Fear No Evil

by John Gordon Davis

  ‘Hey—what do you think of him, then?’

  Old Jamba just sighed and slurped.

  ‘All right, Jamba, hurry up.’

  Sally stood in the stream behind Jamba, her head hanging, her fat flanks heaving. The young zoo elephants were clustered together uncertainly, waiting for Jamba. She was their natural leader still, and she wouldn’t reject them until she went into estrus and mated with Rajah.

  Davey looked at the big circus elephant. Rajah stood massively, eyes closed, trunk hanging. He looked completely relaxed. The cow Queenie was swinging her trunk restlessly, waiting for orders in this strange terrain. Dumbo was edgy too, standing close to her. He had been hanging onto her tail as they lumbered along, as he had been taught to do. But good old Rajah looked unperturbed by all this, and Davey smiled with relief.

  Good old Rajah. Maybe he thought this was something to do with his job. But no, he was so intelligent, he knew what was going on. He knew they were running away. And the feeling in the air—the electricity, the sense of urgency, the run run run and the necessity to obey.

  He knew. But he was such a cooperative old war-horse, and so experienced, that he didn’t fluster easily. Davey had told him to rest, so now he was resting. He had been trained as a logging elephant in India before The World’s Greatest Show had acquired him; he was accustomed to working without supervision. He knew how to stack logs neatly on top of each other, when to swim out into a river without bidding and unblock logs, how to heave railway cars into position, haul trucks out of mud, heave on ropes. At the circus he would perform heavy-duty jobs if he was shown what was wanted. He even performed tricks willingly enough. All he wanted in exchange was a fair deal; what he hated was the crack of the ringmaster’s whip, the shock of the electric prodder; and his massive body yearned for space.

  Well, Davey thought, he could ride on Rajah when he got exhausted.

  ‘How’re you, Charlie?’

  The big Indian was lying on his back higher up the slope, eyes closed, chest heaving.

  ‘Okay … I saw the elephants along the trail snatching some branches and eating.’

  ‘Yes, no problem with their feeding.’

  ‘Nor the gorillas.’

  King Kong, the silver-back male from the zoo, was on all fours, his big knuckles folded, intently watching, his brown, worried eyes alert. The chimpanzees were gathered together nervously. Davey glanced at King Kong; then smiled and averted his eyes and shook his head to show nonaggression. King Kong shook his head and glanced away, then looked back at him anxiously and waited again.

  ‘What about the bears?’

  ‘They’ll start eating soon—bears are always hungry.’

  ‘They don’t look like they want to start nothin’.’

  The great performing bears were on all fours, heads up, dish faces immobile, suspiciously sniffing. They sensed his attention, and they looked at him expectantly. He knew what they were feeling, hanging on his word, waiting for him to tell them what to do: he was their keeper, their friend; they were devoted to him in their big, single-minded bear way. They were not frightened by the wilderness, Davey knew; they were just suspicious and bewildered. They were the natural monarchs of the wilderness, and he was not worried about them adapting back. Gradually, they would leave him, and even each other. And revert to the solitary monarchy that was their nature, wanting no one, steamrollering through the wilderness, huge thousand-pound beasts standing ten feet high on their hind legs, able to leap twenty feet and gallop faster than the best man can run, able to kill a charging bull with one swipe of their claws …

  Just then he heard it. He stiffened. There it was, faraway but certain: the chopping drone of a helicopter.

  Davey stood still, trying to locate it. It was coming from the south, from the Great Smoky Mountains. Both he and Big Charlie threw their heads back, searching the chinks of sky through the overhead boughs. The droning became louder. Then it was upon them: a terrible roaring monster suddenly blacking out the sky fifty feet above them, blasting the forest so that trees bent and dirt flew, and the animals scattered in all directions, bounding and blundering, terrified—then as quickly it was gone, roaring away over the treetops.

  ‘Come on!’ Davey gave a piercing whistle and shouted: ‘Sam—herd!’

