite spots in the area, and just about the only place nearby you could go to get away from the trucks and bustle of the city.
A bird chirped high on an electrical pole, repetitive, trying to get my attention. "Robins are active today," I told Togo. He looked up at me, tongue lolling to one side--thirsty already, but we'd only just started running. I promised myself to stop once we got to the next intersection in the trails.
Up ahead, black smoke rose over the trees. A hunting cabin, most likely. The sound of rifle fire cut through the wind filling my ears, confirming my suspicion. Some yahoo gun nuts firing off automatic weapons. Something I hear a lot these days is, "Go big or go home." The expression doesn't just apply to pickups, or the portions at your local Tex-Mex.
Never was one for guns, particularly after having one pointed in my face where I tend bar. At least with open carry laws you know where you stand. It's the ones who've got them tucked into the back of their pants or under their jacket you have to worry about. When a fight breaks out in a bar where open carry is the norm, things either escalate quick--usually one dipshit or another ends up shooting himself in the foot trying to pry the thing out of its holster, Billy the Kid-style--or people calm down in a hurry, not wanting to be the object of some psycho's target practice.
Alligators lurk in the marsh out here. With Togo by my side, I had to keep an eye out that one of them hadn't slinked out of the muck to warm itself on the gravel trails. Part terrier, Togo would make a nice light snack.
I was in a sort of trance when he yelped behind me.
I spun around, still moving along the trail, running backward. Togo had gotten down on his haunches, quivering and looking up at the sky. Up in the haze of blue and white, a bird circled. As I looked, it dove toward us with a familiar cry.
The gull swooped down, its beady yellow eyes locked right on mine. I ducked out of the way, but it was Togo the bird wanted. The poor little mutt rolled over backward as it landed in the dust, squawking at him, dancing toward him. Togo reared back and growled, but the bird kept coming, squalling, calling out for the feeding frenzy.
Scouring the tall grass where the marsh reached the ditch, wary of gators, I grabbed a fat black branch and hauled back with it to pitch at the gull before realizing my error. The stick wriggled in my hand, cool and fleshy to the touch.
Startled, I dropped the coachwhip, crying out in fear and disgust. I've seen those snakes eat mice whole before, but they're incredibly wary of humans. Rather than slither off into the brush though, the snake came right at me, and with a moment to react, I stomped down hard on the thing, feeling its insides crunch and squirt out from under my shoe.
Togo, meanwhile, bared his teeth at the gull. More cries came from nearby as two others landed near the first, the three birds menacing my poor dog. I moved to shoo them when something hard and sharp struck the back of my head.
I turned to a flutter of wings, a familiar chirp. As I rubbed the spot where the robin had hit me, feeling the wet warmth of blood, it dove in for another strike.
I ducked, swatting out blindly. The bird fluttered over my head. Somehow my wrist managed to penetrate its flapping wings and struck its fragile body. The bird chirped--whether in pain or out of anger, I had no idea, but I suspected the latter--then flew up to its perch on the pole.
Nature's gone haywire, I thought. So much for sanctuary...
Togo barked, frantic as the birds flanked him.
"Get the hell out of here, shithawks!" I shouted, kicking gravel at them. They stepped back, raising their wings defensively. Pleased, I stomped toward them, waving my arms like the biggest bird around. They waddled back, spreading out. Their yellow eyes, somewhat reptilian, watched me without betraying their intentions.
Togo screeched then, a tremulous sound that rattled my nerves. I wheeled, ready to kick some avian ass, but it was already too late. A gator had lurched up from the marsh, still shimmering, and had caught Togo in its jaws. Togo's front legs danced, his wet brown eyes looking up at me for assistance. I had none to offer. The gator snapped its head back, revealing a sickening glimpse of the steaming insides of my poor dog, and swallowed the rest of him whole.
I ran.
The birds parted for me, trilling cries. Out in the marsh, three fat gators splashed into the black water. The eyes of another rose from the reeds, locking on me. The one that had eaten Togo bypassed the gulls, as if unaware of them, and ran headlong at my heels. If you've never seen a gator run, be glad. It's probably the most terrifyingly hilarious thing you'll ever see, like a man-eating mudskipper.
As I thought it, glad I'd worn runners, glad to be in the best shape of my life after the divorce, the goddamn robin swooped into view and struck me on the bridge of my nose, shooting stars across my vision. I batted it out of the air, but the damage was done. The gator had gained precious feet. I was lunch.
Rifle fire made me jump. In the next moment, the alligator's head exploded in a shower of meat and gore. Its momentum kept propelling it forward, the legs still pumping, until the huge rugged beast slopped down at my feet, spilling its insides on my shoes.
It was then that I heard the growl of trucks. I'd never been so happy to hear axle-ba
ck exhaust and see a set of Bumper Nuts in my life.
