by Ross Norris
silhouettes of the deceased buildings around them. Off in the distance Wyler could see the framed orange glow of a fire in the window of a distant structure.
“People actually live out there?” Wyler asked.
“Only the savages,” Steve said.
“Men that make our good Mister Steve seem like wonderful dinner company,” Aldridge said from the back of the vehicle. He had already begun pulling more guns out to inspect them. He was checking the chamber of a rather impressive looking .375 rifle as he spoke. “Cannibals, some of them; eating their own. Even the children have adopted their vile ways.”
Wyler’s look of disbelief and dread must have been readily interpreted on his face. Steve answered his unmentioned musings, “If you see anyone, any person at all, you leave them alone and stay in the truck.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“Don’t fret, my dear,” Agata said, whispering as she leaned close enough to his ear to bite, “maybe the savages will get our lovely Mr. Aldridge and save the animals the trouble.” She smiled a flash of rigid teeth and leaned back with an air of elegance very unbecoming of the cruel words she had spoken.
Wyler tried to take the comment as a joke, but only managed a nauseated smile. “So where did these people come from?”
“They lived here,” Steve said. He didn’t even bother to look at Wyler, as though he had asked a question as simple as what was for lunch or what color the sky was.
“Since before the war?”
“Yes.”
“What were they before then?”
“Teachers, lawyers, janitors, librarians, plumbers; just people. Mr. Wyler, there are many animals still alive out here. They all survived in their own ways. The snakes hide and then strike unseen. The rats scurry away and find what they can while avoiding predators. The lions went out and took what they needed to survive. Tell me, Mr. Wyler, which kind of survivor are you? Are you a rat or a lion? What brought you out here, if not the danger? That’s all that is left out here to offer.”
“Don’t let him worry you, Jamie,” Aldridge said. “That’s just what they say to us civilized city folk to scare us. They feel we haven’t got our money’s worth if we haven’t pissed our pants at least once. Don’t worry; there is no creature alive that can stand up to this.” He patted the rifle that rested across his lap.
Wyler looked back at their guide, who only repeated himself. “What kind of survivor, Mr. Wyler?”
They drove through the old city. Here and there in the distance a twisting ribbon of smoke could be seen dissolving into the sky. The sun was coming up more, but the monochrome color of the day remained unrepentant. They came to spots where large streets and highways, once the veins of life for the city, were impassible. Large chunks of ramps had fallen into concrete mounds. Buildings had been shorn to pieces and dropped their hardened scars along the paved roads, blocking travelers. Places where skyscrapers had stood were now cleared and new paths cut through them. At one point Steve drove them through what had once been the lobby of Willis Tower. Its glass windows had been turned to gravel and were treaded over by the tires of the SUV. In fact the only high building Wyler could see that remained standing tall was the John Hancock Center, though it clearly had been the victim of fire and time.
Near Navy Pier they stopped and tracked a group of deer around the rusted carcass of the amusements. Agata got the first shot in and took down the largest of the deer. Aldridge took a little longer in tracking one, but managed to capture it with not much effort. Wyler only managed to punch more holes in the frayed metal of what was left of a Ferris wheel.
They continued the day with a brief stop for lunch in a field near the old University of Chicago. They nibbled on dried meats and rationed cans of cold soup. By the beginning of the afternoon, as they continued on, the wind was picking up and ash and grit in the air were sanding their faces with each passing breeze.
They had been tracking an animal through the city for about an hour when Aldridge stood up in the back of the SUV and fired a shot without warning. “There, a lion,” Agata said, looking to where the man had aimed.
“Go around the corner, fast,” Aldridge ordered. Steve took no offense, but whipped the wheel and brought them sharply around a corner. As they cleared the corner and came past the lone remaining wall of a brick building they all spotted a lion, thick of mane and muscle, leaping at a deer that had tried to slip between two large blocks of fallen concrete.
The lion lashed out with its massive razored paw and managed to slice long strips of flesh from the deer’s hind end. The slender animal buckled under the blow, but was able to get beyond the lion’s reach. It slipped into the gloom to die slowly and alone and to eventually become food for rats.
