Jagger

by Kristopher Rufty

  She glanced past Ellie and saw Jim had left a light on for his wife. She pictured him lying in bed, waiting on Ellie to come home and felt a ping of nausea.

  Janice’s trailer was dark, but she noticed a dim flickering inside from a TV.

  They arrived at Amy’s house. No lights were on at all. The only light came from a floodlight at the top of a power pole on the other side of the yard. Under the empty carport was a thick blackness.

  Amy’s Jeep was gone. Teresa’s car was gone.

  Teresa’s car would never be parked under there again.

  She felt her throat tightening.

  I wonder when her parents are going to make the funeral arrangements.

  She hadn’t heard from Teresa’s mom yet. She imagined she would soon. After all, it was Amy’s dog that had killed her.

  Hopefully she knows it wasn’t my fault. Teresa was the one that took Jagger.

  If Mrs. Hawking tried to blame Amy, she would remind her of that.

  “Want me to walk you in?” asked Ellie, putting the car in park.

  Amy swallowed the forming lump in her throat. “No thanks,” she said. “Jim’s waiting on you.”

  Ellie laughed. “I know. I’m probably in for a long night.”

  “Do you mind picking me up around nine?”

  “To get your Jeep?”

  Amy nodded. “Yeah. I want to get there as early as possible. It feels so weird, it not being here.”

  “I know. Kind of like you’re trapped.”

  Trapped.

  That was exactly how Amy felt.

  “Got your keys?”

  Amy checked inside her purse. She saw them sitting on top of her wallet. “Yeah.”

  “Well, come here.”

  Ellie reached over and hugged Amy. It felt good. There was nothing in the hug except for complete nurturing affection. No hidden meanings. Just a motherly embrace that Amy needed and was glad to have.

  When the hug was over, Amy felt herself wanting another.

  “Try and have a good night,” said Ellie.

  “I’ll try my best.”

  “See you in the morning. I’ll bring breakfast.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Light burst inside the car when Amy opened the door. She climbed out. As she headed for the back door, Ellie started backing the car up. By the time Amy reached the deck, Ellie was gone.

  And Amy entered a dark house that seemed to smother her with its emptiness.

  ****

  He was sleeping when the sounds of a car stirred him awake. Raising his head, he stared at the trailer. Headlights raked across the yard, burning his eyes as they swept by. He looked away.

  A car door banged shut.

  The crunching of footsteps called his attention back to the trailer. He saw the woman vanish on the other side. Different sounds came from inside, probably the man moving about.

  A door opened.

  “I’m home, Jimmy-tot!”

  Then another door bumped shut. The sound of muffled voices drifted out from the trailer, but he’d already stopped paying attention to them as he laid his head back down. The urge to attack was there, but it was sedated and faint.

  He’d walked all night and day, keeping away from the roads, avoiding people though his impulses had told him to attack. He’d ignored the rage, the cravings. His lust for blood had nearly forced him out of the seclusion the woods had offered multiple times.

  But he’d kept moving.

  And moving.

  He’d walked in a continuous, slow and steady pace, heading in one direction.

  Eventually the strange scents surrounding him had become familiar again, and he’d followed them like a map leading him here.

  Now, his sated belly made him tired. And all he wanted to do was sleep.

  His eyes fluttered shut and stayed that way.

  The chickens had been enough food. He’d probably sleep all night.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Jim snuck out of bed, leaving Ellie sleeping. The sheets reached her ribcage, leaving her large breasts open to the dim morning light in the room. Her breasts looked smaller, more normal when she was on her back. They seemed to fit her body better, a natural plumpness to her lean frame.

  They’d had another one of their awkward rutting sessions last night. That was about the only way Jim knew how to describe them. He was just thankful they could still do it at all, even if they had to lie on their sides with her facing the wall. Both of them were too old and Jim was too out of shape for their sex life to be anything other than strenuous, but the reversed position got the job done, and usually left him feeling slightly lighter in the morning.

  This morning was no different as he left the bedroom and headed to the bathroom with a small bop in his step.

  He emptied his bladder, enjoying the quietness of the trailer. Ellie would sleep late this morning, giving him time to himself that he would relish.

  Finished, he flushed toilet, and grabbed his robe from the hook on the back of the door. He put it on, tying it shut as he walked into the living room.

  Usually by this time he could hear his rooster cawing outside, announcing it was time for the hens to wake up. It was also his signal to Jim that they were ready to eat. Other than the light cheeping of birds, he heard nothing.

  Strange.

  Frowning slightly, he walked to the back door. His loafers were on the floor mat where he’d left them. He always left them there so he’d always know where they were when he needed him. He slipped his calloused feet into them, unlocked the knob and pushed the door open wide.

  The day was hazy and thick. It caused his skin to feel sticky when he stepped outside. His robe rubbed his penis, making him flinch. The tip was tender from his night, and the friction of the robe left him with a deep itch he couldn’t scratch. He adjusted himself, pulled the fabric belt tighter.

  The gray clouds blotting out the sun suggested it might rain and Jim hoped the bottom would fall out. His yard was nearly brown from the lack of moisture. He’d read in the paper yesterday that the town was under a water restriction, so he wasn’t allowed to spray the grass with his own damn water hose. Shouldn’t matter, since he had a well, but the law was the law.

