Tamer Animals

by Justin M. Woodward

  Benny interrupted, “Floyd, is the driver okay? What exactly happened?”

  “Yeah,” Floyd said, swatting at a fly. “Driver seemed okay. He went unconscious just before they took him off, but before he passed out, he kept screaming something over and over.”

  “What's that?”

  Floyd stuck his thumbs under his denim overalls straps and turned his head and spat.

  “Goat man.”

  Nobody said anything for a long time. Finally, he said, “Tell me about these kids, Floyd.”

  After leaving the gas station, the ride to the campground was less than ten minutes. Patrick had sped away from the Floyd’s Market rather quickly, hoping to miss any emergency vehicles or news crews.

  “This is so fucked up!” Tim shouted. “We should be back there checking on that driver. We just fled the scene of an accident. That's against the law, isn't it?”

  “No,” Patrick said. “We didn't break any laws. It wasn't like a hit and run. That's what you're thinking of. We just happened to see a truck tip over; we didn't cause it.”

  In the back seat, Dean had his face in John’s copy of Lullaby by Chuck Palahniuk. He had felt nervous ever since Floyd’s mention of the Goatman, and he found that reading calmed him, so he read.

  Patrick continued, “You guys do realize that the guy who ran that store has a phone, right? He probably called 9-1-1 before we even left the lot.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Tim said. “Still don't make it right.” And he was done discussing the matter.

  “Turn left here,” John said.

  He turned the vehicle onto a dusty dirt road.

  “Just about a mile down here is the turn.”

  “Finally,” Tim said. “First order of business, I'm getting baked. I've never been this nervous in my life.”

  Patrick said, “Nobody's getting baked until we have all of our stuff set up. Also, we need to gather wood.”

  “I can walk and chew gum at the same time,” Tim sneered.

  “Turn here,” John said, as they approached the sign which read: Coheelee Creek Covered Bridge. A smaller sign below this one read: Campers, Please Be Courteous.

  Patrick parked the Suburban in front of the wooden fencing near the campgrounds. They all got out, stretched their legs and admired the scenery. Down the sloping hill sat the campground among few trees and behind that ran the creek. The water in the creek was clear and sparkling in the treacherous Georgia heat. To the right, the creek ran down into a series of small rivers, a few waterfalls, and a larger river. To the left was the famous covered bridge.

  They began unpacking the Suburban and taking their things down the hill to the camping area. Dean was reaching in the back of the vehicle to grab the tent when he saw their bags shuffling around on their own. Jumping back, he called for Patrick, who was standing in front of the car with his hands on his hips, proud to finally be free, if only for a weekend.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Dean backed away and pointed to the rear of the vehicle. Patrick came around to look while Tim and John dropped what they were carrying to come and see what was wrong.

  He leaned into the back of the Suburban apprehensively, like a dog meeting a stranger. The tent shifted and fell, and a hand emerged from beneath. The four of them jumped back, cursing.

  “Don't hurt me,” said a small voice, and Patrick, in complete shock and disbelief, knew immediately who it was.

  Sam.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Small, fetal, and sad looking, Sam lay in the back of the Suburban among the bags and boxes.

  “What are you doing?” Patrick roared. “Oh my God, Sam—Mom and Dad are going to kill me!”

  The other three boys stood frowning but said nothing.

  Sam pulled his way out from below the bags and brushed himself off. He stood looking at the four of them, tears welling in his eyes. “I'm sorry,” he said. “But you don't have to worry about Mom and Dad. I told them I was going with you, to that church thing. I told her you invited me, and she was so excited… I asked her not to mention it because it would embarrass you.” Sam’s gaze met his brother’s, and they both looked down, blushing.

  “Sam, I—”

  “I should have just asked you if I could come. I was just afraid that you'd say no. But you know I'm cool. You know that whatever you guys came to do, I'm cool with it. But Patrick… I need this.”

