by Mark Morris
The movement of time seemed to still while Orrin existed in a ghost world of memories. If he hadn’t bought his first bike, if he hadn’t met “Demon” Langan in The Rising Phoenix bar, if he hadn’t become a Prospect and earned his rocker patches, if he hadn’t been loyal and dependable and stood for the vote to be Sergeant at Arms, if he hadn’t had the day off of work and gone into the clubhouse for a whiskey and a few laughs, everything might’ve turned out differently.
If.
But none of that had gone differently. These were the choices he’d made. The collection of decisions that brought him to the present moment where he sat in a straight-backed chair in a rundown ex-farmhouse turned roadside attraction halfway to Vulcan Hot Springs trying not to puke at the sight of brains and the smell of blood and gun smoke.
The distant clack of the hand cannon dropping onto the glass table top, and the sharp crack of it giving way and spilling hot steel and shards into the floor below set time moving forward again. Reality surged into motion and flowed around Orrin as his legs spasmed straight, trying to propel him away from the blast that was already long gone. His chair tipped and he went over, falling backwards, sprawling gracelessly on his back as the ancient boxy television on the entertainment centre behind him wobbled and threatened to mash his own brains into the deep-pile carpet.
Orrin scrambled to his feet, his head swimming and lungs struggling for fresh air while all he breathed was the stench of the piss and shit filling Raymond’s Wranglers intermingling with the other odours of squalor. He bent down and put his hands on his knees, panting, trying to slow the beat of his heart. He was fluent in the language of violence—it had been taught to him early—but ever since his fourteenth year when he grew taller than his old man, it had always been uttered in his voice. He guided the hand that determined when and where and how that language was recorded and what message was sent. He’d done terrible things to living men before, but he’d never seen anyone blow his own head off. That troubled him in a deep place he didn’t know existed until now. A place of uncertainty and loss of control. Writ on the wall in front of him was an accusation in someone else’s script, an indictment he couldn’t answer, but one he might be held to account for anyway. His command over the situation had been wrenched away, and he couldn’t see what was coming next any better than Raymond could see anything anymore.
It was time to go.
He tugged his riding gloves up tighter, assuring himself he was still wearing them and didn’t have to wipe any fingerprints off of the chair or the doorknobs. His hearing slowly came back to life and he heard the ambient sounds of a house return. The refrigerator was running. A fan in the window struggled to move the summer heat around. He was repeating, “Aw fuck, aw fuck, aw fuck,” and hadn’t noticed that he’d been speaking until that moment. He backed up and pawed blindly at the door handle, unwilling to turn his back on the corpse, knowing it couldn’t get up to follow him, but still too unnerved to look away. The latch clicked and released and he pulled the door open and pushed against the screen with his ass. The hinges shrieked, and behind him he heard a low huff and growl.
He turned and saw the thing a hundred yards away, sniffing at the seat of his bike. He owned the largest, loudest motorcycle in the club. His brothers joked about it, asking if Triple A would send a crane to help him pick it up if it got knocked over in the parking lot. But the thing standing next to it, the tiger, was bigger than the bike.
The screen door slammed shut behind him with a loud bang. The animal raised its massive head and looked at him, its eyes full of intelligence and intention. It opened its mouth and growled. Since the club had discovered Tigertown, seeing big cats was as common for Orrin as spying cows in fields along the highway. But, unlike a cow, he’d never seen a tiger with nothing in between him and it but distance. And that’s all that separated them now: a frighteningly short distance. No cage, no moat. Just open space.
He grasped at the door, desperate to rejoin a dead man and get back inside. Behind him, he heard the footfalls of a perfect predator making short work of maybe twenty-five yards. Fifteen. Five. The screen swung open, and Orrin leaped into the house, flinging the solid front door shut behind him. It slammed as he heard the beast land on the porch, yowling its frustration. He threw his back against the wood and twisted the deadbolt, squinting his eyes shut, waiting for the feeling of the door and six hundred pounds of hungry beast falling on top of him. Instead, he heard the creature pacing back and forth on the boards outside. It roared. The sound scared Orrin worse than the report of Raymond’s forty-five, worse than anything he’d ever heard.
