In the Land of Ice & Blood Part II

I crank on the steering mechanism, the tail end of the Crayfish flicks and the craft rounds the bulky underside of an iceberg.  I re-watch the latest Club recording once more and find what I’m looking for.  I flip on my radio again and hail my wife back in Wisconsin. 

“What?”  She asks in that tone that means she’s trying to curl her hair for work, which is a different tone than the one she has for straightening her hair...  I know what you’re thinking: we spend way too much time together.  We even both work at the same place—the D.N.R. office.  Currently I’m sick…or at least that’s what she told Lawson Hunter, our boss, to explain my absence.

“You mean you’re going to work while I’m at home sick?”  I joke. 

“Well one of us has to earn a paycheck, and since you’re off on a Canadian Cruise...”  She returns, not at all amused.  “Now what do you need?  I still have to get Brock to the sitter’s.

She’s not going to like me adding another task to her morning routine but she can yell at me once the Minister is safely away from his under-siege home and I’m back to my home—a little less safe.  “I noticed something before when you sent me that recording, I checked it again to make sure I really saw what I saw.”

“And?”

“And I’m not going crazy.  I’ve isolated the image and took a screenshot of the frame—it should be in your e-mail by now.”

“Ok?”  She said with a muffled voice, which by this time in her morning routine could only mean she had a wad of hair in her mouth while she used her iron on the rest.  “What’d you find?”

“A mistake.”  I reply.  “The Club’s, not mine.  When the leader fired his weapon, the muzzle flash illuminated his face.  It was only for a second but I got a clear image of it and from the sounds of things it’s the only one anyone has of him.  I need you to scan the mug shot into D.A.D. and see if he can find us a name to go along with it.  If we can I.D. him we’re bound to find something in his profile we can use as leverage.”

“So now on top of everything else you expect me try to figure out how to turn that unfinished, oversized microwave in the basement you call a computer on? “

I shrug, I’m thousands of miles away—she can’t hurt me.  “That’s the short, long and narrow of it.”

She grumbles madly, “alright, but you owe me.  I mean you haven’t even installed a power switch on the blooming thing yet, one of these days I’m gonna get zapped!”

“Shocking.”  I chuckle back at her.  “You’ll figure it out.”  Then I switch off the comm. link and turn my attention back to the frigid ocean just in time to dodge beneath an enormous grey whale but I’m too close and the Crayfish gets caught in the currant the massive creature leaves in his wake.  The craft spirals into an underwater tailspin as I fight to keep it from bashing into the belly of the whale as I pass underneath the behemoth.  In these cold, green-tinted waters he is king but he poses no threat to me—some animals don’t need to push their weight around to prove dominance.  For some their majestic size and grace is proof enough.

I skim past the tail and peer out my rear viewport just as the whale is swallowed up by the murk as though traveling through a portal to another realm and I am once again alone.  The ocean in front of me is clear of any other traffic so I increase my speed, set the auto pilot to follow the coordinates and pray that my wife finds the information I need before I arrive.

 

Five minutes later the base of the seaside cliff that the Minister’s fortress sits on comes into view.  I steer the Crayfish directly beneath, allow just the tip of the exit hatch to clear the water and ice and set the anchor.  The entrance hatch pops open and I’m just about to get up from my chair when my wife hails me over our comm. link.  “So’d you get zapped, Mamma?”

“Yes.”  She replies with a sour tone that reminds me of her reaction to when my mother asked her what in God’s name she put in the lasagna.  “And I expect you to stop off and get me some aloe when you eventually decide to come along home.  “Damn thing singed me.”

I smile.  “For you I’ll even spring for the big bottle.  So you get anything other than burned?  I love our time together but a man’s life is hanging in the balance here.”

“Of course.”  She says, “The man in the video is Victor Reed.  He’s a lifelong sealer but he’s not the head of the group as we originally thought.  He’s a lower middle-class man from Cape Breton Island, average yearly income is under $50,000…”

“Anything we can use?”  I ask impatiently, checking the time. 

“Now I expect chocolates to go along with my aloe.”  She snips back.  “I was just telling you his situation so you could maybe go into this thing understanding your enemy and any possible motives he might have for getting involved in all this in the first place.  If you can sympathize with him maybe you can resolve the situation without anyone getting hurt.”

Of course she’s right—the yin to my yang.  “I slump my shoulders, “yes ma’am.”  I concede in a sheepish tone I’ve not used since the last time my third grade teacher caught me eating paste during class.

…yes, that’s right—THIRD GRADE.  So sue me.  But the next few words are no joke.  And they smack me back to the realities of human frailty, even my own, all too quickly as my wife speaks the words, “looks like Victor’s wife has some form of cancer…she’s dying.”

There’s nothing I can say.  I was hoping for leverage that would make him think about the future but not that…I’ll almost feel guilty for using that, but it’s all I’ve got.  “Thanks, hun.  I’ll make contact when I’m done.  Okay?”

“Okay—and…”

“Yeah?”  I ask, about to turn away and get to work.

“Do be careful.”

A short, timid smile etches across my face, “I will.”  I tell her then I lift off the steel grating of the sub and shoot up through the open hatch.

I follow the curve of the cliff higher and higher.  It begins to snow and the wind picks up, yellow sunlight reflects off the frozen precipitation and I’m blinded by the glimmering white out.  But finally I reach the edge of the cliff.  I misjudge my trajectory and I have to correct myself by reaching out with my hands and flipping off the roof of the edge a second before impact.  Then I get my first glimpse of Harb’s fortress.

It’s a massive compound.  The house itself sits on five acres.  Huge windows open to luxurious balconies that look out over the frozen bay.  Elaborate white stone pillars pop against the red brick of the mansion and I find myself officially feeling just a tad jealous.  But I’ll be jealous of a dead man unless I find him in the next two minutes…the only problem in that there must be at least fifty rooms in this house and twice as many windows.  I know Harb is being held in a room with a window—I saw it on the recording…but which one?  There’s no way to tell and it’s going to take a lot longer than two minutes to check all of them. 

