by Taylor Grand
The insects didn’t seem to notice Brennan, but of course he realized they were too stupid to know any better. He was still working on that.
Fear pervaded the store, strong enough to taste.
Brennan was pleased.
He began his morning routine by flicking on the store lights, followed by checking the bills and coinage in the register drawer. He was compelled to recount it in the mornings because the two dipsticks on the night shift couldn’t count past ten without a goddamn calculator. They shortchanged him more often than not, no matter how many times he’d complained to the owner.
Animals, Brennan had discovered, were far easier to teach and control than people. Unfortunately, he couldn’t get away with conditioning people as easily as animals. Control was what Brennan desired; lack of it had blazed a trail of disaster throughout his life: alcoholism, failed career ambitions, a monumentally disastrous marriage, and a body that increasingly tipped the wrong side of the scale.
Brennan was startled when the phone rang, shattering the silence of the store. He glanced at the kitschy wall clock that was made to look like an owl, its eyes clicking side to side as the pendulum swung.
It was exactly 7:59am.
He pondered whether or not to answer the phone. After all, the store wasn’t officially open for business for a full sixty seconds.
On the tenth ring, he gave an annoyed huff and answered it. “Purrs, Grrs and Furs, the happy pet store,” delivered deadpan with the word “store” warped to rhyme with “fur.”
A husky voice on the other end of the line said, “It’s me, Brennan. I meant to leave ya a note, but I forgot.”
It was Guthrie, the storeowner.
Brennan did his best to sound perky, never an easy task. “Morning. What’s up?”
“I meant to tell ya last week. I approved a work internship for Ed Mackey’s kid, Billy. He’s gonna shadow ya today. He’ll be working with us through the summer for school credit—Monday through Friday.”
Brennan felt his face flush. “Listen, I don’t—”
Guthrie cut him off, “I know ya like to work alone, Brenn. But Mackey’s an important customer. I met his kid and he’s sharp. Wants to be a freakin’ zoologist, specializin’ in fish or some such, ain’t that a kicker?”
Christ, that’s all I need, Brennan thought, some little smart ass rambling on all day about the finer points of goldfish reproduction. Between gritted teeth, he replied, “I guess I don’t have much choice.”
Guthrie cleared his throat. “Hell, me neither. Mackey spends more money on them exotic fish than you earn in a whole year. What would ya do in my position?”
Brennan didn’t have anything to say that wouldn’t get him fired.
“It’s all settled then,” Guthrie said. “Stay on your best behavior now. I know how territorial you can get.”
The moment Brennan heard the dial tone he flung the phone across the counter. It hit the tile floor with a jarring clang. One of the tropical birds in the back gave a startled squawk.
“Shut up, goddamnit!” Brennan shouted at the bird.
The store went deathly quiet.
A moment later Billy Mackey knocked on the front door.
****
The boy spun through the store like an ambitious cyclone. He stocked more shelves in the first hour than Brennan normally did in two days. By hour three he’d completely reorganized the amphibian section and was tackling a cat food display in earnest.
Brennan’s sufferance ended abruptly. He grasped the boy’s shoulder firmly and said, “Listen up, Rookie. It’s time for the dead pull.”
Mackey gave Brennan a confused look. “Dead pull?”
“Sure. Loads of fun.”
Mackey put the finishing touches to the cat food display, and then raced through the aisles to catch up with Brennan. The store was claustrophobic, overflowing with every conceivable—and some inconceivable—pet need.
Brennan noted that the animals seemed to take a great interest in the teenaged boy. Several puppies and cats came out of hiding for the first time since Brennan had stepped into the store. The youngest Yorkshire Terrier gave a yip or two and tried to catch Mackey’s attention, his tail wagging wildly as his paws scratched against the thick plastic of his cage. Brennan made a mental note to teach the little furry bastard a lesson about scratching at his cage.
When they moved past the bird section, the largest Congo African Grey gave a mighty squawk and two small lovebirds cooed. Brennan ground his teeth, saying nothing, his face deepening to a fierce red. He suddenly realized he would have to constantly keep his anger in check with Mackey around. The little cocksucker’s prying eyes would be on him five days a week.
