Predatory Animals

by Gabriel Beyers

  The best place to hunt is where your prey takes their leisure. A place where their guard was down.

  Scorpion remained cloaked as it exited the woods. It moved through an area of shrubs and a loose assortment of trees. This gave way to a section of fresh cut grass that bordered an area that was more moss than anything. Scorpion searched its new database of information and came up with the word green. It perused Clifton and June’s understandings of the sport called golf. It seemed inefficient and unnecessary; a terrible waste of time and energy.

  Scorpion crept close to a group of men about to tee off. None of them noticed. Though it was cloaked, a sharp eye could still detect its movement by the kaleidoscopic waves of light and heat. It sat motionless, allowing the cloaking to take full effect and render it truly invisible. It was close enough to strike one of the men in the back with its sharpened tail. The two stingers back by its tail were no longer functional since it had used them to assimilate Clifton and June into nestlings, but it could sever the man’s legs with its two mantis-like claws.

  Scorpion refrained from attacking. It must be wise. Its kills needed to be clandestine—at least until the hive was fully formed. If it attacked these men, one or more might attack in return, or turn and run. It would be foolish to give itself away before it had protection. Scorpion allowed the men to move on and then continued its search.

  In the front of the golf course, near a large sparkling pond, was a park complete with picnic tables, permanent shelters and playground equipment. A chain of houses sat upon the hillside on the far side of the pond. A young boy rode his bicycle down the curvy road connecting the houses. He turned off onto a gravel path without even slowing the bike, came around the pond and headed for the playground. He dismounted with the grace of an experienced rider then gently dropped his mount to the ground.

  Scorpion moved to the edge of the pond near the houses. The reflected sunlight would help mask the distortion of air that happened when it moved while cloaked.

  The boy sat on the swings for a moment, but it didn’t seem to interest him much. After attaining a peak height he leapt from the swing and landed with an awkward stumble.

  Scorpion crept closer.

  The boy moved to a circular shaped structure with short handles and bars—a structure the thoughts of his nestlings referred to as a merry-go-round. The boy grabbed one of the rounded outer bars and ran. When he could not get the merry-go-round to turn any faster, he jumped aboard. He leaned against the rounded bar, watched the world spin by, and allowed the momentum to die.

  Scorpion took advantage of this distraction. It moved with great speed around the pond then turned toward the boy, stopping to hide under a picnic table. The boy went to the pond, bent over, searched through the gravel at the water’s edge, and came up with a handful of flat stones. Scorpion drew closer while the boy skipped the stones across the pond’s surface. The boy’s sandy-blond hair shimmered in the sunlight; he ground his feet into the loose gravel hoping to improve his next throw. His sweat filled the air with a savory mist.

  There was a space of ten yards between Scorpion and the boy. It cut that distance in half with blinding speed. It brought its sharp tail up over its head and stretched its front claws in preparation. Scorpion could feel the boy’s heart thrumming in his chest and could hear the blood beneath his flesh singing songs. Scorpion extended its fangs. A terrible hunger stirred within. It needed to feed not just itself, but its human nestlings, Clifton and June.

  The boy was small and weak. Perhaps it would uncloak and give the boy a chance to fight. Fear would only sweeten the meal.

  Scorpion called out. The boy spun around, startled by the noise. He checked his surroundings—the forest, the playground, even the treetops close at hand—never realizing that his own death stood at his feet. Scorpion shifted just a bit, allowing the boy a glimpse of the shimmering distortion. He backed away with a gasp, staring down in disbelief.

  Scorpion was having such a good time, poised to deliver death. But then came a rustling in the underbrush behind them.

  A large yellow dog burst from the bushes as if it had been there all along, yet Scorpion had detected nothing. Strange. The dog ran up to them and stopped in front of the boy, just out of Scorpion’s range. The dog stared at Scorpion as if it could see through its cloaking, which was again odd. In the world it had come from, Scorpion had come across many animals, dogs included, and none had been able to discern it while cloaked. Yet, it was plain this dog could at least sense Scorpion’s presence. The dog’s lip curled, exposing sharp white fangs.