Then a gust of wind knocks me around, tossing me about, flipping me end over end in the air.  Then the turbulence subsides, I look down to check myself over and find a glowing red dot on my chest.

I’ve flown right into the path of a sniper’s laser sight.  I duck out of the way and use the zoom lenses in my cowl to follow the laser beam to its intended target: a window covered with red velvet drapes on the fourth floor.  Now I don’t know the layout of the mansion and like I said, I haven’t a clue as to which room the terrorists are holding Harb in…but the one a sniper has his sights set on is a good enough place to start for me. 

I rise higher into the sky and when I figure I’m high enough, I dive bomb the window.  I gain speed as I dart down towards the glass.  I shield my face with my forearms, brace for impact and crash through the glass.  I roll on the plush, purple carpet, the drapes blow in the breeze in back of me as the three thugs scramble around the room trying to figure out what just happened.  Victor hides behind Harb who’s strapped to a rickety wooden chair, he’s got his bat pressed firmly against the minister’s throat.  One of his henchmen brings his bat down at me like an axe, I let it hit the ground then I roll over the top of it.  He lets go and the handle slaps down on the top of his foot.  He jumps around holding it like a cartoon character while the other guy takes a swing at me head.  I jump back and he takes another shot at my gut, I kick the bat but he manages to hangs on.  Then he takes the weapon in both hands, close to his side and brings it back, then he pushes it towards my stomach like a battering ram.  I turn and catch the bat, lift up on the end of it and strike him in the forehead.  He staggers backwards and bumps into his jumping buddy.  In a flash I rip one of the drapes off the rod and wrap them up tighter than Minister Harb, then I clunk their heads together like the Three Stooges.  They thump to the floor, unconscious and I turn towards Mr. Reed.

“It’s over Victor.  Now put the bat down—you don’t want to do this!”

He reacts to my knowing his name but only for a moment. Then he pushes desperately, trying to bide his time.  “How would you know?  You don’t know anything about me!”

“That’s not true…I know your name…and I know where you live—though I’m not going to prove it with an address—not in front of the Minister.”  Harb glares at me and I wave my hand at him as though to let him know that it’s all part of the plan but I don’t think that makes him feel any better.  Now here comes the hard part—the part I don’t want to do…“I also know that your wife is dying and that you’ll soon be a single parent.”  He pauses for a moment then lowers the bat.  I struck a nerve with that one so I keep on him.  “And I know that the only reason you’re doing this is because you’re worried you won’t have enough money to support your little girl without the income from the seal hunt.”

“You don’t understand!”  He shouts at me, lowering his weapon even more.  His arm is shaking now that I have him thinking about his family.  “Not really anyway.  My father was a sealer—my grandfather…it’s all I know how to do!  It’s my livelihood!”

I look to the Minister, his eyes are filled with tears and fear and I can’t help but wonder if the intensity of this whole thing, along with all his other responsibilities, will be the cause of some sort of heart condition for him.  I take a chance with a hesitant step forward.  “I do understand, Victor.  I come from a place where old habits are dying hard—where the fight for animal rights is slowly winning.  As laws are passed and animals become more and more protected, people are being charged with things that weren’t illegal even a month ago.  I’ve seen the effect it’s had on my friends and neighbors as they struggle to adapt.  But it’s worth it Victor.  It’s worth it because nobody’s livelihood should cost another their life.  “I pause for a moment to let that sink in then, “I’m sure your daughter would agree.  You really don’t want to do this.  Your daughter is about to lose one parent—don’t make her lose both.  Neither you nor your wife have anyone who can take care of your daughter if you’re both out of the picture which means she’ll become a ward of the state.  Now for someone who hates their own government as much as you claim to, you’re sure trusting them with a lot.  Or have you even thought about that?”

He shakes his head and his shoulders slouch.  “I guess I hadn’t.” 

I’ve beaten him.

“Drop the bat and I can get you out of here.  The police have followed your demands and have kept their distance.  You can make it to your escape boat and be miles away before they even get close.  You haven’t killed anyone yet—sure they’ll look for you, but eventually the heat will be off…you can still walk away from this, but only if you stop now.”

The bat is about to fall from his hand, “why are you doing this?”  He asks me, painfully—like he’s about to sob.  I think he got so desperate that all he saw was the reward—not what he’d have to do to get it.  I don’t think he realized how far deep he was in until he realized he didn’t want to go any further.  By then it was too late.

“I’m doing this because I’d rather see a father be there for his daughter when she needs him the most than behind bars or dead on the floor of this very room.”

He flexes his muscles, ready to bring the bat up again, taking what I said as a threat.  “And were you gonna be the one to kill me if I refused?”

“No.”  I tell him.  The sniper is…he was just setting up on the glacier a mile off when I arrived.  I’ve been blocking you from his laser sight since I got here.  But I’m not with them—and if you don’t end this soon it’s entirely probably he’ll take the both of us out before your time table is up.”

Victor peeks over my shoulder, just enough to clear my mane, he can’t see anyone but the sniper sees him and fires a round that whizzes past my shoulder, barely missing us both.  “You’ve left me little choice.”  He says as his club clatters loudly to the floor.

Beneath my mask I smile, just a little.  “You always have a choice.”  I reply, slowly taking out a fox star filled with a gaseous chemical that once mixed with air will produce a dense fog.  “Today you just made the right one.” 

Then the fox star cracks against the wood flooring.

The room fills with a cloud of fog.

And the mastermind behind the club, who turned out to be just another pawn, and I escape.

 

By the time I return to Wisconsin the summit has already adjourned.

And the seal hunt remains. 

Apparently while The Club was threatening to kill Minister Harb they were also bribing other members of the summit and they voted to keep the slaughter going for the very people threatening to kill one of their own.

It’s not the ending I’d hoped for but at least I saved that one seal and the Minister…and a father.  And fortunately today was the last day of the season and the seals are now safe until next year.  Still, for all my efforts, for Harb’s brush with death, for things to have ended this way because someone was bought is disgusting.  But this was always a possibility—a vote this loaded is always prone to corruption. 