But not for long if I can help it.
As they entered the aquatics section, Brennan flicked on the special aquarium lights, illuminating an array of native and exotic fish. Dashes of brilliant color darted through the water.
Mackey was immediately drawn to a particular freshwater tank.
With an intensity that belied his age, he said, “Has anyone checked the PH and ammonia in this tank?”
Brennan busied himself with two tangled fishnets, refusing to justify the boy’s question.
Mackey studied a school of luminous Neon Tetras. “These Tetras are developing some ‘Ich.’ You see those white spots?”
Brennan’s temper rose. “I know what Ich is, Rookie.”
Mackey immediately caught Brennan’s tone and realized that he’d overstepped his bounds. He pulled in his head like a scared turtle. “Right…right, of course.”
Brennan tossed him a small net and pointed to three plastic buckets on the floor; one marked “Freshwater,” the other “Saltwater” and the last “Feeder.” All were filled with chemically treated water.
“Don’t mix the nets,” he growled. “It taints the water and spreads disease.”
Brennan knew the kid was fully aware of this. Hell, his family was a bunch of fish freaks. But it felt good to reinforce his authority. It also pleased him to watch Mackey biting his tongue, wanting to shout: I know all of this! Apparently, the little shit was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
Brennan reiterated, “Take special care to keep the feeder nets separate. They’re the worst carriers of bacteria. You got that?”
“Got it.”
“Good.” Brennan pointed at a wooden clipboard hanging on the wall. “Right here’s the dead pull list. It has to be filled out every morning.”
“You mean…as in pull out the dead ones?”
“You catch on quick, Rookie.”
Mackey shifted on his feet, apprehensive. “Are there usually a lot of dead ones?”
“Welcome to the glamour of pet retail, Pal.”
Mackey’s face deflated as if it had sprung a leak, which gave Brennan great satisfaction.
“First, you pull all the dead ones from the tanks,” Brennan said. “Then, you put ’em in those plastic baggies over there. Make sure to write the name, quantity and stock number on the dead pull list. Think you can handle that?”
“Sure. Of course,” Mackey said. He seemed to be trying extra hard to keep things friendly.
Brennan remained austere. “When you’re done, you can do the same thing with the reptiles and small animals.”
Brennan had just finished ringing up his first customer for the day when he glanced over and saw Mackey pulling a dead, bloated rat from its cage. It was stiff as a frozen pack of meat and he knew from experience that it probably smelled even worse than it looked. He chuckled at Mackey’s disgusted expression as he tried and failed to stuff the rat’s long, unaccommodating tail into the small plastic baggie. The boy appeared more disheartened with each and every dead pull.
Just wait till you see what’s next, Kiddo.
A few moments later, Mackey called out with genuine concern, “Some of these kittens back here are pretty sick.”
“Don’t sweat the ‘free adoptions’,” Brennan yelled back, while inserting a fresh roll of
tape into the register. “They’re donated.”
Mackey was clearly upset by what he’d seen. “But they’re…”
“I said forget it. We don’t pay for mongrel cats, so who gives a shit. Now come on, you’ve got more important work to do.”
Brennan hated many things, but the basement was near the top of his lengthy list. It was poorly lit, cramped, and suffused with the stink of death. The grease-stained walls were lined with bags of rotted pet food, broken merchandise, forgotten overstock—and God knows what else. It hadn’t been cleaned in years, and his boss Guthrie—who was easily the most unkempt person Brennan knew—never seemed to push the issue.
Thank God for small favors.
Brennan sure as shit wasn’t going to take it on himself. Eight bucks an hour didn’t cover giving a crap. Hell, eight bucks an hour didn’t cover much of anything. Besides, if the health department ever busted the store, Guthrie’s fat ass would take the heat. That’s why he made the big bucks.
Brennan unclipped a set of keys from his belt loop with a jangle and unlocked the basement door. It was stained black with patches of mold.
