Predatory Animals

by Gabriel Beyers

  “I ought to leave this here,” he said in a grunt as he struggled to bend down. His left leg was immobilized in a soft-cast, and squatting down without bending a leg proved to be more difficult than he expected. “Maybe if Maggie, Beth and Lucy see what kind of dogs you are they’ll let me ship you off.”

  That wasn’t such a bad idea. He considered it for a moment, but decided against. By the time they all got home the dogs will have torn the rabbit to pieces or pulled it off into the woods.

  Casper made several attempts to grab the rabbit, but no matter how he turned he couldn’t get a hold of it. He tossed the trash bag to the ground and let loose another wave of curse words. He turned to the three dogs who watched him like the audience of a play.

  “You know, you could give me a hand.”

  Shadow made a small grunt and Sky and King moved forward. King scooped the dead rabbit into his mouth and walked over to Sky. The Australian Shepherd pawed at the trash bag, rearranging it so that it lay open. King leaned down, dropped the rabbit into the bag, then Sky took a corner in her mouth and hoisted it up for Casper to grab.

  Casper stood for a moment feeling the wind blow into his open mouth. Shadow whined and he flinched at the sound. His eyes were dry and his lips stuck to his teeth. He scratched at his chin absently then leaned down and took the bag from Sky’s mouth. His voice stuck in his throat and he choked out, “Thanks.”

  The trio of dogs wagged their tails and trotted off around the corner of the house.

  Casper tied the bag shut, folded it back in the excess, and then knotted it again. The garbage man wasn’t coming until the next morning and he didn’t want to risk any smells leaking out.

  Back inside exhaustion fell upon him like a heavy rain. He wasn’t sure if it was the surgery, the crutches, or the shock of the dogs with the rabbit, but he felt as if he’d been on his feet all day.

  All this inconvenience over a silly burlap sack.

  The roar of Rogers River suddenly filled his ears.

  Casper closed his eyes only to have Dale Wicket’s face surface. What was the name of the place he had mentioned? St. Francis. He remembered their realtor mentioning it in passing. There had been a strange glint in the cop’s eyes when he spoke of the place. It was as if he had shared a secret that he should have kept to himself.

  Though he wanted to return to bed, Casper went into his office instead. He stopped for a moment at the middle bookshelf, then went to his desk and opened his laptop. He logged into his computer, pulled up Google and typed in the words st. francis and shadeland. He clicked on the top link and a moment later sat looking at the homepage of the ST. FRANCIS EXOTIC CAT RESCUE CENTER.

  Two Slaves

  Sly Felton’s skin crawled when he saw the number ringing on his cell phone. He looked around to see if any volunteers or trainers were walking down the paths. He was alone except for the 400 pound tiger named Rashir.

  Rashir rubbed his face and side along the heavy gauge fencing, chuffing and purring as if he were one of his domesticated cousins. Sly put his flat hand against the outside of the fence (never inside unless you want to lose it) and caressed the beast’s fur. No matter how many times he touched one of the great cats, it never failed to send a shudder through his soul. To be in the presence of these majestic animals was forever humbling and divine. And to be able to rescue one from pain and torture and give it back its dignity, well . . . there were no words.

  Sly’s cell phone continued to ring. He thought about letting it go to voicemail, but what was the point? It wouldn’t make the problems go away.

  “I have to take this,” he said to the tiger then walked away from the enclosure. He flipped open his cell and held it to his ear. “Hello.”

  “Hello, Sylvester,” Nanette Pummel said, her voice as seductive as a serpent’s.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Pummel?”

  “Stop being so formal for starters. I’ve told you before, call me Nan.”

  Sly was glad she couldn’t see his face. He was sure he had the look of someone that smelled something horrendous. “I’m sorry. What can I do for you, Nan?”

  “That’s better.” She seemed quite jovial and playful and that made Sly nervous. “Be a doll, wouldn’t you, and come to the command center. We need to discuss some details of the upcoming event.”

