Jeff Jacobson - Foodchain

“Suppose the tiger doesn’t head father into the creek,” Frank said. “Suppose it decides to head the other way. What then?”

Sturm mulled that over. Frank could see he wanted to dismiss that possibility, but after the last two hunts, he’d realized these goddamn big cats were unpredictable, to say the least. “Shit.” He nodded. “Shit.”

“Looks like we need a dog is all,” Bronson said. “Tell you what. Frank here, he’s the expert, why don’t you drive the tiger up in there.”

“What do you suggest I use? Foul language?”

Sturm snapped his fingers. “Rock salt.” He went to the Jeep and started digging around in the tool box. “Get your shotgun.” Frank’s Winchester was resting in the gun rack of the pickup along with Pine’s M-1. Sturm held up a fistful of .12 gauge shells. “Loaded these last year, after I caught a couple of them fucking Gloucks on my property. Just rock salt. Won’t kill anything bigger’n a squirrel, but it’ll sure sting like a sonofabitch.”

“There we go. Problem solved,” Bronson said.

“Yeah,” Frank said, pumping the shotgun, spitting out the lethal shells. He didn’t sound convinced. He put the shells in his shirt pockets, just in case, and reloaded the shotgun with the new loads.

Sturm handed Pine a walkie-talkie. “When we get in place, you let it loose. But not before I tell you, got it?” Everybody piled in the Jeep. Sturm drove this time.

* * * * *

Pine said, “Well. Don’t that suck donkey dick.”

“Yeah.” Frank took a gulp from his flask and passed it to Pine. In this kind of sun, he’d found that an ice cold glass of fresh squeezed orange juice with two fifths of Appleton Estate Jamaican Rum was better than just about anything. But today the raw Jack Daniels worked damn near as well. They crouched in the sliver of shade of the horse trailer and passed the flask back and forth for a while, not saying much.

The walkie-talkie beeped. “Let her rip.”

Pine wouldn’t look at Frank. “Good luck.”

Frank checked for about the hundredth time that the safety was off and there was a fresh shell in the chamber. He backed slowly away, dull black shotgun heavy and slick in his sweaty fingers. Inside the trailer, the tiger was quiet as death.

Pine sidled along the trailer. Once there, he nodded at Frank, then kicked open the bottom gate, ripped the duct tape away from the top hinge, and let the gate fall open. He dropped to his stomach and wriggled backward under the trailer. Frank raised the shotgun.

The tiger exploded from the back of the trailer and went for him.

Frank aimed low, tracking the blur of black, orange, and white, and when the tiger was fifteen feet away, he fired. The blast sent a spray of stinging salt and sand up into the tiger’s face. The cat immediately threw itself sideways, hissing and spitting. Frank felt sorry for the creature as it glared at him for a moment, seemed to consider trying for him again, then ran off, deeper into the creek, towards Bronson.

“That was goddamn close and I ain’t shitting you at all,” Pine hollered from under the trailer.

“Yeah,” Frank said.

The walkie-talkie beeped again. “Tell Frank to make sure that tiger keeps going. Don’t want it laying low in some bushes, got it?”

* * * * *

Frank jacked a new shell into the chamber and started across the white rocks, slowly following the tiger. The cliffs on either side grew taller and closed in. The shadows grew deeper, darker. White chalky crust gave way to damp sand and slippery, slick green algae, down where the sun never hit. Stiff, brittle bushes began to choke the creek bed. Frank clutched the shotgun, trying to look everywhere at once, watching for the tiger and Bronson. He didn’t want to get eaten, but he sure as hell didn’t want to get shot either.

When he reached the spot where the creek widened, he stopped, then crouched low, wedging himself into a tangle of bushes draped with dried moss and dead tree limbs. His eyes flickered back and forth, searching for movement. The wide spot, maybe twenty yards across, had been bisected with a rotting pine tree, a victim of the surging waters. The soil around the roots had washed away, and some years earlier it had toppled over into the creek. Now it was lying at a downward angle across a stretch of flat, smooth stones. Thick bushes dotted the crumbling cliffs. He couldn’t see the tiger anywhere. He glanced up at the top of the cliffs, but couldn’t see Sturm or Chuck or Pine or anybody else.

Thirty yards away, at the far end, Bronson clomped into view, his head just a turnip jammed into the shoulders of a safari jacket. The man couldn’t sneak up on Sturm’s dead Lab. When he reached the log, he straddled it and rested, wiping the sweat from his brow. At first, he held his rifle ready, slowly swiveling his head back and forth, scanning for the tiger. But as the minutes ticked by, Frank watched the man’s patience erode like the dirt under the pine tree. Bronson set the rifle next to him and lit a cigar.

As Bronson exhaled the first plume of blue smoke, Frank saw the tiger. It had somehow materialized out of the bushes under the pine tree, up near the bank, and was now creeping down the rotting log towards Bronson; an undulating orange and black caterpillar, inching through the jutting, jagged branches with infinite patience.

Frank watched, frozen with fascination. Somewhere, way back in the dim shadows of his conscience, he knew he should shoot, shout, something. But he couldn’t bring himself to move, because that voice, the same voice that urged him to put the red-haired woman out of her grief and misery was now whispering, in biting, chopping words, that Bronson deserved whatever happened.

A half second later, it was too late for Frank to do anything anyway. The tiger, fifteen feet from Bronson, launched itself down the log and hit him like a locomotive going off a cliff. The force knocked Bronson flat, slamming him onto the smooth rocks; an instant later, the massive teeth crunched together at the back of Bronson’s neck. His limbs flopped and shuddered, then wilted and lay still in an awkward pose that could never be achieved in life.

The tiger lifted its head and stared through the underbrush, locking eyes with Frank. It knew he had been there the entire time. It bent back to Bronson’s body, clamped down on his left shoulder, and dragged him under the log, shaking the man’s body like a German Shepard breaking a rabbit’s neck.

* * * * *

Frank let the tiger eat for a while. He figured the tiger deserved a taste of its kill. But he knew that Sturm and the others would be wondering what the hell had happened, and he sure as shit didn’t want to be answering some tough questions. So he stood, taking his time, letting the tiger watch him, then fired, aiming at the rocks near Bronson’s feet. Like before, the blast sent stinging flecks of salt and rocks up towards the tiger. It wriggled backwards, leaped onto the log, and shot up it. When the tiger hit the top, it leaped, easily clearing the snarled mass of roots. It landed effortlessly in the dry grass at the top of the cliff and disappeared.

Frank pumped and fired again, this time at the cliff, just for the men listening. He ran across the gravel and climbed up the pine log, following the tiger as best as he could. He was halfway up when gunfire exploded into the pale sky. By the time he’d managed to work his way through the mess of roots, the Jeep was waiting for him.

“Where’s Bronson?” Sturm demanded from the passenger seat.

Frank shook his head.

“Shit. Shit!” Sturm slapped the dash. By now, the tiger was just a speck, moving fast in an easy, loping run through Sturm’s ranch. “C’mon!” he shouted at Frank. “Into the Jeep! Go! Go!” Frank scrambled up the loose sand and hopped in the Jeep with everyone else. Theo popped the clutch and roared off, following the edge of creek, mimicking the twisting and cutbacks of the gash in the land with uncanny skill. Everyone just tried to hang on.