Foodchain

by Jeff Jacobson

  Theo was in the middle of saying, “If nobody has the balls the step forward and do some shooting, then—” when the heavy blast of a serious game rifle rolled through the park and something punched the rhino. It stumbled sideways, and slowly, gratefully, sank to its knees, and rolled onto its side. It took one more breath, and then lay still.

  Theo jumped on the table. “Who the fuck used a bigger gun? You just made a big fucking mistake, you—” And then he saw Frank, coming across the dead grass, face pale and gaunt and streaked with dry blood, moving in uneven, quick steps, like a grim spectral shadow that had slapped on some flesh and blood and went walking among the living for a while.

  Even Theo didn’t know what to say for a moment. But he recovered quick, shouting, “You just wait ‘til my dad—”

  Frank shot him in the knee with the .30-.30.

  The impact blew Theo’s leg out from under him and he went down, landing on his chest on the table of guns. Frank kept moving forward, slinging the rifle over his shoulder and pulling the .45 out of his jeans. None of the hunters moved. Until Frank shot the closest man in the face. He shot another before the first hit the ground. The other hunters scattered, squirting in all directions like water from the giant wheel sprinklers out in the fields. Frank shot two more with the .45. The last hunter was nearly across the street when Frank jammed the handgun back into his jeans, unslung the .30-.30, and shot the hunter in the neck. The man went down, arms and torso on the sidewalk, legs in the gutter, and didn’t get up.

  Still, Frank followed him across the street and shot him in the head, just to make sure. He methodically walked back to each hunter, shooting every one in the head with the .45, until he was back at the picnic table and looking down at Theo. The boy had rolled off the table and lay whimpering in the grass, clutching at his thigh, just above his knee. Tears squeezed from his eyes and ran back towards his ears.

  “Oh please, please, please don’t hurt me,” Theo whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I promise, oh please…oh please…” He rolled slightly back and forth, recoiling from the pain. “Please…”

  Frank tilted his head and regarded Theo for several long moments. He eyed the .22s on the table and set the .30-.30 down. He selected a Ruger .22-.250, released the box-like clip, and grabbed a box of shells.

  Theo kept begging. “Please, please call my dad. Please. He’ll take care of everything. He’ll give you all the money. Everything. Just please…Please…”

  The clip locked into place back inside the rifle and he drew back the bolt, snicked it back closed. He shot Theo in the same bloody, ragged knee. Theo screamed, a raw squeal that swirled up and around and died in the dusty leaves. Frank shot him again in the thigh. And again in the crotch. Theo’s scream hitched, catching on itself, like long hair caught in a motorcycle chain and dragged into the wheels at eighty-five miles an hour, until he was only making a series of “Uhhh, uhhhh, uhhhh” sounds. Frank shot him in the stomach a few times, just for the hell of it.

  Theo’s white face stretched tight over an open, silent mouth.

  Frank said, “That’s the kind of game this is.”

  * * * * *

  Theo writhed in slow motion in the dead grass. His screams were too weak to carry across the street. Frank thought about running, jumping in Chuck’s truck and racing back to the long black car. But the rest of him didn’t want to run anymore. Despite the drugs rocketing through his system like an out-of-control roller coaster, he was terribly, terribly tired.

  Frank paced while he waited. Theo’s guttural moans just made him itch to fire a few more bullets into the little shit. Frank figured he’d better save his ammo. Not only would he have Sturm to deal with, but also Jack, Pine, and the rest of the hunters. He went through all of the pickups, gathering guns. He left the rifles on the table alone; the calibers were simply too small for any serious gunfights. He stashed rifles around the park, in the trees, under the picnic table, around the fire engine.

  But just as he was wedging a shotgun between the folds of fire hose, he froze, and stood stock still for several moments, as if he had gone into some kind of trance. The drugs had left his body alone for a moment, and ricocheted around his brain instead, firing off signals.

  He unscrewed the cap to the tank and found it bone dry. If there was a fire, this particular fire truck would be useless. The keys were still in the ignition. He took one last look at Theo, surrounded by the corpses of seven hunters. Sturm’s son had stopped screaming and was now grabbing the picnic bench and trying to pull himself into a sitting position.