  “Well, I was just getting ready to help the trainers with the feedings.” His voice sounded weak and mousy in his own ears. And when you considered their two voices it pretty accurately described their relationship: the serpent and the mouse.

  “The trainers will be fine. I’ll expect you in twenty minutes.” With that, she hung up.

  Sly returned the phone to his pocket. He looked over at the tiger which was now lying on his side. Rashir was known as a tabby tiger, meaning he was orange with orange stripes. This was not a natural occurrence, but the result of unscrupulous people interbreeding related tigers in hopes of getting a white offspring. Sly had rescued Rashir from a five-foot by seven-foot enclosure where he had spent the first two years of his life in total darkness.

  Now look at him. Rashir had multiple acres to roam, food to eat, and his dignity back. Sly had to hold to the deal. He knew that if he tried to back out, the Pummels would take him out but there was more to it than that. Even if he escaped—even if he could get some kind of witness protection—they would still shut down St. Francis. If the cats couldn’t be placed at other rescue centers (maybe 15 to 20 percent could) then they would have to be euthanized. That was an option Sly would not accept.

  His mind went to Penelope and what they were going to use her for. What they had already used her for. The knot in his throat strangled him for a moment. Good, he thought. I deserve to choke. I’ve sold my soul.

  He looked around at the budding trees. The air hung heavy with the scent of dogwood blooms, pine sap, and, hidden within, the mustiness of the great cats. The repeating roars of lions echoed to each other over the distance of the grounds. What was his soul when weighed against all of this? But there was still Penelope. Why had he agreed to give her to those miscreants? Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could win her back somehow. Or talk them out of using her.

  “I’ve got to go, Rashir. Faust has to go have a chat with Mephistopheles.”

  Fifteen minutes later Sly parked his electric golf cart in front of the central office. He went in past the tiny office that oversaw the day to day face of the center. He waved at the two women at their desks. The women smiled and waved back. What would they think if they knew the truth? The office staff, the trainers and volunteers were all oblivious of the labyrinth below them.

  Sly stepped into a long, narrow hallway. It passed for thirty feet, dead-ending with a single door marked with a High Voltage sign. He fished an ID card from his pocket and swiped in across a scanner on the wall. The magnetic lock released and he stepped through, making sure to secure the door behind him. He was the only “civilian” allowed in this corridor. He shuddered to think what would happen to one of the regular staff if they happened down here.

  Gordon Pummel had the layout of the labyrinth specifically designed like a sort of maze, with dead-end hallways and doors that lead to empty rooms. Gordon thought himself a clever man—probably because no one dared to tell him different. The maze was supposed to confuse authorities should they ever raid the place. Sly doubted that a cub scout with a broken compass would have trouble navigating the labyrinth. Maybe if you blindfolded someone and dropped them in a random room, but he had been in here enough to have the path memorized.

  Sly presented his ID badge to the scanner next to the command center’s door. It popped open with a hiss. Under other circumstances, a place like this would have thrilled Sly to no end. It reminded him of a war bunker from some post-apocalyptic movie, the kind with zombies and mutants. As he shut the door behind him a shrill voice rang out.

  “Why in the hell does he get a badge and I have to knock like some shit-ass vagrant?”

  Art Pummel sat at an
empty security desk with his feet propped up while eating an orange. He watched Sly with a menacing scowl etched on his face that made him look like some blood-thirsty primitive cousin of man.

  “Because he’s the owner of St. Francis,” a man said from the corner of the room. “And you’re just a shit-ass vagrant.”

  Sly didn’t recognize the man in the corner. He was tall and wiry, with disheveled hair and the beginnings of a patchy beard. Above his left eye and across his lip were the yellowing remains of bruises. His eyes were wide, showing off too much white, with a spooked-horse glare fixed in them. He stood against the perpendicular walls as though he were unable to stand straight. His whole aura spoke of weariness and pain.

  “Shut your mouth, Bobby-boy,” Art said, his eyes still fixed on Sly. “Don’t make me thump you some more.”

