Prelude to a Predator: Part III

He’s down there, I know he is, I just don’t know where.  But I also know that he won’t come out unless I’m gone.  So I play it normal, I make my passes and when I get to my last one I flip on the camouflage cameras and the Sky Fox disappears into the sky.

And then I wait.

I wait until the driver of the old red beater thinks it’s safe to come out and play.

It doesn’t take long.  And suddenly I’m tailing him again and he’s leading me to his hideout.

I just have to wait, and pray I’m not too late to save his prisoner from death…or the madness bred by human cruelty, seething from the madman behind the wheel of the truck which is turning into JimBob’s Wildwood.

 

I tell the Sky Fox to land behind a nearby row of tall, shielding jack pines then I exit the craft, leaping to the tallest of the pines to survey the old roadside zoo, founded by naturalist partners James “Jim” Wilde and Robert “Bob” Wood.  JimBob’s Wildwood was a popular tourist trap just a year ago and as far as roadside animal attractions went, it was a well maintained, clean and respectable one.  But as the push for animal rights came to shove, more and more tourists who normally would’ve stopped to feed the bears, just kept driving and eventually, JimBob’s closed.  The animals were relocated, some were even reintroduced into the wild, or so I’d heard, and the humans who’d cared for them were out of a job.  Shortly after the business failed, Bob Wood croaked from the pressure and left everything to Jim—including the debt.  That was the last I’d heard about any of it. 

I’d nearly overlooked Jim as a suspect, I just couldn’t grasp the possibility that he had become this man I was stalking.  I’d been going to JimBob’s since I was a child…I’d planned to bring my son here when he was a little older and could remember.  I’d even met Jim and Bob a time or two—they both seemed like good people, but as I was learning, apparently madness could envelope even the best of us.  And though it’s possible that this whole thing is just a coincidence, it’s also possible that the man I knew as James Wilde snapped long ago with the dissolution of his business and the death of his business partner.

Pine pitch clumps the synthetic fur of my mane as I tap the temple of my mask, switching the lenses of my cowl to eagle vision and I peer down at the landscape below but I don’t see isn’t what I expect.  As I gaze down at the abandoned complex surrounded by fencing, I finally see the truth of what this place is, or was, for the first time.  It’s long kept secrets spill out to me—this place was a prison.  From the overgrown courtyard that was once home to overweight birds and mammals who’d flock to greet new arrivals who’d feed them corn and seed because that was all they had in their lives, to the main building that held a gift shop that peddled cheap plastic toy animals with smiles painted on their faces that held little resemblance to the animals imprisoned there, and then there was the “education center” that taught nothing but lies about conservation and environmentalism, encouraging kids to come back again and support other prisons just like it; to the empty, rusted cages that once held larger attractions—jungle cats and wolves who had no business being behind bars while their human captors, the animals who really deserve to be behind bars, profited off their misery.  And suddenly I realize how wrong I was to ever pay money to visit this place—to have supported the isolation and misrepresentation of environmentalism these types of places promote.  And I’m thankful my son will never have to see an animal so neglected and tortured, separated from others of their kind for the glorification of some greedy human’s pocket book.

Money really is the root of all evil.  And as the dominant species on the planet, we humans don’t understand that just because we buy something doesn’t necessarily make it ours.

Because those lives we buy shouldn’t even be for sale in the first place.

A loud, metallic clanging fills my ears and draws my eyes to the rear of the main building, to the loading bay.  And that’s where I see it parked, backed into one of the loading docks.

Jim’s old red beater of a truck. 

Though I can’t see what he’s taking out of it I figure it’s the cub.

I have to work fast, so I switch my lenses back to normal, push off the tree and float down towards the large dome skylight that will serve as my access point.

 

I peer down inside the main building through the skylight, it’s dark and what little light there is inside is obscured by floating dust particles.  I switch my lenses to snake vision to try and pick up Jim’s heat signature but to no avail.  I try to tell myself that it’s safe to enter because I don’t see Jim but a much bigger part of me seems to whisper that just because I can’t see him, doesn’t mean he’s not there.  But time is short so I decide to go in anyway. 

