The man reached into a back pocket of his coveralls and extracted a filthy handkerchief. He waved it ineffectually at the flies before dabbing at the rivers of moisture on his forehead. Even before he’d stuffed the flimsy fabric back into its place, new beads of sweat had erupted.
The flies resumed their chaotic spawning.
“Jumbe?” The man’s voice trembled and cracked as it passed through the frail larynx (which he was so rarely called upon to use anymore). He smacked his dry lips and waited. “Jumbe, come out and eat.”
After a moment, when the animal still hadn’t moved, he sighed and reached into the bucket and extracted the pale slab. It hit the cement just outside the metal door with an unquestionably organic sound.
The boy raised himself onto his tiptoes. He did not feel the ache on his upper lip as he pressed his face hard against the metal rail. Come on. Come on. He didn’t know why he even cared.
The father didn’t bother to answer.
Come out, Jumbe.
The boy could almost feel the keeper making his own silent supplications, hoping to coax the beast from its lair. But the shape behind the cage door still didn’t move.
At last the old man sighed. His shoulders fell an inch and his back stooped even more. He reached over and swiped at the metal plate beside the gate. There was a soft whir, almost too quiet to hear. At last, with a tired groan, the animal shuffled out.
This was why the boy had come to the menagerie, to witness the feeding. It’s why he came every day. Somehow, in a way he could not understand, he always expected the outcome to be different. He thought it was because the zookeeper felt the same way.
Why does he even bother? he asked. It was the same question he asked each time they visited. Why?
His father never seemed to tire of answering. Nor, for that matter, of bringing his son to this place when so few others bothered with it anymore. The zoo was an anachronism; menageries had been created to assuage guilt and curiosity. They so rarely provided any practical benefit, whether to the caged or to those who did the caging. Old habits are hard to break, he told his son, especially those so deeply ingrained as these.
The boy fell back onto his heels feeling something akin to disappointment. But he accepted the rote answer as the truth, even if he did not yet understand the reasoning behind it. It was their particular way, his and his father’s, and he trusted that one day such understanding would come. When he was ready. After his father had fully imparted his own knowledge into him. And all the proper connections had been made.
The ancient beast’s pelt, long since bleached white by the unrelenting sun, was badly tattered, though it still held a dusty hint of musk. There were bare spots where the fur had rubbed off. And when the animal turned, it exposed a tear in its side where the old sutures had come unraveled. Through the ragged gap the boy could see the underlying musculature, the atrophied meat and churning gears. The wound drew its own insect swarm, though the flies there seemed more languid. He wondered how many times the zookeeper had repaired the damage.
I don’t know, the father answered automatically. That information isn’t available.
For the first time, the boy was tempted to pose the question to the old man. He opened his mouth to fill his lungs with air, pursed his lips to form the words.
But the father gave the boy’s hand a warning squeeze. Hush. How will knowing help?
So, instead, for the thousandth time in as many days, the boy satisfied himself by reading the faded plaque attached to the post just outside the cage, even though he had long since committed each word to memory:
AFRICAN LION
Panthera leo, subspecies persica
[extinct]
ONCE THE APEX PREDATOR ON THE AFRICAN SUBCONTINENT, THIS MALE, THE LAST KNOWN INDIVIDUAL OF ITS KIND, DIED OF WASTING DISEASE IN THE YEAR 2027. IT WAS REANIMATED AT THE INSTITUTE FOR THE PRESERVATION OF WHOLLY BIOLOGICAL ARTIFACTS AND SUBSEQUENTLY ADDED TO THE ZOO’S COLLECTION IN THE FOLLOWING YEAR. IT IS THE ONLY REMAINING FULLY FUNCTIONING CYBERNETIZED AFRICAN LION ON PUBLIC DISPLAY.
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Tanpepper Tidings Newsletter
If you like short fiction, then check out S.W. Tanpepper's story collection:
http://www.tanpepperwrites.com/collections
Includes:
Occupied
Mr. November
The Headhunter
The Object of Her Obsession
Nocturne
Outsourced
Open wide
Golgotha
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to the devoted staff of Brinestone Press, who helped put this book together and get it out to you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Saul Tanpepper is the speculative fiction pen name for Ken J. Howe, a retired PhD molecular biologist and biotech entrepreneur who writes full time in multiple genres from his home in California.
Saul is the author of the epic post-apocalyptic series GAMELAND, in which a group of young computer hackers break into a live action virtual reality gaming arcade populated by the resurrected bodies of executed criminals. If you prefer shorter works, check out his two story collections, Insomnia and Shorting the Undead. His latest writings include the dual series, BUNKER 12, a post-apocalyptic thriller about a group of survivors who must leave the safety of their shelter to find the cause — and a fix— to a disaster that has decimated humanity; and THE FLENSE, an international conspiracy thriller about a French medical reporter investigating a series of mysterious events threatening to send mankind to the brink of extinction.
To learn more about Saul's writings and for availability, please visit his website (http://www.tanpepperwrites.com), where you can sign up to receive his newsletter and a free starter library. If you really want to pester him, stop by his Facebook page (http://facebook.com/saul.tanpepper) and tell him to stop wasting time writing limericks about zombies.
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Leviathan
by Saul Tanpepper
Copyright © 2016 by Saul Tanpepper
All rights reserved.
January 22, 2016 by Brinestone Press, San Martin, CA 95046
Cover credit K.J. Howe Copyright © 2016
Cover images licensed from Depositphoto.com
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LICENSE NOTES
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
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Tanpepper, Saul (2016-01-22). Leviathan
Brinestone Press Digital Edition (rv160122)
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Leviathan: A Short Story About the End of the World Page 3