by C. J. Sutton
Magnus refused. “I won’t be killing anyone tonight. I have the tranquiliser. I’m here to cure the sick, not send them to an early grave. That’s always been my job; to free them from their minds. I’ll deal with Simmonds and meet you at the pub.”
Walter nodded, and began to jog away.
“And Walt,” he called, unfazed by the audience, “don’t worry about it.”
The lead guard turned, and within seconds was out of view. Alone, in the dark, at a zoo with a criminally insane man likely to set free a giant anaconda and perhaps dozens of other dangerous creatures, set in like a stone on a drowning body. Did the poison in the tranquiliser darts even work anymore? Magnus held it out, reminding him of a video game set in a creepy setting, each turn causing a pivot as though placed in a first-person shooter. He walked slowly, trying not to alert anything to his presence, aware their senses were greater than his. And he thought about his siblings as children again, the slow descent towards their end. A loud bang snapped his neck to the left; three cages were wide open. Without a torch, Magnus relied on the small light supply used by the zoo and the pale moonlight. He heard breathing – heavy, timed, patient. Instinct told him to run; purpose kept him moving to where he knew the anaconda enclosure was. Footsteps patted behind him; he swivelled, nothing. His mind began to play tricks, guessing they were gigantic lions or tigers or bears set free to devour his brain. A closer look at the cages would’ve told him of their type, but forward he went, past the zebras standing in sleep. Past the bird house reaching to the sky, where an owl watched on.
A piercing screech hit the air as something landed on Magnus’ back. He grabbed at the furry mound and tossed it forward; a monkey, eyes wide, which scampered away on all fours.
“Fuck,” he said aloud, crouching to the floor, hearing a voice up ahead. It wasn’t rushed or crazed or aggressive; the sounds were soothing, calm. Magnus continued towards the anaconda enclosure, choosing the higher viewing point rather than the one he vacated with Lee. The talking continued, and Magnus soon saw Claude ‘Slippery’ Simmonds on the same side of the glass as Annie the anaconda, in only a pair of pants stained in mud from top to bottom.
“Annie, my love. What have they done to you?” he said, repeating the mantra over and over. Magnus sheathed his tranquiliser, aware he had no control over the situation. The snake was nowhere to be seen, but both men knew this would only be temporary. As clouds moved above, Magnus could see Claude’s face, tear streaked, an arm reaching outward to nothing. It was reminiscent of a lover returning after disappointing his flame, leaving at a time of great need and knowing there was no way to ever repay the foul deed. And Magnus wondered what would have been of Claude had those brothers not tried to steal his car. Was it a trigger waiting to be pushed, or one found through a need to keep his possessions safe? The situation intrigued Magnus, it pondered aspects of his study that hadn’t been explored, part of the human psyche focused on love, protection and knowledge rather than killing through satisfaction. This man was sick, there was no faking. For he wouldn’t be voluntarily standing in a section reserved for a predator because he merely thought it to be enjoyable. He risked his life to be alongside the one he missed for years.
“There you are, Annie. You look…well.”
Magnus saw it too; the long black mass sweeping out of the shrub, an S shape on every slither, shadows and darkness making the creature appear bigger, a train slowing down to pick up passengers from the station. It raised its triangular head at Claude, eyes like crystal slits, tilting left, sniffing. Its tongue whipped, a finger being wiggled at an observer. Magnus had never seen such a powerful force in his life. For a split second, the doctor was sure he’d seen a glint of recognition in the face of the snake…and then it moved so fast that Claude was dragged underwater in a blurred speed. Only he didn’t thrash, or fight, or attempt to resurface; the former inmate was dunked like a biscuit in tea, and after more than a minute underwater Annie dragged him out by his feet…and began swallowing the body on land, whole. Magnus crouched, afraid of being seen, even though nobody was here to see him. This sight of nature, of beauty, was all Claude wanted; to be part of the anaconda forever. As the mouth reached the stomach, Magnus was sure the chest of the man moved, the shoulder flinched, the face twitched. Either way, it didn’t matter. The last of Claude soon left view, his time over, his reconnection complete. And despite the horrific scenes before him, Magnus knew; six to go.