  He started running up the mountain, looking back over his shoulder, whistling to the animals. Big Charlie was rounding them up, Sam herding from behind. They started blundering through the undergrowth after Davey.

  eleven

  In the early afternoon Elizabeth drove up to the Nolichucky River bridge in her Hertz rented car. There had been efficient police barriers across the highway on both sides of the Appalachian Mountains, but they had let her pass when she had explained who she was. The deputy sheriff and two patrolmen were guarding the bridge with rifles. The two trucks of The World’s Greatest Show were still there.

  ‘You the vet they radioed us about?’ the patrolman said, chewing gum.

  ‘Yes. And please point that gun elsewhere.’

  He lowered the gun and scratched his cheek. ‘Nobody don’ go through. Wal …’ he said, ‘there’s the trucks. Since eight o’clock this mornin’.’

  ‘But have you seen them?’

  ‘Nope. Only person seen ’em is Sergeant Hooks an’ his pardner an’ they both in bed, sore’n a gumboil.’

  The deputy sheriff came over from his car. He raised his hat. ‘What can I do for you, ma’am?’

  ‘Has anybody tried to track these animals, officer?’ she demanded.

  ‘Sure have, ma’am. I was first on the scene after Bert Hooks got himself overturned. Tracked ’em for two miles, then the sheriff radioed me back, orders from the zoo.’

  ‘Where was the spoor heading?’

  ‘Straight down the Appalachian Trail, ma’am, far’s I seen.’

  ‘But you’re throwing a cordon round the area?’

  ‘Sure are, ma’am. Over forty men in there already, and the state troopers are arriving any time now, and the militia.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘What are their orders?’

  ‘Stop the animals gettin’ out into civilized area, ma’am, till the experts arrive.’

  ‘How?’ she demanded. ‘By shooting them?’

  ‘Only as a last resort, ma’am. We can’t have lions and tigers coming into town.’

  ‘Noise!’ she cried. ‘You’ve got to shout and beat a can to chase them back—never shoot! Where’s the Sheriff?’

  The lawman sighed. ‘He’s up there, ma’am. With some very good men, don’t doubt it.’

  ‘Up there? In a helicopter?’

  ‘No ma’am, not in a helicopter. Those woods are too dense for that.’

  ‘Well, I have to go in there, officer.’

  The Deputy stared at her.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said quietly, ‘you’re not going anywhere. Only authorized personnel.’

  ‘I am authorized! I’m the vet!’

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said firmly, ‘I’m not letting you go in there. You won’t get nowhere with those shoes anyhow. That’s tough wilderness in there. I’m not letting you go in without an armed escort—and I’m not supplying that, ma’am. We ain’t got enough men for this job as it is.’

  ‘I can look after myself!’

  The officer sighed and put a weary hand on his hip.

  ‘Ma’am—you cannot look after yourself, vet or no vet. They’re wild animals at large in there! And two very wild men! In very wild country. With those shoes’—he pointed at her feet—‘and unless we’re very smart there’re goin’ to be a good few other wild folk in there with their guns—and they’re no better man animals, ma’am.’ He looked at her sternly. ‘I don’t know where you come from, but this here’s the United States of America—haven’t you heard what gun-mad SOBs we are!’ He glared at her. ‘And I’m not letting you loose amongst that lot!’

  She felt her stomach go cold. She was not going to argue with him. Wherever they were, the animals weren’t near here.
They’d be as far away as possible from the trucks. She turned and grabbed her roadmap out of the rented car.

  ‘What’s the next road to the south that crosses the Appalachians?’

  The lawman sighed. ‘Highway Nineteen W, ma’am. At Spivey Gap.’

  ‘How far south?’

  ‘’Bout ten, twelve miles, ma’am. As the crow flies.’

  ‘Is that barricaded by police too?’

  ‘Sheriff’s workin’ on it, ma’am. You won’t get through that way either.’

  ‘How do I get there?’

  ‘Back through Erwin,’ the patrolman said resignedly.

  On her way back to Erwin the cars had been lined up at the police roadblock, newspapermen and sightseers and at least a dozen cars full of men, armed with rifles, volunteering to help.

