by Ross Norris
may be.”
“What about you, Mr. Wyler,” Agata said, turning from her more pompous companion. “What brings you out here for the hunt?”
“I don’t know actually,” Wyler said. He caught himself playing with the carpet with the toe of his shoe. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “A friend suggested it and I just wanted to get away.”
“Just a vacation then?” Aldridge said.
“Well, civilization can be a bit cramped and rigid,” Wyler said. Aldridge smirked and went over to make himself another drink.
“So this is your first time to the savage lands, then?”
“I was out here once, as a child, but that was before it went by that name and looked like all this,” Wyler answered.
“Ah,” Aldridge said. He was dropping ice cubes into his glass. “Old Chicago. I used to do a lot of business here then too. Wonderful architecture back then. I have been to other parts of this region, awful shame what happened to the cities, but I have yet to see what became of Chicago. I’m looking forward to that tomorrow as much as anything else.” Aldridge finished fixing his glass and took an inaugural sip. “Now, if you will excuse me as well, I will be heading to my room, or at least what passes as a room, to get some rest before dinner.” With that he stepped out of the room, giving the scaly creature one last pat, “Good boy.”
“That man is as full of garbage as these things,” Agata said, motioning to the filled animals. Her cigarette had long since burned out and been replaced in her hand by the drink she had been ignoring. “He envisions himself the great white hunter from some old story.”
“He seems to have the experience,” Wyler said.
She smiled for a moment, saying nothing before draining the remaining life from her glass. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and something out there will eat him tomorrow,” she said after a moment. She got up and stepped toward Wyler and ran a pointed hand over the curve of his shoulder. “I will see you at dinner, Mr. Wyler.” There was something about the woman, as cold as any of the mummified creatures, but still with bite, that intrigued Wyler. He noticed himself watching her hips as she faded into the dimness of the next room.
Wyler sat his drink down on the table, only half finished, and left the bizarre zoo of the dead behind. His room turned out to be the remains of an office on the second floor. As he had come to expect, the walls were discolored, though they were at least dry there. He had anticipated something rustic, but was wearied to see that the furnishings of the room consisted of an old metal framed cot and the desk that had been the original denizen of the office. His bags were laid out on the bare mattress. He unpacked and decided that he needed to send a generous gift to his travel agent for having recommended that he bring sanitizing wipes and his own sleeping bag. After fifteen minutes of scrubbing he had used up half the wipes and his palms were raw and red. He changed into more comfortable attire before leaving the room to join the others.
Dinner had been pleasant enough. The three visiting hunters and the safari company’s namesake dined together around a large table. Two young boys served them in silence. The meal was colorful and hearty, but most of it was clearly from cans. There was meat in the dish, but Wyler didn’t want to bother venturing a guess as to what it was. Steve was full of the sort of jokes and manners that were, to be polite, very rugged. After the war the people on the east coast had become, even as Wyler considered them, stale and infernally stoic, as though they feared that any show of emotion might erupt World War Four. Yet their host was full of hilarity that grew heavily from his gut. His cheeks grew cherry not from drink, but from humor.
Wyler’s fellow easterner gave polite nods at the hearty humor tossed at him. The Russian damsel pretended not to understand. When the meal was finished the two boys cleared the table as Steve pulled out a paper tube. Popping off one end, he pulled out and unfurled a large map which he spread across the table. Wyler recognized it as an old map of the city, but with new additions marked across it in faded black marker. Steve pointed out their planned route and key locations where he expected to encounter their prey.
“This is the chance you all have to play the hero,” Steve said. He took off his fedora and dropped it onto the map. “You can go back to your friends in civilization and tell them all about the mighty critters you’ve killed.” He lit a new cigar with the candle resting on a side table. “We’ll give you your moment,” he said, meeting eyes with Wyler, “but there are a few things I want you to remember. First off, you must follow every order I give you. If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to stay in the car, you stay. Second, if you see anyone out there, leave them alone. The natives can be . . . finicky.” He bit down deeply on his cigar and then spoke through clenched teeth. “Have a good night, folks. We leave early.”