But now I have a whole year to figure out which sleazy government fat cat accepted the money—a whole year to expose them for the underhanded, amoral, pathetic excuse for humanity who would allow something as sick and twisted as the seal slaughter to continue.

I have a year to root out the degenerate who would accept a few dollars in exchange for the lives of thousands.

And when I do… 

 

 

The End        

 

 

 

   

 

In The Land of Ice & Blood Part I

I hope everyone will forgive the hiatus in new stories, it’s not for lack of inspiration, I have many stories to tell.  A few months back I made the decision to finally attend my first writing conference and since that decision I have been working non-stop on getting my book ready for critiques and submissions at the conference and I felt guilty every moment I wasn’t working on it.  It has taken up a lot of time but I’m happy to say that I’m now a little more prepared for the conference, so it’s been worth it.  Now I can finally return to bringing you the weekly adventures of Wisconsin’s first super hero! 

This week our hero must travel outside his usual jurisdiction to stop the most brutal and large scale assault against mother Earth he’s seen yet.  So without further ado, I’m pleased to give to you: In the Land of Ice & Blood Part I…

 

Red.

The water outside the hull of the Crayfish, my submarine, is stained with it.  I arrived in Canadian waters only moments ago after a long night of using the CrayFish’s lasers to burrow new underground waterways to the country from Wisconsin, USA.  But I’m still too late, it would appear.  The carcass of a dead seal sinks past my porthole and it becomes clear.

Canada’s annual seal slaughter has already begun. 

But I’m not here to save a few seals—no that would prove quite useless in the grand scheme of things. 

I’m here to stop the hunt for good.  Sixteen hours ago the home of Canadian Parliamentarian Harb Orseel, Minister of Fisheries and Oceans, was invaded by a rogue faction of seal hunters who call themselves “the Club,”  it’s a play on words but I’m not amused.  Their demands are simple, all they want is for the government to permanently stay out of their business and allow them to continue the annual seal hunt unimpeded for the foreseeable future.  The only problem with that, aside from the fact that Canada doesn’t negotiate with terrorists, is that the seal trade isn’t what it used to be.  Seal byproducts are not the multi-billion, worldwide business they once were.  Humans have found alternatives for seal products—for the most part, the black market is the only fence for them and even those are dwindling as countries who use seal byproducts for superstitious practices join the 21^st century. 

The majority of Canadian citizens don’t even support the slaughter anymore and the failing industry needs government funding to keep it going.  In short, the practice of the seal hunt is nothing but a barbaric practice with no real economic value and those who participate in it are nothing but a bunch of Neolithic barbarians who need to kill, bludgeon, stab…or club something to feel stronger.  Minister Harb was going to put a stop to the seal hunt at the Fisheries and Oceans summit but the Club had other plans and have threatened to kill him if the summit votes to stop the seal hunt.

It’s a bold move, even by extremist group standards, and it’s a situation my expired passport couldn’t keep me from sticking my nose in. 

I’m getting readings from the sheet of ice above me, warm bodies standing over fading heat signatures.  I haven’t met any of the locals yet and I’m itchy to break the ice.  The Crayfish rises from the dark depths and I fire the burrowing laser at the chunk of ice above me, but I don’t cut all the way through—smashing through the ice will make for a much more dramatic entrance.

A group of three hunters has a seal pinned against a mound of ice.  They raise their clubs, ready to bring it down on the frightened and helpless sea mammal.  The craft closes in on ten feet and I brace myself for impact.

CRACK!  The sub slams into the ice.  ERRRREACK!  Ice scrapes against the orange hull as it emerges from the freezing ocean.  The hunters fall to the ice as my craft breaches the surface and the seal escapes with his life back into the ocean.  You should see the looks on the three hunter’s faces as they slowly turn to look at the craft from the snow, unsure of what just happened.  The entrance hatch flips open on the top of the sub and the hunters flinch. 

Then I make my move.  I shoot up and out of the green cockpit, flying right in front of the sun, momentarily blinding the gaping goons who are trying to keep track of me.  “Two for flinching!”  I shout as I fling two fox at each of them, knocking their weapons out of their hands.  I hit the snow and kick the closest one in the face, knocking him out cold.  The other two get up from the ice, one charges me and I leap over the top of him, I come down on his back and slam him into the snow.  I try to kick him but he rolls out of the way.  I bring my foot down in an axe kick two more times but he keeps dodging me and then I feel it, the other hunter has found the club he lost earlier when the Crayfish burst through the ice beneath him and he strikes me with it right in between my shoulder blades.  I stagger forward as the one with the club helps his friend up, once up he recovers his spear and takes an offensive stance with it. 

This isn’t what I expected but at least they’re posing a challenge…and they’ve already told me everything I need to know to defeat them.  The one who hit me with the club is a scrawny guy and likes the sneak attacks—he won’t know what to do with head on offensive.  The other one I’ve already fought with is a top-heavy, imbalanced guy who went down easily.

And he will again.  A loose chunk of ice sits at my feet, I channel my inner soccer player and kick the chunk at his legs, I make contact and his legs fall out from underneath him again.  He cracks his head against the ice and I dash forward toward the coward.  The guy reacts just the way I thought he would—he freezes.  Apparently he was only brave while chasing down slow, defenseless animals.  I jump and catch him in the face with my knee.  He lands on the snow and doesn’t get up.  I snap back to the top heavy thug who is trying to lift himself from the snow and make sure he’ll be staying down for a while longer. 

The wind blows against me and if it weren’t for the heat absorbing material of my suit, or the thermal mask covering my mouth, warming every breath I take in, I would’ve keeled over long ago from my asthma.  I stand back up and for the first time I can appreciate the wilderness—or at least I would if it weren’t so tainted with overkill.  The sun reflects off the snow and ice but I can see the carnage clearly.  I’ve heard stories about what happens here on the ice and I’ve seen pictures of seals cowering in the cold shadow of the human with club poised to bring it down and crush their skulls but there are just some things you have to see in person before your heart truly breaks. 

And it’s times like these when I hate being lumped into this greedy, violent bunch called humanity.

