INHUMANUM: A THRILLER (Law of Retaliation Book 1)

by Bradley Ernst

  “I had a dog,” Bonn said. “It’s a weird story, but technically, I had a dog once.”

  Manny turned from the bench with a furrowed brow. “Hmm. The ‘had’ part doesn’t sound too good.”

  The smell of hot beef kidney broke Tidbit’s resolve. She jumped to grab a piece from the bench, then backed away from the fallen treat to lick her scalded lips. She took a step forward to paw at the coffee filter then reconsidered and sat down with a groan. “I told you it was hot, but you can make up your own mind.”

  Manny even talked to the dog like she was his equal.

  Bonn never met anyone like him.

  “I’m so rude. Bonn, have you had dinner?”

  He thought for a moment. He’d not, in fact, had dinner. Tidbit circled the wedge of meat pie and lunged in to test it.

  “I haven’t.”

  “Well, are you in a hurry to get something fixed or should we eat first?”

  “I don’t have anything to fix. I just heard some pounding noises. I’m sorry I bothered you at mealtime. I should get going, Manny. It was very nice to have met you.”

  Manny scowled. The repairman shook his head with a sigh and cut another wedge of the pie, tapped it onto an improvised plate, and pushed it into Bonn’s hands. “I can’t, in good conscience, let you out of here hungry. I couldn’t look myself in the mirror knowing I had all this and you left here with an empty belly.” Manny served himself last. He flipped a couple of buckets upside down for chairs. He sat down on one, using the couch like a table. Bonn did the same. “What happened to your dog?” Bonn recounted that morning’s events between bites. By the time he got to the Corvette, Manny’s mouth hung open—he bowed his head low and shook it. His shoulders shook next and the man pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and blew his nose. Bonn couldn’t be sure, but it appeared that Manny was crying.

  Manny threw his head back and belly-laughed. It sounded deeply off every flat surface in the shop. “Bonn…” Manny paused to catch his breath “…you’ve had the worst birthday I’ve ever heard of. I apologize for laughing, son. I know you aren’t fibbing to me. What a gruesome, terrible story.”

  Tidbit, caught up in the spirit, did a Cossack dance. She lowered her butt and spun her tail like a propeller. Paws held high, she performed some jumps and side-hops before giving Bonn an arm-lick. She finished with a whisper-bark and ran behind the shelves to peer through the oven glass in case another pie hid there from them. Manny regained his composure. He wobbled straight-legged to the oven and opened the door for the dog to see that it was empty. Tidbit returned and leapt onto the couch with a defeated look. Manny found a small jar of salve and picked Tidbit up like a baby. Tidbit licked at Manny’s beard while he rubbed the medicine into each of her several pairs of sore nipples.

  “A couple of the pups have the sire’s head. He’s a Pit.” Manny re-capped the jar and scratched the dog’s belly. “The teeth on the block-headed ones came in quick—they’re tearing poor Tidbit up.” He put the dog on the floor, but she spun and put a paw back on the seat of the couch to ask permission to jump back up. “Most of them have little panda looking bodies like Tidbit here, only chubby. Whatcha think, Tidbit? Are you going to let your new friend see your pups?”

  Tidbit dropped her ears, but panted a tired consent and disappeared behind the couch. Manny knelt on the couch cushions and peered over the back of the couch like a child. Bonn joined him. Tidbit gave a long-suffering sigh and settled in to nurse the puppies. One puppy did look like a tiny panda bear. It rolled out of the fray via the kicks of her larger littermates. Manny shook his head. He stuck a leg out for counterbalance and leaned over to pluck up the small creature. “Hold her for a minute, would you?”

  The squeaking puppy quivered in Bonn’s hands. He lifted back her lips to see if she had teeth and she tried to nurse on his fingertip. Finding no milk, she bawled a high-pitched complaint. Manny returned with a rubber glove full of warm milk. He took an awl from the workbench, poked a hole in the smallest finger of the glove, and offered it to the puppy.

  “I know, I know,” Manny started as the tiny puppy found the contrived nipple, “Mr. Darwin wouldn’t approve, but I believe the Lord put her here with me so she could have a chance. Tidbit buries her in the laundry when I turn my back. You can poke fun at me if you like, Bonn, but I’m an old softie. I can’t help but to try to keep Jelly Bean here going.”

