Wild Life

by Liam Brown

  And then it started.

  Even above the sizzle and pop of burning leaves I could hear the gasps as one by one the men began to point at the fire. We began to laugh openly then, slapping palms and backs as we congratulated each other on our excellent prank. Until we got close enough to see the look of horror on their faces as they turned from the flames to Marshall, who was staring open-mouthed at the fire.

  We stopped laughing and high-fiving and backslapping. Something was wrong. I turned back to the inferno. It was really burning now, red and orange flames forking up towards our Guy who sat there smouldering, not quite yet alight.

  Confused, I turned back to Marshall, who was by now clutching his head in despair. ‘After all I’ve done for you bastards,’ he roared. ‘After everything I’ve done.’

  And with that he turned and stormed off in the direction of the camp.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Hopper. ‘Oh, shit,’ he said.

  I looked again at the fire. The Guy had finally caught, the inferno reflected in his sunglasses as his grass beard burned down to a fine black stubble. And then I saw it.

  On top of the bonfire, unmistakable now that it was fully engulfed in flames, was an effigy of Marshall.

  *

  The four of us sat huddled around the remains of the fire. The Guy had long-since burned away to nothing, leaving a crackling dance of orange-tipped embers. Though everyone agreed it was all simply an unfortunate misunderstanding, Marshall’s exit had effectively pulled the plug on the celebrations, and one by one people had begun to drift into the night.

  As Rusty stood to leave, he called me aside. ‘Don’t go blamin’ yourself, sonny,’ he said, resting a paternal hand on my shoulder. ‘Everyone knows the gaffer can be a little… sensitive. He’s just got the wrong end of the stick is all. It’ll be forgotten in the morning, you’ll see.’

  I’d nodded and strained a smile, but didn’t feel any better. With everything that had happened at the lake the day before, I felt cursed, as if I was simply lurching from one disaster to the next. I thanked Rusty and waved him goodnight.

  At last it was just Fingers, Hopper and Al left. None of us spoke, each of us lost in our own thoughts as we stared entranced at the ever-shifting patterns of the ashes. I’ve read somewhere about the effect an open fire has on the human brain, about how the flicker and spark speaks to our deepest genetic memories of millennia spent camped out in caves, where the light and warmth of the campfire was the only thing between our ancestors and the saw-toothed nightmares that lay waiting in the darkness. The popularity of the television in modern homes, so the theory goes, is an attempt to recapture that ritual, the smokeless shimmer of quiz shows and soap operas echoing back through the ages to an altogether simpler time, when we would stare into the flames and make the pictures ourselves.

  Of course in the park we had the real thing. I’d always found zoning out to the soothing glow of a fire to be one of the most enjoyable aspects of outdoor living. That night, however, all I saw among the embers was portents of misery; a human skull, a dying swan, a burning man. I’d had enough of fires for one evening. As I prepared to bid the others goodnight, I became aware of a rustling in the bushes behind us. They heard it too, turning in their seats towards the source of the noise. It grew louder, and at once we were on our feet, staring wildly into the darkness.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Al called, already gripping a branch to protect himself. ‘Show yourself.’

  There was no response. The noise came again, even louder this time. There was a tumble of grey and we all leapt back in fright as a rock rolled into the dim circle of light. Then the rock stuck out its snout and sniffed at us. We laughed. It was nothing but a large hedgehog.

  ‘Jesus!’ Hopper said as he nudged the beast with his boot, causing it to transform into a hissing ball of prickles. ‘I thought it was a… I don’t know what. Something bad. Or someone bad.’

  We all laughed again, the thought an outsider might somehow intrude on our private world too outlandish for us to take seriously. Just then there was another sound from the bushes, something louder – and bigger – than any hedgehog.

  Before any of us could react, Rusty crashed into the clearing, his face contorted in agony. ‘Help! Help!’ he cried, struggling to catch his breath. ‘He’s gone bleedin’ mental. It’s a massacre back there!’

  ‘Slow down,’ I said. Even in the dying firelight I could make out the splashes of red that speckled Rusty’s top. ‘Who’s gone mental? Marshall?’

  Rusty shook his head. ‘No, no. It’s that damn bug-eyed freak is who. It’s Sneed. He’s killed them all.’