  The steps wobbled as he climbed down them. The ground sounded like dry hair when his feet stepped into the grass. He looked around the yard, trying to spot his chickens. He didn’t see any. Usually they came running when they heard the door open.

  Not this morning and Jim felt a small knot of worry in his stomach. He hadn’t put them in the coop last night. He rarely did. They weren’t a flock that liked to wonder too much, so he never needed to. If he took Ellie into town and knew they would be gone for the day, or if they were going to be away over night, he locked them up.

  Where are they at?

  Jim clucked his tongue, making a ticking sound with his mouth. When that didn’t work, he curled his bottom lip inward and whistled. It pierced the peacefulness of the morning like a high-pitched blade, reverberating through the trees beyond his backyard.

  Nothing.

  Jim felt his frown deepen, sinking into his already creased face. Leaning over, he grabbed the basket from beside the steps. It had been his daughter’s Easter basket when she was little, but now he used it for gathering the chicken’s eggs. It worked just fine.

  He stood up straight, scanning the yard for any kind of movement. His eyes landed on the tiny coop at the verge of the woods. The ramp was speckled with white from the chicken’s constant shitting, and led to a small orifice of shadows.

  Something moved in there. Subtle, but Jim noticed its slow swipe across the tunnels of light peering in through the fenced windows in the back.

  Jim had thought seeing some kind of evidence his chickens were okay would have settled his nerves some. The slight movement seemed to rustle up the tingling sensations inside his gut even more. He knew why it bothered him, though he didn’t want to admit it.

  The shape was too big to be his chicke
ns.

  “Shit...” Jim whispered. His voice sounded dry and strange in the quietness that felt heavy on his shoulders. The birds that had been chirping minutes ago had gone silent. Everything seemed to be watching him with uneasy anticipation.

  No thanks.

  Dropping the basket, Jim headed for the shed. It was a tin building on a plot of dirt that he kept locked with a padlock. He never actually clasped it, so he didn’t need to go back inside for the keys.

  On his way, he glanced behind him every couple steps. The chicken coop was suddenly different to him, somehow more dark and ominous now, as if housing wickedness inside.

  All because of a shadow.

  He didn’t care what was making him so shaky. Something wasn’t right with his chickens, and he was going to find out what it was.

  Jim yanked the padlock’s curved shackle from the door’s clasp. His robe was old and the fabric thinning with age, so instead of putting the lock in his pocket, he dropped it on the ground. He slid the door back on its rollers. The groan it made was loud and shrill. Jim looked back, expecting to see something wild charging out of the chicken coop.

  Nope.

  Nothing moved over there. Maybe the shadow he saw earlier had been a trick his eyes had caused.

  It wasn’t.

  He wasn’t completely senile yet. He knew what he saw and it wasn’t anything his mind had conjured up for him.

  Turning away from the chicken coop, he entered the shed. It was stuffy and dank inside, a trap that seemed to collect the heat of every summer day within its walls. No matter how he tried, he’d never been able to air it out. He kept the small rolling window in the back open all summer and all it did was allow bees to enter and build their nests. He could see a hornet’s nest hanging in the corner, the little white bulbs of their eggs stuffed into the combs.

  What he wanted was right inside, leaning in the corner with the other yard tools.

  He grabbed the pitchfork. A prong scraped the shed’s wall with a sharp shnick that reminded Jim of sword fights in the movies.

  He left the shed, enjoying the cooler air outside. Sweating heavily now, the robe glued to his body. His pale legs glowed as if coated with wax.

  Holding the pitchfork in front of him with both hands, he started walking toward the coop. He had a rifle inside, but if Ellie saw him getting it she would have something to say about it. And if it turned out nothing was wrong with his chickens, she’d tease him for how much he’d been worried about them. The gun was better than the pitchfork, though he wasn’t going to risk his wife’s ridicule for it.

  His loafers crunched across the stiff grass, making a sound like walking on dry cereal. The bald patches of dirt were dry and hard, lined with twisted cracks. His steps were nearly silent as he walked over them.

  Had a coyote gotten into the coop? About five years ago, a coyote had been seen around the area, but last he’d heard animal control had shot it.

  But another one could have come by.

  And I left the chickens out like an idiot.

  He could just imagine Ellie’s reaction to that one, and hoped with all his might that he was being overly paranoid. However, his gut told him he was not.

  Jim was a couple steps away from the ramp when his foot slipped in something moist. He used the knobby end of the pitchfork’s post to stop him from falling. Looking down, he lifted his foot to look at the bottom of his shoe. Red smeared across in a clumpy line. Dry grass was adhered to the crimson streak.

  Jim looked past his foot to the ground below it. He saw feathers poking out from a gooey mound.

  “Oh, no...”

  His throat tightened. The markings on the feathers looked like Jackie’s. Yes, he’d named all his chickens, though he’d never told Ellie that. Something had devoured her, ground her up, and all that was left of her was a dark pulpy mound.