  An old black Bakelite phone on the wall of the shop rang. Manny ignored it.

  The little panda-dog nursed until the glove was empty. The other puppies were already asleep, and Manny rearranged them so that Jelly Bean could warm up between them. He tucked the block-headed puppies behind Tidbit so both Jelly Bean and Tidbit’s nipples could get a break. Tidbit seemed to understand the strategy and gave Manny an appreciative wag. As Manny inspected his puppy-sorting job, Bonn felt an odd calm peace come over him.

  What was this sensation? He’d never felt like this before.

  Words from the thesaurus flew at him—

  Bucolic? Content? Serene? Tranquil? Happy? Was this what happy felt like?

  “Would you like to take one of the pups home with you? For a birthday present?” Bonn nodded his head. Manny smiled. “Good. Pick out the one you want.” Bonn looked at the squirming mass for a moment.

  “May I have the little one? Jelly Bean?”

  Manny smiled. “I want good homes for all the pups, but I want the best for little Jelly Bean. I hoped you’d pick her.” Tidbit seemed relieved that Jelly Bean was leaving. They both watched Manny as he packed up a small bag of supplies. “Tidbit,” Manny said with a chuckle, “now you won’t have to perpetrate a backhanded murder when I’m not looking.” Manny wore an appreciative squint. The fingers of his right hand stroked his beard thoughtfully as Bonn removed his belt and constructed a way to carry the bag hands-free. Rolling the top of the paper bag over his belt twice, he put it back around his waist over the belt loops. It was a solution that would allow both hands to support the wriggling puppy. Manny nodded approvingly. “Stop in anytime you’d like, Bonn. I hope the rest of your birthday is boring.”

  Bonn gave Manny what could only be described as a haunted look. When he spoke, trying to interject some feeling, it was even more awkward for the attempt.

  “Me, too. Thank you for the puppy—and the pie.” Bonn cradled Jelly Bean underneath his chin on the way home. While Manny packed the bag, he had said, “Most people wouldn’t consider a mutt-puppy a good birthday present—”

  It was nonsense. The puppy? The shared food? The polite conversation? It was the best day he’d ever had.

  ~Wolfsbane

  As the season progressed, black tree trunks were the only evidence of the forest fire. The ash was covered in lush green growth. Henna left the forest with a bonanza each day. Once the baskets were full of edibles, she picked flowers. The sun was out and the birds chirped happily over full stomachs, but something was wrong. Alvar bristled. Henna stood in front of him, holding something.

  A flower.

  Alvar couldn’t place it by smell. She was too quiet. It was unlike her. There were guidelines in wild-crafting, and Henna only got quiet when she strayed from the rules. A sense of dread came over him. “Is it a single purple flower?”

  “Yes,” Henna chirped, amazed. “It looks like an angry little robot.” Alvar smacked the flower from her hand, scooped her up, and sprinted with high blind steps toward the sounds of the brook.

  He’d warned her not to pick or touch plants that grew alone until he could help her identify them.

  He clamped her small frame in-between his knees in the water and scrubbed her hands, then her face—and then both his and her hands again. “Friction is enough. If you don’t have soap, rub hard, Henna. Friction cleans better than soap.” Henna looked dumbfounded. It appeared that she might cry. “I will explain, but first this.” He shook his head, muttered something, picked her back up, sidestepped upstream, and began to wash her hands a third time. Their hands felt raw and hot desp
ite the cool water. Alvar finally relaxed. He sat on the mossy bank of the brook to catch his breath. He wiped at his face. “You know not to try the mushroom trick with flowers, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Grandpa,” Henna answered gravely. Her voice told him she didn’t understand why he was angry, but he wasn't angry—he was terrified.

  “I know that trick is just for mushrooms.”

  “Did the flower look like it had a little dark-purple hood?”

  “Yes, Grandpa.” The tears came on hard. “It was so pretty. I’m sorry I picked it. It grew alone. I should’ve asked you first.” Alvar heard the choked emotion behind the girl’s speech—she’d never been in trouble with him before. She knew this was serious. “Are we going to die?”

