Like Lions

by Brian Panowich

  “She’s gonna be fine,” Donnie said.

  “Shut the fuck up, Donnie,” both Tate and Coot said in unison. Donnie did.

  Coot wiped his nose on his sleeve, and banged his fist on the hood of the Jeep. “Whatever. Let’s pop the hatch on this piece of shit and get this party started.”

  Tate tossed Coot the keys. “Y’all have fun.”

  “What, you ain’t stickin’ around for a taste?”

  “Ain’t my style, Coot. Y’all do whatever you want, but violating bony white women ain’t on my bucket list. I’m going to find me a warm motel somewhere and relax. If I get my pecker wet, it’ll be by somebody willing.”

  Coot shook the keys in Tate’s face. “Your loss, amigo.” He moved to the back of the Jeep. Donnie watched Tate stomp out his smoke and climb the steep path back up to the road. The truth was, he wasn’t much down for this idea either, but he wasn’t about to have Coot get crazy on him, and he knew he would. He’d rather have Twyla mad at him, than to suffer Coot’s cranked-out wrath. He set his whiskey bottle in the dirt, and joined his cousin at the back of the Jeep.

  *

  Coot held the keys to the Jeep up to the moonlight and found the small silver one that unlocked the tailgate. He twisted the latch, pulled back the crossbar holding the spare tire, and swung the gate open wide.

  “Here.” He tossed the keys to Donnie. “Chuck those in the creek.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so. I don’t want this pretty lady getting any ideas about leaving the party early.” Kate was in one of Clayton’s T-shirts and a pair of light-blue cotton pajama bottoms that were more brown now than blue after pulling herself through a burning house and then being dragged through her front yard. Her bare feet were scraped-up and filthy, and her ankles were bound with a large black zip-tie. A similar strip of black plastic bound her wrists up tight, and a red bandana wrapped her mouth, cutting into her cheeks. It was tied so tight it stretched the corners of her mouth in a horrible grin. She’d been crying and her nose was clogged, making it a struggle for her to breathe. She looked helpless and pathetic, and Coot couldn’t have been more pleased.

  “Well, lookie here, cousin. The queen of Bull Mountain all wrapped up like a birthday present and scared as a shit-house rat.” Coot adjusted his crotch as he spoke, and stuck his head in under the ragtop. “Well, ain’t this a fuckin’ pickle? You know who I am, sugar?”

  Kate just glared at him, trying to control her tears. She was bunched up as close to the rough lining of the backseats as she could be.

  “My name is Coot Viner.” He pointed back at Donnie. “That there is my dumb-ass cousin, Donnie. Our names ring any bells? They should. I’m sure your husband or that scar-faced fuck told you a little about me.”

  Kate didn’t move. She couldn’t.

  “Killing my boy was the dumbest move your hubby could’ve made, and this here is his reckoning. Part of me hopes he lives through what Tate did to your house so he can get the full effect of knowing that what I’m about to do to you is all his fault.” Coot reached into the Jeep and grabbed hold of the zip-tie binding Kate’s feet. She kicked at him, but once he had a firm hold on her ankles, he pulled hard, and Kate slipped out easily, falling to the ground. She landed on her hip and shoulder with no way to break the fall. She struggled to ignore the pain of the impact, and immediately tried to scoot away from the two men.

  Coot watched her and laughed, knowing there was nowhere she could go. That’s when she saw Mark. He’d been beaten and hogtied. One eye was swollen shut, and his nose was obviously broken, smashed flat and fleshy like a dull-purple silver dollar. If he were still alive, he’d never look the same again. She was flooded with guilt. Mark was covered in mud from the creek bank, most of it dried in flakey chunks that hung off his skin like tar-paper shingles. His immaculately white T-shirt was now as brown and slick as the sludge he was embedded in. For a brief moment, the pain faded, and anger flooded her brain. She inched toward him, and Coot walked alongside her. He watched her reaction with immense pleasure, and smiled wide like a kid at Christmas. This was better than Christmas.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s your boy, right? We worked him over real good, but don’t worry. He’s still alive. We thought you might want a witness to this. Don’t close your good eye, there, Big Sexy. I promise you ain’t gonna wanna miss this.”

  Mark didn’t move.

