Jeff Jacobson - Foodchain

“To the prey,” the men echoed in voices that were swallowed by the wind, raised their glasses and drank.

* * * * *

They gathered their guns. Rifles mostly, but a couple of shotguns could be seen. They headed out across the field in a wide line, eyes on the truck and horse trailer. The sun threw their shadows behind them, thin and impossibly long, like scarecrows marching across the field, eyes sparkling like their cars in the sun.

Sturm came riding out in an Army surplus open jeep. Theo was driving fast, and threw up a cloud of dust that hung in the late evening air like a blood red fog. Theo stood up in the driver’s seat and rested his rifle, a thin, ancient lever-action rifle on the windshield. It was a .405 Winchester and Theo’s namesake had called this particular caliber “lion medicine.”

The men clustered in a ragged semi-circle, all eyes on the trailer.

When Theo signaled that he was ready, Pine threw the bolt with a quick jerk and Frank yanked on the rope tied to the gate. But nothing happened as the gate swung wide in the swirling crimson dust. Theo fired anyway. The .400 Nitro Express shell sent the solid copper bullet ricocheting off the bolt at the top of the gate, splitting it wide open. The gate tilted wildly as it crashed into the dirt.

The recoil put Theo in the back seat of the Jeep.

A short laugh burst out of Chuck, but a sharp look from Sturm killed the rest in Chuck’s throat.

Pine, the poor bastard that had had to open the gate, didn’t think it was funny either, though for different reasons. The falling gate had nearly snapped his wrist, twisting his entire body sideways, and leaving him in the dirt. At first, he’d thought it was the lioness, busting out of the trailer and landing on the gate. But when he picked himself up and danced around trying to look everywhere at once, he finally saw the lioness, still crouched inside the horse trailer. Then he got pissed. “What…the fuck I’m gonna sonofabitch me that goddamn time it never happened mother stumping fuck,” he blurted in a machine gun fire of hoarse words and came stomping up to the Jeep. “That was goddamn close.”

“Settle down,” Sturm said. “Bullet missed you by three, four feet.”

Theo got out of the Jeep, ignoring his father and Pine, stalking the lioness. Everybody else took that as their cue; safeties were snapped off, bolts were thrown and locked, sweaty fingers caressed trigger guards. Theo slowly and methodically put each step in front of the other, as if he was creeping up on some strange house for a game of Ding Dong Ditch, and approached the back of the horse trailer in exaggerated slowness, rifle held straight up in front of him.

By now Sturm and Pine had stopped arguing, and were both hastily getting their own guns ready. Sturm carried a Ballard single shot High Wall 1885 reproduction rifle, while Pine had his father’s M-1 Garand.

Theo froze when he saw the lioness, still coiled in the back of the trailer, dry and dusty and frozen in place like the great Sphinx. Theo straightened, gently but firmly tucking the butt of his rifle into his shoulder, and waited. The lioness didn’t move. Theo kept waiting, still as a stop sign at high noon. The dust sifted and fell over everything, leaching out of the air and onto any available surface. Theo coughed. The lioness only moved her eyes, watching the boy.

Theo coughed again and spit. Then he shot the lioness in her lower jaw. The big cat slammed into the wall, hind legs kicking in agony.

The Winchester’s kick knocked Theo back a few steps, but he stayed on his feet.

The lioness wouldn’t stop shaking her head, as if she could shake off the beast that had torn her dangling jaw loose.

“Finish her off this next time, okay?” Sturm said through lips drawn thin and tight.

It took Theo four more rounds to kill the lioness. He missed just once.

Blood collected in the horse shit at the bottom of the trailer and slid down the inclined floor, dripping out and collecting in a small puddle in the sandy soil. Theo walked back to the Jeep. Everyone climbed in and Pine started the truck. He drove back to the barn, following the Jeep.

They gutted the lioness and hung her upside down on a beam in the shade on the north side of the barn.

* * * * *

As promised, the abalone was served promptly at eight. The dinner was quite different than the town’s potluck. A long table was brought out to the deck and draped with a white linen tablecloth. Genuine silver utensils flanked antique pewter plates. Candles were lit. The abalone, pounded flat, then breaded and fried, was served with pasta and sautéed tomatoes and green peppers. Pungent garlic bread completed the meal. The men left their beers in the deck railing and drank chilled white wine with dinner.

The sun finally sank behind Mount Shasta, cooling the temperature somewhat, but it was still like sitting in an oven that had just been turned off. There was no wind.

“Gentlemen,” Bronson stood after eating five abalone and raised a toast to Sturm. “That was about as fine a meal as I’ve had in a long time.” He pushed himself away from the table. “But…if you’ll excuse me. Believe I’ve got some urgent business that needs my attention upstairs.”

And with that, he escorted all three women into the house.

“He gets all three at once?” Chuck asked under his breath.

“Can you pay for all three at once?” Pine asked. “Then there ya go. Quit your bitching. You’ll get your turn.”

Cards were brought out. Cigars were lit from the candles. Frank was happy to sit back and watch. He didn’t have any cash on him, and card games moved too fast for him. He couldn’t count the diamonds or spades and with Jack dealing, he didn’t stand much hope of winning anyways. Besides, he had a plastic two-liter bottle of Coke mostly full of cheap dark rum that needed his attention.

Fairfax walked around barefoot in the cool grass, giving his feet a break from the new cowboy boots.

Sturm folded his arms across his chest and pursed his lips at the card players. “This ain’t gambling. This is luck. Gambling should hinge on skill, stamina, knowledge in some competitive test or challenge. Not random chance.”

“Aw, you’re just sore ’cause you got beat bad last time,” Pine blurted. He’d drank his way through a twelve pack. Out in the yard, Fairfax laughed, a quick little hiccup, but everyone else froze, watching the table.

Sturm snorted, then finally chuckled. “Shit. You might be right.”

The pimp with the mustache lasted five hands. Disgusted, he grabbed a drink and sat next to Frank. By that time, Bronson had come downstairs, face even redder than usual, grinning from ear to ear. “Whoooo-weeeee. I’m telling you, every one of them sweet young things could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch if you paid her enough. Deal me in, boys.”

* * * * *

By eleven, the table was littered with cash, cigars, beer cans, empty wine bottles, and tumblers full of ice and whiskey and tequila and bourbon. Bronson carried a bottle of some kind of Scotch that no one had ever heard of. He gave each of the men a splash but kept the rest of the bottle to himself.

The pimp was telling Frank about the screenplay he was working on. “It’s gonna be awesome, right? You ever see ‘The Mack’?” Frank had seen a total of fourteen or fifteen movies in his life. ‘The Mack’ wasn’t one of them. “No? It’s okay. Doesn’t matter. See, it’s about this fucking badass player, man, who has the baddest, finest women. Ten of ’em, you know what I’m saying? They’re hoes, right, but get this, they’re also these ultra-deadly assassins too, you know what I’m saying? Fucking international assassins, man. All over the world. Fucking and killing men. It’s got that whole sex and death thing going on. The girls, they fuck the boys, then, then the kicker is that, they kill ’em, man, they slay ’em. With guns and knives and shit. The money guys like that. I’ve already got a guy in Vegas ready to hook me up with a producer. It’s gonna be fucking awesome, with fucking explosions and shit, man, fucking sword fighting too, you know what I’m saying, man? And hard-core sex too, man. Gonna fucking go through the roof, you know what I’m saying?” He ambled over to the table. “You guys got any wine coolers?”