  “No, not today, at least, but we had to wash our hands. That was northern monkshood.” Mortimer joined them on the moss. He had something in his mouth.

  Dogs carry horrible things around if they get a chance to. Dead things. Some roll in the putrescence, while others mouth-carry their gruesome payloads, not sure what to do with the rotten treasure, yet also not willing to swallow it. Mortimer wagged. He spat a rotten blue jay out with a plop. The bird’s head flopped loosely onto the toe of Henna’s shoe. Suddenly the dog seemed to realize how bad the offal had tasted. He rubbed his muzzle back and forth on the clean moss and scraped his tongue across his teeth as if trying to remove peanut butter. The bird must have been inside, or even under something. Mortimer seemed relieved to have the black tissue and damp feathers out of his mouth. He waded into the brook and took a long drink. The smell of death clung to all of them the rest of the day. Alvar knew he couldn’t protect the girl forever—he’d have to teach her everything he knew. It was a rude introduction to toxins, but Henna would never forget wolfsbane.

  ~Guttural

  Bonn didn’t want to risk dropping Jelly Bean climbing back through the library window, so he headed for the front door. A flatbed Dodge seemed out of place in the driveway.

  It looked like a tow truck.

  Bonn let himself in and started for the kitchen to warm up more milk for the puppy. Screams came from the rear of the house. Bonn put Jelly Bean in a sunny corner of the kitchen and went to investigate. They weren’t quite screams—some muffled noises were intermingled, but none of them sounded normal.

  Glottal? No—guttural.

  Bonn neared his parents’ room. A full-blown shriek startled him. He snatched up an ancient brass-headed putter Troy kept at the end of the hallway.

  It was his mother.

  He burst through his parents’ bedroom door. A giant naked man straddled his facedown mother. Her thin wrists were held behind her in a gorilla-sized fist and the man choked her with the other hand. Bonn swung the putter without thinking and the century-old brass head unceremoniously married the man’s brain with a sound announcing crushed bone and wet displacement—the sound of punky wood pierced with an axe on the first morning of a frost, rudely visiting a groveling pocket of worms within. POCK. The man collapsed and rolled sideways. He made snoring noises. One leg pin wheeled as if riding an imaginary bicycle. Raquel sputtered. She rolled away from the man and parried her Magic Wand to hide her celebrated privates. Jets of arterial blood hissed from the head wound onto her white linen sheets. Events slowed for Bonn. His mother stood beside the bed and looked at the man, then at the blood. The Magic Wand was no longer shield, nor rapier. Raquel worried less about modesty each moment. “What have you done?” The man’s leg stopped circling. He lay motionless.

  I killed a criminal.

  Raquel tore about the room and found a white robe. She held it in front of her, but didn’t put it on. “Bonn, go to the damned library. I need to think.” Bonn pried the putter out of the dead man’s skull and wiped the gore off with his shirt. On the way to the library, the boy put the relic back where Troy could find it when he practiced putting down the hallway.

  Jelly Bean was where he had left her. Bonn brought her to the library with him. He laid the puppy on the soft white rug then put Eugen Sandow back under the bell jar with the other cards. Templeton grinned at him from the Dusenberg, but Bonn ignored him. The boy inspected the face of the chauffeur for a resemblance to Manny but didn’t see one. Jelly Bean wriggled. The puppy squeaked hungrily. Bonn held the tiny warm mammal to his neck. He crooned to the runt like Manny had. She grabbed his earlobe with tiny needle-teeth and tried to suck it. Bonn pulled the rug beneath the Bill of Rights. He sat, admiring the curves of the script. He read the Fifth Amendment to Jelly Bean aloud, since it seemed appropriate.

  Raquel appeared, clothed, in the doorway. Blood trickled from both nostrils. It mixed with the cocaine that caked her upper lip. She pointed a pistol at him. Bonn ignored the gun. He held Jelly Bean up for his mother to see. “Her name is Jelly Bean. A man downtown gave her to me.” Raquel’s gun hand shook. Bonn tucked the small dog back under his chin and stroked her ear with a fingertip. Hedwig crept behind his mother, her long neck pointing her odd head toward the pistol.