  Frank started the engine. It wasn’t smooth, but it ran. He let the engine warm up a moment, grabbed the shotgun from the back, and walked back over to Theo. Frank was getting impatient, and Theo wasn’t bleeding to death fast enough. The last thing he wanted was for Sturm to come along and give first aid to his son. He rested the barrel of the shotgun on Theo’s knuckles, pinning them to the wood, and squeezed the trigger.

  * * * * *

  Frank put the fire truck in gear, and drove out of the park. He rolled down Main Street, gaining speed. He wanted to hit the siren and lights, but figured that might draw more attention before he was ready. He was pleased with his plan, and didn’t want anyone screwing it up before he had a chance to have some fun.

  Myrtle was faithfully waiting in her plastic box inside the gas station. Frank drove right on in and left the engine running. He grabbed the nozzle and dragged the hose up to the top of the tank, stuck it in, and locked the nozzle handle, filling the empty fire engine water tank with gasoline. He turned and waved at Myrtle’s shocked face.

  As the gallons of gas splashed into the tank, Frank reloaded the shotgun. It didn’t have the comforting feel of his own Winchester, but it would do. He kicked open the door. The broken bottom half was sealed in cardboard. The bells tinkled, and Frank wondered who in the hell would need a warning; the place wasn’t much bigger than a large closet. It wasn’t like you could sneak inside without the attendant spotting you. Frank put on his best smile. “Howdy.”

  Myrtle’s pinched face got even more severe, as if she was trying to squeeze her eyes, nose, and mouth into one single organ. She said, “I don’t know what exactly it is you think you’re pulling, but you are not getting out of here without paying for that gas.”

  Frank said, “Put it on my tab. You call Sturm?”

  “That’s none of your damn business.”

  Frank brought up the shotgun. “Let’s pretend my business is testing just how bulletproof this plastic really is.”

  Myrtle swallowed. “Fine. Yes, yes, I called him.”

  Frank said, “Good,” and squeezed the trigger.

  The shotgun instantly blasted the clear plastic into an opaque spiderweb of cracks and tiny holes. But the plastic held. Myrtle shrieked and flinched, flinging both hands in front her face. She glared out at Frank. “You sonofabitch. I’ll have Sturm cut your balls off, you lying, cat killing sack of shit.”

  Frank gave her another grin and pumped the shotgun.

  She whirled, unlocked the door, and ran. The last time Frank saw her, she was running down the highway, slippers slapping the asphalt, arms waving, red hair bobbing like a lit match.

  * * * * *

  Gasoline started to run down both sides of the fire engine tank. Frank took another drink from the bottle of vodka and climbed back into the driver’s seat. The vodka didn’t have the sweet, seductive bite of the rum, but he could feel the chill bloom into warmth as it hit his stomach. It would do. Before the rest of him could talk himself out of it, he plucked another pill out of the baggie and washed it down with vodka.

  The distant whine of ATVs rose above the clunking gas pump and Frank realized that he’d only seen about five or six Glouck boys in the back of the station wagon. That left at least eight boys or more somewhere in town. The engines slowed and stopped and Frank knew they were at the park.

  He hit the accelerator, pulling away without bothering to take out the nozzle, turn the pump o
ff, or screw the cap back on. The fire engine roared down the wide street.

  His original plan was to hose down the park and the rest of the surrounding buildings with gasoline and wait for Sturm to show up. Then, with a match or even a few bullets through the tank, he could take out everyone with a three-block radius. Hell, if he could, he’d burn the whole fucking town. Just turn everything into a fiery holocaust.

  But the arrival of the Glouck boys had changed his plans.

  * * * * *

  The fire engine handled like a fat woman slathered in cooking oil with the shifting weight of the gasoline in the tank. The sun stabbed into the cab. Frank blinked and felt his eyes slipping again, flipping over into photo-negative mode. But this time he was ready. He fumbled for his sunglasses. He glanced up, saw the street, in blinding white light, and had just slipped on the glasses on when he heard gunfire.

  He hit the brakes, feeling the truck surge and jump under him. Using a combination of the brake pedal and the emergency brake, he managed to slow down without sliding over the road too much. More gunfire.