  Elizabeth sped through the town onto the interstate highway, then took the turnoff to Spivey Gap. Her dread turned to anger. There were still no police barricades on this road! She wound up into the mountains. At the crest there were only two police cars, the patrolmen keeping the traffic moving. They waved her through.

  A cordon around the area, my foot!

  She drove past the police angrily, her eyes darting at the forest to left and right, looking for … for what? Signs, spoor, elephant droppings, broken bushes—my God! Like looking for a needle on the edge of a vast haystack.

  She felt absolutely helpless. Hopeless … Looking for any indication of the animals’ having crossed the road. She drove slowly, peering at the road, at the edges of the forest. Nothing … If there were something, she’d miss it, like this. Hopeless … She’d have to get out and do it properly. Then, around a bend in the highway, she saw the small metal signpost of the Appalachian Trail.

  She stopped her car on the verge. She hurried across the highway, to the point where the Appalachian Trail came out of the forest and crossed the road. She looked at it. It was just a tangled dirt path worn through the undergrowth, a foot wide. No spoor that she could see. Silence, everything motionless. She took a deep breath and started to climb the bank of the highway, onto the trail.

  Dr. Elizabeth Johnson was no expert tracker, but she had been on two zoological expeditions to Africa, and one to the Rockies, and she knew what to look for. She kept her head down as she climbed the narrow, winding trail, searching the ground, eyes flicking sideways to the undergrowth. Within two minutes her legs were aching. She toiled up the slope through the forest, frequently stopping, her heart hammering from the unaccustomed exertion.

  After half a mile she stopped, sweating, her breath coming in gasps.

  She had not seen a single sign of animals. She crouched, panting, and examined the hard earth for her own footprints. My God—even they were hard to find. Just a tiny scrape here and there. The light was so difficult for tracking, the trail dappled with shadow, sunlight shifting through the boughs. She stared helplessly at the unyielding trail; but she did not believe that twenty-odd big animals, including elephants, could have passed without leaving some mark.

  She straightened up, and listened. Just the rustle of leaves, the twitter of a bird. She could not even hear the vehicles on the highway, only half a mile back down the trail. She probably would not hear a man approaching until he was ten paces away. The silence was vast, the world muffled by the wilderness.

  She could only see twenty paces into the forest. An elephant could be walking thirty yards away, and she could not see it.

  She felt absolutely helpless. Vast … The forest stretched for at least five miles down the slopes of the Appalachians on either side of the trail. It was over ten miles from where she stood to the abandoned trucks. It could take an expert tracker days to make visual contact in this dense forest.

  She stood there, sweating, getting her breath back.

  Well, there was only one remote chance, apart from going back to the Nolichucky and starting from scratch: go into the forest in a straight line and look for the spoor. If the animals had headed this way, if David Jordan was trying to get them out of this area but was avoiding the trail, she might cross their spoor.

  She plunged off the trail, into the undergrowth.

  It was late afternoon when she found it, half a mile down the steep forested slope on the North Carolina side of the mountain.

  She clung to a tree, elated, exhausted, her arms covered with scratches, muscles aching, hair sticking to her neck and forehead. She stared at the spoor.

  She could hardly believe it. … That a caravan of big animals could have left so little sign of themselves! There was just one sign of elephant, and that was a conspicuous lump of dung. The undergrowth was so thick and flexible, the dark earth so hidden and spongy, the light and shadows so difficult.

  She crouched and touched the dung with the back of her fingers. It was cool.

  She looked feverishly about her in the shadows for more signs. None. She knew that a whole troupe of gorillas could pass without leaving obvious sign of themselves—even an elephant over certain terrain—and if she got to her knees now she would find more spoor—but this terrain was so difficult …

  She leaned against the tree, getting her breath back; then she started plodding after the spoor. She crept along for five minutes, then she clenched her fist and started stumbling across the mountain slope in the direction she thought they had taken. Surely they were headed out of this area of the woods where the sheriff was after them.

  Exhausted, the underbrush grabbing at her, her ankles buckling, Elizabeth was desperate. With her poor physical condition, with the incompetence of her fellows—where was Dr. Bigwheel Ford while she beat her brains out and broke her neck?

