The old oak was broad enough and bent enough that climbing wasn’t difficult; in no time at all, we were inching our way along a branch that extended over the alligator enclosure. It was suddenly very obvious how Chandi had been able to use this method to break into the zoo. I made a mental note to talk to the groundskeepers about cutting this particular branch off the tree, and then dropped down to the soft grass below—
—only to find myself crouching almost nose to nose with Big Ted, the largest of the zoo’s three American alligators. I blinked. He blinked, looking as surprised as I was, in his slow reptilian way. I heard a soft thump as Shelby landed behind me, followed by the sound of her whispering, “Aw, fuck me.”
Evolution has been kind to the alligator. It discovered a form that suited the alligator’s function millennia ago, and rather than forcing the alligator to change, it backed off, leaving a living fossil to prowl the swamps and wetlands of the world. The alligator is the cardboard box of nature: perfect just as it is, and needing no further refinement.
Fortunately for us, that means the alligator is not the sharpest tool in the shed, since it’s never needed to be. I straightened and began backing away, hands raised, less because I thought Big Ted would understand what I was trying to tell him, and more because he’d learned to associate humans with raised hands with a coming mealtime. Sure, promising food I didn’t have to the giant reptilian killing machine was a potentially bad idea, but if he was waiting for me to drop a chicken, he might hesitate before taking a chunk out of my thigh.
Footsteps behind me told me that Shelby was following my lead. Good.
Big Ted appeared to finally finish processing the shock of our presence. He opened his mouth and hissed. It was a horrible, primeval sound, and I was probably going to be dreaming about it for the next few nights.
“Shelby,” I said quietly, as I continued to back up, “look behind you. Do you see any other alligators?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t see security, either.”
“That’s good. Do you see the door in the fence over there?”
“Yes.”
“That’s better. All right. American alligators can sprint at a speed of about eleven miles an hour when they really try.” Big Ted was growling now. That was worse than the hissing. I kept backing away, trying to put more distance between me and the massive reptile. “Humans can run much faster when they’re properly motivated. I’m feeling motivated. How about you?”
“I have never been this motivated in my life.”
“Good. On the count of three, run. One, two—”
Big Ted reached a decision: we were a threat to his territory. Jaws open, he lunged forward, aiming for my legs. I jumped backward, feeling my shoulder impact Shelby’s chest, and his mouth snapped shut on empty air.
“Run!” I whirled, putting my back to the alligator—not the most comfortable thing I’d ever been forced to do—and ran like hell for the door. Shelby was two steps ahead of me, not wasting time. Good. Big Ted was annoyed, but he didn’t seem angry yet, and for a well-fed reptile his size, chasing us all the way to the door would be a serious commitment of energy and resources. I was hoping that he would give up before we had to deal with the lock. If not . . .
Humans evolved from monkeys. Maybe it was time for us to put our primate climbing skills to good use.
When we hit the fence, I looked back. Big Ted was still in virtually the same spot, mouth open, staring after us. If alligators could look smug, he did. He had scared away the threat, and he’d done it without needing to put in much of an effort. He was still King Lizard.
“Thanks for that,” I said, half-panting, and turned to open the door. It was a safety model that required a key to open from the outside as a precaution against idiots trying to sneak into the alligator enclosure, but which was always unlocked on the inside, in case one of those idiots actually managed it. “After you.”
“I’m really glad you didn’t say that when we went up the tree,” said Shelby, and stepped out of the enclosure, onto the narrow strip of grass between the chain-link fence and the low stone retaining wall. I followed her, and together we hopped the wall and stepped, unsteadily, onto the walking path beyond.
“I try not to get my girlfriends eaten by alligators,” I said. “I mean, it’s a tidy form of breakup, but it’s so hard to explain to their families.”
Shelby punched me in the shoulder.
“Ow,” I said, rubbing the spot. “What was that for?”
“You dropped me into an alligator pit,” she said. “I don’t think I needed any reason beyond that.”
“Fair enough.” I adjusted my glasses, stealing a look back at Big Ted. He was still in the same place, mouth open, content with his world. I turned to Shelby. “We’re clear on the plan.”
“Check the underbrush for signs of cockatrice, which will look a lot like signs of chicken, only bigger. If I find anything, come find you. If I don’t find anything, come find you. If anyone finds me, tell them that I stopped by to pick up some notes from my office, and I got distracted thinking about whatever it seems like they’re most likely to believe.”
“Right. And if you see the cockatrice?”
“Shoot it.” Shelby’s lips thinned into a hard, uncompromising line. “I’m as fond of conservation as the next girl, but three people are dead, and it’s not an endangered species. It has to go.”
“Right.” I hated sanctioning the death of any cryptid, but a cockatrice in this ecosystem was a ticking time bomb. It wasn’t just killing people: by now, it would be killing rats, mice, and any other small animals that it came across. The cockatrice was innocent: it was just following its instincts. That couldn’t matter anymore. “I have my phone if you need me.”
“Same here,” she said, and stepped forward to give me a quick kiss before she trotted away down the path, her ponytail swinging behind her and flashing golden in the light.
