Predatory Animals

by Gabriel Beyers

  “It’s fine,” Gordon said. “You are here to work, not socialize.”

  “What exactly do you want me to do?”

  Gordon’s demon eyes narrowed. “I thought we were clear on this. We need you to handle the cat.”

  “Penelope’s a big cat. I can’t force her to do anything she doesn’t want to do.”

  Nan stepped forward. “We don’t expect you to handle her, but you understand these animals better than our staff. We need you to get her from the enclosure to the arena by eleven. Then, when she is finished, you will return her to her place.”

  Sly’s head was spinning. How could she speak so nonchalantly about feeding another human being to Penelope? The sides of his face were clammy and cold. He wanted to vomit. His face must have been very pale because Gordon pulled out a chair and pushed him into it.

  Art’s smug face floated before his own. “For shit’s sake. It’s a simple job. Get the cat down to the arena then put her back up again.” He seemed to take Sly’s nausea as a personal affront. “If that is too much for you then I’m seriously wondering why we are keeping you around at all.”

  Gordon put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Sly will do just fine. Won’t you?”

  Sly looked up into Gordon’s eyes and fought the urge to scream. It was like being face to face with a crocodile. He forced himself to nod. “I’ll be fine. I will have Penelope ready for you.”

  Sly left the security room, walking in a numb trance to the meat lockers in the warehouse. The crisp air in the freezer washed over him, bringing him back around. It was still all so surreal.

  He looked over the contents of the freezer. Penelope had been starved over the past week and would be plenty ravenous for tonight’s show. Sly wanted to bring her a half section of deer, but if her hunger was satiated she might not perform as the Pummels wished. Sly hated the coward this situation was revealing within him, but he was powerless to overcome it. Bile washed up the back of his throat as he took a gallon jug of pig’s blood from the shelf.

  This should be enough to tempt her.

  Sly went down to the arena. The bleacher-style stands nestled safely behind the heavy gauge wire were already beginning to fill. The crowd commingled like aggravated wasps, gambling at blackjack and craps tables while ordering drinks from the full bar. Sly stood for a moment amazed. How was it possible to organize such an event and not have the information leaked to the authorities?

  He scanned the faces, wondering if one or more of the raucous bunch had a badge and gun concealed beneath their tuxedo jacket. If the police or FBI was here, he couldn’t make any of them. Only one man stood out of the crowd and Sly caught such a short glimpse of him, he wasn’t sure he saw the man properly.

  By the time Sly did a double-take, the man in the black trench coat and short, flat cowboy hat was nowhere to be seen. I’m cracking up. There was no way an Amish or Mennonite man would be in a place like this. Even if there was, Nan would have him thrown out for his wardrobe violation.

  Sly made his way around the large octagonal ring to one of the four concrete bunkers that served as entrance points. He waved his ID badge over the scanner. The solid steel door slid effortlessly on its ball bearing hinges and the recessed lighting activated as he entered. The door’s pneumatic lever pulled the door closed and the magnetic lock sealed with a click. To Sly’s left was a large garage style door that gave access to the “battle zone”. To his right was a chain-link gate on an electronic track and beyond that was a short stairway leading to a concrete tunnel beneath the floor.

  Sly waved his ID before another scanner and a panel with three buttons, marked OPEN, CLOSE, and STOP, lit up. He pressed OPEN and chain-link gate followed orders.

  Sly stepped into the tunnel. There were no other doors or exits. The floor, walls and ceiling were all reinforced concrete. The only thing to break the gray monotony was the occasional light fixture and fresh air vent.

  At the end of the long tunnel was a duplicate staircase and chain-link gate. Sly swiped his card, pressed OPEN then stepped into the small room. He opened the container of pig blood, poured a small puddle on the floor, and then stepped back into the tunnel. After closing the gate he moved to another panel of buttons similar to the first except for the words ENCLOSURE CONTROLS written above them. With a press of a button the garage door opened flooding the tunnel with fresh air.

  “Penelope.”

