He shot two of the closest alligators. He fired again and missed. He squeezed the trigger one more time and heard the dry snap of an empty shotgun.
He pulled himself over to the T-post and used the butt of the shotgun to start digging. He worked at it until his muscles screamed, his back twitched in agony, and his hands bled. The sun was nearly touching the horizon when Frank finally wrenched the fence post free with a small squelching sound.
He fell backwards and stared up at the gathering twilight as if he’d never seen the sky before. He felt movement in the water and knew he had to keep moving. The other end of the chain had been padlocked to the fence post, so he ended up carrying the T-post. Halfway to the bank, his legs gave out and he had to crawl the rest of the way. It took at least half an hour. He inched out of the water, and collapsed in the mud in front of the chairs.
Edie’s voice said softly, “My Alice is dead. She’s dead because she went out there to help you.” Frank rolled onto his back and stared up to the black chasms of her shotgun muzzle, inches from his head.
Frank tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t work. It didn’t matter. There was nothing to say. Edie didn’t move. Tears slid down her high cheeks and fell from her chin, spattering silently on the shotgun, rolling slowly down the center of the two barrels and dripped on Frank’s forehead. She exhaled through her teeth.
Frank closed his eyes.
They both heard the far-off whine of an ATV. Several of them. It was the rest of the Glouck brothers, the ones that had helped bury Petunia. The four-wheelers roared up the highway to the pickups.
Frank heard the shotgun clatter to the pavement.
When he opened his eyes, Annie was staring down at him. The sun was nearly gone, sending light flat across the land, lighting her face in soft, glowing warmth. Her eyes were red. A coldness had settled within them, and Frank thought she might just pick up the shotgun and shoot him and be done with it. But instead, she squatted down, gently patted his head like he was a good dog, and walked away.
* * * * *
Frank managed to lift himself up into the cab of Sturm’s pickup when he heard the big cats snarling and snapping over the bodies. It was much later. Cold stars blanketed the sky. Strange howls and cries rose above the crickets.
The Gloucks were gone.
Frank fumbled with the glove box and found the First-Aid kit. He splashed disinfectant over his hand and used up the entire roll of white tape wrapping his fingers. He slumped back on the bench seat and slipped into sleep as he listened to the animals fight over the meat.
DAY THIRTY-FIVE
Everything hurt. Frank sat upright, squinting into the hideous sunlight. A few lionesses rested in the shade under the pickups, tails slapping absentmindedly at flies and mosquitoes. He slid over into the driver’s seat and found the ignition empty. Even through the throbbing pain, Frank knew if he stayed in the cab, he’d be dead of dehydration before the end of the day.
None of the big cats moved when he cracked the door open. He stepped gingerly down, pavement already hot under his bare feet. He realized he was still naked. There was nothing else to do, so he walked, still carrying the damn chain and fencepost. He skirted around the rice paddy and headed back through the fields to Sturm’s house. None of the animals bothered him. He figured they’d eaten well the night before, and didn’t feel the need to stalk and hunt prey now.
The sky was alive with vultures.
He went into the house first, straight to the kitchen sink, and stuck his head under the faucet, gulping water until he vomited again. The fridge was full of meat. He grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter instead. Then he went upstairs.
None of Sturm’s clothes came even close to fitting. Finally, he found a T-shirt and a pair of sweats in Theo’s room that came down to mid-calf. Theo had a pair of flip-flops that covered most of Frank’s feet. He poured Listerine over his hand, and put fresh bandages over the slices in his flesh.
Sturm kept his liquor in the living room. Frank grabbed a bottle and went out and sat on the deck. The morning sun threw the shadow of the Lutheran cross over the entire back yard. Frank finished half before heading to the barn. There, he found a hacksaw and went to work on the choke chain.
Later, he checked on the stall at the back of the barn. It still looked the same. Dust everywhere. He toppled the air conditioner off the freezer and let it crash to the floor. He froze as the sound reverberated around the barn, wondering if Princess and Lady were still around. But after a full minute ticked past, he figured they were either gone or weren’t hungry. He opened the freezer.
It was empty. The gun safe was gone.
Frank let that sink in for a moment, then carefully closed the freezer door. There was nothing left to do, so he grabbed two bottles of rum from one of the stalls and went out to the driveway to sit on the front porch. He settled into Sturm’s rocking chair and had been rocking for almost fifteen minutes when he saw the saddlebags hanging over the porch railing. He couldn’t remember if they’d been here when he first got to the house or if someone had left them here when he was in the barn.
The bags were full of cash. Frank looked toward town, as if he’d find answers. Instead, he just saw a thick column of smoke, probably rising from the park. The gas in the fire engine had finally caught. Or someone had put a match to it. He wondered if it would spread to the rest of the town. Swallowing some more rum, he slung the saddlebags over his shoulders and started walking to the long black car.
Acknowledgments
The author would like to gratefully offer his acknowledgement to the following for support and inspiration:
All the wonderful folks in the Columbia College Chicago Department of Creative Writing, Don De Grazia, Joe Meno, Jay Bonansinga, Mark Ferguson at Hard Boiled Records, Jen and House Domonkos, Dave Chirchirillo, Christian Behr, Trent Haaga, Clay Jacobson, Mom, Craig Christie, David Morrell, Gil and Linda Hibben of Hibben Knives, Owen LaMay, Dr. Janice Prunsky, Lou and Sandy Phillips always, Tom Egizio, thanks to Doug Grad and Antenna Books, and the one and only Mort Castle.
Special thanks to Deb. I love you little one.
And a headbangin’ thanks to 3 Inches of Blood, AC/DC, Amon Amarth, Bad News, Black Sabbath, Chrome Division, Deadbolt, Dethklok, FEAR, Gwar, Himsa, Immortal Souls, In Flames, Insomnium, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Lard, Motorhead, Rammstein, Searing Meadow, and Slayer for the music that fueled the writing of this novel.
About the Author
Jeff Jacobson is the author of Growth, Sleep Tight, and Wormfood. His stories have appeared in Doorways magazine and Read by Dawn Volumes 1 and 3. He teaches fiction and screenwriting at Columbia College Chicago and lives near Chicago with his family and far too many animals. His website is www.jeff-jacobson.com. Stop by and say howdy. And if you liked Foodchain, please leave a review on your favorite book review website, such as Good Reads, Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, etc.