I was pretty sure that I was in love with that woman. I was even more sure that she was going to be trouble, one way or another. Turning, I made my own slower way toward the portion of the zoo that we had reserved for me to search.
Walking through the zoo in broad daylight with no children staring raptly at the animals or demanding answers from their teachers was a surreal experience, like suddenly finding myself in one of those movies where most of the human race has died off overnight. The animals clearly found it as strange as I did, because they were restless, staring at me with their wide, alien eyes as I walked past their enclosures. The Columbus Zoo was built on an open plan, giving each of our residents plenty of space within a semi-natural environment, and it seemed like every one of those residents was out, waiting to watch as I walked by. I split my attention between them and the ground. It was entirely possible that the cockatrice was roosting in the trees of the zebra enclosure, or hiding amongst the flamingos. So I studied them, looking for signs of illness or petrifaction, and I studied the ground, looking for scat or tracks that could lead me to my prey.
The zoo’s claims of enhanced security were either idle boasting or failed to account for people’s tendency to gather around coffee pots and snack machines when not supervised. I didn’t see anyone.
I was halfway through my part of the zoo when I heard frantic quacking up ahead. I broke into a jog. Coming around the curve, I saw one of the many flocks of ducks that inhabited our open-air enclosures clustered on the bank of the artificial pond we provided for the capybara. I came closer. The ducks were directing their fury at the water.
Capybara aren’t great climbers, and they’re not a species that’s particularly interested in escaping from any location that contains food, water, and a lack of predators. I boosted myself over the stone retaining wall and was inside the enclosure without even breaking stride. The ducks, long since accustomed to the presence of humans, ignored me as they kept quacking at the water. I crouched down, pe
ering closer.
If I hadn’t known better, I would have taken the stone drake that was mired in the mud at the bottom of the pond for a particularly well-sculpted bit of garden statuary. I reached in and carefully freed it from the muck, shaking it a little to clear the worst of the mess away before pulling it out of the water. It was frozen in mid-paddle, its legs fully extended, as if it had been swimming when it met the cockatrice’s deadly gaze.
The ducks continued to squawk and complain around me, although my presence seemed to be calming them somewhat. Humans brought bread and other tasty things. Humans might throw rocks or kick, but they never really hurt ducks. Humans were safe.
“Sorry, guys,” I said to the ducks, straightening up as I continued to study the petrified drake. I couldn’t tell how long ago the petrifaction had been complete; the drake was smaller than either a human or a lindworm, so the process wouldn’t have taken long. Death would have been virtually instantaneous. I’d need to crack the drake open to know whether the entire thing was stone, or whether it was still flesh inside, but that wouldn’t tell me anything. It would just destroy something beautiful. That seemed unfair, somehow.
If the ducks were still this upset, however, the cockatrice must have been here recently. I peered at the mud. Duck tracks obscured any tracks the cockatrice might have left on this side of the pond, and so I inched carefully around the water, aware that I was breaking a good dozen zoo rules as I made my way deeper into the enclosure. No capybara showed themselves, but I could hear them grunting and huffing at me from inside their artificial jungle. That was reassuring. They were mammal noises, nothing like the hiss or croak of the cockatrice. If it was still lurking here, it hadn’t petrified the capybara.
Not yet, anyway. I moved faster, scanning the ground . . . and there, at the edge of the pond, I found what I was looking for. They could have been mistaken for chicken tracks, if they’d been smaller, and if we’d had any free-range chickens at the zoo. As it was, they were clearly out of place.
The trail began in the bushes, made its way to the pond, and stayed there, driven deep into the mud. The cockatrice had stopped for a drink. That was probably when it petrified the duck. I followed the track to the other side of the enclosure, hoping that it wouldn’t disappear into the underbrush.
It didn’t. Instead, it just disappeared. “Shit,” I murmured, and peered closer. There were no scrapes to indicate that the cockatrice had taken flight; it was walking, and then it was gone. I straightened, trying to take in the enclosure around me. I was almost to the back, and that meant I was probably near the wall. I reached into the foliage. My fingers penetrated only a few inches before I hit stone. Feeling around, I found the latch that would allow the zookeeper standing on the other side to open the feeding hatch and toss in treats for the capybara—or, if they had a more nefarious goal in mind, allow them to lean in and lift out a runaway cockatrice.
Whoever was using the cockatrice as a murder weapon was still here at the zoo.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, dialing Shelby’s number. It rang until the call rolled to voicemail and her cheerful voice offered me the chance to leave her a message. There was a killer loose in the zoo, and my girlfriend wasn’t answering her phone.
Somehow, I managed to walk non-disruptively through the enclosure to the retaining wall. The ducks quacked angrily as I bent to press the stone drake into the mud at the edge of the pond. Then I hopped over the wall and broke into a run, heading as fast as I could for the far side of the zoo, and hoping that I was being paranoid. God, I hoped that I was being paranoid.
Even though I knew I probably wasn’t.
Twenty-one
“Nothing good has ever come from splitting the party.”
