Jeff Jacobson - Foodchain

The men gathered around the grave and watched his final movements. Sturm stabbed the shovel into the pile of dirt and flung the soft dirt onto Fairfax’s face. Dirt filled the gaping wound, wide open mouth, and unblinking eyes. When the body was covered, they carefully lowered the dog’s body into the grave, then each took a shovelful and gently sifted dirt onto the white sheet.

They finished filling the grave as the sun slid past the mountains to the west. Sturm left the shovel standing upright in the freshly turned dirt. “We’ll make a cross later. For the dog,” he explained, and looked to the darkening sky.

“Lord,” he began. The others lowered their heads. “Please watch over this animal. She was a damn fine dog. Best hunting companion a man could ask for. All I ask is that you let her play in your fields, chasing rabbits and sniffing for pheasant. Try not to mind if she takes a dump near the back steps of your palace, as she was known to do from time to time. All in all, she was a good girl.” Sturm swallowed, wiped at his eyes again. “She didn’t deserve to go this soon. So please take care of her until I get there. I promise I’ll look after her then.” Sturm turned his head and spit. “And if it’s not too much to ask, drop kick the sonofabitch who sent her to you all the way down to hell. I’m not trying to be sacrilegious here or anything, but I want to hear him screaming when I meet you. Amen.”

Everyone else chimed in with an “Amen.”

Sturm met their eyes. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid this ain’t the only one we have to bury this evening.” He nodded at Bronson’s broken body. “Dumb as he was, Fairfax was right about one thing. We can’t exactly take him back to Sacramento like this. He was a good friend, and we’re gonna send him off into the beyond proper.”

* * * * *

A few hours later, they were ready. Jack had filled the back seat of the Hummer with ammunition and black powder. They propped Bronson up in the passenger seat, with a hat over his face in case anyone on the road got curious. Jack drove the Hummer, following Sturm and Theo in the Jeep. Chuck, Frank, and Pine came up the rear in Chuck’s truck. They headed south, winding their way up into the steep Sierra Nevada mountains. A hundred miles south of Whitewood, Sturm turned off the main highway onto a crumbling logging trail that zig-zagged up a ridge. By now, it was nearing ten or eleven o’clock, so Frank couldn’t see anything. He had to keep swallowing to equalize the pressure in his ears, and realized the altitude must be very high.

Eventually, Sturm angled the Jeep at a right angle to the logging road, headlights fading away into nothingness. They joined Sturm at the edge of the cliff. Jack and Chuck dragged Bronson into the driver’s seat of his Hummer and seatbelted him into place. Pine poured black powder over the shattered corpse, and left two full gas cans in the passenger seat for good measure. They duct-taped a fresh, unlit cigar in Bronson’s mouth and propped his rifle at his side. Pine pulled a bottle of whiskey out of Chuck’s pickup and they all gathered in a tight semi-circle and passed the bottle around for a while.

Chuck shoved a cassette tape into the player in his truck and a second later, the first strains of Kansas’ “Dust in the Wind” drifted out of the open doors.

Sturm opened a tattered, leatherbound Bible and, using the glow from the headlights, and read aloud, throwing his words off the mountain and into the darkness. “And I saw, and look, behold a pale horse; and the one seated upon it was Death. And Hell followed close behind him. And authority was given them over the fourth part of the Earth, to kill with a long sword and with food shortage and with deadly plague and by the wild beasts of the earth. Amen.” Sturm snapped the book shut. “Goodbye, my friend. I’ll be seeing you soon enough. Save a drink for me.” He poured a bit of whiskey over Bronson’s ruined face, screwed the cap on tight, and put it between Bronson’s legs.

Sturm stepped back so Jack could start the Hummer. He left it in park, but jammed the rifle butt against the gas pedal, wedging the muzzle against the dead man’s stomach. The engine rose into a whining snarl, anxious and upset at being held in check. Then, mindful of the flakes of black powder scattered across Bronson like ash, he lit the cigar. Without air being pulled through the cigar, it took a while, but the leaves finally caught. With a nod from Sturm, Jack jerked the stick into ‘Drive.’ The Hummer shot forward into the night. The headlights tilted down, bounced, disappeared, and as they came back up, from underneath and behind this time, shining back up at the men gathered at the road, the Hummer’s interior exploded. Blue flames curled out of the shattered windows and a second later, the gas cans went. The Hummer kept rolling end over end, a snowball of fire, now hundreds of feet down the rock-covered mountain. The temperature inside finally got hot enough to spark off the ammunition. Gunfire crackled into the night, temporarily overshadowing the music.

Everyone took a few steps back from the edge, wary of stray bullets. “Dust in the Wind” kept playing, echoed by the distant explosions below. All in all, Frank thought it was a nice sendoff, a genuine modern Viking funeral. It was kind of cool, really. Still, as he watched the lunatic grinning scar carved into the back of Sturm’s head, bathed in the backwash of the headlights, he felt as if the hunts had been a failure. Two men were dead. Sturm’s dog had been shot.

Sturm turned around.“Gentlemen, that was the finest goddamn funeral I ever attended. When it’s time, I’ve decided I want to go out the same way. Same spot. Put me in my truck and send me down the mountain. Goddamn right. And hell, same music, whatever long-haired hippy band that was. But use more ammunition. I want God to hear me coming.”

DAY EIGHTEEN

Sturm stopped by the vet hospital around noon. Theo was driving, but Sturm made him stay in the pickup for some reason. Frank opened the front door and watched Sturm slowly shuffle up the walk. Something was wrong. Sturm moved as if he couldn’t trust his legs.

“I need to seem them cats,” he said.

Frank nodded, Sturm stumbled and Frank caught his arm. It felt like grabbing a piece of petrified wood. “Dammit,” Sturm said. He seemed ashamed. Frank led him to the back where Sturm leaned against the chain-link cage.

“I think …” Sturm began, looking at the concrete. He brought his gaze up to stare at the lioness curled in the far corner. She ignored the men. “No. No. I don’t have the luxury of thinking anymore. I don’t have the time. I don’t know if this is it or what the hell is happening to me. But I do know this. My boy needs me to teach him before I go. He needs some straightening out, that’s for goddamn sure. All I got left is instinct.”

Frank wondered what the hell Sturm was talking about.

“So I’ve made up my mind,” Sturm continued. And I need your help. I’m gonna go on instinct. You being a vet, you should understand instinct. The way an animal doesn’t have to think, understand?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not running off like some whipped dog to die by myself. That’s no way to die for anybody. I’m gonna go out like a man and teach my boy how to live his life right.”

Frank waited, still unsure where Sturm was headed with all this.

Sturm turned and stared Frank full in the face. His face cracked into a brief, thin smile. “You did well here son. This was a hell of thing.” He faced the cage again. “This one, I don’t want her fed today. I want her hungry. I want her mean.” He licked his dry lips. “This’ll be something folks will remember for the rest of their lives. You were right. This will be my legacy.”