  The boy squatted a bit, held out his hand and called to the dog.

  “Here boy. Come here. It’s okay.” The dog trotted over to the boy and sniffed his hand. Satisfied, it sat down with its tail wagging, and allowed his head to be stroked.

  Scorpion pondered what to do about this intruder. It could easily dispatch both the dog and the boy, but it would have to be fast. If it went for the boy first, the dog might attack. If it killed the dog first, the boy would run.

  Scorpion formed a plan. First kill the dog with a quick stab of the tail then incapacitate the boy before he could run. It wanted the boy alive. It only fed on the dead when absolutely necessary.

  Scorpion wished it had more time to mutilate the dog; rip out the pink tongue hanging from its panting mouth, bash its skull in, shred it to pieces with its claws. It hated the way the dog watched it, somehow able to see through its cloaking. The dog stood to his feet as if preparing for the oncoming attack. It could fight if it wanted. Perhaps, if the boy couldn’t slake its thirst, it would finish off with the dog, dead or alive.

  “Hey you,” someone called. “No dogs allowed here.”

  A man sat atop the hill in a weather-worn golf cart. The man turned the wheel and coasted down close to the pond. His cart was rusted and full of dings, and in the back rack there was an odd assortment of tools and yard equipment.

  Scorpion wanted to roar. It wanted to uncloak and rip them all into tiny chunks and dance in their blood. But hunting was a game of patience, and caution was the hive’s only hope. It remained still, listening to the man in the cart, and watching the intrusive dog with a careful eye.

  “You can’t have dogs on the golf course, son,” the man said.

  The boy looked down at the dog. “This ain’t my dog. He just came out of the woods.”

  “You two sure look friendly.” The man eyed the boy skeptically. “What’s your name?”

  “Tad Brown. Why?”

  “Do you live here in the Villa?”

  After a moment of hesitation, Tad said, “No.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be here, either. This park’s for members only.”

  “I wasn’t hurting anything.”

  “Don’t matter. Rules are rules. Go on, git. Take the dog, too.”

  Scorpion ground its maw tight and clenched its claws as it watched the boy walk away. The dog followed him to his bike, his tail wagging all the way. They went up the hill together, the boy straddling his bike now, turned the corner, and were gone.

  “Disrespectful little asshole,” the man on the cart said. He spat a squirt of tobacco on the ground as he watched boy and dog go. The man was tall, lanky and looked like some breed of large bird that had molted all if its feathers. His hands were dirty, as was his face. A shaggy mess of graying hair draped from the bottom of his grimy baseball cap. He stunk of sweat and booze. Scorpion was displeased. The boy would have made a better meal—perhaps even the dog—but it had to take what it could get. The nestlings needed to feed.

  Scorpion couldn’t afford any more distractions or interruptions. This one would have to be fast. Well, maybe a little fun could be had.

  Scorpion snipped its claws together and the man jumped with a start.

  “What in the hell was that?” He looked out over the pond as if he expected to see a mermaid’s tail splashing the water. Tiny wind-ripples scattered the sunlight across the placid surface, but nothing more.

 
; Scorpion let out its otherworldly call. The man spun again, looking all about with a wide-eyed panic. “Is someone there? Is that you boy? Don’t be foolin’ around, now. Just take your dog and go on home.”

  Scorpion approached the man, not directly, but weaving side to side, giving him plenty of time to see the distortion in the air caused by the light refracting off of its spectral skin. The man gasped as his knees buckled. He fell into a sitting position onto the floorboard of his golf cart. His face paled, except for the blush in his cheeks, and beads of sweat exploded across his forehead. His hands shook violently in his lap. His mouth hung slack.

  Scorpion stopped just in front of his feet and uncloaked. It sprang from the ground, hitting the man in the chest, knocking him onto his back. Scorpion grasped the man’s left shoulder in one claw, his right hip in the other, and drove its fangs deep into the soft flesh on the right side of his neck. Through the surprise and pain, the man had no idea that there was a powerful neurotoxin being injected into his bloodstream. As the man fought, a great draught of blood shot into Scorpion’s mouth. Within seconds, the man’s enraged heart could take no more. Scorpion wrapped its tail around the man’s waist and squeezed him.