  A few minutes later a pair of glowing amber eyes flashed in the darkness beyond the doorway. Penelope drifted down the stairs like a mist of fog. She regarded Sly, searching him with her predator’s eyes. She made no aggressive movements, but he was sure that was only because she understood the gate was closed. Instead she sniffed the puddle of blood and greedily lapped it up.

  While she was busy with the blood, Sly closed the garage door, trapping her in the small room at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m sorry about all of this,” he said to her, but she ignored his apology.

  He started back down the tunnel, pouring small drips of blood along the way. Sly emptied the remaining blood onto the floor in front of the first garage door. He exited the room, leaving the chain-link gate open. Outside the bunker he accessed the enclosure-side controls and opened the far gate. He stood next to the door watching through the tiny window until Penelope came into view. He waited for her to begin lapping the blood before he closed the arena-side gate, trapping her in the bunker. With his job completed for now, he flipped a switch, lighting a sign above the door that read:

  DANGER!

  PLEASE VERIFY ROOM IS EMPTY

  BEFORE OPENING THIS DOOR!

  Sly sat down at the bar and ordered vodka on the rocks. He hadn’t had a drink for almost fifteen years, but seeing as how he had sold his soul, what did it matter if he fell off the wagon? Before Sly could take hold of his drink Wexxel snatched it up.

  “Hey, that’s mine.”

  Wexxel downed the drink and put the glass down without even a wince. “You’re on the clock. Get drunk on your own time.”

  “You’re on the clock, too.” Sly hated how childish and pouty his voice sounded.

  “Not going to argue with you there, but the boss gave orders to keep an eye on you. You need to stay alert and sober. It’s your job to let the cat out of the bag.”

  “And when am I supposed to do that?”

  “Just pay attention. You’ll know when it’s time.” Wexxel ran his finger down into the glass then rubbed the remaining drops across his gums. “Don’t fuck up.” He turned and vanished into the crowd.

  “If a man can’t enjoy his job,” a voice said from behind, “he can’t enjoy his life.”

  Sly froze mid breath when he saw who spoke. Sitting beside him, sipping a snifter of cognac, was the Amish man. He had a devilish Cheshire grin and a bright red scar covered the left side of his face. His eyes were uncomfortably similar to Penelope’s.

  “Who are you?” Sly blurted out. “What are you doing here?”

  “You can call me Uriah.” He offered his hand, and when Sly shook it a fierce icy shiver avalanched down his back. “As for what I’m doing here, well . . . things like this just interest me. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Work troubles?”

  Sly pulled his hand back and it was like retrieving it from a pit of cold muck. “More like life troubles.”

  The man tipped his hat back a little. Sly struggled not to stare at the red blotch. He was no longer certain it was a scar. Perhaps it was a birth mark. A strange thought entered his mind. His mask has been torn away. That is what he really looks like underneath.

  “When life has you trapped in a rut, sometimes you have to do something crazy and unexpected to get yourself out.”

  Sly was growing drowsy, as if he were being hypnotized. “Easier said than done.”

  “Then find yourself a partner in crime.” Uriah smiled and for a second there Sly could have sworn the man’s teeth were all pointed and sharp. “If I know anything, it’s that you better get free of the quic
ksand before it swallows you alive.”

  A loud buzz erupted over the intercom, silencing the clamorous crowd. Sly looked up at the speaker mounted on the wall. Nan’s voice rang out, full of silk and love.

  “Ladies and gentleman, the competitions will begin in thirty minutes. All wagers, including the choices for the special event, must be validated in the next fifteen minutes. Thank you.”

  A tiny beep signaled the end of the message. Sly turned back to Uriah, but the man was gone. He sat up straight in his seat and scanned the crowd. It should have been easy to place a red-faced Amish cowboy swimming through the ocean of well-dressed gamblers, but the man was gone like a ghost.

  The stress was breaking his hold on reality. Sly wanted nothing else than to grab a bottle from behind the bar, go find a place to hide and drink himself into oblivion. He couldn’t afford that luxury tonight, though. He was being watched and his masters had him on a short leash. He didn’t want to be a coward. He didn’t want to lie down and let the Pummels enslave him. But what choice did he have?