  Coot reached down to grab Kate’s shirt, but she shifted in the dirt and swung both feet into his crotch. Coot fell back and cussed, hopping around like he’d stepped on an anthill. Kate took advantage of the precious few seconds and struggled against her restraints. Donnie kicked her in the stomach, ending her struggle. She buckled and saw a flash of white, but she didn’t pass out. Coot recovered and got a handful of her T-shirt and pajamas. He flipped her over roughly on her belly. He grabbed a fistful of thick brown hair, and twisted his hand into it tight, pressing her face into the marsh.

  “You’re gonna pay for that, too, bitch.” He wrapped her hair tighter around his fist and pulled Kate a few feet through the mud to the shallow edge of Little Finger Creek. Her face rubbed across rocks and grime. An exposed root caught the gag, pulling it free to hang around her neck. She kept her eyes closed and her mouth pressed shut to keep the slime and mud from blinding or choking her as she listened to Coot babble on about what he was going to do to her. Once she could lift her neck high enough to clear the mud she screamed. Coot turned her head like a puppet and slapped her with an open palm.

  “None of that shit, girl. There’ll be plenty of time for that in a minute.” He twisted his fist again until some of her hair started to separate from her scalp, and then used his free hand to grab the back of her waistband. He hoisted her entire weight onto a huge, smooth chunk of limestone that hung out over the rapids, and called back to Donnie to help hold her down. Donnie lumbered over, unsure about any of it, but did as he was told, like he always did. He didn’t have to strain to keep her down. Kate’s second wind after seeing Mark was gone. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. They were too strong. She caught a sudden whiff of Coot’s body odor. The sour stench came on her fast and twisted her stomach into a fist. Panic poured over her neck and down her back like a pitcher of ice water. She closed her eyes and retreated into one thought until it became a mantra that pumped through her brain as surely as the blood in her veins.

  Find a way. Stay alive and find a way.

  She repeated it over and over until her entire body fell into sync with the words, slowing and shutting down all her other senses. She repeated it until it was all that remained of her.

  Find a way. Stay alive and find a way.

  “Pull her goddamn arms down, Donnie.”

  The big man pulled at Kate’s bound wrists stretching her arms out in front of her, down over the creek side of the huge rock. He had to stand ankle deep in the shallow rapids to do it, and it just made him all the more ready to be done with all this. Coot jumped up on top of her and straddled Kate’s thighs right above the soft crooks of her knees. When she did find temporary bursts of strength to buck at him, Coot just pressed down harder. She found her voice and screamed again, but it wasn’t fear—the sound was more feral, like an animal.

  Coot produced a sharp, thin-bladed knife he’d found in the shed. It was the kind of knife normally used to scale and gut fish, and it was caked with Freddie Tuten’s dried blood. He held the razor-sharp blade to her throat. “You scream anything other than my name from this point on and I’ll slice your neck open from ear to ear. You’ll bleed out like a strung-up whitetail, and then you know what? I’ll do you anyway.”

  Kate was lost inside her head.

  Find a way. Stay alive and find a way.

  “You ain’t shit, woman. I know you really thought you were, being married to that clown sheriff an’ all, but you ain’t. You never were. I’m the king of the jungle now. I’m the lion on top of the mountain, not you. You see this?” He whipped her head to the side and pulled open the fro
nt of his shirt. The jailhouse lion tattoo roared underneath. “That’s who I am. You’re just a gazelle—a rabbit maybe. That’s it. You’re a walking, talking Happy Meal.”

  Kate didn’t scream, but she spoke with a cold tone from a place beyond fear. She was defeated and helpless but she had moved past being frightened and into a rich hatred that thickened her skin as well as the air around her. She spoke the only words that mattered, with a voice she didn’t even recognize as her own. “My name is Katelyn Burroughs, and you can’t hurt me.”

  Coot laughed and looked at his cousin. Donnie forced up a chuckle, but didn’t think any of this was funny.

  “I’m done talkin’. Donnie, you got her?”

  “Yeah.”

  Coot used the scaling knife to cut at the fabric of Kate’s pajamas, right at where it bunched up between her legs. He carefully sliced up the seam until he reached the elastic waistband, and easily hacked it in half. The dirty blue material slid right off her, falling to the sides of her hips, leaving her exposed and bare.

  “Look at that, Donnie. No squirrel covers. I was hoping for a nice thong or something to hang from the rearview of the Tracker. That’s too bad.”