The lion was lamenting its lost prey and taking little notice of the vehicle that skidded to a stop in the loose remnants of the street. After so many years it had come to assume no threat from the sight of man.
Aldridge proved that assumption wrong as the barrel of his rifle sparked to life and inflicted its damage through the shoulder of the beast. Agata took a second shot, hitting the lion in the chest, placing a hole in its lungs.
Wyler watched the magnificent creature, once king of the jungle, but now king of the wastes, as it roared in protest and stumbled as it tried to leap away from the attack. Wyler was only brought back to his task by the sound of his name.
“Shoot, Wyler, shoot,” Steve yelled.
Wyler brought the weapon up and pulled the scope to his eye. In the little circle he could see the animal, lashing out as though it could claw the bullets out of the air. Wyler marked the animal in the sights. He let out a slow breath and then held it. He pulled the trigger with the dedicated precision of a harpist making music. However, his rifle made not the beautiful melody of a harp, but the crack of exploding powder, cleft air, and a mechanical jerking. He shot the beast through the neck and watched it as it fell to the ground. It attempted to growl, but only spit bubbles of mucousy blood. It pawed the ground once more and dropped over still, never to move again.
“Good shot, Jamie,” Aldridge said, “But you can’t hesitate. You have to find your shot and take it.” He laughed and flung himself down from the vehicle. “Good clean shot, though. He’ll fix up nice.”
“Not very sporting of us though,” Agata said. “I barely left my seat.”
Wyler was the only one breathing heavily. “How did a lion end up in Chicago?”
“What do you think happened to the zoos?” Steve asked. He chuckled as he lowered himself to the ground and walked toward the lion with his knife in hand and a rope over his shoulder. He went to work on the large cat.
“That was fun,” Aldridge said, “But that’s not what I came here for.”
“That’s pretty big game,” Wyler said.
“Yes, but I’ve killed a lion before. I came here for something new. I came here for the monsters that live only here. I want the ones as horrible and as wild as can be imagined; the one’s made by mankind’s mistakes. I want a real challenge.”
“But this was a lion,” Wyler protested.
“Aldridge just wants to show us that he is a real man,” Agata said.
“I want the genuine King of the Savage Lands,” Aldridge said.
Steve stood and wiped his blood-stained hands on the legs of his pants. His malicious smile was wide and sharp. “You want the rattle cat.”
“Rattle cat? I like the sound of that,” Aldridge said. A grin spread across his face.
“A rattle cat, is that the thing we saw back at the compound?” Wyler asked, “The thing with the scales?”
“No,” Steve said. “That creature is harmless. It’s just a dog in every sense except for its scales. It’s no more dangerous than a mongrel pup. The rattle cat is a little smaller than this lion, but faster and leaner.”
“Why do they call it a rattle cat?” Agata asked.
“It looks pretty much like any predatory cat,” Steve said. “Its head is still covered in fur, but h
as the wide blunt form of a serpent. It doesn’t purr, but instead makes a sound like a snake.”
“That’s it?” Aldridge asked. “I want a real predator, not just one that makes funny noises.”
“This is no stray cat, Mr. Aldridge. It’s faster and quieter than the lion. Its claws are fast enough, to be sure. But it fights differently too. It’s got venom it can inject through its teeth. It bites its victim and then lets it go. The poor thing thinks it has escaped with only a simple wound, but soon finds itself growing weak and dizzy. Then the cat does its worst. The prey feels everything, but can do nothing. It is not a good way to die.”
“Does it feed on humans?” Agata asked.
“When it can get them. Better hope you have some anti-venom on hand too.”
Wyler found the handle of his rifle tight and moist in his grip. He let it hang from the sling over his shoulder and then took a moment to watch his companions. Agata, who had been as solid and unfeeling as the slabs of dead concrete that were littered around them, was noticeably nervous at the notion of their new quarry.
“Well, it’s settled then,” Aldridge said. His grin cut from one end to another, almost touching his grey sideburns. “We go after the rattle cat.”
“When we finish with this lion, I will take you. There is a pride of them near the hospital.”
When they were done, they loaded what they needed from the lion onto the back space of the SUV. Steve had wiped off his arms,