  The man withered and grayed as the fluids were drawn from his body. His skin popped and peeled like ancient paper brittled by the sun. The feeding took less than two minutes and when it was done, the only thing left recognizable was the tatter remains of the man’s clothing.

  Engorged and bloated, Scorpion cloaked itself and left through the forest. It would take what it needed for itself and process the rest for the nestlings. After feeding they should be ready to begin.

  Betrayal

  Art Pummel walked along the bland gray tunnels, Burger King bag in hand, trying to count the number of intersections he passed. But the thought that Gordy or Wexxel were watching through the surveillance equipment (and having a good laugh) only distracted him.

  He stopped for a moment, reached into the bag, and retrieved a handful of lukewarm fries. He silently counted off the hallways that he passed and finally decided that he should turn left. He walked just far enough to start doubting his decision when he saw the familiar steal door with the tiny wire-reinforced window at the top.

  The door opened up into a room that had six similar doors—three on each side facing one another. Five doors were ajar, one was not.

  Art went to the closed door, knocked and slid open the hatch.

  “Lunch time, Bobby-boy,” he said.

  He watched through the window as Bobby Bastion sat up on his bunk and turned to look at the open hatch. Over the past week Bobby’s countenance had evolved from a blank, lost look to the malevolent glare of a pissed off viper on fire.

  Art poked the BK bag in through the hatch. “You ain’t eating today? Come on Bobby-boy, you need to keep up your strength. You gotta big day coming up.” Bobby spat on the floor then sat back against the wall.

  Who did this mutt think he was? Art had a mind to open the door and crack his skull. “Hey, Bobby-boy. Let me ask you something. The other day I was cleaning the shit out of Penelope’s cage and I came across your wife’s wedding ring. You mind if I give it to this little whore I’ve been banging? She likes cheap second-hand jewelry.”

  Bobby jumped up from his bunk, seething and spitting like a feral beast. He hit the door with all of his weight but the reinforced frame gave only the slightest wiggle. Bobby reached through the hatch, swinging his arm, but Art jumped back just in time to avoid the attack.

  “Damn, Bobby,” Art said through his giggles. “You fight like this next week and you just might pay off some of your debt.”

  “I’m gonna rip your throat out.”

  Art leaned his head down level with the hatch and exposed his neck. “Yeah? Come get it. Here it is.” He stood just close enough to allow Bobby’s fingers to graze his skin.

  Nan’s voice echoed through the speaker above his head. “Would you please cut that out?”

  Art stood up, turned around and looked at the camera in the corner of the room. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say what did I do?

  “Stop getting him so worked up,” Nan said.

  Art bowed to the camera.

  Nan spoke again but this time her voice came from within Bobby’s cell. “Calm down.”

  Bobby threw himself against the door again. Nan’s voice remained calm. “Stop that, or I’ll activate the floor.”

  Bobby ignored this warning, but Art knew it was no idle threat. The flooring in each cell consisted of stainless steel tiles, wired and primed for 50,000 volts. Art backed away from Bobby’s outstretched hand as if lightning was about to shoot from his fingers.

  “Better do what she says, Bobby. Nan won’t give you a second warning.”

  Bobby pulled his hand back in the hatch, but he was far from done. There was a muffled thud as he kicked the door. Art watched through the tiny window as Bobby made a run at it. Another thud; the door didn’t even wiggle. He backed up again, but Nan had had enough.

  There came a sound, like a single bass note coming through a subwoofer. The lights dimmed for a moment and the hair on Art’s arms rose just a bit. Bobby made a gargling moan as though he were being shaken by a giant, then he dropped silent to the floor.

  “Check him,” Nan said, once again through the speaker above Art’s head.

