Jeff Jacobson - Foodchain

Sturm watched Frank for a long time. Finally he lowered his steepled fingers. “Son, you’re either telling the truth or you’re so full of shit it’s about to start dripping from your ears.”

Frank didn’t say anything.

Sturm drummed his fingertips on the desk. “Will Rogers used to say he never met a man he didn’t like. I’d say he never got out much.” He barked out a harsh, quick laugh.

Frank stood. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Good day and good luck with the time you have left.”

“Now hold on just a minute, son. Didn’t mean any disrespect. No sir. None at all. Just a little short on patience since my boy fucked up the fights this year. But that don’t mean I got to take it out on everyone.” He stood as well, and looked up at Frank. “You say you’re a horse doctor?”

“Yeah.”

“Then come with me. Afterwards, maybe we’ll talk about this hunt of yours.”

* * * * *

Sturm led Frank through an elaborate garden. Frank couldn’t see any weeds, not even a tip poking through the rich black soil, as he passed through rows of tomatoes, squash, and corn. But the plants themselves were wilted and dying. The squash looked like used condoms and the tomatoes like raisins. They went through a white picket gate at the far end and walked up to a bright red barn.

Inside, a tired, still horse waited within a spacious stall filled with pine shavings. “This is Sarah.” Sturm fished in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a peppermint. He crackled the wrapper, catching the old horse’s attention. The horse was old. She was a deep red quarter horse, appearing startlingly thick and stocky to Frank, who was used to the lean, long-limbed thoroughbreds. Sturm gently stroked the horse’s neck as he popped the peppermint free from the wrapper. He expertly caught the clear plastic wrapper between his thumb and forefinger and rolled the striped candy into the center of his palm as he offered it to the horse. Sarah tenderly took the peppermint in her teeth, crunching it, then bouncing her head slightly in pleasure.

“This horse is going to take me to my family’s cabin where I am going to die.” Sturm spoke evenly, giving each word careful consideration, but without emotion. “It’s an eleven mile ride, due west, straight into the mountains,” he indicated with a nod of his bald head, “and I want to make sure she can make it back. See,” he turned his attention from the horse and focused his frozen eyes on Frank, “I plan on dying in that cabin. I know I don’t have much time. I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to die in some hospital. No. To hell with that. I’m going to die on the land of my forefathers, like a man. Not like a…a failed lab experiment. And what I want to know is, is she sound enough to make the trip back? She’s damn near twenty. It’s bad enough that one of us has to die on this trip. I don’t want to be responsible for her death as well.”

“Eleven miles? What kind of terrain?” Frank knelt. Under his breath, he whispered soothing words to the horse as he gently curled his hand around the slim bones just above the right ankle.

“Mountains. Soft dirt. Logs. Rocks. It ain’t pasture, or racetrack, if that’s what you mean.”

Frank carefully prodded the protruding bones just above the hoof, then repeated the movements with the left leg. He stood, bent over, and slowly coaxed Sarah into lifting her front right leg, gently flexing it.

Frank tested the other leg. “She’s flexing a little sore, but nothing major. Rub her down with some DMSO, wrap her legs at night. Got any magnetic boots?”

“No. No new age bullshit around this barn.”

“Then just wrap her at night. Keep these ankles warm.” Frank stepped back. “It’s hard to say. I’d have to see her move.”

“Then let’s take her for a walk.” Sturm clipped a lead line onto Sarah’s halter and said, “C’mon girl. Let’s see how you walk.” Frank followed the stocky horse and the short man out of the stall, into the aisle, and outside into a large paddock. He watched closely for any hitches, any hesitation, any signs that the horse was reluctant to put weight on any of her legs. Sarah moved stiffly, but without any apparent pain.

“She looks good, but to be absolutely sure, I’m gonna have to do a flex test,” Frank said. “You know how it works?”

Sturm nodded, then said, “I ain’t feelin’ up to run today.” He hollered at the house. “Theo! You got three seconds. One! Two!” The back door banged open and Theo came sprinting out.

“You mind watching the clock?” Frank asked Sturm as he pulled Sarah’s front right leg up, curling it against itself, cradling it between his chest and thigh. Sturm counted off sixty seconds, Frank released the leg, and Theo took the lead line and trotted the horse straight across the paddock. Frank watched with a critical eye. Then they repeated the procedure with the three remaining legs.

Afterwards, Frank said, “She’s old, she’s stiff, and yeah, she’s a little sore. But she shouldn’t have a problem. Up there and back, not really. Not if she takes it easy.”

Sturm nodded and almost smiled.

* * * * *

Sturm made Frank point out where exactly where he though the zoo was on a map before he made his decision. Frank leaned over crisp folds of the highway map, laid over a well-oiled butcher block, and traced until he hit the third rest stop, then followed the next highway south. “Somewhere in here.”

Sturm said, “Okay. But understand this, and understand it well. You fuck with me, I will kill you quick. I got nothing to lose.”

Frank said, “Yeah.” * * * * *

Sturm didn’t pack much. A rifle, some beef jerky, an old milk jug full of water left in the freezer, a pair of binoculars, and a pair of walkie-talkies. Theo loaded everything except the rifle into a small black backpack.

They didn’t talk at all during the drive. Sturm didn’t even turn on the radio. Frank had to sit with his knees spread wide, wedged up against the dashboard, since Sturm had the bench seat moved all the way forward so his feet could reach the pedals.

It was nearly dusk when they reached the zoo. Sturm drove slowly, eyeballing the place. Frank felt a squirming, itching panic surge through his chest as he wondered if the quiet gentlemen waited on the other side. The place looked dead, not much different than three nights ago. Now, in the daylight, he could see the garish paintings splashed haphazardly across the rippled metal. Bright slashes of blood dripped off oversize teeth and claws, massive snakes curled around buxom, silently screaming women, alligators ripped and tore at pith helmeted white explorers. The front gate had been wired back into place and locked. A small “Closed” sign was slung over the top.

“I can’t see shit,” Sturm said and goosed the pickup back up to seventy. A mile west of the zoo, they spotted a dirt road, nothing more than an old logging trail really, but Sturm shifted into four-wheel-drive without slowing down and they lurched and bounced through the brush along a low ridge.

“There’s a pair of binoculars in the glove box,” Sturm said. He took his foot off the gas, letting the pickup slowly roll to a stop on its own. “Don’t need a goddamn cloud of dust against the sun advertising us,” he explained.

Frank handed Sturm the binoculars and they climbed out. Sturm came around to the passenger side and settled his elbows on the softly ticking hood, forming a steady tripod as he peered into the binoculars.

Frank watched the zoo with his naked eyes, hands in his pockets, as the desert wind billowed the suit against his frame like hanging sheets in a hurricane. He couldn’t see a whole lot of detail. The huge compound, maybe fifteen or twenty acres, was spread out like a prickly fungus in the desert. Thin roads meandered through piles of scrap metal. They were too far away to even hear the animal cries. “See anything?” he finally broke down and asked.