Jeff Jacobson - Foodchain

The blood was collected in a five-gallon bucket. When the blood slowed to a couple of drips a minute, Sturm lifted the nearly full bucket with difficulty, and spilled some over the side as he dragged it back from under the tiger’s head. Using a rubber mallet, he pounded a plastic lid onto the bucket, and lifted it into the Jeep.

The taxidermist went to work. He pulled out a two-inch folding knife and slit the tiger’s skin, from the direct center of the gaping throat wound down between the back legs to the anus without spilling any of the intestines. Some blood got into the fur, but not much, Frank noted with professional interest. Everything was still held inside, inside a wet sack wrapped in white webbing. The taxidermist gracefully sliced around the tiger’s penis and lifted the bottom half of the entire sagging sack out of the animal. After another couple of drags of the knife up inside, he eased the whole sack out and dumped it into another bucket. Sturm knocked a lid on that one too.

Frank couldn’t get used to the fact that here they were, butchering an actual tiger in the middle of Main Street, in the center of town, and they hadn’t seen anyone else. Just the taxidermist. No one driving through town. No one pushing a stroller along the sidewalk. Nobody even poking their head out to see what the shooting was about. The town must have been emptier than he had first thought, and suddenly realized that he could be standing in the middle of a genuine western ghost town.

But then Pine and Chuck came back with an ice chest full of beer and Frank stopped worrying about the rest of the town. Beer was passed out and the hunt was retold, over and over. Whenever Sturm tilted his head back to laugh, Frank couldn’t help but notice how his open, curling mouth matched the scar on the back of his skull.

“Christ,” Sturm snapped his fingers. “Damn near forgot. “Chuck, you and Frank better go collect Bob. Won’t be long before the buzzards and coyotes are all over him. Think you can find him again?”

* * * * *

Chuck followed the tiger’s trail, back through town, past the Glouck’s and the gas station, back through the ranch. From there, he kept the tires in the two parallel lines mashed down through the field where the Jeep had come before. Chuck drove easily, left elbow cocked on the open window frame, steering with his fingertips, beer bottle in his right fist. He’d wedge the bottle in his crotch whenever he had to shift; this was a smooth, effortless motion, as if he’d practiced it a thousand times.

“Where you from again? Thought I heard Pine say Chicago,” Chuck said.

“Not exactly Chicago. Born in Texas, then moved up to just south of the city.”

“And now you’re in California. Hell, you been all over. Me? I been out of the county once,” Chuck said. He sounded proud, like he was thirteen and champion of the fights. Frank thought he had said country, until Chuck explained, “Went down to San Francisco once, on a field trip. What a goddamn shithole. Never had any urge to go back.”

When they passed through Sturm’s back yard, Fairfax was sitting on a pile of dirt, dangling his feet in the hole, staring at the corpse of the dog in the lawn. His face and bald spot was the color of a ripe tomato. He didn’t look up or wave as they passed.

They came upon Pine’s truck and the reinforced horse trailer. “Can we make it all the way back there through the creek?”

“I don’t think so. Gets pretty tight in spots.”

“Then we’ll have to pull him out the hard way.” Chuck steered out of the creek bed and kept following the Jeep tracks. “So. You never said. What did you think of Annie?” He grinned, but the muscles behind the smile didn’t have much of a handle on all that slack skin, so it was like two midgets trying to pull back a heavy felt theater curtain.

Frank shrugged, managed a small “Yeah,” trying to make it sound casual. His jaw was clenched and his neck felt tight. “It was nothing,” he added, letting his eyes go blank and dead.

“Nah. That girl ain’t nothing,” Chuck insisted. “She’s something, all right. I spent more than I care to remember on that mouth. Boy oh boy. She’ll—“

“There.” Frank pointed, and down below was the dead pine.

* * * * *

Vultures were already circling overhead. Bronson’s body looked like someone had gone after him for a long time with a dull axe. “Least he’s in one piece,” Chuck said. First, they tried to drag him back up the tree, but the sagging, heavy body, already slick with blood, kept rolling off the log whenever they had to go around a branch. Next, they tried dragging him up the sandy cliff, but the corpse was simply too heavy and the soil too loose.

“Fuck this,” Chuck said, panting and blinking sweat from his eyes. “Wait here.” He climbed back up the tree and a minute later, a rope came tumbling over the edge of the cliff. Chuck’s wide face appeared at the top. “Tie that around his ankles or something. Something that won’t come off. Not that I give a fuck, but I suppose it would be better if we didn’t have to drag him up twice.”

Frank knotted the rope around Bronson’s expensive boots, then climbed back up to Chuck. The other end of the rope had been tied the other end to the trailer hitch. They opened a fresh beer, and Chuck simply put the truck in first gear and drove slowly straight out into the field. Frank kept an eye on the side mirror, and when he saw Bronson’s flopping, rolling body, Chuck circled back around.

* * * * *

When they got back to the ranch, Sturm had just finished wrapping the dead Lab in a white sheet. Theo, Jack, and Pine stood back at a respectful distance, heads down, giving the man some time to say goodbye to his dog. Fairfax was on his knees, streaks of dried tears slashing through the dirt on his cheeks. Every once in a while, his back would hitch and shudder, but he’d force the sob back down. The man was probably counting the seconds until he could get the hell back to Sacramento.

But when Chuck dropped the tailgate and Fairfax got a look at Bronson’s body, Fairfax’s face looked like he’d just jumped in a tub of ice water. He popped up, jowls quivering, eyes blinking furiously.

Sturm stood as well, wiping his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“Oh my god. What happened to him?” Fairfax pointed at Bronson, in case anyone was confused. “Do you stupid fucking hicks have any idea who this man is?”

“Watch your mouth,” Sturm warned in a low voice. “That man was a friend of mine, that’s who he is. Me and Bob been drinking and shooting since before you sucked on your mommy’s teat.”

But Fairfax wasn’t listening. “You ignorant goddamn hillbillies. I cannot believe you let this happen.”

“His own goddamn fault,” Jack pointed out. “Should’ve paid more attention. He had a rifle. Wasn’t like he was hunting ducks or something.” Pine and Chuck nodded.

Fairfax blinked even harder, as if Jack had just unzipped his jeans and pissed all over Bronson’s corpse. “You…You have no idea how much trouble you are in. All of you.”

And then, faster than Fairfax could blink, Sturm snatched the shovel off the ground and in one savage jab, thrust its blade into Fairfax’s throat. Everyone flinched. The pitted blade sliced cleanly through Fairfax’s heavy jowls and scraped along his jawbone with a sound like a claw hammer striking ice. Sturm didn’t stop until the shovel hit the artery; bright, thick blood squirted out, coating the blade, the handle, and the lawn. Fairfax’s knees wobbled and he waved his arms around like a toddler learning to walk. Sturm guided Fairfax sideways about five feet, until Fairfax fell into the dog’s grave. The blade came free with a wet, squelching sound and Fairfax hit the dirt at the bottom with a solid thud. He feebly waved his hands around like a potato bug on its back for a few more seconds, but the movement gradually subsided as more blood soaked into the black dirt under his head.