Primal

by Serra, D. A.

  Kent says, “When we get to Canada I’m gonna run the cock fights.”

  Gravel smirks, “You gonna raise birds?”

  “They aren’t birds. They’re fighting machines. But first, you gotta get ‘em in shape.”

  “In shape, huh? What d’ ya tie little weights to their wings and take ‘em to the gym?” Gravel asks, rolling his eyes at Theo who snorts happily.

  “No. You run ‘em around for eight hours every day until their legs get like little stubby tree trunks. Then, you put ‘em together and just let ‘em go.”

  “Sounds too much like work.” Gravel looks out the window and sees the lights of the small rural hospital just coming into view.

  “They fight to the death on instinct. Even if you raise ‘em nice, when you put ‘em together - bam! They rip each other apart.”

  “How many you gonna buy?”

  “Only need two. I’ll buy a male one and a female one. Put ‘em together and let ‘em fuck their brains out.”

  Gravel’s tone drips with derision, “You’re gonna get a female cock?”

  “Sure. I’ll have baby cocks all over the fuckin’ place. I’ve been readin’ about it a lot.”

  “For someone who reads, Kent, you sure don’t get much right.”

  “You just don’t like it when I know something you don’t know.”

  “Yeah, asshole, if that ever happened, I wouldn’t like it.”

  Theo wrenches the car off the main road and enjoys the dive into the ditch. They come to a jerky stop. He shuts off the headlights and the black sedan vanishes into the erasing darkness. Up ahead, Grayley Community Hospital is a blast of ugly fluorescence. The square three-story building has light pouring from every window. An alarmingly large blood red emergency sign points the way to admitting. Gravel and Kent silently slip out of the car with their weapons tucked into their belts, in black jeans and hooded sweatshirts they, too, disappear into the night. At this moment, when they fall into their lifelong roles, the synchrony of their movement is dance-like. They cover the ground with the relaxed competence that comes from experience, and from being inside their comfort zone. Here, together, running through the darkness, fully armed, they are in their element and supremely happy.

  Warden Tummelson had chosen Grayley because it was outside of town in a rural area. He thought that would be the safest spot; that way Ben Burne would never be anywhere near a population. Tummelson hadn’t considered what a benefit that would be to Ben’s brothers who moved in on the hospital like hungry hyenas on carrion. No one considered that the brothers actually cared - about anything. It was the prevailing assumption that they had skipped the country. It was the expected behavior of the merciless. It was inconceivable that men such as these would enjoy a deep brotherly connection. These men couldn’t have the capacity for real emotion. They were empty beings - must be empty beings. It was so much easier to deny them the essence of humanness, so that nothing was shared: they are nothing like us. No one considered that these men would risk everything to rescue each other. All of the psychologists reported that these men just didn’t think that way. They were narcissistic. They were self-preserving. They were grossly misjudged. The bond between them is fierce. The raw instinct from their shared blood rages within them. There is nothing they wouldn’t do for each other, and if pain is the price, then pain it is. They understand pain. Their mother taught them pain. They scoff at the brotherly affection others claim. Would they kill for their brother? Rip the skin off someone’s face? Chop off someone’s feet? They had no restriction, and no rules. The Burne brothers approached brotherhood the way they approached a big bank score: all or nothing; they had no capability for, and no respect for, moderation. They considered other brothers’ assertions of solidarity anemic. It was all a matter of what you were willing to do for your brother. What exactly were you willing to do? If one thing could be said with absolute certainty, it was that no one understood the Burne boys.

  To the right of the emergency sliding glass doors the prison van is parked. Kent and Gravel exchange a confirming look. It’s a go. Gravel’s blood thrills sending a surge of bliss throughout his body. He loves this, every bit of it, the sneaking, the knowing, the teamwork, the weapons, the power. He slips up alongside the prison van and stuffs a cloth into the gas tank. He lights the end and darts back into the darkness.