Mackey choked on a waft of putrid dust. “Man…it’s nasty down there.”
Brennan suppressed a grin as he ambled down the stairs.
He knew to breathe through his mouth. Mackey wasn’t so fortunate. The rancid air caused the boy to stumble; a bagful of dead animals slipped from his grasp and dropped to the floor a few steps below. Tiny, wide-eyed goldfish sliced moisture trails into its dusty surface.
Embarrassed, the boy scrambled down the steps to pick them up. Brennan stopped him with a firm hand and said, “Screw the feeders, Rookie. We inventory those in bulk anyway.”
“But they’ll rot down here.”
Brennan waved his hand with aplomb. “Nah. They’ll get eaten by morning.”
Mackey cocked his head awkwardly. “Eaten?”
“Sure. Didn’t you notice all the shredded bags of pet food down here?”
Mackey swallowed audibly. “Rats?”
Brennan felt a quiet glee warm his heart watching Mackey’s face grow pale. “Rats, snakes, lizards…you name it. Every once in a while one escapes from their cage. The damn things are impossible to catch once they end up down here. And let me tell you…some of those bastards have gotten pretty big.”
Mackey glanced nervously at the darkened corners of the basement.
Brennan continued, “But hey, you’re good with animals, right? Ain’t nothin’ you can’t handle.”
Mackey put on a brave face. “No…it’s fine.”
But they both knew it wasn’t fine at all.
They reached an old wooden door at the farthest end of the basement; Freezer Room was stenciled across it, and again Brennan had to unlock it. As they stepped inside the musty space, the smell had become just a nose hair short of unbearable. A single light bulb flickered overhead, revealing an antiquated freezer against the back wall with an ominous strobe effect.
Brennan flipped through the keys on his impressive key ring until he found the right one, and opened the lock on the freezer door. Purposefully, he waited before opening it.
“The dead pulls go in here.”
Mackey took a wary step toward the humming, rusted appliance; he looked as stiff as the tiny corpses dangling from his hands. The intensity of the smell caused him to gag a bit, though he tried to conceal it.
“You can thank the boss for the lovely aroma,” Brennan said. “He’s too damn cheap to replace this old bitch of a freezer. Hell, it barely stays above room temperature inside there.”
Brennan stepped back from the droning apparatus and moved toward the doorway of the room. “Arrange them nice and neat in there, Rookie. Our vendor collects the dead pulls on Fridays and he’s a real pain in my ass if they’re not organized.”
Mackey offered a pitiful nod. Brennan could see the boy’s enthusiasm draining like dirty water from a bathtub.
“When you’re done organizing the dead pulls,” Brennan said, “sweep up this room. Then you can start on the basement. There’s a broom and dustpan buried…I don’t know, somewhere in here, and there’s a box of garbage bags in that cabinet just above your head.”
Mackey gazed at the walls, Brennan thought, like a first-time convict exploring the walls of his new prison cell.
Brennan smiled, but it came off more like a grimace. “Have fun, Kiddo.” You think the smell is bad now…
Brennan had made it halfway up the basement stairs when he heard Mackey open the freezer door with a slow creak. The boy immediately started to dry retch.
A satisfied chuckle rose in Brennan’s throat.
Mornings were always the slowest, and by 11:00am only two customers had come into the pet store: a neurotic regular who bought his cat food one freaking can at a time and an exceedingly tattooed woman wanting a leather collar with spikes. Whether it was for her dog or her own couture wasn’t clear.
Brennan hadn’t heard a peep from Mackey since he’d left him retching in the freezer room. He probably should have warned the kid about the door’s nasty habit of swinging shut. And it might have been a good idea to make sure the doorknob wasn’t locked either. But, hey…these things happen.
When another hour and a half passed without a sound, Brennan decided it was time to check on the brat’s progress. As he stepped down into the basement, he scanned the shadows for any sign of Mackey. From the look of things, nothing had been touched.
“Hey Rookie…you down here?”
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Intrigued, Brennan moved toward the freezer room. Much to his delight, he noticed that the door was shut tight, locked from the outside.