I flick my wrist just right to make my claw extensions detract from my fingertips and place the blades against the glass and apply a little pressure, then I soundlessly etch out a square large enough to send me through.  A barely audible, dull THUD echoes down the dismal corridors as my feet hits the tile.  Now that I’m in complete darkness I switch to owl vision, hoping that will reveal something I’ve otherwise missed.

And it does.

But for the second time today, what I see is not what I expect.

I’m face to face with the head of a bison, easily bigger than the area from the top of my head to my hips.  I brace for impact and when it doesn’t come I carefully open my eyes and realize the Great Plains walker isn’t trampling me because it is not alive.

Not anymore.  Its eyelids have been removed and gashes litter the stuffed face.  Right next to it is a smaller bison, most likely the other one’s child, it’s equally mutilated.  It’s face forever frozen in time with fear.  Slowly I look away at the other walls that surround me like a crypt and all I can see are faces.  All hollow and vacant, emotionless and still.

Dead.

Bears and deer and raccoons and rabbits and wolves and geese and moose and cats and dogs and…the list just goes on.  Maybe it’s the darkness, the vacant halls or all the death that surrounds me but I swear I can hear the ghosts of these animals echoing the calls they made in life down the dismal passage.  I keep walking but Jim’s collection just goes on and on and on, it follows me like death follows all of us. 

And the question plagues me—how long has he been at this?  How have I not noticed?  And then I reach a new area of the tomb, one that answers all my questions.  The other area held native animals, this new area was exotic creatures.  Polar bears and penguins…something only JimBob’s Wildwood would have.  And suddenly I realize what actually happened to the animal residents who used to call this prison home.

The animals Jim owned.

The animals Jim was supposed to care for and relocate after the place closed.

He killed them.

He killed them all, then he strung them up on display like a serial killer would the necklace of his victim so he could enjoy it whenever the feeling moved him.

I feel my legs shaking, my knees buckling and I ease myself to the floor right before the final exhibit down this hallway.  It’s obviously the jewel of Jim’s sadism.

His name was Twinkles.

He was my favorite resident to visit when I used to come here.

He was a Tortoise, Galapagos specifically.  His huge, 120 year old shell had held so much history—how much had this old boy seen?  I used to ask myself.

Now the shell only held dust and knife scars.  But that wasn’t the worst part. 

Twinkles’ shell was empty and the tortoise that used to bring me so much joy now lay next to it, curled up in a twisted and permanent sculpture of pain.

A piece inside of me snapped and I slumped to the floor, too paralyzed by shame to move.

 

Jim Wilde led the Bear cub into the building through the back entrance with his animal control pole, needlessly tightening the noose around the cub’s neck, just for the fun of it.  This was the part, right before the kill, where the killers in Jim’s horror movies would usually reminisce about his other kills and his life—all the moments that had ultimately led him here to this moment when he’d take another life.

But he didn’t.

But none of that really mattered anyway.

Because in any case, this bear was going to die and no amount of revisiting the past on a mental psychiatrist’s couch was going to save either one of them.  In fact, when Jim caught one of his horror idols doing such a thing he’d always seen it as a weakness and felt that was what distinguished him from the rest.   It’s what had convinced him to first go hunting—he wanted to see what it made him feel.  He wanted to know if he’d have that moment of hesitation, of contemplation before the end.

That was how he knew what he was doing was right.

He felt no remorse for it.

In fact, he felt nothing, after what they had done to his business, his life.  He felt nothing.  For him it was as simple as popping the cap off a pen.

And now it was time to write, so with a slight change of angle and a sharp tug, he increased the tightness of the cord around the cub’s neck.  Soon he’d gasp for air and turn on him and try to fight, but with every movement the cord would tighten and bring the cub closer to eternal hibernation and Jim would be there through all of it.  And when it was over and the little bear went cold, Jim would add him to his collection in the hall. 

He tugged again at the pole and waited for it to happen.

But the bear was young and not quite yet ready to die.

 

Feeling the noose tighten, the cub bides his time, he has a few more tugs before his lungs run out of air and he needs the collar to be tighter for his plan to work.  The control pole the human was using to guide him was made for an animal much smaller or much weaker than him, a wolf perhaps?  It didn’t matter, the only thing that did was that the cub could feel it stretching to its breaking point, and if he struggled just a little bit the human would tighten it once more, just enough to…the cub halfheartedly tries to spin around on his captor and when he does, the human tightens the noose as far as it goes.  Inside the bear smiles then he flexes his neck muscles and the noose cutting off his air supply snaps.