  Sly’s heart began another cycle of rapid pumping. His skin went cold, yet he was sweating. The sounds—talking and laughing; drink glasses clinking around on the bar; feet endlessly shuffling across the concrete floor—melded into the deafening roar of some monstrous insect. Every hair on his body danced about as though charged with static electricity. He couldn’t breathe. If he didn’t move, he would die.

  Sly hopped down from his barstool and pushed through the insipid crowd of finely attired demons. His feet seemed weighted; every step he feared the floor would give beneath him. At long last he broke free and pushed into the restricted area near the bunker where Penelope waited to play her part. He leaned against the door, resting his face against the cool metal.

  He wanted to look through the window, but was afraid that Penelope would see him. He couldn’t bear her judgment right now. Instead, he turned his back to the door, slid down to his butt, wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his face in his arms.

  Before long Gordon’s voice rang though the intercom. “Welcome my friends to the first of many celebrations to come.”

  Sly stood to his feet. Gordon was in the center of the battle zone with a cordless microphone in hand. Though the stands surrounded almost the entire octagon, the crowd was small by comparison, filling just a quarter of the seating.

  “In the days of Rome the people often came together to behold condemned men pit their strength and will against each other.” Gordon moved about like a strutting peacock. “Some fought to save their lives. Others fought for immortality. Who can deny that America has risen in the spirit of ancient Rome? From the standard of our vast empire to the fear that precedes our name. Yet we have forgotten our lineage . . . our birthright.”

  Gordon paused for effect. Had Sly been a courageous man, he would have booed.

  “Tonight we reclaim what was lost,” Gordon continued. “Tonight we will resurrect the past. This is our Coliseum.” He held his hand toward one of the other bunkers and the garage door rose as if by his command. Six men, one of whom was Bobby Bastion, stepped into the ring. “And these are our gladiators.”

  The noise of the cheering crowd reverberated off of the concrete walls, lending to it a terrible power. Sly looked about envisioning a full house. This was just a test run. You didn’t build a place this large if you didn’t intend to fill it. But by then six gladiators wouldn’t be enough. The lust for blood would deepen with each event; the need to outdo the last show would grow exponentially. It wouldn’t be long before Penelope bored the crowd, and like spoiled children they would cry for more, more, more.

  “The gladiators will be randomly paired for battle.” Gordon turned to the six men. “This is a fight to the death. Two will enter, but only one will leave alive.” He faced the crowd again. “Are you ready?” The crowd released a thunderous cheer. “Then bring out the stones.”

  Nan entered the ring carrying a small cloth bag. She passed before the six men, giving each a chance to reach in and draw out a colored stone, red, blue or green. Bobby Bastion brought out a green stone and had the misfortune of being matched with a Mexican whose muscular body was covered in violent tattoos. The Mexican stood out in the condemned group, the one warrior-type among the sheep.

  “Now choose your weapons.”

  Art entered the ring pushing a wheeled cart covered with various kinds of bludgeoning objects. The Mexican chose the baseball bat. Bobby decided upon a four foot piece of lead pipe with a Tee threaded to the end.

  Gordon waited for Nan and Art to exit before he spoke again. “Red will fight first, then blue, then green.” He turned once again to the six men. “Good luck, gladiators. Fight with dignity.” Sly couldn’t be sure, but he thought Gordon shot Bobby—the smallest of the six— a derisive smirk.

  Gordon shuffled four of the men back into the far bunker, leaving the two men with red stones standing in the center.

  None of the six men (except perhaps the Mexican) fit the description of gladiator. Of the two in the ring, one was a tall and pudgy black guy, dressed in a T-shirt, blue jeans and tennis shoes. The other was a thin, middle-aged white man wearing dirty dress pants and a soiled shirt, still complete with the tie. They stood awkwardly staring at each other, nervously fiddling with their weapons of choice.

  Gordon, Nan and Art appeared in the raised booth—the Pummels’ version of a skybox. A buzzer sounded and a digital clock on the wall began to count forward from zero. At forty-five seconds neither man had moved from his spot, and the black man had even dropped the axe handle he had chosen. The crowd chattered like restless bees; some even booed and jeered.