Before me I see hundreds of pools of blood staining the snow in gory recollections of the violence I’m too late to stop.  Seal pups, too young and too small to bring in any real cash, are left dead and scattered across the tundra, killed just for sport—killed just for having the unfortunate predisposition of being a part of a species with an unfortunate predisposition.  Their usually warm bodies are frozen and still, and their normally silver skin is a sickly pale shade of grey—the life having been drained from them. 

They’ll never grow up. 

They’ll never again swim in the waters that hugged them since birth with the parents they saw slaughtered before their eyes right before their own lights were extinguished forever.  But then I wonder if in some sick, twisted way, if this death isn’t somehow better than living the rest of their lives, which for a seal is a good thirty years, with the images of their parents’ murder swimming around their heads.

The annual seal slaughter is the most gruesome and horrible form of prejudice—no different than racism and I thank God that the arctic temperatures have frozen the scent of the blood and innards that have been spilled across the ice but still find it difficult to keep last night’s dinner where it’s at.  It’s like a train wreck and I can’t look away.  I wince at the evidence of the needless pain spilled over the frozen tundra—the violence that was handed out to the hundreds of innocent creatures, social creatures—creatures with families, who have been killed for no more than thirty-two dollars a pop. 

The life of a father, son, daughter or mother for thirty-two dollars? 

I have to get Minister Harb out of the Club’s clutches. 

I have to get him to that summit.

But first I have to get to his home.  Suddenly I hear the voices of a larger hunting party—too large for me to take on by myself, heading my way and I decide it’s time to pay the Minister that visit.  So I turn from the blood-smeared ice and jump back inside the Crayfish.  The hatch seals above me just as the new hunting party rounds a massive snow drift and discover their fellow killers laid out unconscious on the ice. 

As if by design, my comm. link switches on, “the Club just released another video.”  My wife tells me.  “You’re running out of time.”  Then she flips a switch and a replay of their broadcast cuts in.  Senator Harb is on his knees before three men in big, plushy dark blue coats with grey fur-trimmed hoods whose shadows Shroud their faces in darkness.  The biggest man holds a gun to Harb’s temple, turns to the camera and, as though he’s speaking directly to me, says, “you have twenty minutes to comply with our demands.  After that, this gun…”  He says, firing off a round at the ceiling before dropping the pistol to floor while another of his comrades hands out bloodstained clubs to each of them, “…will be the least of the good Minister’s concerns…”

The screen goes black and I’m about to ask my wife if she was able to get the coordinates for the Minister’s house but before the first syllable of my request even leaves my lips she’s got it displayed across the screen.  I shake my head with an approving little half smile—God I love that woman…

The Crayfish sinks back into the frigid water and I set a course for Minister Harb’s compound.

 

 

…To Be Concluded…

 

 

             

 

 

Spirits Unbroken: Part II

…I shiver in the shadow of the truck, close my eyes and wait for it to come.  My only regret is that I don’t get to see my wife’s face or hear my son’s voice call for me one last time.  But then something very close by sounds like my son and, come to think of it—the truck should’ve crushed me by now.  So slowly I open one eye.

Then the other.

And I realize the semi-trailer has stopped in mid-air.

It’s just hangs there.

Without a sound.

I shake my head to clear it but my senses have come back to me now—and still I can hear my son against the frantic whinnies from the horses still inside the transport compartment.

And then the trailer slowly moves back and descends, revealing the cable suspending it from the underside of the Sky Fox.  The craft sets the trailer down gently, the top hatch opens and my wife emerges with our smiling son in her arms.  “What took you so long?”  I ask her with a relieved grin.  “Couldn’t find the right thing to wear?”

“Careful.”  She warns, bending down to strap our son back into his seat.  “Or I won’t risk dinner to save your butt next time.”

I wipe the sweat from my brow, or more accurately, rub it into the fabric of my cowl, “who says there’s gonna be a next time?”  I mumble to myself.  Then I rise from the dirt, walk over to the trailer and swipe at the lock securing the door with my claws.  The lock THUDS to the dirt and I peer inside.  “You good?”  I hear my wife ask as I inspect the horses who, to my surprise, appear to all be alright, despite the few cuts I noticed earlier.  A heavy sigh escapes me as I can’t help but think about how much worse this all could’ve turned out. 

And then I see him—the one who I spoke to earlier—Royale With Speed.  He’s bigger than I thought and more beautiful than I could have imagined.  The sun glistens off his perfect coat and his black eyes gaze into mine, filling me with a calmness I never feel when wearing this damn costume.  I move forward, past the others who all sense that I’m the end to their suffering.  I reach out and place my hand on Royale’s muscular neck.  Somehow he manages not to cringe at the touch of a human, after all he’s been through I couldn’t have blamed him if he had.  He moves his head up and down, moving the air around to get as much of my scent in as he can.  He still can’t decide if he can trust me.  His huge nostrils sink in and out with each strong breath.  His tail whips from side to side, swatting at flies.  Then he neighs softly and pushes his long face against my chest—it’s a gesture easily read without my invention.  Most of the time, if you care enough to just try, it’s not really difficult to understand animals—but most humans don’t see it that way.  No matter what our race, creed or religion, most of us are too hung up on appearances—if something doesn’t look like us, we can’t imagine them being like us—sharing thoughts or emotions.  It’s a god complex that has allowed us to accomplish many things as a species: our rank on the food chain, for example.  But it’s also given us the belief that we’re the only ones that matter and that we aren’t responsible for what happens to the rest of the world in our wake because it’s all here for our use anyway—so damn the consequences.

A full minute has passed since the horse nuzzled me and I still can’t take him eyes off him, somewhere in the distance, my wife asks me again if I need any further assistance.  I smile and breathe for the first time in almost a minute and I finally respond with a nod of my head, “yeah, I think we’re good.” 

“Alright then, I’d better get going before our quiches burn.”

“Hold on.”  I shout, my voice echoing inside the metal compartment.  I tilt my head at a button on the far end of the unit, a well-placed Fox Star depresses it and the locks keeping the horses in their stalls release.  I tell them to follow my wife home.  They all accept and the Sky Fox leads them through the woods towards the green pastures they’ve worked all their lives to find.