Before leaving, Magnus locked the anaconda enclosure; with Annie preoccupied with her meal, there was little to no danger. With the tranquiliser firmly attached to his belt, and his presence no longer necessary in the zoo, Magnus made to leave via the entrance. He soon stopped.
Sitting like a pet before mealtime, blocking the only way out, was a jaguar. Not Claude’s car; here was the real beast, regal, piercing. It lowered, nose rising in a snarl, sharp teeth and long tongue laid bare, intimidating. Magnus froze. Run, and he’d be chased. Charge, and he’d be slain. For he remembered one fact about jaguars; to kill they opened their mouths wide and crushed skulls with a powerful jaw, oozing out brain and life. As carefully as his shaking hands could manage, Magnus slowly unhooked the tranquiliser gun from his belt. In that moment, he forgot everything; mission, the situation in Dortmund, the people he must find. For all that mattered was man versus obstacle; a meal that wouldn’t surrender without a fight.
“Come on,” he said, loud enough for the jaguar’s ears to rise. His eyes darted around the environment, looking for a way out. But no route would be manoeuvred through quicker than the jaguar. Climb, and the cat wins. Run, and the cat wins. Hide, and superior hunting skills mean the cat wins. Magnus had a plan, and it involved a burst of energy and a spot of luck. Raising the tranquiliser, he knew it was an opportunity to slow the animal down. He looked down the sight as the predator lowered, ready for the pounce, rubbing the trigger.
The sound was more of a whoosh than a bang, the dart missing by a considerable margin. Magnus ran. The jaguar seared forward, graceful with a meaningful growl, teeth bared. And when it found a close enough distance to launch the brain-crushing kill, Magnus slipped through the opening in the cage and slammed it shut, falling on his backside and crying out in pain.
“Bastard,” he muttered, aiming at the animal once more. It stalked the cage, free, the world open to its roam. Yet it craved what remained behind the bars, licked its lips for the possibility of being in the same vicinity as Magnus. It was a captor to the captive. Magnus moved close enough to touch it on the nose, if he wished to lose a hand. All he did, as it tried to scratch within, was bring up the tranquiliser, pull the trigger and watch as the dart, sticking out of the animal’s chest, sent it to sleep within minutes. Magnus exited the cage, dragged the jaguar inside and put a large brick on the outside of the door to stop it finding free reign once more.
Believe Me
You can analyse their past, you can attempt to set their future. But the true matter is that which lies within them, Magnus.
The master key unlocked the large steel double-gates, and locked upon Magnus’ exit. He’d known this was likely, but doing so in-front of Walter still contained risks. With the lead guard an ally, a fresh secret would only bring back the suspicions once again.
As the zoo faded into the backdrop behind him, Magnus moved cautiously into the suburban streets of Dortmund, rows of weatherboard homes asleep in the night, no lights, no movement, no sign of life. But easing Magnus was the fact that there were no signs of death, yet. No broken-down doors, no trails of dirt or blood, no pandemonium in the streets. For that, he took solace.
And with the shadows as company, Magnus allowed himself to ponder, as was his way. One third of the inmates at Dortmund Asylum were dead, two thirds remained. Part of that contingent still creeping the night were the likes of Chaos, Brutus…Astrid. Despite their dangers, Magnus thought of Jasper. If he were to abandon plans of meeting with the team at the pub to regroup and track down the infamous biker, would everything fall
in to place? Was the man already on his trail? Would he hunt him, above all else, so they could continue their conversations as free men?
Wind kicked up debris, plastic packaging swirling like a tornado to the ants, a ghost town needing only a sight of tumbleweed to confirm the setting for the gunslingers. Lamp posts barely worked, as he stepped onto the main street in search. All was hush. The face of Claude, content in consumption, danced to one side while the absent exterior of Old Man Lonie continued to the other. In the middle, cracked and broken, lay Greyson Christ. He didn’t see Brian, he couldn’t muster up the image anymore, lost in a sea of fugitives hiding in the gutters of Dortmund. But then two gunshots broke the atmosphere, and Magnus remembered why. In part he wanted to see a dashing inmate being chased by a firing Carter or Walter, just to end this waiting. In part he hoped to never see a Dortmund face again.