—Thomas Price
Ohio’s West Columbus Zoo, running like a bat out of hell toward the big cat enclosures
THE GEESE HAD TAKEN over most of the zoo’s walkways without humans to shoo them away. They scattered as I ran, spreading outward in feathery waves to either side of me. Between the motion and their angry honks and hisses, there was no chance I’d have the advantage of surprise on my side: anyone with eyes or ears would know that I was coming. So I put my head down and focused on speed. The faster I could get to Shelby, the faster I could convince myself that everything was all right; that I was the first person in the history of my family to be paranoid for no good reason.
I actually found myself wishing that security would spot and stop me. At least then I’d have some backup.
The roar of a big cat—lion or tiger, I didn’t know, although Shelby would have—sounded from ahead, loud and angry and filled with a territorial possessiveness that I didn’t need to speak feline to understand. The cats never roared at Shelby like that. They’d eat her if she gave them the chance, but they didn’t see her as an intruder. I ran faster.
The geese tapered off as I got closer to the roaring. They knew a predator when they heard one, and they wanted nothing to do with what they heard. The smaller big cats were outside in their daylight enclosures, prowling and snarling, clearly agitated. The zoo’s two snow leopards were crouched atop their rock, tails puffed out to three times their normal size, snarling in low, almost subsonic tones that put my teeth on edge. Eyes flashed from the darkness of the lynx enclosure as I ran past it, and I found myself grateful for the fences between us.
Humanity is on top of the food chain because we have weapons, and fences, and the ability to run from danger. I was running into danger, and since I didn’t want to get tackled by any security guards I might happen to run into—possibly literally at my current speed—I was doing it without my gun drawn. This was stupid. It might actually cross the line into suicidal. And it was what I’d been training for since I was a kid who didn’t understand that someday, the world would come with consequences.
The door to the big cat house was ajar. I managed to slow down before charging inside, putting a hand on the gun I had concealed beneath my jacket as I eased my body through the gap.
The hot stink of cat hit me as soon as I was inside: raw and primal and vitally alive in a way that was entirely different from the smell of my reptiles. There was blood beneath the surface stench, freshly-spilled and lingering in the air. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. The big cats were obligate carnivores, and they required a lot of meat to get through their days.
The cats themselves were watching me as they prowled their cages, growling in agitation. A big male lion occupied the enclosure to my left, while an equally large tiger of indeterminate gender was to my right, lips drawn back to display massive canines. Looking at them, I guessed that the lion had been the source of the roaring. He still looked unhappy, although he wasn’t roaring anymore. I couldn’t tell whether or not that was a good sign.
Moving carefully, so as to minimize the amount of noise my footsteps would make, I made my way down the length of the big cat house. The lion and tiger followed in their enclosures, matching their steps to mine. Eerie as the giant predators were, I was strangely grateful. Their growls and the thudding of their paws would cover any noise I happened to make, muffling it and making it easier for me to reach my destination.
The layout of the big cat house was linear, with an entrance at either end. The door leading to the offices and zookeeper back-channels was at the other end of the room from the entrance I had used. Naturally. Circumstances never conspire to deposit me near the door I need. As I approached the door, I saw that it was also standing slightly open. Not enough to be obvious from a distance, but enough that it was obvious someone had been through very recently, and in a hurry.
Stealth was abandoned again as I jogged for the open door. The big cats matched my stride, although they were stopped by the edges of their enclosure, and snarled in obvious frustration as I went through the open door and stepped into the narrow white hallway of the backstage area of the big cat house.
There was blood
on the floor.
Not much—just a few drops, small enough that they could almost have been dismissed as runoff from feeding the cats. Except that the big cats didn’t get live prey, no matter how much they wanted it, and nothing dead bleeds like a living body. This blood was bright red, almost artificial-looking, with none of the watery clarity of blood that came from pre-butchered meat.
The halls were silent. I stopped long enough to draw my gun and continued forward, listening for any sign that I was not alone. The blood trail led deeper, curving away from the offices and into the channel that was used to carry food to the big cats. I followed it, trying to focus on the entire area, and not just on the question that those bright drops of blood forced me to keep asking. Who was bleeding? Shelby, or someone else? How badly were they hurt? There wasn’t enough blood to be fatal, but that didn’t have to mean anything. There are a lot of ways to keep blood from hitting the ground.
The trail led into one of the feeding pens. I hesitated only long enough to be sure that the channel connecting it to the cage on the other side was closed. Then I unlatched the door and stepped inside.
It was a small, concrete space reminiscent of the zoos of old, the ones where the animals slept on bare stone and were little more than prisoners of man’s eternal war against the natural world. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all designed to be easily hosed down, and there was a drain in the middle of the room, making it clear that the hosing happened on a fairly regular basis. In addition to the entrance and the broad, portcullis-like barrier that separated the feeding room from the open enclosures, there was a narrow, solid metal door set deep into one wall. In case something went wrong during a feeding, the keeper was to retreat into the tiny built-in “panic room,” giving time for the other keepers to run for help.
The blood trail led to the panic room door.
Cautiously, I approached the closed door. When I was close enough, I whispered, “Shelby? Are you in there?”
Half-Off Ragnarok: Book Three of InCryptid Page 29