  Art peered through the tiny window at Bobby lying in an uncomfortable heap. His eyes were closed, but his hands twitched several times. Art went to the intercom and pressed the button. “He’s alive.”

  “Then get in there and put him back on his bunk.”

  Art grumbled under his breath. Why should he listen to her? This was supposed to be an equal partnership, split three ways. He thought about telling her this, but didn’t. Instead, he went to Bobby’s cell, pulled back the heavy gauge lock and opened the door. He hesitated in the doorway for a moment; he wanted to be absolutely certain that Bobby wasn’t faking it, and because he didn’t quite trust Nan not to cook him as soon as he stepped inside.

  Bobby remained in his heap, motionless except for the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing. The soles of his bare feet were bright pink with a dark shading of soot where the charge had entered his body.

  “You ain’t gonna be dancing anytime soon, my friend. Should’ve listened to me. Nan doesn’t fuck around.”

  Art stepped into the cell. The metal tiles creaked just a bit under his weight. He went quickly over to Bobby, grabbed him under the arms and dragged him over to the cot-style bunk attached to the wall. It took him a couple of tries to hoist Bobby’s limp body onto the bunk. In doing so, he nearly fell over the sink and toilet combo next to the bed. Art listened, expecting any moment to hear that static-filled buzzing. With Bobby positioned, Art made for the door.

  Nan stopped him just inside the threshold. “The man asked for Burger King. After all you put him through, you’re going to leave him hungry?” She didn’t even attempt to hide the contempt in her voice.

  Art grabbed the Burger King bag, and then brought it back in. He sat it on the closed lid of the toilet, seeing as how there was no table. He reached in the bag and fished out another small handful of fries before he left.

  “Good,” Nan said. “Now get to the control room. And don’t forget to lock the cell.”

  Art turned away from the camera. “What a bitch.”

  Maybe it was because he was getting used to the lay of the land, or because he was concentrating on wringing Nan’s neck and not on where he was going, but he made it to the control room without getting lost. The door clicked and the magnetic seal broke just as he was reaching for the doorknob.

  Nan spun in her chair to face him. Her hair was down, spilling across her shoulders in a golden waterfall. Her sleeveless blouse was unbuttoned, revealing her cleavage, which she was tracing with her fingertips. Her light spring skirt would have been a modest length had she been standing, but was instead pulled high so that Art could see her long tan legs. Her legs were crossed,
but she rubbed them up and down, teasing him with brief glances of her panties.

  “Come here,” she said. “Don’t be shy.” All traces of the bitch were gone. Here sat Nan the Man Slayer.

  “What is wrong with you?”

  She reached out and grabbed his crotch. “Nothing, sugar. You all right?”

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Same thing I always do. Enjoying myself.” She began to massage his manhood; Art found it suddenly difficult to concentrate.

  “Don’t,” he said but didn’t attempt to stop her.

  “Why not? Gordon’s gone to pick up some of our visitors. They’re here early, so that everyone doesn’t show up in town at once. He won’t be back for hours. The security team is off on other assignments. We have the control room to ourselves.”

  “What about cameras?”

  “You know there aren’t any in here.”

  “What if there are?”

  Nan stood up, leaned in and licked his ear. “You know me. I like an audience.” She kissed him deeply and Art did not stop her.

  “You still don’t feel bad about this?”

  “Being bad turns me on. Being good is boring.” She started unbuckling his belt. “Do you want to stop our arrangement?”

  Art loved Gordy, but most days his big brother was a real prick. Always the boss. Always ordering him around. Always taking the bigger cut. Besides, Nan was right. What fun was it being good?

  “No,” he said. “I don’t want to stop. You know, if Gordy finds out he’ll beat the shit out of me, but he’ll feed you to Penelope.”

  She reached into his pants and grabbed what she wanted. “Not if we feed him to her first.”

  Suspicions

  Officer Dale Wicket knocked on the Brown’s door at a quarter past eight that evening. A beautiful woman with long blonde hair and dark eyes answered the door. Dale recognized her from the hospital. “Hello Mrs. Brown. I’m sorry I’m here so late.”