No cars breezed by on this cool night, no patters from behind. Magnus was left to make his way to the Dortmund Pub at his own pace, his own choice, the joys of freedom. But as he opened the door to the drinking hole he’d become rather fond of over the past week or so, reality crashed down like a meteor atop civilisation.
“What…” he started. Bodies covered the floor, from the bar to the dancefloor to the windows to the makeshift stage where bands once played. If it wasn’t a body, it was a stream of blood, red paint thrust out artistically from a can, blotches and smears more prominent than wallpaper. Five, ten, fifteen people at least, with no rising chests or sign of consciousness. They were morbidly asleep; those that drank at Dortmund Pub this evening would never do so again. Magnus searched the graveyard, hoping not to see a familiar face, analysing and wishing at the same time. He knew no names. Various he remembered enjoying themselves on nights he’d sat at the bar, drinking pints and conversing. They were people who accepted the simplicities of life; company, music, the cool touch of a beverage, the relaxing scene away from big city lights. And here, a place they considered haven against the hard-working life, was their tomb.
The clink of glass on wood made Magnus’ neck shoot up to the bar. Sitting there, with a pint half full, was Donnie Wright…or as the guards would say, Digits.
“Would you like a drink, doctor?” he said, facing forward at the selection of spirits still lining the wall; none had leaked in the rampage. His voice did not waver, did not accept the madness behind him. “The barkeep appears to be out, but I’ve poured plenty of ales in my time.”
“You…you said…”
He pivoted on the bar stool, no marks or blood about him, no weapons by his feet or anger in his heart. Donnie spread his palms outward, a plea, and Magnus noticed for the first time that he was wearing new clothes; business attire, black pants and a white buttoned shirt, as though he’d just knocked off from his 9-5; the Day Job of Doom.
“I didn’t do this, doctor. Many nights after work I would come to a place such as this,” he said, before closing one eye at the view, “well maybe not exactly like this, and finish off a few pints of ale. It was so relaxing, took the mind off all that bored me. It was the dopey cousin of the coffee.”
So much innocence. So much death because he was too late. Where were the others? The former accountant moved closer to Magnus, and all he could think of was how brutal Donnie had been with office supplies. Armed with bar equipment, sharper and more applicable, would be a full-blown arsenal.
“Stay back,” said the doctor, holding out the tranquiliser with a shaking hand.
“Doctor…I told you, I didn’t do this. I remember everything, from the door being opened to the stroll down the hill. And…well…hI removed a man’s clothes, but he didn’t need them anymore. Come, sit,” he said, walking back over to the bar and tapping the stool free next to him, “let us cheers to my new life, my second chance.”
As Magnus retreated backwards, he tripped over a bundle of bodies and accidentally shot the dart, piercing and smashing a vodka bottle. Donnie looked from the glass, to the shooter, and his patience began to waver.
“You don’t believe me…you’re scared of me…” he said, disappointed. “I thought we made progress, you and I. We spoke about Jo…no, I will not say her name…no Donnie, she called you a shell. She thought you were a bore.”
With the man focused on himself, Magnus loaded another dart into the tranquiliser. But they both found a new corner to look towards. An arm was up in the air, shaking left to right, the face of the person completely soaked in crimson.
“Hellllll…” it said, so indistinguishable that Magnus couldn’t tell the sex. Donnie picked up his pint glass and stared at the lingering life. But he didn’t approach. Instead, the middle-aged man moved to Magnus, smiling, nodding as though he’d come to some sort of inner agreement, lifting his feet across the bodies strewn out before him.
There was nowhere left to run. Magnus aimed again and fired; it grazed Donnie’s shoulder and continued to the bar, smashing another glass.
“That hurt a little,” he said, swigging deeply, “but I forgive you. Come here please. We must continue our chat.”
Magnus didn’t have time to load a dart. Donnie stood a metre in front of him.