  “That’s enough.” Nan sat at a small round table with her hands neatly folded in her lap. “Come join me, Sylvester.”

  Sly took the chair across from her.

  “Would you like anything?”

  “No thank you.” Sly fidgeted in his seat, unnerved by her melodic voice and natural beauty. She was very good at disarming men, and he was not immune. “Did you need me for some reason?”

  She smiled. “Yes. It’s about the event this weekend.”

  Sly gave a nervous glance to the man in the corner. The man shot him a grin that held no joy in it.

  “It’s alright to speak in front of Robert.” Nan nodded to the man in the corner.

  “Yeah,” the man said. “Don’t worry about ol’ Bobby. I’m this weekend’s entertainment.”

  Sly wanted to look away, but the man’s tormented eyes held him entranced. He’d had a general understanding of what the Pummels were proposing when they offered to save the rescue center, but back then it had all seemed so farfetched. It was a hackneyed plot in some 1950s gangster movie. He had never dreamed they could pull it off. But now here he was, just a few days before the main event, staring into the eyes of a condemned man. Why couldn’t they have just left him out of the loop? He didn’t want to know what was going to happen. He couldn’t bear this burden of truth.

  Sly turned away, knowing that the man’s eyes would haunt him the rest of his life. “What do you need?”

  “First I want to make sure that the staff will be absent.”

  “Yes. The volunteers, trainers and staff have been given Saturday night and all of Sunday off. It raised a few eyebrows, but I convinced them I could take care of the place and would call if there was an emergency.”

  Nan seemed bored with this information. “Very good. And you have stopped feeding the cat?”

  Sly’s face blushed hot and he was glad he wasn’t in the presence of one of the great cats. His betrayal was unforgivable. “Yes, but I don’t see why—”

  “Because we want it hungry, dumbass,” Art spat out. Nan shot him a disapproving look and he clammed up like a disciplined child.

  “Her name is Penelope.” Sly’s hands started to tremble, so he sat on them. “I was hoping we could work out some way—”

  Nan cut him off. “The cat is essential to our plans.”

  Sly wanted to press the subject, but the coldness of her eyes frightened him. “Yeah, alright. Anything else?”

  Nan switched the crossing of her legs. “We need you to be present at the event.”

  “Me? Why?” Sly’s stomach twisted and bile hit the back of his throat. “That was never part of the deal. I don’t want anything to do with this.”

  Bobby made a dry-throated laugh from his corner. “They have you by the balls, boy-o. What made you think they wouldn’t change the rules?”

  Art glanced over his shoulder at Bobby. “Better shut that mouth.”

  Nan continued unfazed. “It’s going to be a busy night. My staff will be plenty occupied.”

  “What do I have to do?” Sly didn’t want to hear the answer. Any task given to him would be a bad one.

  “Besides dealing with the cat, we will need you to man the incinerator.” Sly gaped at her, speechless. Nan seemed unsure of his understanding, so she finished with, “To dispose of the remains.”

  Sly didn’t want to look at the man in the corner; he didn’t want this nightmare to have a face. But his head turned anyway. Bobby didn’t smile, nor did he crack a smartass comment; he didn’t even blink. The man just stood, frozen, with a dreadful look painted upon his face.

  Sly looked back to Nan. “I can’t.”

  “You have to.” Her face held no emotion. “Consider yourself involuntarily obligated.”

  What choice did he have? These weren’t the types that accepted refusals. He was amazed at the skill at which the Pummels executed their double-life. To the outside world they presented themselves the perfect family: handsome husband, beautiful wife, kind and caring brother. They appeared to be a charismatic, resplendent trio of raconteurs. But beneath their disguise they were a pack of dragons, hoarding a stolen treasure while feasting on innocent blood.

  Sly had to accept his role. “Is that all?”

  Nan smiled, but this time Sly could see no beauty in it. “No. One more thing. Would you mind escorting Robert back to his cell? He’s had enough exercise and needs to rest.”