  SIXTEEN

  Everywhere I looked there were signs of violence: smashed flowerpots, uprooted saplings, snapped trellises. And of course, the corpses strewn indiscriminately in the dirt, the ground sticky with blood. Rusty wasn’t wrong about it being a massacre. The farm looked like a war zone.

  I waited for Al, Fingers or Hopper to say something, but they all looked too shell-shocked to speak.

  ‘And there are definitely no survivors?’ I asked, finally breaking the silence.

  Rusty shook his head. Even in the dark I could see the tears brimming in his eyes. ‘He murdered every last one. Poor bastards never had a chance.’

  The silence stretched on, until at last Fingers knelt to inspect one of the bodies. ‘Well, this is going to stuff breakfast up a bit, isn’t it? I could’ve gone for a nice bit of scrambled egg too.’

  Rusty was on him in a flash, his hand closing around Finger’s throat while Bruno leapt up and began barking. ‘You think this is bleedin’ funny, do you?’ Rusty yelled. ‘They might have jus’ been chickens to you, but as far as I’m concerned they was part of the family. I swear if I get a hold of that little freak I’ll string him up from the nearest tree and…’

  ‘WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON HERE?’

  We all turned to see Marshall marching towards us, his rifle raised to his chest. As he drew closer he froze, turning slowly to survey the carnage all around. It was a clear night, and the moonlight leant the entire scene a surreal quality, the scattered feathers like snow on the ground. When Marshall finally spoke, his words dripped with bile. ‘You Judas bastards…’

  We all cowered as Marshall waved the gun towards us.

  ‘First the fire. Now this. So it’s a war you want, is it?’

  At this, Fingers took the opportunity to wriggle free of Rusty’s grip, his hands held in the air as he approached Marshall. ‘Nah, boss. It ain’t like that at all. Rusty reckons Sneed’s gone and flipped his lid. Look.’ He paused to nudge a mutilated chicken with his boot. ‘Everyone of them’s dead. Throats slit from the looks of it… Ow!’

  Before Marshall could respond, Rusty leapt forward, driving a finger into Finger’s chest. ‘You listen here, you. I don’t reckon anythin’. Of course it was Sneed. Who else could it have been? The sicko’s got a taste for blood after that business with the swan, hasn’t he? We need to get after him now, before he does any more damage. Who’s to say it won’t be one of our necks he goes for next, huh?’

  Hopper piped up then. ‘What do you say, boss – shall I go and raise the alarm? Boss?’

  Marshall didn’t answer immediately. He was still staring at the ruin of the farm, his face wearing the same, helpless expression as when I’d beaten him in the race.

  ‘You say you saw Sneed do this?’ he asked eventually. He didn’t look at us when he spoke.

  ‘I didn’t need to,’ Rusty said. ‘It was him alright. Got his grubby little fingerprints all over it.’

  ‘Rust raised the alarm as soon as it happened,’ added Fingers. ‘It’s just terrible, isn’t it? And we were having such a lovely evening too.’

  Ignoring him, Marshall turned to Rusty. ‘So where were you when all this happened?’

  ‘Me? I was jus’ takin’ Bruno for a piss, weren’t I? Save him scratchin’ at the tent door all night. I was over in the bushes when I heard a right racket. Thought a fox migh
t’ve got in ’ere. I came as soon as I could. But…’ Rusty’s voice cracked. ‘But I was too late.’

  Marshall nodded, pursing his lips. ‘I just can’t imagine him doing this,’ he said, more to himself than to us. ‘I mean, he’s always been a bit… funny. But this?’ He shook his head. ‘What do you think, Adam?’

  Everyone turned to me. It was the first time Marshall had spoken directly to me since the mix-up with the Guy. Despite everything that had happened since, I was still embarrassed.

  ‘He was pretty helpful yesterday,’ I mumbled. ‘At least, he didn’t seem like he wanted to hurt anybody.’

  ‘Except for that bleedin’ swan, you mean?’ Rusty snapped. ‘He was quick enough to come flyin’ out the bushes to wring that poor thing’s neck, wasn’t he? Creepin’ up on people. Sneakin’ around. It’s not right.’

  Al, Hopper and Fingers all nodded in agreement.