  Kate’s pink skin was the only clean thing for miles. Maybe the only clean thing left on the mountain. Donnie looked away. He stared down into the shallow rapids and tried to think of something else. He wondered where Tate had gone. He wished he’d gone with him.

  “Just get it done, Coot. My feet are cold.”

  Coot smiled and set the knife down on the rock. He used both hands to rip the pajamas further down Kate’s legs, and then propped himself up to unbuckle his pants. Mark shuffled violently in the mud onto his side and bellowed underneath his gag. Coot smiled at him and mocked the sound he made as he slung his belt into the grass by Tuley’s face and lowered his jeans. Mark twisted in the mud again, flipping himself over to his other side to face away from the creek. Kate watched him turn away. She understood.

  Coot took off his gloves with his teeth, and spat into his hand. He rubbed at himself and cussed at the cold. After a moment he spat again onto Kate’s naked backside. The cold bite of the wind and all the crank in his system was causing him some difficulty. Donnie looked up in disgust while Coot shifted and shook his right leg frantically to push the tangled mess of denim down past his knee. Once his leg was free, he reached down to get a better grip on himself. He pushed himself up closer onto Kate, and then a shot rang out. The bullet whizzed past his head close enough to skin his cheek.

  *

  The gunshot sounded like a cannon echoing over the mountain. It missed its intended target, but took Donnie in the shoulder. The bullet stung like a snake bite and the impact caused him to slip backwards into the creek. He just sat there in the rushing water, confused, as blood started to ooze out from the tiny hole in his jacket. Coot immediately slid off Kate into an awkward barrel roll, and covered his face with both hands. Once he hit the ground he jammed himself close to the side of the limestone for cover. His jeans still hung off one leg in a tangled knot, and he patted at himself all over to make sure he hadn’t been hit. He stayed still and waited for a second shot, or a voice from the shooter, but heard nothing but the churning rapids of the creek. He tried to hike his pants up, but couldn’t, his hands were shaking too bad. He cautiously looked out and around the big rock, squinting his eyes to see through the trees. A lantern on the stoop lit the area well enough, but he couldn’t see anyone. He yelled out, making empty threats, but heard only the echo of his own voice. He spun himself and peeked out from the creek side of the rock. Donnie was still there, sitting in the water looking at his bloody shoulder. He’d been hit, and was out in the open.

  Why wouldn’t they hit him again? Coot thought. He’s a sitting duck.

  He looked up at Kate, who had shifted only slightly on the rock and still appeared to be lost in her mind. He peered out a little further to see Mark, still hogtied, and still lying on his side facing the other way. It took Coot another careful scan of the area before he saw it—a small silver glint in the mud next to Mark. He stared at it for a long time before he finally stood up and shook his head.

  “Son of a bitch.” Coot stepped out from behind the rock, shook his pants off his leg, and walked over to get a better look at the hunk of metal in the mud. It was just a few inches or so from Mark Tuley’s fingers. “You sneaky bastard. A purse gun?” Coot bent over and picked up the weapon. He held the small gun up to the moonlight, and stood in the cold, naked from the waist down, and studied the tiny gun. It was a single-shot .45 caliber pistol. The thing was as small as a Dillinger but with a bigger boom, easily concealable in a purse—or in a pocket—or a boot. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Tank didn’t think to search your boots? I swear to God, Tuley, I’m surrounded by retards. I’m going to shoot his ugly ass with this thing the minute I see him. You had this mini-cannon on you the whole time? Hey, Donnie, come take a look at this thing. This asshole could’ve shot my pecker off.”

  Mark grunted through the gag. He was obviously laughing. Coot squatted and pulled back the tape. “What’s so funny, motherfucker?”

  Mark sucked in twin lungfuls of cold mountain air that caused him to cough, but through the hacking his laughter only got louder.

  “You missed, Tuley.”

  Mark just kept laughing.

  “I mean, you gotta know I’m gonna kill you now, right? I’m gonna cut your goddamn throat, so I fail to see what’s so funny.”

  Mark took in some more cool night air and tamed his laughter down to a breathy giggle. “Yeah, Coot, I know, but that shit you said was pretty funny, you gotta admit?”

  “What did I say, Tuley?”

  “You know. What you said a minute ago.”

  Coot drew a blank.

  “That thing about your pecker.”

  Coot stayed a blank.