He jerked his pistol out of its holster, aiming it at the door with a quivering hand. For the first time in his life, it felt perfectly impotent in his grip. He hadn’t had a chance to draw it when Raymond had pulled his piece from between the sofa cushions.
Worthless then.
And the tiger between him and his bike was waiting on the other side of a door without a window. He couldn’t see it to even try to get a shot off.
Worthless now.
He stepped away from the door, crouched low, and crept to the window to get a look out onto the deck. Though he couldn’t see the tiger, he could hear it walking away from him on the creaky boards. He imagined it was searching for another way in. It roared again, and Orrin’s pulse thrummed in his ears both faster and louder.
He had no idea if his piece even packed the kind of punch to kill a tiger. The thought of such a thing had never even occurred to him; his handgun was made for killing men. To him, tigers were the sort of animal that seemed untouchable. Like some kind of creature from myth that existed in the liminal spaces between light and dark and only stepped out to take what they wanted. Of course he knew they weren’t mythical creatures. He’d seen them often enough right here in Tigertown.
Orrin had toured the “zoo” with the rest of the Dead Soldiers a couple of times. The cages were made of chicken wire stretched around scrap wood from pallets and who knew what else. He assumed, like everyone else, that the cages, however ramshackle they appeared, were sturdy and secure. He’d thought, Raymond and Val wouldn’t live here if they weren’t. Right? But then, he knew people who did stupid, self-destructive shit all the time. They rode in the rain, they shot smack, they borrowed money from the Dead Soldiers, and they visited places like Tigertown off of Route 30, halfway to Vulcan Hot Springs. Of course one of the cats had broken free; it was an inevitability. And it was his bad luck that he happened to be here when it happened. Not luck. Bunker. Bunker had sent him instead of coming himself because he wanted to send Raymond a message. I don’t come when you call, like a dog.
The sound of the big cat’s steps on the porch grew louder, and for a brief moment, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of an orange-and-black blur in the window. He aimed, and it was gone. He thought maybe if he went upstairs, he could lean out and try to get it from above, taking his shots from a safe position. He reckoned, whether or not his piece was capable of killing one, a mag full of nine mil rounds would discourage it at least—but only if he could hit it. His hand was shaking so badly he was uncertain he could even hit the door right in front of him. His gaze returned to Raymond’s gun resting in the mess of glass on the carpet. It held fewer rounds, but packed a bigger punch. If he could kill the thing with five bullets, then he could put the piece back where he found it, and maybe it’d look like Raymond had greased himself in despair over having to off one of his precious cats. He slipped his own pistol back into its holster and reached through the chrome table frame to pick up the Taurus revolver. It felt better, heavier, in his hand. He tightened his grip and walked out of the front room.
But before that.
* * *
TUESDAY
The Fort Basin County Sheriff parked her truck in the driveway a few yards from the front door and killed the engine. She sat for a moment, listening, waiting for the proprietor to come out like he always did when someone first arrived at Tigertown, wav
ing like an idiot and welcoming them to “The best safari this far from Darkest Africa!” Pat had brought her kids here once and instantly regretted it when she saw the condition of the cages holding the animals. They were cramped and ramshackle and, worst of all, filthy. She led her boys through the tour, pretending everything was all right, but feeling fearful and increasingly angry at the people who kept the animals in these conditions. Before that, the kids had been so excited to see tigers they’d practically jumped out of the car and run up ahead as she eased up the driveway, afraid of hitting another visitor or wrecking the already struggling suspension on the deep frost heaves and ruts in the road. Kyle and Patrick had seen big cats before at the Salt Lake City Zoo, but they’d heard stories from their friends about this place. About how close you could get. About how many tigers there were. They were as excited as she’d ever seen them, and couldn’t turn around without losing the little credibility she worked to establish with young boys embarrassed to have a cop for a mom. They were good kids, though, and were as disappointed and disgusted at the state of the place as she was.
