“Fucker,” Chuck whispered, and dropped.
* * * * *
Frank rolled the body into the truck bed and slammed the tailgate. Chuck had close to six hundred dollars in his front pocket. Frank took it and the trucker hat. He tore out all the pictures in the cab as he followed the dirt track as it curved through the hills. It must have been somewhere around five o’clock in the morning.
He passed four SUVs clustered around a campfire. A few men were up, wiping sleep from their eyes. Frank thought a moment, felt the maniacal energy striking sparks where it brushed up against the self-loathing and hatred he carried with him. He put on Chuck’s hat, roared up the camp and shouted at the men, “You fellas better get moving. Sturm is coming, and he’s pissed.” Without waiting, he pulled in a U-turn, hit the gas again and tore off.
A mile back down the road, he crossed the creek and wrenched the wheel sideways, effectively blocking the dirt road on the far side of the bridge. He pulled Chuck’s body out of the back and propped him up in the driver’s seat.
Frank took the .30-.30 and the ..405 Winchester, slinging the rifles over each shoulder. To the south lay the valley, too open. To the west, rice fields. To the north, a grove of oaks, but it didn’t have much cover. That left east, where a hill, dotted with a few more oaks, rose into the sunlight. Frank started up the hill, loading the .30-.30, moving slow. His pockets were heavy with rifle shells.
Forty yards up the hill, he found a level spot in the shade and laid the rifles out before him. He got comfortable, leaning into the trunk, and took a long drink of water. This was the deal he had made himself, a sip of rum for every ten sips of water. He pulled Theo’s .405 up to his shoulder and propped his elbows into his knees and put the crosshairs on the bridge abutments.
He heard the growl of engines, closing in. The men had bought it. Frank wasn’t the only one scared of Sturm. The lead SUV drove across the bridge, right up to Chuck, and honked indignantly. Three more followed, all moving fast, all crowding onto the bridge, rats fleeing a sinking ship.
Frank settled the crosshairs and shot the driver of the last SUV in the head. The man’s skull exploded like dynamite in a watermelon, spraying the cabin. The bullet blew the passenger seat headrest out of the window. The passenger flopped forward as if kicked in the head. The headless corpse of the driver gripped the steering wheel feverishly while both legs stomped down, urging the Mercedes forward, slamming into the second SUV, a giant yellow Hummer.
The men in the lead, those closest to Chuck and his pickup, somehow decided that Chuck was shooting at them and decided to shoot back. They both reached into the back seat and flailed at their rifle cases. The guys in the Hummer backed up, and for a while, it looked like the larger vehicle just might push the Mercedes out of the way. Until Frank shot the driver. This time, it wasn’t so clean. It was low, and punched through the yellow door, taking out the diver’s hips. It was still enough to blow him sideways out of his chair. The two passengers jumped out of the Hummer.
Frank rubbed his sore shoulder; it felt like he’d been kicked by a horse again. He had left the rest of the .405 caliber bullets back in the truck, so he picked up the 30.30 and shot the two men that jumped out of the Hummer. They were trying to hide behind the Mercedes, but since Frank was higher, he just shot the tops of their heads off. By now, the two guys in the lead car had figured out that someone else was shooting at them, and had deserted their SUV, shooting in all directions. Frank shot the first guy in the thigh, spinning him into the creek; the second got a bullet in the back. Gunfire rolled and crackled through the creek, but nothing else moved.
Frank listened for any more sudden engines, but there was nothing but the wind. After a while, the insects started back, the shrill clicking in the weeds. One of the men started to moan. Frank wasn’t sure if it was the guy that had been shot in the leg, or the one he got in the hip. It didn’t matter, not really, as the men couldn’t crawl far, and in just a couple hours, maybe less, certainly by nightfall, these woods would be crawling with hungry predators.
Frank walked back to Chuck’s truck and reloaded the .405. He’d only gone through ten or so bullets. It wasn’t much of a hunt at all. The deaths of these men wouldn’t bring back Petunia, the cats, the horses, or any of the animals. And he couldn’t say if he felt any different, one way or another. But it was the least he could do.
He patiently moved all of the vehicles off the bridge, yanked Chuck’s body out of the truck, leaving it by the side of the road, and tried the engine. The engine started, despite all the bullet holes. He drove back across the bridge ignoring the blood and meat coating the inside of the cab. The flies were already thick. Once across, he parked and blocked the bridge again with all three SUVs.
Frank drove into town.
* * * * *
The fires in the streets were nearly out, leaving charred bones and black ashes scattered across the pavement.
He drove past the vet hospital. The parking lot was empty.
The Glouck house was silent. The gas station was closed, glass still on the concrete. The auction yard was just as quiet. Frank stopped at the park and found it empty. He sat for a while, thinking it over. The urge to run, to flee, that same urge from the alligator tank, was back inside of him, fed by the drug, twice as strong and ten times as ugly. He didn’t so much fight it, but channeled the energy into rage, letting the fear fuel the anger.
He drove out to Sturm’s house.
The pill wanted him to drive Chuck’s truck straight up the driveway and smash through the front porch and start shooting. But Frank didn’t want to get there and find out that Sturm wasn’t home. And if he got shot, there was a good chance the animals still left in cages would starve to death. Frank figured it that if he was going to finish all of this, then that meant turning the animals loose first. He decided that this called for a little caution and passed the driveway, parking in the same orchard where’d he spent the night two weeks earlier. He took the .30-.30 and the knife and slipped through the trees and tall grass, circling around Sturm’s ranch.
The trailers and tents were still set up, but they looked abandoned. He couldn’t see Sturm’s pickup. He darted across the open ground in a low, crouching run at the corral in the middle of the field and opened the gate for the sheep. But, being sheep, they simply huddled against the far fence and wouldn’t come near him. Frank left the gate open and crawled through the stiff dead grass to the corral behind the barn.
He opened the gate, then circled around the barn to the distorted, bulging cage. Lady and Princess watched him with sleepy eyes. They’d been feeding regularly, and so they were happy, content, and sluggish. Frank pushed down and slid the bolt back, letting the cage door swing wide. The cats just watched him.
Frank ducked into the barn. He jogged around the aisle and lifted the tarp over the horizontal freezer. He decided not to try and move the air-conditioner, though it took all of his strength to lift the hood just enough to see inside. “Shit,” he breathed.
The gun safe was still inside.
He scratched his head violently. The pill wanted to go kick down the door and shoot Sturm in his bed. That way, he could come back and get the safe anytime he felt like it. But killing Sturm wouldn’t be as easy as sticking a knife in Chuck’s throat. There was a damn good chance Sturm would shoot back. Frank reminded himself of all the animals still left locked away at the auction yard.
So he lowered the lid and slipped out of the barn, heading back to Chuck’s truck. Lady and Princess hadn’t moved. That was okay, though. They’d get the idea, soon as the sheep figured out that the gate was open and went wandering around the pasture.