A portly guy with mutton chops stood in the back, brandishing some sort of rifle. "Just about made yerself a horsie doover there, buddy!"
I looked back at the trail. The robin fluttered on the hot gravel. I'd somehow managed to break its wing. But the gulls were still coming, and more gators crept up from the marsh on either side.
The driver smacked the door. "Don't just stand there pissin' your panties. Hop on in!"
Another truck met the first, carrying two more guys I wouldn't want to meet in the woods on any other day, every one of them packing.
I didn't hesitate, just climbed into the passenger seat.
Peeling away, we left the gators in a cloud of dust.
The driver turned to me, chewing on a mouthful of tobacco. "When the animals rise up against their masters, the whole G.D. world's gone snafu, ain't it?"
"Yeah," I said, peering in the rearview.
The fat guy in the bed had taken up a stance on one knee, the rifle sight at eye level. He squeezed off a round, a trail of gray smoke rising from the weapon. "Missed 'em!"
"No shit, you moron," the driver shouted over his shoulder, jumping up and down in his seat. "We're bouncin' all over the damn road. Save your ammo!" He spat a wad of tobacco juice out the open window.
"Gotta get to the city," I said, knowing the birds circling overhead would follow us, but at least we'd be safe from the gators, the snakes--for a while, anyhow. "Get to a high rise, and wait this out. Whatever it is."
The driver turned with a slimy brown grin. "You're in good hands, fella." He patted the Dirty Harry gun holstered on his hip. He was loving this, had probably been waiting for any excuse to kill every damned animal on the planet, and now he would get his chance.
Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten.
I looked beyond the insane grin and out through the window. I saw the black smoke rising above the trees, and knew we were doomed. It wasn't a hunting cabin--I was wrong about that. The city was that way. We were too late.
When the animals rise up against their masters...
The driver yelped, and shielded his eyes, too late to even attempt to swerve out of the large buck's path.
The front end crumpled. The truck swerved, grinding hard into the gravel, and Mutton Chops standing in the truck bed pitched over the roof, crying out. The beast's head shattered the windshield, shards of glass pattering down around me, its antlers gouging up through the driver's throat and pinning him to the ceiling. His glassy eyes bugged out and his tobacco-browned tongue stuck out between his teeth.
The second truck braked, raising dust that swirled around us in a churning wind.
I sat there stunned, covered in glass. The buck snorted, breathing heavily, its face so close I could smell its rank breath and musky hide, see the feathered lashes on its glossy black eyes.
Slow as I could, I reached down for the belt buckle. The eye followed my progress. The animal was stunned, likely just as pinned as its victim. Its bulk had crushed the hood, and one leg was badly broken, jagged bone poking out through flesh.
The belt clicked, releasing me from the driver's chrome tomb.
The buck's head shifted. It blinked, moaning pitifully.
"Good," I said, and jerked the door handle, propelling myself out into the road.
Mutton Chops rose from the dirt, groaning. His rifle had skittered away from him. I thought if I ran I could get to it before he could. Dog eat dog, and all that.
Poor fucking Togo...
Behind me, the other two had gotten out of their truck, rifles at the ready. "Jesus Pleasus! That's a twenty-point buck right there," the second driver remarked, dressed in full military camo.
"Like hell it is," his skinny partner shot back. "Eighteen at the most."
"When we tell the story, it's a twenty." Warning in the driver's eyes. "Teevo would have been honored to die by the hand of that sucker."
"Hoof," the other guy corrected him. "Bucks don't have hands."
"Would you shut the--" His eyes widened. "Oh, my shit..."
I looked where he was looking. A dozen gators had crawled out of the muck and stood poised to strike barely fifteen feet from the truck. Snakes had filled in their ranks, a battalion of Kings, pit vipers, coachwhips, corals and hognoses. Behind them, the rats, voles, moles, and hedgehogs clambered over each other to reach their next meal.
I ran.
Gunfire erupted behind me, and I bolted past Mutton Chops and his rifle. As the reports died out and the cries of immense pleasure became screams of intense fear, of agony, I kept on running. My lungs burning, my legs already beginning to tire, head swimming with thoughts of home, of a city teeming with killer animals, with nature gone amok, I sprinted down the sanctuary trail, evolution's last cruel joke clawing at my heels.
DO NOT SHAKE OR RATTLE
GRACE REALLY OUTDID herself this year, Donald thought from his armchair, looking at the heaping pile of shiny gift-wrapped boxes under the sparkling tree. I told her, Mara and Donnie Junior's spoiled little brats'll tear up all that pretty wrapping of yours in oh, about 5.3 seconds, and it'll be my job to clean it up just like last year. Like every year. But does she listen? About as close as a deaf dog.