Now he wholeheartedly spins around on his captor whose face is paler than the cub’s tongue on a day without water.  The human stares at the broken harness in his hands, bewildered.  The cub grumbles a low growl—the human has no other weapon, nothing more to threaten or torture him with.

The cub knows this is his chance.

The cub knows he must take it.

And as the cub pounces on the human who’d forced him to watch his mother’s murder, a terrified cry breaks the stunned silence of the complex.

 

I jump up from the cold, dusty tile floor of the main building, a bloodcurdling scream forces me back to the here and now. 

I’m too late…but for whom?  The scream came from a human.  I dash down the hall I’d first heard the echoing horror come from and pass a sign that says: “Loading Bay”.  I kick the door open and burst through the threshold, ready for anything expect for what I find.

The cub is at the end of the hall, trying to figure out how to escape through the door and Jim is lying on the floor in a pool of blood.  I rush to his side and he moans weakly. 

“Don’t worry.”  The Jargon interprets the cub’s growls from down the corridor.  “He’ll live.”  He says as he roams closer.

“His hands.”  I say, mortified.  “You bit off his hands!” 

 “And he’s lucky that’s all I took after what he did to me.” The cub says with a nod. 

I return the gesture, “I know, I found your mother and I’m surprised you stopped at the hands.”

“Death is too good for this one.”  The cub tells me.  “I just wanted to know that he’ll never be able to do this to another living creature.”

I admire the cub’s restraint—I’ve wanted to do worse to people who’ve cut me off in traffic. 

Revenge is truly a human invention and we wield it like a light switch because it’s easier than feeling our way around through the darkness to get to the light.

“So what happens now?”  The cub asks.  “Shouldn’t I be euthanized now that I’ve tasted human blood?”

I shake my head.  “Now that you’ve tasted it, I can’t imagine you’d ever want it again.  Humans are the only creatures hypocritical enough to deem cannibalism a crime then revel in its own bloodlust.”

The bear cub’s ears perk up as the sound of encroaching sirens fills our heads.  “I should be going.”  The cub says and turns to leave. 

I rise from the floor and Jim reaches for me with his gruesome nubs.  I ignore his feeble plea and approach the cub.  “Before you go I have something for you.”  I say, slowly reaching into my utility belt.  I withdraw a head band big enough to accommodate the cub’s, even now, at so young, massive head.

“Do you really think it’s wise to give me something that’s make me stick out?”  The cub asks.  “I’ll soon be a fugitive, remember?”

“I do.”  I tell him.  “But this is a biodegradable bandage, it’ll fall off in a day or so.  It’s been soaked in a special, all natural solution I’ve invented for rapid healing and regeneration.  You should have eyelids again by tomorrow evening, considering the nerve endings are not too badly damaged and you keep this on until then.”  I explain.  When the cub nods I move in to wrap his forehead in it.

“Thank you.”  The cub wuffles. 

“I wish I could’ve done more.”  I say, remembering the cub’s mother and the countless other victim’s I met in the hall.  I finish the knot and stand back up.

“You did all you could.”  The bear explains as I open the door for him.  He looks back at me and smiles the odd smile of a bear as the evening light spreads across his back like a warm embrace.  “…if more humans did that, the world wouldn’t need you.”

“Then I’ll pray for that day to come, my friend.”  And with that, the cub nods then strolls out of the building that would’ve been his tomb.  The door shuts and I’m alone with Jim who’s glaring at me from the floor with a look that could’ve soured milk, “ah c’mon there Jimbo.  I taunt, taking a page from his book and rubbing salt to the wound, “all my work and a happy ending to boot and I don’t even get a round of applause from you?  Not even one clap of your hands?  Oh wait,” I say, getting right down into his face, motioning at his bloody stubs with a polite tilt of my head.  “That’s right, I forgot.”

 

This is a work of fiction but animal cruelty is very real.  99% percent of serial killers first experimented on animals before acting out the same fantasies on human beings.  If you know of anyone who has or is torturing or killing an animal please let someone know immediately.

It is not a phase.

It is not “boys being boys.”

It could be the start of something much worse.

Thank you for reading this post.