Jeff Jacobson - Foodchain

He went looking for Sturm and saw the poster instead.

It was up near the vending machines, tacked up over the maps. Frank recognized the trucker’s face from over fifteen feet away. Glancing around, he saw that the posters had been put up everywhere. Something cold grabbed at his heart. People pushed past, ignoring the poster and Frank. He went and stood next to it, pretending to study the map. Above the stark red “INFORMATION WANTED” was a grainy, black and white picture of the trucker’s face, apparently from his driver’s license. Below, it read, “Please contact the Nevada State Police with any information regarding the death of Randall James Stark, 32, murdered on August 13th.” There was a phone number, but Frank had turned away, ice spreading throughout his body despite the sizzling midday temperature. Three men in three days.

When he finally looked up, he saw Sturm, on the far side of the rest stop, taking down one of the posters, carefully folding it and stowing it safely away in the inside pocket of his duster.

* * * * *

Someone yelled. Frank heard honking and saw a woman wave a chicken nugget towards one of Sturm’s trucks at the far end of the parking lot. The two chimps were scrambling across the top of the trailer in their swaying, bowlegged run. They swung down from the exhaust stack, nimbly scurrying away from a diving tackle from Jack, and darted across the parking lot before disappearing behind another truck.

Frank half-jogged through the vehicles and met up with the clowns. The chimps had taken off in a loping run through the sprinklers and across a dry field beyond the rest stop. Chuck burst around the corner of the trailer, panting, holding a rifle. He jerked it to his shoulder, but Sturm stopped him with a sharp whistle. They turned, and saw Sturm standing at the edge of the parking lot, maybe thirty yards away. He shook his head, patted the air in front of him.

Chuck mumbled, “Shit,” under his breath and lowered the rifle, looking around to see if anyone had seen him. But everyone’s attention was focused on the bounding figures, now just hazy specks in the distance.

Frank inspected the trailer doors. One was slightly ajar, but the rest of the monkeys were still sleeping soundly, bound in their canvas sacks. He had no idea how the chimps had managed to get the door open, and he wondered how pissed this would make Sturm. And even if it did affect his final payment, Frank was glad the chimps had escaped. He wished them luck as he refastened the wide doors. Pine didn’t waste any time jumping in the cab and pulling away, just to avoid any questions. He’d wait for the rest of the trucks farther down the road.

The rest of the afternoon and evening passed quietly. Sturm went and picked up some burgers and fries and brought them back for the clowns. A flask was surreptitiously passed around, scratching the itch in the back of Frank’s throat. He even managed to forget about the poster of the dead trucker in Sturm’s pocket for a while.

* * * * *

Around ten that night, they started leaving in fifteen-minute intervals. Somewhere before the border, the trucks left the freeway and followed a series of dusty gravel roads that cut through farm fields. Frank felt exhaustion creeping through him, filling his pores like spongy seaweed that was revealed at low tide after the high, surging adrenaline-filled waters had receded. He stared out at the moonlit fields, watching the sprinklers, giant wheels, each connected by a long, thin axle, slowly rolling across the alfalfa fields, feebly spitting out warm water, turning slower than the second hand of Sturm’s pocket watch. Frank’s head bobbled with the rhythm of the dirt roads, and he finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, sleeping even through the twisting, turning logging roads where the trucks crossed over the mountains.

DAY FIVE

Frank finally woke around noon, still slumped in the front seat of the truck, steeped in sweat that smelled bad enough to bring tears to his eyes. It felt as if he’d spent the past few months jammed tight inside a greasy garbage can. Gingerly rolling the kinks out of his neck, he crawled out of the sweltering cab and shielded his eyes from a merciless sun that hung directly overhead. After spending a few moments unpeeling the suit from his damp skin, he realized that he was alone in the auction yard parking lot. He was glad the clowns had let him sleep, even though the inside of the truck had become an oven.

Thirst hit him like a sledgehammer. He found a coiled hose along the wall, but the water that came out was damn near scalding. After a few minutes though, he got to the water that had been waiting under the heavy stone foundation, and it gradually turned crisp and blissfully cool. Frank tried not to gulp at it and in the end just held it over his head. To hell with the expensive suit. It wouldn’t take long to dry in this heat; besides, he knew he would have to find some new clothes soon.

The cold water shocked his system like lightning striking Frankenstein’s monster, causing him to gasp involuntarily and left him with a big, stupid grin on his face. He kept chugging the water, alternating with letting it cascade down his skull and his back, until finally, he was afraid that if he drank any more he’d just vomit it all back up.

A long deep howl, from somewhere deep in the building, rose into the still air, then silence.

Frank put the hose back and went looking for the clowns.

* * * * *

He didn’t have to go far. They were sitting in front of their trailer, under the awning, at a wooden picnic table that the clowns had stolen from the rest stop. A couple of neon beer signs hummed listlessly in the still air, hung against the trailer between cheap mirrors that bore large cigarette logos. The duct-taped cooler was stowed in the shade under the trailer. Jack was the only one moving, methodically building a pyramid of charcoal briquette in a round BBQ.

“Thought you might be half Indian, way you were sleeping in that cab like it was a kind of sweat lodge,” Pine said. It sounded like he was trying to be friendly, but it came out flat and tired.

Frank grabbed a beer. He sat next to Chuck, decided he couldn’t wait for Jack to finish building the fire, and ate a raw hot dog. With the cold beer, it almost tasted good. “So what’s happening?”

Jack shrugged. “Nothing. We got the animals inside and locked up. Sturm said to let you sleep. We’re supposed to meet him at the fairgrounds, soon as it’s dark. Just to make sure the animals were safe and sound, and to hang tight.”

Pine spit into the dust. Frank watched the saliva roll into a dusty glob and quiver like Jell-O. Heat made the gravel shimmer and dance. They drank slowly, making the beer last, and waited silently. Even Chuck kept his mouth shut. The men watched the shadows slide across the ground, listened to the big cats hiss at each other, and did their damndest to move less than the lizards.

* * * * *

Frank had never seen anything like it. Sturm had invited the entire town, even the Gloucks, out to the fairgrounds where he barbequed the lioness that had died on the journey. At least a hundred people showed up, all carrying something. The women carried food, most of it sacks of potatoes, while the men lugged coolers full of chicken and beer. The children brought water pistols and homemade get-well cards, flaking glitter and raw macaroni shells. Sturm had paid the carnival to stay open an extra day, and so the air was filled with clanking rides, happy shouts and screams, the sickly sweet smells of cotton candy, and wisps of sharp smoke from barbequed meat.

Everyone gathered around a gently curving string of wooden picnic tables under canvas awnings that covered cool concrete slabs. Beyond the shallow semi-circle of tables was a dry creek bed, maybe thirty yards across; useless farmland, overgrown with star thistles, lay on the other side.