The trio watched as their host left them for the night. Agata left first as Aldridge took another round at the liquor. Wyler left not long after. He slept poorly that night. The room was cold and his thoughts colder still. He doubted his sanity for deciding to partake of such a trip. Every time he closed his eyes he could see Steve’s round, pink face laughing in warning. Wyler tried to calm himself by thinking about Agata. She was ferocious, he had no doubt, but she was beautiful, and that suited him. Yet every time he tried to recall the slender legs he had first seen, he could only envision the lean arms of the mountain lion and the cold stare of the scaled creature. Finally he gave up on calming his mind and forcing dreams. Instead he lay in bed, staring up at a water stain on the ceiling until sleep finally took him.
When morning came it was announced by a knock at the door, but Wyler was already awake. He changed into his hardier set of clothes, consisting of a gray pair of cargo pants and combat boots as dark as the burnt stumps he had flown over the day before. He wore yet another buttoned down shirt, this time black with extra pockets on the chest. He unpacked the long hunting knife he had been instructed to bring and strapped it to his belt.
Breakfast was cold and brief, but served as a time for Wyler to gather with his fellow adventurers. Agata had shed her black dress for a pair of heavy pants tucked into even heavier boots and a wine colored tank top. Aldridge, in classical safari fashion, was draped in khakis from neck to ankles. A white bandana was wrapped around his neck and a straw Panama hat rested on his head. It reminded Wyler of some old movie poster from the black and white adventure films. All of them wore knives at their sides.
Steve greeted them after the meal and led them out to the courtyard of the encampment. Wyler had been too uneasy the night before to take it all in. The compound was surrounded by concrete and metal walls clearly put up well after the destruction. The skeletal remains of a few cars stood alone as memorial stones to the past. The pavement beneath their feet still had some of the yellow lines across it that had once told those cars where to park.
A choking hunk of a vehicle pulled around the corner of the building. It looked to have once been a long and heavy SUV, however all but the windshield had been cut from the top. A large machine gun was mounted to the back and a pair of antlers was tied to the front grill.
“Gentlemen, Ms. Belinsky, climb aboard.” Steve said. In response, the man behind the wheel, dark skinned and with one eye as white as the hollow clouds above, dropped out of the drivers seat, freeing it for his boss. “We’ll be back tonight for dinner, where we will feast on your trophies, perhaps.”
“I trust you have all taken your anti-rad meds before you arrived?” The man with the clouded eye said. Steve didn’t wait for them to answer. He kicked the vehicle into gear and twisted it around in the gravel. Two men opened a large metal gate as they pulled up to it.
As they left the safety of the compound, Wyler was immediately impressed by the level of destruction that had been hidden by those walls. Buildings stood gutted and scorched. The pavement was spider-webbed with cracks and gullies. The few plants that were there looked choked by a sky too stale to permit them to live. Cars littered the streets like leaves in the autumn back east. Farther off
in the distance the sheared remains of skyscrapers couldn’t reach high enough anymore to scratch a low cloud. Odd shadows of twisted metal and jutting concrete littered the horizon.
“Chicago look like you remember it as a boy, Jamie?” Aldridge asked with the kind of smile that only a cruel face could give. His head bobbed as the vehicle jumped along the ruts and bumps in the road.
Steve called over his shoulder to Aldridge, “There is a canvas bag in the back, open it up.” Aldridge did as he was told and withdrew a handful of large pistols in holsters. “One for each of you,” Steve said.
“We hunt with these?” Agata asked.
Steve laughed. “No, but you keep it with you at all times. No one gets out of this truck unarmed, under any circumstances. If all else fails, you use those on yourselves.”
“You must be joking,” the woman said.
“Lock and load, my dear,” Aldridge said, racking the slide and letting the .45 round glide into the chamber. “Kiss it for good luck?” he asked, holding his pistol out to her. She cursed him in Russian and took a pistol for herself before passing one up to Wyler.
The morning was still new and the chrome, clouded sky was only just light enough to make out the