All but one.  But somehow I’m not surprised that he’s decided to stay.

Royale With Speed’s head thrusts violently up and down and he snorts angrily.  A sudden smile spreads across my face as I stroke the animal’s back, understanding his unmistakable body language, “well old boy, what do ya say?  You up for one last run?”  The slow, determined echo of his hooves against the metal floor of what, only moments ago, had been a horse hearse, is his only response as the exquisite equine brushes past me and exits the trailer.  “Well then.”  I say to myself, wondering if talking to myself is going to become some odd habit.  “Giddyup.”

 

Hooves cut tracks in the dirt as we dash through the undergrowth.  Leaves and random foliage leave green streaks across Royale’s pure white coat as he tears through dense thickets of saplings without slowing.  The landscape flashes and bounces by like I’m on a tilt-a whirl.  I barely feel the breath of the beast carrying me, this is nothing to him.  Running was what he used to live for.  And in that moment it becomes clear to me that Royale With Speed’s day had not passed as his former owners had believed.  Despite his age, his strides are long and smooth, I barely feel the jarring ride, even as we trample over uneven ground littered with rocks and sticks.

His grandfather would’ve been proud.

I feel a jolt and realize Royale With Speed has sped up.  I look ahead and see the tractor, despite its strong lead, it has stopped in a clearing—the drivers probably wondering how they’re going to explain what happened to their boss.  So Royale and I decide to do them a favor and make it so they won’t be able to form complete sentences for a while. 

The horse lowers his head towards the ground.

I hang on tight as we near the tree line.

And we erupt through the ferns like a volcano of muscle and revenge.  The thug pulling out his hair outside the rig sees us and tries to get back inside but the driver already spotted us and the engine rumbles to life.  The truck starts pulling away down the logging trail and the guy outside clings to the door handle for dear life.  Royale barrels ahead, intent on not letting the two escape.  The driver shifts his gears but he’s not fast enough and Royale gets right up alongside the rig, rears up and then kicks the clinging goon into the side of the truck, breaking a few of his ribs and leaving a nice impression of him in the door.  I push off the horse’s muscular back and take his place on the door.  I look back and a cloud of dust conceals what Royale is doing to the fallen man.  Serves him right.  I think to myself before bashing out the window with my elbow.  The driver picks up his gun to cock it and I grab ahold of the roof of the cab and pull myself in just as he pumps the action.  “You know it’s really not safe to shoot and drive.”  I tell him as I grab the muzzle and push it back into his face, breaking his nose.  Then I toss the gun out the window as the driver tries to figure out what to do with the blood oozing from his face. 

The truck comes to an anticlimactic stop in a knoll of ferns just a little off the beaten path of the old logging trail—the fight having drained from the driver like—well—blood from his nose, I suppose.  I pat the thug on the shoulder then we leave the truck.  We make it back to the spot where we left his partner and Royale.  The other thug is laying bruised and broken and covered with blood and dirt. 

But he’s alive.

I tell Royale I thought he’d killed him, that I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had.  <Of course you wouldn’t have,> he knickers.  <You’re human.  We so called “animals” don’t feel the same need for revenge as humans do.>  All I can think about the whole way back to the house is how lucky we are that that’s true.  Because if animals did feel the need for revenge—and if they ever tried to exact that revenge—mankind has much to answer for and we would surely loose that fight.

We supposedly have intelligence but animals have strength.

And as a scientist who survived public school—I can tell you which one usually wins on the playground.

 

In my driveway back at the house, Royale rejoins his herd who have already taken to my property.  All twenty of them pace around in the driveway, it’s a wonderful sight that I’ll never forget.  Their coats shine and their manes bounce, their spirits are lifted and I can’t believe how good they already look after only forty-five minutes of being out in the open air with a little bit of fresh grass in their bellies.  My wife steps outside the house, the aromas of the dinner she’s made me follow her and I can’t wait to sit down to a nice, warm meal.  The horses all look at her and she stares back, smiling. 

And at that moment I remember—she’s always been fond of horses.

“So what are we going to do with all of them?” 

And then the horses are looking at me, their long mane hair blowing in the warm breeze.  “They can stay here with us—if they want to.”  I say, not thinking about anything other than that meal.  My wife puts her hands on her hips and gives me a stern look.  Royale trots up along beside me and wuffles something softly into my ear, I nod in understanding then rephrase my last remark.  “…I mean of course—if it’s alright with you, my dear.”  Then my wife smiles satisfied, and with one sharp nod of her head, goes back inside to set the table.  The horses disperse, heading out into the trees in search for more grass.  Royale heads off with them, probably to find a nice, soft spot to lay down and rest.

He’s had a long day…they all…we all have.  And it frightens me to think about how close these beautiful creatures came to never seeing another sun rise.  But that thought is tossed away like a fly buzzing too close to the tail section of a horse.

Their story couldn’t have ended any better…

Their freedom returned.

Their bellies full

And their spirits unbroken.

Spirits Unbroken: Part I

The wind whips at my mane as I cling to the tree 300 feet above the forest floor—making the final adjustments to the first Hive-Cam; a surveillance camera subtly disguised as a bee hive.  Eventually the forests of Vilas will be covered in them—transferring footage from all around the area to my lab so I can keep an eye on my territory. 

But for now it’s just this one.  I straighten up and lean back just a little to get a wider view of my creation and I have to admit—it looks pretty authentic.  Like a real honest-to-God hive.  Heck, Winnie the Pooh wouldn’t be able to tell the difference and the compact solar panels disguised as leaves above the actual camera unit will keep it powered and hidden.

Sometimes I even amaze myself with my ingenuity.