  After a hundred and fifty yards she slumped to a stop, gasping, heart pounding.

  She could see no more spoor.

  She looked back; she could not see even her own tracks in this undergrowth and she could see no more than twenty paces in front of her.

  An hour later she heard the muffled sound of a vehicle, and she realized that she was near the highway again. Suddenly, twenty yards in front, was the open sunshine.

  She knew now. She had long since lost the spoor, but that was where they would have gone: across the highway, into the forest beyond. While that sheriff and his men bumbled around on this side.

  She slid down the bank. She wasn’t going to waste any more time looking for tracks here.

  She toiled up to her car.

  The Appalachian Trail continued on the south side, directly opposite, leading steeply up into the forest again. She reached into her car for the road map.

  The next road to the south that crossed the Appalachians was Highway 23, at Sams Gap about eleven miles away. She took a big breath.

  She started plodding up the narrow dirt trail again, head lowered, looking for spoor. Within thirty paces she was hidden from the highway, ascending steeply into pine forest and hemlock.

  Suddenly she stopped in a patch of sunlight, and her pulse tripped with excitement.

  She was not looking at an animal’s footprint. But the hard ground had been scraped by something: by a bunch of leaves, used like a broom.

  She crouched, heart pounding, examining the mark. Then she stood and jogged back down the steep trail. She scrambled into the car and did a hard U-turn, back toward Erwin.

  She pulled up in front of a sporting goods store. There were several pickup trucks parked outside, gunracks on the back. She hurried inside.

  ‘You accept these things?’ She held up her American Express card.

  ‘Sure do, ma’am.’

  ‘Where’re your knapsacks?’

  There were a dozen men clustered at the gun counter. Some had their shirts off, showing tattoos; there was loud discussion and laughing. She selected the cheapest knapsack, and a sleeping bag, cursing herself under her breath—she had all these things at home. She found a cheap canteen kit, a pair of Pro-Ked basketball shoes and thick socks, a large-scale hiker’s map of the area. She hurried back to the counter and slapped down her credit card
.

  ‘Hi, Sugar!’ a voice said. She ignored him. ‘Excuse me, ma’am?…’ She turned to the man disdainfully, then jerked wide-eyed as she looked straight into the muzzle of a rifle.

  ‘Bang!’ The young man grinned. ‘Right between the eyes!’

  ‘Put that thing down!’

  ‘Bang!’ the man repeated, sweeping the gun across the shop. ‘Bang!—bang!’ There was laughter.

  ‘Or like this,’ a youth snickered, holding an imaginary machine gun at his hip. ‘Er-er-er-er.’

  Elizabeth stared, shocked. ‘What are you boys buying guns for!’

  ‘You the noo sheriff, ma’am?’

  ‘She’s from the Bleedin’ Hearts!’

  ‘Now listen here!’ She held out a trembling finger. ‘I know what you boys think you’re going to do—go and hunt those animals that were let loose today …’

  ‘Only in self-defense, Sugar.’ Hairy hand piously on hairy breast.

  ‘Now listen to me—’

  ‘She’s from the Bleedin’ Hearts,’ the youth said. ‘The No-Killum Club.’

  ‘You listen to me! I’m an officer of the Bronx Zoo and you’re not allowed into those mountains and by God if anybody shoots one of those animals they’re going to jail!’

  ‘Ooo-oh!’ the gunman said, then they all chorused, ‘Ooo-oh.’

  She was shaking. ‘I’ve warned you,’ she whispered, ‘and I’ll give evidence against you. Not only do those magnificent animals belong to the Bronx Zoo, it would be a barbaric crime against nature!’

  ‘Aaaa-ah …’

  She was aghast. Then she tried to look at them witheringly. ‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Why this despicable human appetite to go out and kill your fellow creatures at every excuse?’

  ‘She’s from the No-Trapums, No-Killums, Poor Little Thingums.’

  ‘Good God …’ She turned and signed her name shakily on the credit card slip, and gathered up her things. Then she turned on them. They pretended to cringe back.