“You in there, Rook?” he called out, fumbling with his keys in the gloom.
A mewling sound emanated from beyond the door, causing a field of goose bumps to spring up on Brennan’s arms.
That can’t be good.
As he opened the freezer room door, he half-expected to see Mackey curled in a ball, drooling and staring into the darkness like some asylum escapee.
He wasn’t far off.
Mackey sat on the floor right next to the freezer, slumped forward, his body stiff and unmoving. The rusted metal door of the freezer gaped open; inside a meager bulb glowed dismally. Brennan presumed that Mackey had left the freezer door open to help illuminate the tenebrous room. Inside the icebox, a menagerie of faces offered dead stares from behind plastic veils. On the bottom shelf was a baggie filled with what looked like a frozen rodent orgy. Brennan looked into the dead, clouded-over eyes of a Siamese cat, its face congealed into a perverse grin.
He quickly averted his gaze.
Mackey’s chin was touching his chest. It reminded Brennan of a picture he’d once seen in a magazine: a man gunned down by a firing squad, slumped against a blood-splattered wall.
With false concern, he said, “Hey Rook, you okay?”
The kid’s body jerked at that, startling Brennan. His nostril’s flared from the fusion of smells that pervaded the room. Glancing down, he noticed that the crotch of the boy’s jeans was dark with urine.
A corpulent rat with filthy white fur and ugly, pinkish eyes scuttled over Mackey’s legs. It gave Brennan a quick once over before stuffing its gluttonous form through a gnawed hole in the wall.
Mackey’s face was wan and streaked with tears as he stared at Brennan. The knuckles on his hands were swollen, torn open and bleeding—most likely from a futile session of pounding on the door.
His eyes bored into Brennan and he choked, “I wanna…go home.”
Brennan almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
****
The next day was business as usual. Billy Mackey had been successfully traumatized, and Brennan thought it unlikely that he would ever set foot in the store again.
It had been a calculated risk, of course. The little shit could have blamed him for the incident and he might have lost his job. At the same time, he knew that th
e risk of working with Mackey for any length of time was far greater. It wouldn’t have ended well.
These types of situations never worked out well for Brennan.
Fortunately, his gambit had paid off. He’d known it would work the moment he saw Mackey trying to conceal his urine-soaked pants. The boy’s embarrassment would keep him from telling anyone about it. Brennan was convinced of it.
That thought gave him a profound sense of control. And the control he wielded over his life seemed to begin and end with the pet store. Working there enabled him to dictate the day-to-day operations, as well as the lives of the store’s denizens. The animals answered to him. Depended on him. And, more importantly, they feared him.
Those that couldn’t be controlled were killed.
Brennan preferred control to killing, but he wasn’t averse to dispatching uncooperative subjects. Nor was he averse to convincing the huddled masses when necessary—just to keep them in line. He’d found that teaching by example was a powerful tool; particularly with the higher intelligence animals like cats and dogs.
Fish, of course, were the easiest to lord over. They were the most vulnerable and inherently fearful.
That is, until it showed up.
The special delivery package arrived exactly one week after the basement incident. It was marked “live animals,” and had come courtesy of the Mackey family. An attached card offered a well-written thank you from Billy’s father to Guthrie, and an acknowledgement of Brennan’s exemplary tutelage.
The card went on to explain that Billy had received a rare opportunity to work at the local zoo and would no longer be able to continue his internship at the pet store. But thanks for giving him the opportunity and won’t you please accept this rare exotic fish as a token of our appreciation?
Brennan had read the card with delight, relishing the subtext. The “opportunity” at the zoo may have been real enough, but he also knew it was the Mackey’s elaborate way of saving face.
However, over the next few days, the “gift” would become the bane of Brennan’s existence. And he was determined to kill it. Unfortunately, the fish had arrived on one of Guthrie’s scheduled work days (planned with great precision by the Mackey’s no doubt), and Brennan wouldn’t be able to dispose of the fish without raising suspicion.