  Inside the operating room, Ben lies cuffed by both ankles to the hospital bed. Doctor Kim is checking the intravenous drip. The nurse stands nearby with a full syringe ready to administer the anesthesia. The chaplain from the prison stands next to Ben holding his left hand. Looking through the glass into the operating room are two prison guards: Wilkins and Rodriguez. They stare into the room believing the threat comes from inside.

  Doctor Kim asks a little impatiently, “May we begin?”

  Ben replies, “Just one more prayer to the holy virgin.”

  Doctor Kim tries hard not to roll his eyes and steps back. The chaplain begins another prayer. “Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the lord is with thee. Blessed art thou…” Ben steals an impatient glance at the clock. Just as he does, an explosion rocks the building. The muscles in Ben’s face relax. He smiles. Yes.

  “What the hell?” Doctor Kim runs out of the room followed by the nurse and the chaplain. Wilkins and Rodriguez burst into the room to watch Ben. Wilkins sees the grin on Ben’s face. He feels the shift of power. He pulls his weapon.

  “Stay still, Burne.”

  “Wilkins, really, I’m chained to the bed.”

  “Stay still anyway!”

  “Unfortunately, my friend, I’m afraid it’s too late for that. Have you met my brothers?”

  Wilkins and Rodriguez spin around! They’re face-to-face with Gravel and Kent. Bang! Bang! And the two guards sink to the operating room floor. Kent gets the keys from Wilkins’ bloody pocket and uncuffs Ben. Ben rips the I.V. out of his hand.

  “You’re late,” he says.

  “Traffic,” Gravel answers blandly.

  “Yeah, and we took the expressway, so we were surprised.” Kent hands a weapon to Ben. “Hey, bro.”

  They turn, exit the room and move together down the hospital hallway - blood harmony.

  * * *

  Ben asks, “Where?”

  Gravel replies, “Second floor, southeast window.”

  Ben takes the lead. It has always been his role.

  Consistent with Gravel’s style, the explosion took out half of the emergency room blowing out one entire wall. Chaos reigns and injuries abound. Ben, Gravel and Kent slip easily through it, onto the stairs, and down to the second floor. They enter an empty room and cross to the window. In the distance, the fire trucks and police cars approach. Gravel takes a small flashlight from his pocket and signals. Flash. Flash.

  Theo sees it. He throws the sedan in gear and pulls back onto the road. Two police cruisers speed up on him. He stops politely and waves. They pass by, sirens blaring. Theo drives up onto the lawn at the corner of the hospital, directly under the window. Kent, Gravel and Ben leap to the ground and roll. They dart to the sedan, climb in, and Theo floors it yanking the wheel hard right, driving back up onto the pavement, and they speed down the country road and into the darkness.

  Ben now rides shotgun. He takes the power position between his brothers. It is his right. He gets dressed as they move.

  Kent gushes, “Jesus, Ben, you look good, bro!”

  “I’ve had a nice rest. Did some reading. Worked out in the yard. Hey, Theo, shut up!” He hits the back of Theo’s head. Theo grins. “Nice pick-up boys.”

  “My plan,” Gravel says.

  “And full of your usual subtlety.”

  “Thanks. Be at the lake by dawn.”

  “The boat?”

  Kent answers, “Waiting.”

  * * *

  Chapter Eight

  The morning comes too soon for Alison. The aggressive sun creeps skillfully in through the windowpane, up the mattress, onto the sheets, and then elbows her right in the ey
e. Without opening her eyes, she wonders how the sun does that, finds the one crack in the drapes and lands exactly on her eye. A few moments ago, she heard Hank and Jimmy lugging their suitcases down the stairs and she snuggled deeper into the covers.

  Polly knocks on the bedroom door and then sticks her head in. “Hank asked me to tell you it’s time.”

  “Ugh!” Alison buries her head back under the pillow. How can this be a vacation if someone is waking me up? Aren’t those mutually exclusive events?

  “Alison?”

  “Okay. I’m up.”

  Polly Steiner likes her job. At sixty-years-old, she has no patience for the drama of other families she’s worked for - the Kraft family is a good fit. She’s been with them two days a week since Jimmy was born, and an ease of life has developed between them.