  With tears welling in his eyes, he turned away. His gaze landed on another pile just to the side of Jackie’s remains. This one was brown and lumpy, narrowing at the top like an anthill. Chunky grits were buried in the compacted logs with more feathers and grass.

  To Jim, it looked like a substantial pile of dog shit.

  He turned to the chicken coop. The tears stopped. He felt his quivering lip stiffen into a tight line.

  A coyote for sure.

  Ain’t no mangy mutt going to kill my chickens and get away with it.

  He stepped onto the ramp. His hands trembled with the need to impale the mutt with the pitchfork. He yearned for it so much, his old shriveled penis started to wake up.

  After he stabbed this damn coyote to death, he might go inside and take Ellie again. Just climb on top of her and stick it in. The mood he was in right now, she would know better than to resist.

  He reached the doorway. The top of it came to the bottom of his ribs, so he had to lean over to look inside.

  From the brightness outside, the inside of the coop was like trying to see with his eyes closed. There was a bright shimmer in his vision and he blinked several times to dim it. When his eyes finally adjusted to the murky room, he saw the hutches in the back. They were open as he’d expected, but spread out along the floor, he saw the leftovers of chicken feet, more feathers, and a lot of blood.

  Jim felt his blood pressure rise. Fuming, his breath huffed through his nose.

  Then he looked down. There was a large lump on the floor that was slightly dimmer than the surrounding darkness. It moved.

  Before Jim could get the pitchfork ready, he saw a quick flash of white. In the instant it sprang forward, Jim noted how it looked like teeth.

  He didn’t have a moment to scream before the large mouth closed over his face.

  * * * *

  The long trip and gorged belly had exhausted Jagger. He hadn’t even noticed the man was coming until he was walking up the ramp. His nose had caught the man’s approach much sooner than his ears.

  The man was weak, and his meat tasted foul and stringy to Jagger. But the kill was just as appeasing as the others had been. His prey had hardly struggled, and Jagger was glad since he still hardly had the energy to attack. Once the blood had slid down his throat, he was strong again. Alert.

  And ready to kill again.

  Jagger left the meat on the man since its taste didn’t interest him, and walked out of the chicken coop.

  On the ground, he raised his nose in the air.

  The scents flooded in. He could smell the old blood of his chicken feast, the animals hiding from him in the woods, and something else that seemed to cut through the rest. Fresh. Sweet.

  The smell pulled his attention to the trailer, to the back door that hung open, slightly swaying in a mild breeze. Jagger angled his nose in that direction and sniffed again.

  The smell was more prominent, overbearing. Something inside was calling him closer. It would settle the rage inside him, would soften the pain pounding behind his eyes. The reprieve wouldn’t last, he knew this. The calm seemed to be coming less frequently, which made him antsy and very angry. And he had to find something to quickly fulfill the painful cravings that came over him.

  He couldn’t make the urges stop. He’d felt the changing inside for days now, and it seemed to be altering him into something lethal. At first, Jagger had tried to fight those painful cravings, but with each kill he found himself relishing the victory a little more. Now it was all he thought about. He was consumed by the bloodshed, addicted to the hunt and felt a great release whenever he killed.

  Jagger extended his forepaws and dipped his back to the ground, stretching his tired muscles. Standing up, he shook away the tingling sensations. His body felt loose, more relaxed, his back no longer ached.

  Then he started for the trailer, heading to the door that seemed to be open just for him.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Mark held the door open for a woman with a cat carrier. She wore a long coat, even in the muggy heat, and had on pants the color of plastic Easter grass. Looking at him, she smiled as she exited the v
et’s office.

  “Thank you so much,” she said.

  “No problem.”

  He heard the cat inside the carrier meow through the air holes. It sounded weary, depressed. As if going home with this woman was somehow worse than the vet visit it had just underwent.

  Mark hated cats. He’d grown up in a house full of them because of his mother. She had six that she treated as if they were members of the family. It had driven his father, his sister, and even Mark crazy. And he still despised them. They always scratched him, or bite him whenever he wasn’t giving them the attention they thought they deserved.

  Little freeloading bastards.

  Mark entered the office. Cool air rushed over him. It felt wonderful, though an odor like a petting zoo hung in the air.

  Approaching the counter, he smiled at the woman behind it. She was hanging up the phone when he laid his arms across the top, leaning against the front. When he glanced down, he saw the newspaper. An article about the exposed dog ring had made the front page.

  It’s all the buzz these days.

  At least it was keeping the focus away from Jagger. There was hardly a mention about the massacre at the farm on the news last night, and Mark was thankful for that.

  He turned his eyes from the paper to the woman behind the counter. She was really cute, with short hair styled like a pixie. She had on heavy eyeliner that curled into points around her eyes.

  Polly was printed on the name badge pinned to her left breast.

  Mark wondered if the name was some kind of joke.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “Hi,” Mark said back. He removed his notepad, and flipped to the page he wanted. He found the name he’d underlined. “Is Dr. Alasba in?”

  “Yes, she is. Is this an appointment or…” She glanced at his badge. “Other matters?”

  “Other matters.”

  Polly nibbled at her lip, looking worried.

  “It’s okay,” said Mark. “She’s not in any trouble.”