  He saw the trees in the park. Felt, rather than heard, booming shotguns, interspersed with the purposeful cracks of two revolvers. And finally saw Sturm as a ghostly figure striding through a desolate landscape, shooting smaller shapes. Jack and Pine trailed along behind, finishing off the Glouck boys, making sure there were no survivors. Jack had a shotgun, and stopped every few seconds, shooting wounded Gloucks. Pine had a machete, and hacked away at anything that moved.

  It took Frank a few seconds to comprehend that were killing their own brothers and stepbrothers.

  * * * * *

  Sturm heard the fire engine, turned to it, and fired. A hole appeared in the windshield and Frank felt something thump into the seat, inches from his right shoulder. Frank hit the clutch and the emergency brake at the same time.

  Sturm fired again, and another hole appeared. But this time it smashed through the window behind Frank’s head with a dull whistling rush. He must have been out of bullets because he put his revolvers back into the holsters and put the picnic table between him and the fire engine.

  Frank hit the gas. The truck yawed and pitched and Frank fought her the whole way, sliding through the grass. Frank crunched the gearshift into first and popped the clutch. The truck launched itself through the picnic table after Sturm.

  For a split second, Sturm was a fearless matador without a red cape, facing down a pissed off three ton vehicle. Calm, like he was going out for a Sunday stroll with the dog, he moved to the left, and Frank tracked him. And when Frank knew he had him, he eased off on the gas but Frank wasn’t expecting the tank full of gasoline to slam forward, pushing the cab before it in mindless fury, throwing the steering all to hell. Sturm simply stepped aside.

  The fire engine smashed into a two-foot thick elm tree with the sound of dry thunder, the back end bounced with the impact, and for a moment, under a burning mid day sun, everything, even the dust in the air, was still.

  * * * * *

  Frank heard voices. The words didn’t make sense. He thought he was sitting upright in the fire engine cab, but all he could see was some smooth, curving piece of metal and the dry leaves under a bleached sky.

  He had been thrown into the dashboard and had his head stuck somehow between the steering wheel and instrument panel and the door, staring up through the windshield. He untangled himself and sat upright as much as possible. The seat and the dash had suddenly gotten much closer. He didn’t know if it was the first or second pill or the crash but suddenly, he was feeling decidedly calm. Relaxed, even. Blood, both fresh and dry, streaked his face. He’d somehow ripped his shirt. But nothing much hurt anymore.

  He got out and stepped into a flood of gasoline. The crash had broken something loose, but hadn’t sparked. Steam hissed from a crumpled radiator. The nearly sweet stench of gasoline hung heavy in the air, stinging Frank’s eyes and nose.

  Ten feet away, Sturm mechanically reloaded his revolvers, using speed loaders. He slapped the cylinders back in to place and spun them, then turned to Frank. Pine was way off to the left, keeping well away from the tank. He cut the air around him in short, swift strokes with his machete, as if the blade was thinking for him. Frank couldn’t see Jack.

  But he could see a lioness, slinking from between a couple of abandoned houses, nose twitching, eyes locked on the corpses. Frank let his gaze wander for a moment and saw another lioness, a wolf, and even more animals. They were drawn by the smell of death to this park. It was as if the park was calling to all of these animals, drawing them in, like some kind of magnet.

  Sturm said, in an even, emotionless voice, “Fuck’s wrong with you, son?” He cocked one of the revolvers and brought it up.

  Frank reached into his pocket and came out with Chuck’s matches. “Shoot. Go ahead,” Frank said, striking a match.

  Sturm hesitated.

  “I mean it,” Frank said, watching the small flame.

  “Why’d you come back, son? This ain’t your home,” Sturm said.

  “Drop ’em, right fucking now. Or I’ll drop this.” Frank pinched the burning match between his thumb and forefinger and held it out to the side, directly over the pool of gasoline. “We’ll all go up. This whole fucking town.”

  “Why? I took you in. I showed you nothing but love,” Sturm said.

  The match went out.

  Frank went to strike another, quick, but something hard and heavy and dark exploded in the back of his head and the last thing he knew, he was pitching forward into the lake of gasoline, unlit match and matchbook falling from his fingers.