Then the sound of a very loud, very close horn blaring through the otherwise peaceful woods muffles the tooting of my own.  BUUUUR, BUUUUR!  I glance over my shoulder and through the dense foliage catch a glimpse of a camouflaged double-decker semi tearing over an old logging trail.  “And I was hoping to just hang out all afternoon…”  I say to no one in particular as I let myself fall backwards off the tree and plummet towards the forest floor.  Young trees rise up from the ground, threatening to impale me and I shift my weight to avoid them—but I still wind up with oak leaves in my mane.  The ground rushes up and four feet before impact I spread my arms and let the wind catch the flaps of my suit and I shoot through the undergrowth in a fast, straight trajectory towards the semi.

And then my cowl starts beeping which means someone’s trying to get a hold of me, and there’s only one person I know of who has this kind of bad timing.  But I have a few moments to spare before the real fun begins so I answer the call with a tap against the ear on my cowl.  “Oh hey honey, what’s up?”  I ask my wife as pump my arms to clear a moss-covered boulder.

I can hear pots and pans clanging in the background.  “Just getting dinner ready.  Do you want peas or corn?”

I grimace at the thought of those pasty little green balls, “I think you know the answer to that.”  I say.  “

“Alright, well that’s all I needed to know, dinner will be ready at five o’clock.”

Here comes the part where she tells me I’m sleeping on the couch, “…actually, do you think we could push it to about five thirty?”

There’s a long pause, then “…why?”

I lay it on thick, we haven’t been married long so these types of shenanigans haven’t grown stale just quite yet, “no reason—I just want to see you, that’s all…and I think I may need back up.”

“Dear…”  She says in that annoyed tone she gets when she asks me to take out the garbage for the third time.  “…I can’t just put dinner on warm and go flitting off into the woods.  What am I supposed to do with Brock?”

“Bring him with!”  I reply cheerfully, inching closer to the semi.  “Our son needs to get a feel for the Sky Fox, anyway.”

There’s a certain kind of silence you tend to pick up on when your wife disapproves.  And then I hear the beginnings of her reply, “Brock will join you in this suicidal crusade of your over my dead bod…” 

Then I swoop up right alongside the truck, “oops—gotta go, hun!  See you soon!”  I tap the button and disconnect her.  I hope I won’t need her but somehow a semi rampaging through hidden back roads doesn’t exactly scream “legal”.

I reach the passenger side window and tap on the glass as the truck rumbles over a rough patch in the old logging road that’s riddled with large rocks and pot holes.  The passenger’s face turns a ghostly shade of white and his eyes flare—not exactly the reaction of a law-abiding citizen.  “So whatcha haulin?”  I shout to them, loud enough so they can hear me over the roar of the engine.

The gruff voice is muffled by the glass and the wind between us but the reply is clear, “dead meat…”  It’s also punctuated with the sound of a shotgun cocking. 

Suddenly the passenger ducks as the driver takes aim with the scattergun and fires.

A hailstorm of pellets and shattered glass sprays against my suit and suddenly I’m loosing altitude as I fall back towards the trailer.  I grab a hold of the camouflaged netting that covers the trailer and slam against its side as the truck speeds up, the path becoming so narrow that I have to suck in and press myself as close as I can to the trailer or get clipped by a tree.  I feel a draft and look underneath my arms and see what the problem is—the pellets from the shotgun have shredded the air-catching flaps of my suit.  I won’t be flying anywhere for awhile.

Then an unexpected sound jolts me out of my head.  It’s familiar—like a seal blowing its nose on a bumpy road.  I flip over and find small rectangular slats line the trailer beneath the netting and I peer hard into one of them and gasp at my discovery.

Inside the double-decker compartment are horses. 

Frightened horses.

Exhausted horses.

Neglected horses.

Some of them are have white tape or ribbon around their ankles like racing horses, while others just look like they’ve been worked hard and are noticeably malnourished with their ribs and spine showing and suddenly I realize what this semi is—I’ve heard of it before.  I just had always hoped I’ve never find that it was happening in my territory—but I should’ve been watching for it.

The beautiful animals inside glisten with sweat, many of them have suffered injuries to their legs from being jostled around and their tongues all hang slack and dry outside their mouths—they’re obviously dehydrated.  And with a flip of the Jargon and a few simple neighs I’m brought into the tragedy of their lives from the beginning.

They were race horses once upon a time, the majority of them.  Royale With Speed, a pure white thoroughbred, is actually the grandson of Secretariat and had recently lost six races in a row—that’s when his owner decided to sell him to the meat plant in Quebec—so is the case with many of the others who are crammed, cramped and chained into the transport.  The others are old farm animals who instead of being rewarded with a lush, green pasture for their years of back-breaking service to Old McDonald, were sold to a foreign market where they’ll end up as a hamburger.

I make Royale With Speed a promise that that won’t happen—not if I can stop the smugglers driving the rig.  I turn back around and get slapped in the face with a birch branch.  I try sucking in again but it’s not enough and the bark of a looming jack pine shaves off a patch of my suit and rips open a chunk of flesh.  I creep along the web of netting like a spider until I reach the hitch in between the bobtail and trailer, the two sections surround me like a canyon.   The sound is intense like I’m inside a rock tumbler and the vibration nearly knocks me to my butt.  I’m just about to make my way around to the driver when the passenger smashes out the rear window of the cab with the butt of his scattergun and fires at me through the hole.  I disarm him with a well-placed fox star and his gun clatters through the connections, the truck barely lurches as the weapon flattens beneath the tires.  I dodged the blast but the coupling attaching the trailer to the tractor is obliterated.  And suddenly the sound of metal rubbing against metal fills my ears as the trailer separates from the cab.  Oh crap.  I curse to myself as I realize what’s about to happen—the dirty drivers will get away while I’ll be thrown underneath the out of control trailer while the horses inside crash against each other and the aluminum walls of their pens.

In short: I’ve just killed every horse inside that transport.

I hit the dirt hard and skid into a tree, my head hits the coarse bark and my vision spins as my warm afternoon is swallowed up by the cold shadow of the haywire trailer barreling down on my helpless body.
        
                                                   To Be Continued...

 

Double-Trouble: Part II

Note to Self: Install air filter in cowl.

It’s a wonder I haven’t been caught already, I’ve been sneezing ever since I entered Madison Colleges’ duct system from the roof and I can’t help but hope my son hasn’t inherited my allergies.