Now, she held the papers in her hand and felt a tinge of satisfaction at the idea that she was starting something that might lead to better lives for the animals behind the house. She pushed open the truck door. It creaked loudly on rusting hinges and she winced. While the city PD an hour up the highway was getting all sorts of secondhand military equipment from the Feds, the County still had her rolling around in an old Bronco with a hundred and fifty thousand miles and a rebuilt engine. She left the door hanging open and crunched through the gravel on the way to the front porch. Before she got to the steps, Raymond burst out the front door, tucking in his denim shirt and looking like he had just woken up. Pat checked her watch. A quarter to eleven.
Raymond nodded at her with his chin and spat on the porch. “What’re ya’ after, Officer?”
“That’s Sheriff Trudell, Mr Pawlaczuk. I’m here on official business.”
“Mr Pawlaczuk?” Raymond said his own name with contempt, as if being called anything other than Raymond was an insult to his age. Pat herself did the same thing anytime someone called her Mrs Trudell. She’d reply with a folksy, Aw hell. My grandmother is Mrs Trudell. I’m Patricia. Pat for short. Her grandmother was now twenty years in the ground, and Pat was in her late forties. There was no arguing she wasn’t the elder Trudell woman in Fort Basin County. On top of it, her husband had died more than five years ago in Afghanistan. She wasn’t Mrs Anyone. All her affectations of youth were falling away with the passing days. Still, Raymond had at least twenty years on her. Maybe more.
She held the twin envelopes out. He refused to reach for them or even come down the steps. She took a step up onto the first riser. “That’s just far enough, Sheriff. Whatcha got there?”
“An order to cease and desist all operations on this… animal preserve, and a notice of foreclosure from the county. This zoo is operating illegally without permits or any of the licensure a man’d need to keep exotic animals. The conditions are a violation of county and state health requirements for both humans and livestock. And the county had condemned this house as well.” She failed at suppressing a smile. “You’re out, Raymond. We’re closing you down.”
* * *
FRIDAY
The stench grew stronger as he made his way deeper into the house. Competing smells of unwashed dishes and old garbage hovered on top of the scent of wild animal seeping in from outside. Just standing in this place made Orrin feel filthy.
Turning the corner on his way to the stairs, he passed the kitchen and half expected to see an orange-and-black monster sitting at the dinner table, licking its lips, wearing a barbecue bib, with a knife and fork clutched in its paws. Instead, all he saw was last night’s dishes and a pile of junk mail on the table. Beyond that, the back door. He crossed the room and checked the lock. He knew a tiger couldn’t turn a knob, but still, it made him feel slightly better to know the deadbolt was thrown.
The oppressive heat muddied his already jangled thoughts. He stared out the window in the kitchen door, and tried to remember the layout of the property, wondering if there was a way to flank the animal the long way around and get to his bike. While he’d toured the “zoo” a few times, it had been with his brothers along, distracting him. They’d laughed and talked shit and paid no attention to anything around them because they were the Dead Soldiers and the world stepped aside when they rode or strode through. Exit strategies and future plans weren’t anything they bothered with. A man, especially a Dead Soldier, walked out the same door he walked in. Except, Orrin was merely a man. And— one percenter or not—he couldn’t outfight a fucking tiger. His bike was parked in front, and that was his only way out. He had to outsmart the animal.
He went back out of the kitchen and found the stairs to the second floor. He took them three at a time. Somehow, it smelled worse upstairs than down. He approached the door on the south-facing side of the hallway. It was closed. His hand hovered by the knob as he imagined Raymond’s old lady, Val, waiting inside with a shotgun in her lap ready to cut him in half, leaving him to die like his father, bleeding out on the floor of a strange woman’s bedroom. He assured himself that Val wasn’t on the other side. If she was, she would’ve come running when Raymond checked out. He reached for the knob, and as soon as he cracked the door, he knew she was right where he feared he’d find her. Except, instead of sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for him with a twelve-gauge, she was laid out, arms folded across her chest, face pale, a dark red stain under her hands. The high-pitched drone of flies buzzing in the room was maddening. He steadied himself against the doorjamb and tried to breathe, but the smell of her invaded his nostrils, made him feel like smothering, like he was being drowned in filth. He breathed her in and gagged. How long had she been lying there dead, waiting to be found? How long had Raymond been planning this?