  * * * * *

  Frank tried to breathe, tasted blood and dirt and gasoline.

  It hit his lungs like Drano attacking a clot of hair in a sink. He whipped his head out of black water, sucking in a ragged, searing breath, and found that he had been facedown in the middle of one of Sturm’s rice paddies.

  Frank knew this was it. He was beyond kidding himself. But surprisingly, he realized that he was okay with the idea of death. It didn’t bother him as much as it had. In some ways, death was liberating. The worst had happened. And now that it was here, it was a relief. This life would be behind him and he would be held accountable for it. Frank just hoped it was quick.

  The sun hung directly overhead, burning away the shadows. The water lay flat and smooth, except for bones that littered the edge of the water; sheep ribcages curled into the muck. Among the rotting carcasses, other rough, segmented humps lurked. He squinted in the scalding sunlight.

  One of the humps moved. A segmented tail swept lazily through the muddy water. Just above the surface, cold green eyes watched him. Something gripped him deep inside and squeezed unmercifully. Sturm had known, seen Frank’s fear when he watched Frank’s reaction when they climbed up the metal stairs. And so, just in case, weeks ago, he’d sent Jack and Pine back to the zoo to haul away one more load.

  The sun hammered down into Frank’s eyes, sizzling into his skull and he lunged forward, giving in to the screaming urge to run. Something clenched at his neck and yanked him back. He grabbed at it; a dog’s choke chain, padlocked to another length of chain wrapped around a T-post that had been driven deep into the soil. Only a foot or so of the post rose above the water. He tested it. He might as well been trying to pull Sturm’s Lutheran cross out of the yard with a four foot length of twine and some spit.

  As ready as he’d thought he’d been for death, this was different. This wasn’t simply death. This was something far worse. Panic clawed at his skull. He kicked at the post and wished he had been wearing shoes.

  It wasn’t just the shoes. He was completely naked. He squatted, dropping back into the water, drew his knees to his chest, and scanned the horizon. To the south and east, nothing but more of Sturm’s fields.

  To the west, thirty yards behind him, Frank spotted the silhouettes of Sturm’s truck, the refrigerated Komodo truck, the police cruiser, and Jack and Pines’ pickups parked along the edge of the hi
ghway.

  In front of Sturm’s truck, a row of lawn chairs had been lined up along the water. It looked like some surrealist’s vision of Da Vinci’s last supper, arranged in front of truck grilles. Sturm was in the center, flanked by Theo and Pine. Jack lounged on the other side of his brother, playing with several pistols on his lap. Olaf and Herschell sat next to Jack. Olaf drank Coke out of a glistening bottle with a straw. The taxidermist and Billy waited on the other side of Theo.

  Theo was quite dead. He had been propped up next to his father, sunglasses shrouding his blank, dry eyes. His right hand was gone, a shredded stump of flesh that began at the wrist and ended with a few splinters of bone; blood seeped out of his ruined groin. Sturm kept touching his son’s shoulder, dribbling sips of beer into Theo’s open mouth. He patted Theo’s hair, caked and matted with blood. The gesture was affectionate, loving; it didn’t look like Sturm knew his son was dead.

  Billy, the owner of the Komodo dragon, jumped out of his chair and flung a beer bottle at Frank. “Goddamn you. I had you drowning in the next five minutes. Fall back down, boy!”

  Sturm whispered something out of the side of his mouth to his son, waited a moment, chuckled at the answer.

  * * * * *

  For the most part, they left Frank alone. There was no jeering, no gambling, no singing, no screaming, and no shooting. They all seemed content to simply wait and watch.

  Frank kept one eye on the men and the other on the alligators. He stayed low in the water, knees straddling the T-post, and worked on unwrapping the chain, uncoiling it and yanking it at his chest.

  Two hours later, the first alligator got close. It coasted in just under the surface, using its legs to occasionally to steer the seven or eight feet of cold muscle, gliding along like a submarine full of teeth.

  It got to within five feet before Frank sobbed and the panic took hold. He tried to attack the reptile, kicking and screaming and sobbing and slapping at the water. He had two feet of chain loose by then. The gator whirled away and shot away into the far corner of the rice field.