  ‘You have to admit, he sure looked like he knew what he was doing out there on the lake,’ Fingers added as he tugged at his beard. ‘I reckon he’s killed a few birds in his time.’

  Everyone nodded again except Marshall, whose only response was to send a missile of spit streaking through the moonlight. We each shuffled uneasily on the spot, waiting for our next instruction. For the first time that night, I became aware of how cold it was, our breath joining together to form a single gossamer cloud, drifting off into the night.

  ‘I know you thought you could tame him, boss,’ Rusty said, his tone softer now, though his eyes were still blazing. ‘But the boy’s not right. Never has been as far as I can see. Some people just ain’t meant for savin’.’

  Marshall shook his head, but wouldn’t meet Rusty’s eye.

  ‘Either way, he’s gone too far this time,’ Rusty continued. ‘He’s turned on you. Turned on us all. And when a dog bites the hand that feeds him? Well…’ Rusty swung a leg out and clipped Bruno’s hind leg, causing him to let out a shrill squeal and dart off towards the trees. With that he began to walk towards the camp.

  He was halfway across the farm before Marshall called out.

  ‘Wait.’

  Rusty stopped but didn’t look back.

  We all turned to Marshall. Maybe it was just the lack of glasses, but I thought he looked older, black ink spots bleeding out from under his eyes.

  ‘Wait,’ he said again, and this time I saw the pain in his face. ‘We’ll come with you.’

  *

  Nobody slept that night. After rousing the others from their tents, we made our way to the armoury. The details of Sneed’s betrayal spread throughout the camp with the enthusiasm of ripe bulrush seeds, so that by the time we arrived, each man was bristling with outrage. As Rusty handed out weapons, Marshall talked us through the plan, explaining in a dull monotone how we should split into pairs and comb the park from the outside in, with the aim of flushing Sneed back into the camp. What would happen once we got him there was less clear, though as we filtered out into the night, Marshall did bark one last ominous command.

  ‘Take him alive.’

  ‘Only if he’s willing to come quietly,’ Rusty added. ‘After all, we know what he’s capable of.’

  We looked to Marshall for confirmation, but all he did was scowl and stalk off towards the trees, his gun slung over his shoulder.

  *

  In the event, there was no need to worry about what we’d do with Sneed once we found him. I was paired with Butcher, and though we spent the whole night silently trudging through the dark undergrowth, the most interesting thing we spotted was a pair of fox cubs scampering across the deserted playing field, their amber hides flecked with golden moonlight. Butcher, meanwhile, seemed more interested in telling me about romantic – and not-so-romantic – conquests from his old life, turning the night air blue with his graphic recollections of his former lovers’ anatomies. By the time the sky had blushed with the first rays of sun the next morning, I felt bludgeoned by both the lack of sleep and the endless tawdry tales. I was glad to return to camp, where we found the other men already sprawled out on the floor, red-eyed and weary. Only Marshall remained absent.

  ‘So what now?’ Hopper asked as we arrived.

  The question hung in the air.

  ‘Well, I for one wouldn’t mind forty winks,’ Butcher said at last.

  ‘And I wouldn’t mind some breakfast,’ Fingers added. ‘What say we fry up them chickens before they turn bad? Bit of KFC, eh, lads?’

  There was an enthusiastic murmur, until Rusty stepped forwards, his face folded into a furious scowl. ‘You boys disgust me!’ he yelled. ‘There’s a mad man on the loose and all you lot can think about is your beds and your bellies? Those poor chickens represent an act of vandalism against this community, and you want to eat ’em? Shame on you. I wouldn’t eat ’em if my life depended on it. Wouldn’t feed ’em to Bruno neither. Nah. We’ll give those birds a proper burial like they deserve. It’s only right.’

  With that, he stormed off in the direction of the farm, Bruno racing off into the bushes ahead of him.

  We hung our heads, tired and embarrassed.

  ‘I was only saying…’ Fingers mumbled, rubbing his cheeks as if Rusty’s words had been a physical attack. ‘Don’t know who he thinks he is anyway. Going on like he’s the bleeding gaffer.’

  ‘At least he’s doing something,’ said a gruff voice.

  We all turned, shocked to hear Ox speak.