  Patrick thought back on the year his little brother had just endured. He had been molested by some of his peers, ridiculed, tripped, called a homo on a daily basis, shoved into lockers, and had been the recipient of more than one old-fashioned ass-whooping. Not to mention all the doctors he'd had to see over the foot-dragging phase.

  He really does need this, he thought.

  “You stay right here,” Patrick said, pointing to Sam. He motioned for the other three to follow him, and he walked a good distance away from the Suburban.

  They all gathered in a small circle, except for Sam, who was still standing by the car. “Look,” he said to them. “I know this sucks, and it's lame, and I'm sorry. But we should really just give him a chance. You guys know what he's been through, I think we should let him have this.”

  None of them spoke. Tim began nodding slowly, and John and Dean followed.

  “It’s okay with me,” said John. “I mean, we don't have much of a choice now, but still, Sam is cool. Let's just start getting our shit set up before it's dark.”

  And so, they did. Collectively, they dragged the cooler full of drinks down by their chosen campsite area (a recently used and enjoyed patch near the creek with a small campfire still set up). Tim and Dean worked together to gather wood from the nearby woods while the others worked on the tent.

  “So much of this whole ordeal is extremely dependent on the small chance that we won't overlook some major flaw,” said John. “I mean if we do so much as put the tent back in the box wrong—”

  “It's done,” Patrick said. “Quit worrying about it. Even if we do get in trouble, so what? We've been wanting to do this for so long, let's enjoy it while we're here, or let's go home and tell our parents God cancelled our field trip.”

  They started a fire just before it began to get dark. There were only four chairs, so Sam was left to sit on a large rock that Patrick had found for him. Forming a semi-circle around the fire, they sat with Sam on the end next to Patrick. He thought about offering Sam his chair, because he felt that it was the right thing to do, but ultimately, he brushed away the idea, reminding himself that no one had forced Sam to come along like a prisoner trying to escape on the produce truck.

  Dean was slow to come to the fire, sitting in the tent with a flashlight and his book.

  “What are you doing, man?” Tim called in the direction of the tent.

  Dean clicked off the flashlight and crawled out of the opening to the tent looking perplexed, like something was on his mind. “I've just read the craziest thing in that Palahniuk book. You know the hippie guy? When he says the part about the bait cow?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Patrick. “Shit is screwed up.” He noticed Sam glance up at the word shit, but the younger boy quickly turned away and tried his best to appear totally cool with it.

  “What are you guys talking about?” John said. “I don’t remember any cow.”

  Dean said, “The guy is explaining the cattle industry. He says there's a cow who's trained to lead the other cattle into the slaughter room.” Dean swallowed. “It's like she's saying ‘follow me this way, it's okay.’ But it's not okay. They get slaughtered. And in the end, the bait cow gets slaughtered, too.”

  “Do you think that's true?” Sam said in his small voice.

  “I'm sure it could be,” replied Patrick. “But it is kind of hard to believe that a cow could be trained to do that. Who would want to do that? To lead others to their death on a regular basis?”

  Tim stood up. “It's too early for all this crazy shit-talking, man. Where's the weed?”

  Patrick and Sam exc
hanged glances. Sam zipped the imaginary zipper built into his lips. “I swear,” he said.

  He reached reluctantly into his bag and pulled out the sack of weed they had bought from Wolf. Tim finished the Coke he was drinking and crushed the can carefully, making a small valley in the aluminum. Then he reached down and pulled a safety pin out of the tongue of his shoe and used it to poke a dozen or so holes in the aluminum valley. “Load it up, Pat,” he said.

  And while the five of them sat around the fire, something sat in the woods and watched them.

  Sam declined his brother’s offer to puff from the can when it came to be his turn. Sam’s curiosity was strong, but he saw something in his brother’s eyes when he offered him the can which said, I’m only offering to appear nice. He caught his brother’s's drift. He was lucky enough to have come with them; he would do well not to overstep his boundaries.