  Nan and Art were leaned in on either side of Gordon, whispering heatedly back and forth. Gordon picked up his microphone and switched it on. “I’m sorry if I failed to mention to those competing in tonight’s events that deferring to fight will result in death regardless.” The bunker door opened and outstepped Walter Coining, a 9mm in hand. “Also, any gladiator who defers will be replaced in the next competition by their children.”

  Gordon switched off his microphone. He had made his point.

  The black man picked up his axe handle, and brought it down with a loud crack against the white man’s tire iron. The crowd went wild, their cheers blotting out the sound of the battle.

  Sly covered his ears with his hands. He didn’t want to hear them howling for death, but the sound found its way through. He hunkered down on the floor and sat there for thirteen eternal minutes before an eerie silence consumed the air. He dropped his hands and chanced a look into the ring, fully expecting to see one man dead.

  The white man lay on the ground, his tire iron resting near his badly broken arm. His bloody head was turned to the side, and he looked with a fish-eyed gaze toward Sly. The black man stood over him with his axe handle raised high. The muscles in his arms tensed like electrified wires as he prepared to deliver the final blow. But then a strained look passed over his bewildered face. He blinked several times as though awaking from a sleep. He looked down on the white man who was now attempting to squirm away.

  The black man stepped away and turned to face Walter Coining, who still had his 9mm up and gripped in two hands. The black man dropped his axe handle and before the echo of it clanking on the concrete died, Coining put a bullet between his eyes.

  The black man fell backwards, landing next to the white man. The white man squealed as he scurried away. The black man’s body made several violent twitches as a pool of blood spread beneath him. Coining approached and fired three more shots into the dying man’s abdomen. He went instantly still. The mob stood to their feet and cheered as if they were on the 50 yard line at the Super Bowl.

  Coining gestured toward the far bunker and the remaining gladiators came shuffling out. Bobby and his Mexican rival scooped up the dead man, while the other two helped the survivor to his feet. The gladiators disappeared with their cargo into the bunker.

  Minutes later the men with blue stone
s walked out to center ring. Their battle was shorter, but far more violent than the red’s. A man with a face full of piercings stood on his knees. A great splotch of blood covered his face from nose to chin and ran down over his chest. His opponent lay on the ground before him, grasping his throat in an attempt to stop the rush of spurting blood. The weapons of not only the blue gladiators, but also the red, lay scattered about. When their arms had grown too weary to swing their weapons, the fight had come down to a grappling match. Forced into animal survival, the man with the piercings used the only weapon he had left . . . his teeth.

  The man with the piercings rocked back and forth, issuing guttural groans, as he watched his competitor grow glassy-eyed and limp. Moments later Bobby and the Mexican carted the body away and the winner of the blue match followed them back into the bunker.

  The final gladiators walked to the center of the ring. Sly rose to his feet and approached the edge of the octagon. He didn’t want to watch this fight, but he couldn’t turn away. Bobby Bastion, looking so small next to his opponent, had begged him for help. Sly had the access to open all of the doors, but when the time came to act he could not find the courage. Now his cowardice had become Bobby’s death sentence. Guilt burned in his veins like poison. He would make things right if only he could turn back the clock. If he could only have another chance then he would help Bobby and perhaps regain his soul.

  Sly chewed his fingernails, ripping one free, spitting it to the ground and then moved on to the next finger. He begged for the buzzer to sound. The anticipation was devouring the last of his strength and sanity. He envisioned Gordon lingering with his hand over the button, enjoying the mental anguish he was dealing out to Bobby.

  The buzzer sounded.

  The Mexican flexed, inflating as many muscles as he could at once. He held his arms out straight, the bat in his right hand, and released a war cry that would have frightened a T-Rex. In one fluid motion Bobby Bastion gripped his lead pipe in both hands, swung it back and around in a high arching circle, stepped forward, and brought the Tee rocketing down on the Mexican’s head like a sledgehammer. The Mexican’s war cry immediately silenced as his clenching teeth severed a large chunk of his tongue.