“I’m sorry, doc. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He stuck out a free hand. This was it, Magnus thought. He knew accepting the offer was a risk, but not more so than declining. Pinned against the wall of the pub, with a litter of bodies like obstacles in a pit, the doctor reciprocated…and flew back against the wooden wall with such a ferocious force as the gunshot rang in his ears. Eyes closed, back aching, ears numb, he cradled his head between his hands and tried to remember to breathe. When Magnus found the ability to check what had happened, he saw Carter standing close by with his handgun pointing outward where Donnie’s head had been. The accountant bled onto the white shirt, soaking the collar. A gaping hole sizzled on the side of his head, big enough to insert the neck of a beer bottle into. Brain became pink goo on the shoes of the guard, the smoke still rising away from the nozzle of the handgun. Half of Carter’s face dripped like a tap on low.
“Doc, how are you?” he said, sticking out his free hand to Magnus. But the doctor didn’t want to accept.
“Did he really need to die?” came the words before they could be caught.
“You of all people should know that answer.”
Magnus tilted his head, and finally grabbed the palm of the old man to be lifted onto his feet.
“Donnie said he didn’t kill all these people…”
“And you really believe that? This man killed his entire office with a keyboard.”
It was something off in the furthest corner, something that caught a keen eye…an eye seeking confirmation.
“So, how are we tracking? Anything on the others? Are Shirley and Walter alright? He said to meet here, but he must be following another.”
Carter, grey hair wild and enough blood on his face to replace his own, only followed.
“I saw Claude get eaten by his anaconda, Annie. It was horrific, but in a strange way it concluded his life the way he’d been wanting for some time, to be a part of that giant creature. Makes sense, what with his love for animals.”
The rambling received no response.
Magnus leaned down, noticing a strange wound on the throat of the bartender, the man who served this very pair not too long ago. Rather than a stab gash or a bone break, here was a bullet hole. Donnie had no gun.
“Say Carter, did you see anything happen here?”
The aged guard breathed deep and loud behind him, a whistle with each exhale. Every body was still, exterminated rather than beaten in a senseless attack. Donnie Wright would’ve found it impossible to put down this many people without showing signs of exhaustion, having been locked up for so long; even a man with his sickness, his past.
“Five left, hey,” said Magnus, allowing himself the chance to blink.
“Not quite.”
As Magnus turned to assess the response, Carter knocked him unconscious with the butt of his
handgun, the doctor’s body falling in between the slain bodies.
Carter
You will never get the full story, Magnus. Not even if they wanted to give it to you. Any word said with a smile is sinister, and any halted sentence is a dangerous admission. Watch their eyes.
“I want you to meet my new boyfriend, Mag. He’s cool, you’ll like him, he plays guitar in a band.”
“Ah I dunno, that Mitch guy…”
Both siblings paused at the thought, that horrible memory so vividly different in each person; to Magnus, it was of his sister drowned out to the world through a dangerous drug in his very home, to her it was a pain-reliever, a high unmatched.
“Mitch…don’t worry about Mitch. We all pick bad eggs. You’ll pick a bad egg one day, I promise you that. And I won’t judge,” she said, hands aloft, “I swear. Your brother on the other hand…”
They also recalled the actions of their oldest sibling differently. To Magnus, he started out as any brother would, protecting his sister from a harmful influence. To his sister…she saw a maniac take away her one link to a drug that removed all the inner demons…
“This one isn’t going to yell at me, is he?”
Magnus wanted to hide behind his sister like a child behind a mother when meeting a kindergarten teacher. The man, and he was a man despite the age of his sister, cruised in a blue bomb of a car, smoke wafting out, and slurred as he spoke.
“Hey little dude,” said the stoner, dreadlocks and tattered clothes and poor skin; he didn’t match the posters his sister had pinned up around her room since she was old enough to walk. No Disney prince, no boy band dreamboat.
“I want to go home,” said Magnus, to no avail. His sister dragged him to the blue car his brother would have labelled ‘a piece of shit waiting to be stepped on’.
“My name is Marlon, little dude. Yours?”
He stuck out a hand, two crusty brown scabs present on the top. He glanced from this washed-up guitarist to his sister, her young beauty still clear, dressing well still a priority, hair immaculately straightened. In that moment, as the car door closed and he sat in the back of the bomb with his sister in the passenger seat and Marlon igniting the ignition, he wished he could emulate the intimidation of his brother. But it wasn’t his way.