A knot popped in the fireplace as Donald rocked in his chair, thinking about his wife of 46 years. Met after his first tour in Vietnam. Gracie sure blew the doors off all the chicks the other fellas went home with that night. A real foxy mama. 'Course that was before that Viet Kong land mine took my leg. Before the job and the kids and the grandkids and Gracie's "many-paws," like she calls it. Now she's gone weird in the head, hot flashes and cold flashes and running around afraid of her own damn shadow. Had Mara while he was in a rice paddy shooting zips for Uncle Sam, and Donnie Jr. once he'd got sent home in two pieces--Well, they probably didn't keep the rest of my leg, lucky the damn thing was a dud--just before he started work at the plant. Overall their marriage had been fine, when the kids were in the house, when he'd been working--Worked my way up from lubing the machines to district manager--but now that the kids had families of their own, and he'd retired--Not that I wanted to, damn government--she'd been grating on his nerves. Always checking up on him in the garage. Always peeking in while he sat reading the paper on the shitter. Dunno what the hell's wrong with that woman. It's like she expects I'll drop dead any minute!
A solitary green light flickered on the tree, spoiling his reverie, blinking like a dying star. The others--red, white and blue--shone uninterrupted. Thank God I took those damn bulbs Grace got back to the store and traded 'em for parallels. Came with extra bulbs, too. A deal is a deal, but you don't go getting cheaply made China crap just because it's on sale. I told her, "You get what you pay for," but does she listen? Like a deaf dog.
Donald eased himself out of the ratty chair, resting the bulk of his weight on his cane. Leaving the chair squeaking behind him like his Vaseline-greased stump in the new prosthetic Donnie Junior had gotten him made special last year, he made his way to the tree. He'd kept the extra bulbs in a baggie garbage-tied to the mass of plugs around back of it. He stopped a moment and warmed his hands in front of the fire--Damn woman's got the temp so low I could freeze to death. Maybe that's what she wants--then shuffled his weary bones to the big Scotch pine. Beautiful tree. Not spindly and sparse like the white pines Grace's Ma and Pop had in their house back when he and Gracie used to bring the kids to their place Christmas morning. Smelled good, too. Taking in a good strong whiff, Donald thought they should make bathroom deodorizers smell like this. Make every poop smell like Christmas morn for just a dollar ninety-nine!
Something caught Donald's eye as he reached around the tree. Was that there before? A new gift, about the size and shape of a shoebox. He squinted down at it. "To Donald from Grace'? I told her we're on a fixed income, she doesn't need to be getting me anything fancy."
Donald bent, leaning over his cane, to read the note taped to the side of the box.
DO NOT SHAKE OR R
ATTLE
"'Do not shake or rattle'? What does she think I am?"
After 46 years you think she doesn't have your number? Even when you were a kid you used to shake the gifts under the tree. Gotta give it a good rattle to figure out what's inside, right?
Donald peered over his shoulder. The house was pleasantly empty. Grace was at her sister's house, bringing her some "Christmas cheer." That meant more alcohol for the alcoholic. Donald could never stand Gracie's sister Diane, and the feeling was so evidently mutual. Never been married, just her alone with a fat tabby cat, Donald had a sneaking suspicion the woman was a card-carrying lesbo. Flying the pink flag, he thought amusedly.
He bent down over his cane, and picked up the box. "Oof!" He hadn't expected it to be heavy. Damn woman nearly put out my back. What's she put in here? A brick?
Turning it from side to side, Donald noted the usual meticulous Grace wrapping job. He watched her sometimes from his chair, where she sat at the dining room table. Everything just so. Tape here, bow there. The corners folded delicately like those easy peasy Japanesey paper swans. Fold and fold and fold. Watching her tear off just the right amount of Scotch tape, he could picture her wearing a jeweler's loupe around her neck like some Hebrew pawnbroker.
DO NOT SHAKE OR RATTLE
My ass, he thought, and gave it a good shake.
He heard a solid CLICK! and the sound was so familiar he might have been able to place it if the gift hadn't erupted in hand, bits of Grace's delicate wrapping paper burning to ash as shards of superheated metal threw him back into his ratty old chair, where he smoldered.
❚❚
GRACE HEARD THE explosion from Diane's kitchen, two blocks south and one block east, where she sat drinking cold Baby Duck with her little sister. The antique land mine she'd purchased from the back of a van filled with an array of assault weapons, handguns and antiques, had worked as Buddy had promised. She would stay in Diane's spare bedroom until the crime scene folks finished cleaning bits of Donald off the living room furniture and walls. The house would require some repairs, of course. But with Donald's life insurance, the home insurance, she thought she'd make out just fine. And she would tell the police it was an antique. She would caterwaul. She would play the fragile housewife, the dotty senior citizen, the way she had for Donald.
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