  Mark did his best to smile even through the pain of a busted lip and all the broken teeth. The fear fell away from his face as he looked directly into Viner’s bright blue eyes. “I appreciate the confidence in my abilities and all.” Mark spat out a wad of blood and snot that stayed connected to his tongue and stuck to his cheek. “But there ain’t a sharp shooter on the planet that could’ve shot something that tiny. I mean, holy shit, Scooter, that thing is like a toddler’s. I bet you ain’t even grown any hair around it yet.”

  Coot stood up.

  “C’mon, Scooter, let’s be honest here. Man to man. Is that the real reason they call you ‘Cooter’? Is it because that little package of yours looks more like a clit than a dick?” Mark cracked himself up and the laughing made him cough out more blood and snot. “It’s more like a Jolene than a Johnson. Not even half a stack of dimes. Jesus, man, I’m the one staring death in the face and I feel sorry for you.” Mark spat one last time and but never once closed his eyes. Coot reached for the scaling knife in his jacket.

  He found nothing.

  Mark laughed again. He was almost hysterical.

  “Keep laughing, Tuley. I’ll be right back.”

  *

  Coot turned back to the rock and for the first time since he’d arrived on the mountain he saw something that scared him. The rock was still there, but Kate was gone. He frantically shook out his pants, and hustled toward the stone.

  “You lose, Scooter,” Mark said. “She’s going to kill you.”

  “I doubt that shit. She won’t get that far.” He looked out at the creek. “Hey, Donnie, it looks like we’re just gonna have to shoot these two and call it a night.” He pulled up his pants and zipped the fly. “Donnie?” He strained his eyes to see his cousin lying on his back now in the shallow water of the rapids. Small spurts of black blood were arching from the several puncture wounds that crossed his chest. His face glowed a pale white.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Coot ran for the shed and made a quick grab for his shoes and the .357. “I’m coming to get you, Kate.” He knew she couldn’t go far. She was beaten, half-naked, and barefoot.
He’d find her. He had to. He could let this go sideways. He grabbed the lantern from the stoop and held the light up to shine on the creek bank. He ignored his cousin and found what he was looking for. The indentations in the soft dirt from Kate’s footprints were clear as day. He smiled as he put on his shoes. “Here I come, baby girl. Here comes Deddy.” He followed the tracks in the mud up from the bank and into the trees. Kate’s pajama bottoms were tossed into the brush and Coot studied the trail. Snapped branches and fresh tracks led up to a cluster of pine trees beyond a steep trench. He set the lantern down in the thick dander of the forest floor and whistled. “Come on out, sweetheart. You don’t want to keep ol’ Coot waiting.” He cocked the heavy pistol and moved through the trench and toward the trees. “I’m sorry about our date night, but killing my cousin like you did means we need to skip over the romance and get right down to the nitty-gritty. Come on out here and let’s finish this up clean.” He took a wide step up to clear the ditch when he felt something rustle by his foot. Kate reached out from underneath the layers of matted leaves and pine straw and sliced across the back of Coot’s ankle with the scaling knife. He screamed. Before he could fall, she stuck him again in the calf and the blade went right through. He toppled to his knees, and slid down into the trench. Kate emerged from where she’d buried herself and pounced onto him, knocking him down flat onto his chest. He screamed again and again as she brought the knife down over and over and into Coot’s back until he stopped making any sounds at all. Her entire arm was slick with blood, and it shone a glossy black in the lantern light. She slid off him and rolled him over. She let the knife fall into the darkness before letting out a scream that echoed through the foothills. She grabbed a hold of his jacket and stared directly into his chalky face. “You still in there, Coot?”

  He burped out a black bubble of blood. It popped and it oozed down his lip and chin.

  “Good,” she said. “Because I want my face to be the last thing you see in this world. I want you to know that you were right. You are just like this.” She banged her fist down on his chest. He was too far gone to even flinch. She brought another fist down on the lion tattoo, now slick and painted red with the blood from her hands. Coot’s pale-blue eyes were wide and shone like crystal in the moonlight. She slapped him to keep his attention. “That’s a male lion.” She pushed down on the tattoo. “Lazy—arrogant—weak. Anyone who knows how to read knows it’s the female lions that do all the killing. Remember that wherever you’re going, Coot Viner. Remember that, and remember who sent you there.” She spat in his face. “I told you. My name is Katelyn Burroughs and you can’t hurt me.”