  Polly straightens up the bedroom as Alison heads lazily for the bathroom. Polly organizes the magazines neatly on the bedside table. She picks up Hank’s black socks, which were left in a ball on the floor on his side of the bed, and she tosses them into the hamper. Alison rinses her face in the sink, and brushes her teeth. She slips on her light blue jeans and a long-sleeved white sweater.

  “So, Polly, you will water the plants?”

  “All except that ugly creeping Charlie in the downstairs hall. I hate that plant.”

  “Yeah? I didn’t want to tell you, I heard it saying bad things about you to the other plants.”

  “I knew it.”

  “Oh, no! I forgot I have a dentist appointment scheduled this week.”

  “They called to confirm yesterday and I canceled it,” Polly says.

  “Oh, good. What else?”

  “I stopped your mail.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “And the newspaper.”

  “Perfect.”

  “And I finished the novel you were reading.”

  “How’d I like it?”

  “You cried at the end.”

  “Oh, I love a good cry.”

  They smile at each other. Polly hands her the small travel case.

  “Have a good time.”

  “Actually, I woke up feeling a lot different this morning.”

  “Yeah?”

  “This will be an adventure. I think I’m going to have a good time.”

  “That’s the pioneer spirit. I slipped the bug spray, the aspirin, and the anti-itch lotion inside your rain boots.”

  “Oh. Good thinking.”

  * * *

  A few hours later, the tiny grey speedboat, which from Alison’s perspective is in questionable condition, and barely qualifies as a floatation device, bangs across the surface of Lake Superior. Hank sits in the aft next to the captain, who Alison is quite certain isn’t old enough for a driver’s license yet. The teenager has kept the boat relatively close to land. They’ve been speeding along since late morning without a single sign of civilization on the shore. Hank looks off at the distant horizon and invigorated, starts singing Proud Mary. Even the gathering storm clouds cannot wipe the grin from his face. He remembers the envious looks from his two partners, Scottie and Newt, at work yesterday. He knew when he got back he was going to hear about plans from each of them to do something out of bounds - something exciting. They are all ready for a break. They have worked hard and long on their business.

  Two years ago, the three of them started Pump Up The Volume, a sound and lights equipment company. Hank is the first to actually take a vacation. They have worked like crazy for professional gigs, and they love it when a real band comes to town, but the bread and butter of their business is still high school musicals, bar mitzvahs, and weddings. Hank doesn’t mind though, because while there is always stress when the special night arrives, he works all the time with people who are planning happy events and that fits with his nature. It has been fun starting a business, in his hometown, with his best buddies, and being able to work all day long with the music blasting. Music is as essential to Hank as breathing. All kinds of music: Hip-hop, Reggae, Blues, Rap, Rock - it all works for him. The only improvement he made to their home was to wire every room for sound; even if he is out in the backyard, there is a speaker. When there is no music playing he is constantly looking around the room as though he’s lost something, and much to the misfortune of those around him if the music is turned off, he sings.

  Business is good, but not too good as Newt says happily. Newt sees work as something one does in-between parties, something that pays for one’s life, but not something that is necessarily interesting. He could have been in the business of making dog treats and it would be exactly the same. As long as he is working with his buddies, he is okay with working. He prefers a nice easy pace and doesn’t like it when they get too busy. Scottie is a tech junky and loves the equipment, the more complicated the better. He shows up wide-eyed and excited at every tech convention within 500 miles. He races back to the store after each event like a teenager with a list of sound equipment they have to have. Newt keeps him in line economically. Hank just wants the music in every hour of his day. They have a comfortable partnership.

  “Hank, you’re singing again,” Scottie complains.

  “Am I?’

  “A dismal rendition of Wild Thing,” Newt adds as he lifts a soundboard onto the countertop.

  “I rock and you know it.”

  “There’s a reason why Mrs. Kravitz in the seventh grade put you basically under the bleachers for the Spring Show.”

  “Hey, don’t talk trash about my glory days!”