  After the four older boys were good and high, they set out to make some dinner.

  “You know what I could go for?” Tim said while he and John set up a small spread of snack food on a nearby rock. “An ice-cold beer,” he said, after no one asked him.

  “Oh bullshit,” Dean said. “Beer tastes like hot garbage, and you know it. That's what you told me. You said beer wouldn't taste any worse if it was funneled from a homeless man’s asshole.” There was laughter from the others at that.

  Tim blushed. “Well, I think I might could change my mind. You don't know. Besides, it's not about the taste. I wanna get drunk.”

  “Getting drunk is lame,” Dean said. “Terrible for your health and just genuinely dangerous. Weed is way safer,” Dean said.

  “I know,” Tim said. “I just want to see what the fuss is all about.”

  After eating, they discussed what they wanted to do the next day. The morning would be for gathering firewood, the afternoon for swimming and exploring.

  “Aren't you guys just a little bit scared being out here at night?” John said. “I mean, I know we came knowing what they say about this place, but I just feel creeped out. Just me?”

  “No,” Dean said. “It's not just you.” And he decided to finally tell them what he had read on the internet about the Goatman.

  He talked for ten minutes straight while the other four (Sam especially) sat in silent, apprehensive horror.

  John leaned forward in his chair and said, “We have to find the noose.”

  “Right now?” Dean replied. “No way!”

  “Yeah,” Patrick said. “I'm absolutely not going out there in the dark.”

  “Pussies. All of you,” said John.

  None of them replied. The fire popped.

  He continued. “Well, we at least have to go to the bridge. It's just up the hill, I can see it from here.”

  “But what about the Goatman?” Sam said.

  Patrick laughed nervously. “It’s a load of crap,” he said. “There is no such thing.”

  Sam wasn’t convinced, but he nodded anyway.

  They all found their flashlights and reluctantly followed John up the hill toward the bridge.

  Tim struggled up the hill complaining that his leg had fallen asleep. “What are you gonna tell us next, Dean?” He said. “That the Goatman is also part spider, and he's got all his fucking spider-goat-man babies in a web in the corner of the bridge?”

  “The hanging didn't even happen on the bridge,” Dean said. “It's just an old historic landmark. There's only so many of these things in the world or something.”

  A tree cracked in the woods, and the sound echoed all along the creek bed, causing them all to jump. Looming just yards away from them was the bridge. The size of it. The old thing creaked in the wind. They approached it, shining their flashlights.

  “What is the point of coming up here?” Patrick asked.

  “You scared?” said John.

  “No, I just don't know why we can't come back in the morning.”

  A small voice came from inside the covered bridge. It seemed to utter a one syllable word: hey.

  Sam screamed and started running down the hill toward the campfire. Patrick watched him go and then turned and ran toward the bridge with his flashlight out before him, bouncing light around like a flaccid penis pissing all over a toilet seat. John and Tim followed him, but Dean froze in place, his shoes seemingly stuck to the ground by some unimaginable force. His face scrunched into a grimace.

  “Hello?” Patrick called.

  A skittering noise like long nails on wood came from across the void. He shined his flashlight slowly from one dark corner to the next. Something moved overhead. Behind him stood John and Tim, both of whom had seemed to forget their flashlights entirely. Several yards behind them stood Dean, petrified.

  “Who the fuck is out here with us?” John hissed. “A kid. I heard a kid. I know it.”

  “I don't even know if that's what I heard,” said Tim. “Sounded more to me like some kind of animal. Like, maybe, do you think it was some kind of animal?”

  “Like a goat?” Patrick said as he flashed the light around the darkness. “Please don't tell me you mean that.”

  Tim shuddered. “Actually, yeah.”

  If interviewed just then, Sam would have had no problem telling anyone that he had fucked up royally by coming along on this trip. Panting when he reached the tent, he turned and looked over his shoulder to assure himself that no one bad was following him. No one at all, actually. Was it an over-reaction for him to bolt like he did? Were the other guys currently in trouble?