  ‘What do you mean?’ aked Al.

  ‘Well, where is Marshall now?’ Ox continued, his words slow and deliberate, as if the act of talking took an immense amount of concentration. ‘Hiding I bet,’ he continued. ‘He doesn’t want to show his face because he invited Sneed to stay. It’s his fault this happened. But I don’t see him coming to help clean up, do you?’

  The silence crashed over us. I’d never heard anyone criticise Marshall so openly before. To hear it from Ox, who hadn’t previously shown any interest in the internal politics of the group, was doubly startling.

  ‘Ah, shut it you lot,’ said Butcher finally. ‘You know Rust had a hard on for them fucking chickens. He’ll get over it soon enough. The boss too. As for Sneed, well, that’s the last we’ll see of that mad fucker. He’s long gone, I reckon. Everything will be back to normal in a day or two, you mark my words.’ With that he stood and dusted himself down. ‘Now, let’s go and get that farm cleaned up before we get another ear bashing.’

  *

  It took us the rest of the day to get the farm straight. We worked in silence, sweeping up fragments of terracotta, mending fences and replacing bamboo canes, replanting or re-staking the crops we could save and tearing out those we couldn’t. By the time we’d finished, the place looked almost as good as new, except for the small hump of freshly turned earth next to the empty chicken run, marking the mass grave of its recently departed inhabitants.

  There was no sign of Rusty or Marshall when we finally staggered back to camp. With all that had happened, it seemed no one had thought to prepare a meal for us. Instead we were forced to make do with a small bucket of fruit we’d managed to scavenge from the farm, a handful of blackberries and a bruised apple helping to stave off the dull pain in my gut.

  ‘Am I missing something?’ I said as we huddled round the empty dinner table.

  ‘Probably,’ said Fingers.

  ‘I mean, it’s not like we’re in the wilderness here. What’s to stop us from going and buying some new chickens? There’s a pet shop about half a mile down the road from here. I’m sure they’d…’ I trailed off as I noticed the blank faces staring back at me.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Butcher roughly.

  ‘Getting new chickens,’ I answered slowly. ‘I was just wondering why can’t we just hop on a bus and buy some new ones?’

  ‘Hop on a bus?’ Hopper repeated.

  ‘Buy some?’ said Butcher.

  I looked around the table, trying to work out if they were joking or not. ‘Come on, guys. They didn’t just appear by themselv
es. Marshall must have got them from somewhere originally.’

  Zebee smiled politely. ‘I think you’re forgetting something, young man.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘The rules,’ he answered.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Butcher. ‘The rules.’

  ‘The rules,’ Hopper nodded.

  ‘The rules say we can’t leave the park,’ said Al Pacino, holding out his fleece for me to inspect. ‘You think I’d be wearing these rags if I could just pop down the shop any time I fancied it?’

  ‘But you could!’ I said with a laugh. ‘The shops are literally just down the road. If you go to the top of Squit Creek, you can see them through the trees. We could be there and back in about ten minutes flat.’

  Ox let out a huge sigh, his barrel chest bobbing up and down. ‘If you don’t like the rules,’ he said, ‘maybe you should speak to the boss.’

  I nodded. The conversation was over. We chewed our fruit in silence and were in our beds before darkness fell.

  *

  The next morning I woke to the clanging of metal. Marshall was back, and from his cries it seemed he was ready to resume our daily routine. I dressed hurriedly and made my way to the camp, relieved that things were at last returning to normal. When I arrived, however, I was surprised to find Rusty standing before the assembled men, a saucepan and wooden spoon dangling from his filthy fingers.

  ‘Ah, Adam,’ Rusty said as I took my place in the line. ‘As I was just explainin’ to the boys here, there’s been a change of plan this mornin’. The boss got back real late last night, so he’s asked me to pass on his orders.’

  ‘There’s still no sign of Sneed,’ blurted Fingers.

  Rusty glared at him for a moment before continuing. ‘It’s true there’s still no sign of the coward Sneed. Which is why Marshall wants us to do things a little differently this mornin’. We’ve been asked to form a security detail around the perimeter. If that little beggar shows up again, we’ll show him how we treat murderers around here.’

  Nobody spoke for a moment.