Orrin recalled Bunker telling him to go to Tigertown. “That fucker Raymond’s been calling for two goddamn days,” he’d said. “You go find out what the fuck he wants and give him a reminder that he doesn’t get to demand a meet with me. I’ll talk to him when I want, not when he fuckin’ feels like it.”
Two days. She’s been in here two days.
Summer in Tigertown stank. The heat baked the dry dirt outside like a kiln and the smell of sun-cooked tiger piss hovered, pungent, in the air. And under that, there was rot. Raymond and Val tossed sides of beef, whole chickens, pigs and whatever else they could get their hands on into the cages to keep a dozen big cats alive. But they didn’t pick up after them, and whatever the cats didn’t eat sat in the sun, swarmed by flies and growing ever rank with decay. Compared to the bedroom, though, the cages smelled like the Yankee Candle shop in the mall.
Orrin put a hand over his mouth. The effect was minimal, merely adding a hint of leather to the fetor of the room. He pressed harder with the back of his glove, held his gorge, and staggered toward the window next to the bed.
The window fought him as he tried to yank it open with his left hand. The frame was old and neglected and it got stuck at an odd angle halfway open. He wanted to smash it. The sound of recalcitrant things breaking was often how Orrin measured compliance. Wood, glass… bones. But shattering the window wasn’t going to help him get away without leaving a trace. When the police finally showed up, he didn’t want them to find any sign the Dead Soldiers had been here. He put the pistol on the sill, held his breath, and slid the window down before lifting it open again more gently with both hands. This time it rose without sticking. He pushed the screen out, letting it clatter to the ground, leaned through and took a deep breath of merely distasteful air.
He looked down and muttered, “Fuuuck me.” The eaves below the window blocked his view of the porch and the tiger. He couldn’t hear it anymore either. Had it just stopped moving or had it moved on? He’d half expected to see it react to the falling screen, but it wasn’t a housecat. He didn’t figure he was about to distract it with a ball of yarn
or a laser pointer.
In the distance, his motorcycle gleamed in the sunlight like an oasis. Shimmering in the hot air distortion as if it would vanish if he got too close. While the path from the house to his Triumph looked clear from up where he stood, he knew that was the real illusion.
Then he saw it.
The animal was stalking away from the house into the tall weeds on the other side of his bike. He watched it turn and crouch down. A shiver passed through Orrin as he realized the thing was lying in wait for him. Hunting. But the cat’s pelt was brighter than the dry brush in which it hid. He had it dead to rights.
He knelt down in front of the open window and took aim. His hand trembled with adrenaline and the unfamiliar weight of Raymond’s hand-cannon. The thing wasn’t right below him anymore. At this distance, he’d be better off trying to get the shot with a deer rifle. Raymond almost definitely had a thirty-aught somewhere in the house. He knew the old bastard had to be poaching deer to feed the cats. There was no way he could afford to buy enough meat from the butcher for his zoo. Not the way he kept coming to the Dead Soldiers for money. But Orrin had the tiger in his sights right now and didn’t want to risk losing that advantage while he went looking for a better weapon. He aimed, let out a slow breath, and squeezed the trigger.
The report of the gun deadened his ears. The fucking thing was loud. His own pistol made demure little pop pop pops compared to this one.
A small cloud of dust kicked up from the ground where the slug hit yards away from his target. He blinked in the bright daylight and tried to re-aim, but couldn’t see where the tiger had gone. It moved so fast. And now, instead of knowing where it was, he was blind to it again. I should’ve waited. Fucking stupid. If he’d had any illusion about what his role in predator and prey was, it was dispelled.