  No, he could hear them talking. And shouting. The shouting is why they didn't see the figure like Sam did. The bridge is why they didn't see the hooded figure standing by the Suburban.

  Sam screamed again.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Stranger things had never happened to any of them in their lives, and no one slept very well that night. Not long after they returned to the campfire, they all piled into the tent and tried to get comfortable. Sam either had forgotten about the figure by the Suburban or had chosen to pretend he had. They were crammed into the tent, not having accounted for the fifth person in their original plans, and Dean, Tim, and John were annoyed even further by Sam’s self-invitation. Patrick knew they were all upset and he felt that he should be, too, but he just couldn't bring himself to be angry over what his brother had done.

  Dean was crammed into the corner of the tent, thankful that he wasn't in Tim’s position, in the middle, crammed between two guys. The inside of the tent created its own kind of sick atmosphere, complete with the strong odor of sweaty socks.

  “Well, this has been a shit trip,” Dean said.

  “What the hell was that back there?” asked Tim.

  “I don't want to know,” Patrick said.

  Sam thought to himself and spoke up, “There's something I didn't say before, but I need to say it now because I don't think I can sleep unless someone makes me feel better about this.”

  Sam had everyone’s attention. “When you guys were up at the bridge, I think I saw somebody standing by the car.”

  “Stop it,” snapped his brother, trying not to sound shaken. “You're making it up for attention.”

  “I'm not! I swear. The person was all hunched over the car, and they were wearing a hood.”

  “Why didn't you say something before, then? Why wait until we're all crammed together in this hot ass tent?” Patrick struggled to get to the doorway.

  “Don’t go out there!” Sam yelped.

  “Fuck that!” Tim said. “I'm not sitting in here waiting to get grabbed by some crazy bastard with a machete. I'm getting out of here.”

  At this point, the whole lot of them were stirring, putting on their shoes. Patrick exited the tent first. Sam was the last to exit.

  John walked over to the fire and used a stick to poke some life back into it.

  Dean produced some flashlights, and they started walking towards the Suburban.

  “Wait,” said John. “Shouldn't we leave a couple people here? You know, to make s
ure our stuff is okay?”

  “Sure,” Patrick said. “Does that mean you're volunteering?”

  John’s face tightened. “I don't care, sure.”

  “I'll stay here with you,” Sam said, sitting on a rock with his back to the fire.

  “Okay, we'll be right back,” said Patrick as he and the others went to investigate.

  The Suburban wasn't far at all, but in the darkness at that very moment it seemed five miles away. Patrick thought that he should have listened to John when he said that they should bring a gun. Ronnie had a pistol that he probably wouldn't miss for a few days, but Patrick had told John no, simply because he thought a gun and marijuana didn't sound like the best idea. Right then, he'd take a redneck’s entire arsenal with a smile on his face.

  They reached the wooden fence in front of the grass parking lot and worked their legs over it. The Suburban seemed okay. The tires were okay, and it was still locked.

  “I don't see anything,” said Patrick. “Let's go back.”

  “Wait,” Dean said as he pointed.

  “Oh my God.”

  Patrick. Dean, and Tim stared at the back of the Suburban for a long time, none of them able to move. On the back of the otherwise spotless vehicle there were dozens of wet, muddy handprints.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Midnight. The fire burned high. Five nervous kids sat huddled by the flames. The three who had ventured to the vehicle had returned, looking a bit like their eyes could fall out of their sockets.

  “What?!” John had demanded. “What is it? What happened? Tell me!”

  “Someone is out here,” Patrick said.

  John blinked. Sam went inside the tent in such a quick manner, you would have thought there was a toilet in there.

  “Or at least there was someone out here,” said Dean.

  “What’s the difference?” Tim said. “We need to fucking get the hell out of here.”