  “I called to report the intruder,” Hedwig chopped nervously at her words. Her accent thick, fearful. She spoke slowly, as if hopeful that the torque of her carefully chosen words would turn the gunwoman’s head. “The police—are on their way here—to help us.” Raquel lowered the pistol. She wiped at her top lip then pinched her nose. She discovered the blood and looked at it on her fingertips.

  “You,” she whispered into the room, “you’ve killed us all.”

  Hedwig kicked the razor into the back of Raquel’s knee just as Raquel raised the pistol. A shot rang out. Bonn dropped. Another shot followed. The world was gone for a while then Hedwig was beside him. She held something against his head. When she spoke, it was in a croaking voice that made sense. She’d always seemed like someone who would croak. “She perforated us both, but you might make it. I’m going to hold this on your head as long as I can, little Alp. If you wake up, you hold it tight, because I won’t be here long. You knew? Didn’t you? Thank you for the shoe. I tried, little Alp—I really tried.”

  Raquel stuck the gun in her mouth on a back road she knew well. If she wasn’t losing so much blood from the back of her leg, she would’ve killed Troy at his office, but she felt woozy and didn’t think she could walk. Raquel breathed for a while after she pulled the trigger. At first she thought she’d missed, yet she couldn’t see or move her arms. Lucid thoughts kept her company until the swelling breached her brainstem.

  This serves Troy right.

  That puppy looked like a panda bear.

  She wanted to sleep.

  ~Give and Take

  Vieristä was an unusual day for presents, but Alvar intended to make the holiday special for Henna. It wasn’t a holiday the girl had celebrated in Connecticut, so the old man decided they could make some traditions of their own—they could enjoy the day however they pleased. As soon as his granddaughter awoke he gave her a hand-woven basket and a folding mushroom knife. The small knife had a curved blade. The brush on the opposite side could be used to clear debris from each mushroom before placing it in the basket. They took turns breaking star-shaped gingerbread in one hand. It was an old tradition, not one of their own devising. Alvar’s star broke into a dozen pieces, but Henna’s gingerbread broke into three. Henna smiled.

  “Shh!” commanded the girl as she placed each piece carefully in his hand. By doing so she gave him the wish. He couldn’t disapprove, or the wish be lost. Alvar shook his head, smiling.

  She remembered the rules.

  He shut his eyes tight, held a finger to his temple so she knew he understood, then ate each piece carefully so the wish could come true. The past few months, they’d foraged for all they ate or used—medicinal plants included. It was an epic lesson. Henna seemed to love the challenge. In late summer and fall they lived well. After the snow fell they resorted to eating dried and canned stores, but they still walked each day. They’d stop to dig, to sit—to listen to the forest. Henna’s formal schoolwork was placed on hold during berry pi
cking season, but during the long, cold days of winter, the lessons lengthened again. Both of them had become lean—focused.

  Henna readied herself for their morning walk. She paused to watch her grandfather as he slowly sipped his tea. When she asked him about the walk, he’d sent her to find Mortimer’s pack baskets. The baskets functioned as saddlebags. Henna brought them from the barn although it seemed improbable that they would find much to harvest. If they found anything to bring home out there in the snow, it would likely be something small. There wasn’t enough sun to feed them yet. Certainly they wouldn’t find anything so big it required Mortimer to pack it home. Mortimer lay by the fire, his age was showing more each day. Sometimes he skipped the walks. He’d eye the wolf and puff out his cheeks, as if saying, I have to stay here. To watch him.

  The sight of the pack baskets excited the dog. He momentarily forgot the wolf and sprang to attention. He panted with a wag, turned a tight circle, and happily poked his nose into each basket. Henna strapped them on and he lapped water from his bowl and ate the eggs he’d earlier ignored. Chicken eggs were off limits for humans during the yearlong foraging exercise, but the chickens laid them anyway. Mortimer seemed tired of them.

  Alvar lazed by the fire and loaded his pipe. “Can you boil more water for tea please, honey?”

  Something wasn’t right. Mortimer watched Alvar for a few minutes, then perked his ears and loped to the door—he waited there and listened but didn’t scratch to go out.