I follow the tick tracer’s signal as far as I can in the ceiling and then find a vent over a brightly lit hallway.  Shadows from the vent slots darken my face as two men walk past below me in lab coats.  I wait for them to round the corner down the hall and I then I extend a retractable claw from my gauntlet and use it as a screw driver to remove the vent.  I turn the dial on my belt buckle and the camouflage-cameras in my suit turn me invisible, then I slip down into the hallway.

This area of the campus smells like a hospital—stale, sterilized air sending shivers up my spine—I’ve never been a fan of hospitals.  A row of fluorescents at the other end of the hall flickers, its click-whining sounds much louder than it actually is in the silence of the corridor.  I check on the tracer signal—no where to go but down.  I scan the hall for an elevator and spot one in the shadows behind the flickering light.

I reach the lift but a card reader panel stands in my way—I’m not getting in unless I have a security pass.  Just then the door leading to another wing opens and a single lab technician poking at a data pad walks through.

A single lab technician with a key card dangling from his belt loop. 

I press myself up against the wall and wait for him to move in front of me then, as silently as possible, I reach out and grab the card with one hand and swipe at the retractable cord clipped to the belt loop with my claws—the sound like that of scissors cutting through paper.  The sound doesn’t go unnoticed and the lab tech turns around just as I stuff the card into my unseen utility belt.  The man looks right at me, or through me, as it were.  Then snorts, shakes his head and keeps walking without a second thought as I use his card to gain access to the elevator and ride down to the lower levels.

DING!  The sound of the lift reaching my sub-level floor reverberates through my mind like a call for help in a canyon.  The metal doors open and the scent of the neglected sublevel hits me—moisture, age and blood.  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up—the kidnapped animals, the college, the people in lab coats; it all can only mean one thing: animal testing…

And I hate animal testing.

As I step out into the old red brick sublevel I hear it—it’s faint but the ears of the costume amplify the sound.  Tortured cries, howls and mews echo from somewhere down the corridor, dimly lit by sparsely spaced bulbs hanging by chains from the ceiling.  It’s all so creepy because aside from the weirdo lighting and the old, dingy floors this place looks like any other facility.

And that’s the scariest part—the fact that something so inhumane and vile can look so normal.  But that’s how atrocities like this are accepted in society—they hide beneath the veil of normalcy, giving them the ability to operate out in the open, protected by law because no one admits or really sees just how depraved it is.

But today I’m here, and my eyes are WIDE open.  And for all those stuck here—for all those poor souls forced to endure the senseless and outdated tests that tell the so called “scientists” nothing that a properly designed computer simulation couldn’t tell them—their voices have been muzzled long enough.

The cruelty stops here.

Today.

I come to a large window that overlooks the laboratory.  I scan the stolen keycard with the reader next to the door but whoever I stole it from does not have clearance for this area and the door doesn’t budge.  I peer through the blue-tinted glass and my mouth drops. 

And I’d been disgusted by the conditions of the animals in the back of the van.  Inside the lab sat cage after cage of animals. 

No.

These aren’t just “animals”… 

These are people’s pets.

Family members.

Best friends.

And then I spot her—Kayla’s cat, “Double-Trouble.”  Or as the sticker on her stanchion calls her: G07.   She’s sitting on a cold steel table, strapped into some sort of vice.  Her head’s shaved—prepped for surgery.  Though what kind of operation I have no idea, and then I see others who’ve already suffered the surgery—it’s some kind of hearing implant. 

Heavy metal, restricting head gear keeps the apparatus in place, and judging by the animal’s seemingly unawareness of the cries of the others around them, and with the nearby bottles of acid with tiny ear droppers next to them I’m guessing they were chemically deafened before the coiled device was implanted and the large metal rod was drilled into their skulls.  I tap my cowl and zoom in on a dog’s oozing infection.  The wound around the metal rod is swollen and yellow puss crusts the canine’s furry face.  He’s too weak to stand—his legs gave out long ago.  What these tests can possibly tell the lab techs is beyond my understanding but my years studying science has taught me at least one thing: there’s always another way.

My fists ball reflexively and I can’t wait to get my hands on those responsible.  I hang my head, with the little vein popping out of the forehead, and try to regain control of myself when I see the horror behind the glass right in front of me.  A steel table lined with the heads of dogs and cats who have recently died as a result of the experiments performed on them—dissected to find out what went wrong.  Their brains are exposed and many of their eyes have remained open and their hollow stares penetrate my soul and etch themselves in my mind.  I stagger back in revulsion and trip over something.  I land but it’s not on hard linoleum. 

It’s soft.

It’s cold.

And it’s wet.

I look down at my hands and find the pile of carcasses I’ve landed on.  My eyes flare, not because I’m startled by the horrific sight but as a reflex of anger.  And I feel that capacity for forgiveness—that one that supposedly separates us from the animals, disappear.  And as much as I’ve tried to condition myself to treat everyone fairly and justly, to never cross that line—I know that deep down inside I’m going to enjoy making them pay.

I lift myself up off the floor when a door to the left of the laboratory entrance swings open, “Who’s out here?!”  The feminine voice demands. 

At first I consider just staying quiet but she’s from this department and I need a way into the lab.  So I turn off my cameras, revealing myself to her and I answer with a gravely uttered, “me.”  The woman gasps and I read her nametag.  “Do you know who I am, Lydia?”

She nods and fights through the shock and answers with a yes.

“Then you know why I’m here.”

She peers into the lab through the glass, “I could take a wild guess.”  She says, turning towards the lab with her hands clasped behind her back, her demeanor is calm and short, and I wonder if she’s somehow already called security.  “Of course you don’t need a doctorate to figure you out—and I have one.”  She says.

“And we’re all very impressed.”  I sneer back at her.

She bats her eyes nervously at me, “so am I under arrest or something?”

She knows better than that—I hold no authority but the laws of the jungle. 

She’s testing me.  I smirk under my mask, “of course not, Lydia, according to the law you haven’t done anything illegal.”

She smiles back, “then why are you here?”

“Why are they here?”  I ask with a nod towards the lab animals.