  All Sly could do was nod. He looked at Bobby who then said, “I’m coming. I’m coming.” He pushed himself out of the corner then shuffled over to Sly’s side. The two left the control room in silence. The magnetic lock sealed behind them with a deafening click.

  “You know,” Bobby said as they started down the hallway, “you and I aren’t too different.”

  Sly wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but he answered out of a built in need to be polite. “How’s that?”

  “We’re both slaves.”

  Sly shook his head. “I’m not a slave.”

  “Really?” Bobby gave a short dry laugh. “You sure look like one to me.”

  “I’m not. I just owe them, that’s all. They saved the center. They saved my cats.”

  “I owe them, too. I borrowed money. You borrowed money. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

  Sly remained silent. He didn’t see nor did he care. He just wanted to get out. Get out of the labyrinth. Get out of Shadeland. Get out of the strange world that had formed around him.

  But Bobby would not be deterred that easily. “Just because they let you walk around doesn’t mean they won’t throw you in a cell right next to me. Think about it. You know too much. They can’t afford to let you wander free for very long. You’re a loose end. Eventually they’re gonna snuff you out. If you’re lucky, Art will just put a bullet behind your ear. But if I had to guess, I’d say they’ll feed you to one of your cats, just like they did my wife.”

  Bobby’s voice cracked a bit at the end. Sly closed his eyes, wishing that he would either go deaf or Bobby would go mute. Neither happened.

  “You know I’m telling the truth. Tell me I’m lying.”

  Sly wanted to, but couldn’t. He really couldn’t say much of anything. The bog of hopelessness he was trudging through seemed to get deeper with every step. His mind swirled around ideas of what he could do. He could escape; just make a run for it. No. That wouldn’t work. He didn’t have enough money to get very far. They would find him, and he would have forfeited their trust, which was the only thing keeping him alive. He could call the cops. No. The Pummels had deep pockets. Lord only knew who else they had bought off. If he talked to the wrong person, it was his death warrant.

  By the time they reached the cells, Sly’s ears were ringing and his blood pressure was about to do an Old Faithful through the top of his head.

  The other five cells were now full of others that were to play the Pummels’ game. At the sound of their approach the men peered out of the reinforced widows or the food hatch in the doors, but none spoke. It was an eerie silence.

  Bobby stepped inside his cell then turned to look at Sly. “It doesn’t have to be this way. You’ve got an access card. All we’ve gotta do is kee
p on walking. Walk right on out the door, past the guards and to our freedom.”

  “And how far do you suppose they’ll let us walk?” Sly snapped. “Do you think that once we’re past the fence they’ll just forget all about us?” Sly stared long into Bobby’s haunted eyes. He wondered if his own eyes portrayed the cowardice that was living in his heart. “They’ll catch us before we even make it out of town. I can’t help you any more than you can help me. I’m sorry.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it? What have we got to lose?”

  “I’m sorry,” Sly repeated and shut the door.

  Bobby opened the food hatch. “Me too. I’ll be here if you change your mind. But don’t wait too long. Neither of us has much time left.”

  Sly made sure the door was secure then went to find a bathroom so he could vomit.

  The Giant

  Casper lay there for a long time staring at the ceiling while the remnants of his strange dream evaporated. All he could remember was something about a log cabin he had never seen before. He couldn’t recall any of the details, only that he had been frightened in a way he hadn’t known since childhood.

  He looked out the window to see a twilit sky. Retirement was making him soft. He had never been much for naps before. He rolled over and fumbled for his crutches.

  The kids were watching TV in the family room. The scent of garlic and butter wafted in from the kitchen causing a spasm of hunger to erupt in his stomach. Maggie was fluttering around the stove like a hybrid of Martha Stewart and Tinkerbelle.

  Casper made his way to the table and flopped down in a chair. “Why did you let me sleep so late? Patrick will be here anytime.”

  “Patrick won’t be here for another half hour. Besides, you looked so peaceful. You were down like a rock. I’ve never seen you sleep so deeply. You feeling alright?”