  It was Alison who suggested the name for the business. It is an inside joke. Hank liked Pump Up The Volume for the obvious reasons. Scottie, Newt and Alison liked it because whenever you’re around Hank you need to pump up the volume to drown out his singing.

  Lake Superior suddenly rears up like a spooked horse. The speedboat pitches left and slaps back down on the water.

  Hank keeps singing, “Big wheel keep on turning. Proud Mary keep on burning.”

  “Dad, so uncool.”

  “Uncool?”

  “Completely.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He stands and starts to rap T.Pain, “I’m on a boat. Hey ma, if you could see me now…” Jimmy laughs as Hank continues and adds ghetto gestures, “Arms spread wide on the starboard bow. Gonna fly this boat to the moon somehow.”

  The boat shoots off a crest and out of the water, suspended, and then, smack down hard. Hank hits the deck and grins sheepishly flat on his ass. The captain rolls his eyes and tries to keep his grin small. Alison bites her tongue hard. She scrunches her face, as she tastes a drop of blood. In only a few seconds, the water conditions on the lake have worsened dramatically. The boat begins to feel even smaller to her. She looks out at the expanse of water; the lake has no end whatsoever. It is so vast that it looks no different from the ocean, except the ocean hasn’t ever looked this angry to her. The water is not a comforting azure with foaming whipped cream dollops, but an icky truculent green. She knows there will be no soft sand between her toes, no pedicures, or pleasing rum drinks in her immediate future. She notices Hank’s expression. He is so engaged, so happy.

  Up and down. Side to side. The boat rocks, and tosses, and shimmies. In her seat, Alison sways back and forth. Her stomach churns and the skin on her hands turn bluish. She sinks down in the seat. There is no relief from the pounding of the boat on the waves as the wind picks up. Pregnant clouds, bulbous and ash colored, press down on them. The captain eyes the sky, and then jams down the throttle, jacking up the power and racing to get to the camp before the deluge. Alison can’t imagine why it matters to hurry, as she is already wet to the bone. She does not know about the unforgiving fury of this lake during a storm. The captain knows it well and this is why he is pushing the boat’s engine to its limit. She glances at her husband and son. They are in the same boat, at the same moment, experiencing the exact same thing and they look energized. I’m such a fuddy duddy, she thinks, dismayed.

  Jimmy enjoys the tossing from crest to trough and watch
ing him reminds Hank of when he used to toss his son up in the air and catch him. Was it so long ago when he was that small? They all grab the rail as they hit a particularly large swell. Hank and Jimmy’s faces are splattered with mist and glee.

  Abruptly, Alison spins, leans over the edge of the boat, and throws up. It is a gut-wrenching heave that sends her chest smacking into the side. She opens her eyes. The water is only feet away and she swears it reaches for her. Its frigid spray clouts her face. She heaves again. The retching comes from deep in her belly, and she feels like her organs are coming out. With her chest against the cold wood, and her head loose over the side of the boat, she wonders which is worse, this actual all-encompassing sickness, or the stinging embarrassment. Even doubled over, ill as she is, she is still the lady her dad raised, and this is humiliating. And in front of Hank, and Jimmy, and this stranger. In ten years of marriage, her husband has never seen her shave her legs, floss her teeth, or go to the bathroom; she has always maintained her gentility and now this! She heaves again. It is the old seafarer’s irony that she is now desperate for water to cool the acid in her throat and cleanse her mouth. She flops back into the seat. Her skin is pasty, her eyes are bloodshot, and the tip of her nose is mulberry. Cautious to keep his balance in the unpredictable lurching boat, Hank starts toward her, but she warns him off with a shake of her hand. She can’t have him near her right now. He sits back down with no idea how to help her. He knows her well enough to know how she must be feeling. She places her head deep between her legs and her body sways limply, without resistance, as if she’s been deboned. Hank looks to the captain.

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  “Nope” he responds with little interest, “them people just gotta ride it out.”

  Jimmy slides in next to his mother, “You okay, Mom?”

  She responds without lifting her head. “Peachy.”