“Tests.”

“Yeah, I got that—what kind of ‘tests’?”

“Auditory.  We’re trying to cure deafness.”

“Uh huh.  And have you gotten anywhere with these experiments?”

“No.”  She says simply.  “…it’s a lost cause.  But the funding we get for the program makes us a lot of money.”

I nod my head, assuming as much already it comes as no surprise.  Human greed always outweighs our sense of right and wrong.  “Open the door.”

“No.”  She answers, shaking her head.  “No, I can’t do that.”

I can’t help but chuckle, slow and dark.  “I’m willing to bet that you can.”  I tell her moving within an inch of her face.  She quivers at my presence and it’s more than just the onion and garlic bagel I had in the Sky Fox—I’m getting to her.  “And I know that you most definitely will...”

As soon as we’re in you’re going to free the animals.”  I notice that she’s about to abject and I advise against it.  I flip on the Jargon, ready to tell the animals awaiting salvation inside how we’re going to escape.  She opens the door and it hits me—fills my ears and crashes against my brain like waves against breakwater in the middle of a storm.  I stagger and grab at the inside wall of the lab wall for support.  The sound threatens to drive me insane—I’ve never heard anything like it.  I couldn’t hear it in full through the glass but now it’s in full force.  All the test animals, all the pets, all the family members and friends, all the cramped, tested, operated on, abused, neglected, bleeding, infected and suffering critter in that lab is all crying out all at once, their translated pleas like an orphanage full of starving children.  I fall to the floor screaming and clutching my head.  I try to turn off the Jargon but something’s wrong.  Lydia wastes no time, sees me weakened and cracks a coat rack over my back.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed your tour of our campus.”  She says confidently, taking another swipe at me with what remains of the coat rack.  “But I still have to show you our incinerator…”

“And what if I don’t fit?”  I ask her through the overload of sound in my head.

She smiles devilishly and replies, “If there’s one thing this job has taught me, hero—it’s that there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

“Lady.”  I say, feeling Rascal’s collar bunched up inside my utility belt.    “I couldn’t agree with you more…”  Then I whip the collar around her ankle and sweep her legs out from under her.  When she hits the floor I pounce, “here’s an experiment for you.  I say, disconnecting the Jargon from my ears.  “Let’s see what happens when the abuser listens to the jumble of agony from everyone she’s hurt…”  And with that I force the Jargon on over her ears.  The myriad of animal screams fill her head and she immediately starts wailing.  She claws at her head, trying desperately to get the device off of her and I can’t help but notice the irony.  I reach up on the counter and pull down two of the leather straps used to hold the hearing apparatuses snug against the animal’s ears and use one of them to secure the Jargon to Lydia’s head and bind her hands together with the other but by now she wouldn’t pose a threat to a fly.  The tormented howls of those she’s damned has converted her into a drooling mess who’s staring off into nothingness.  I snap my fingers in front of her eyes but there’s no response save for strained breathing like someone trying to breathe while shivering in thirty-below weather.

I pass by the Lhasa Apso’s cage and thank God I wasn’t too late to save him like I was Rascal.  I karate chop the lock on his pen and he jumps happily as he follows me as I approach Double-Trouble who’s still in her stanchion.  She’s in worse shape than I originally thought.  Patches of dry blood cling to her fur where the clamps have forced her down and the smell of urine and blood is thick.  Shed, orange fur that she’s ripped out of her own body in her struggles to escape litter the table.  Gently I pet her back and even after everything she’s been through, she purrs.

I unhook the apparatus holding her in place and stiffly she sits on the table and her sweet amber eyes stare into mine while her delicate, pink nose sniffs the air as she decides if I’m a good human or a bad human as the other animals in the room stop their mewing and barking all at once.  I don’t have the Jargon on me, but some things don’t need to be interpreted.  Then I nod and smile at the survivors of this horror show, “alright you guys, let’s get you home.”

Four hours later we roll back into Vilas County.  I’d sent the Sky Fox home on auto pilot and commandeered the colleges’ white collection van to get all the disenfranchised pets back home.  I used a spare Jargon I’d had stored in the Sky Fox to find out where the other animals lived and they were now all safe back home with their families—including the Lhasa who I’d tied back up in his yard with a polite note attached to the collar, asking his human to please watch him more closely.

I learned where to leave Rascal’s collar from the address engraved on his dog tags.

The van is empty now except for one—and I drive to Kayla’s to reunite her with her best friend. 

I stay and talk with her for awhile near the tree line in back of her run-down old log house while she rustles a stick in the long grass so her furry friend can pounce at it.  She tells me about her life and about how happy she is to have Double-Trouble back—no matter how bald.  I know what I’ve done is good—I just always wish I could do more.  Because I know there are so many other reach facilities out there using live animal subjects that so many don’t even know about—that I don’t even know about…yet.

Lydia’s lab was only one of thousands.  The killing didn’t stop with what I did to her lab this day.

My faith in law enforcement notwithstanding—I doubt the evidence I collected from the lab will be enough to get the place shut down for good.

I’ve only delayed the inevitable—Lydia will most likely start all over again.

Lydia will recover.

And then, all at once, I’m troubled by something else.  Something I had not considered and now, having realized my mistake, could kick myself for being so careless…“Bye Mister Feral-Man!”  Kayla chimes, interrupting my self-loathing with that ridiculous name the news papers gave me.

It makes me cringe and I correct her, “call me Badger, Kiddo.”  Then she smiles sweetly, cuddling her kitty in her pink nightgown and walks inside her empty house.  I smile after her and hope I never have to see her again—at least not under the same circumstances anyway. 

The light of day begins to fade and I feel truly alone—frozen.  Not by the dropping temperatures, but by guilt—all I had wanted to do was punish that deviant doctor, and now I fear that I may have created an even bigger monster… 

Lydia, an auditory scientist, now had her murderously greedy hands on a Jargon, a semi-busted Jargon, but a Jargon nonetheless.

And the question haunts me: what won’t a corrupt, opportunistic scientist do with my invention?

This weeks’ post is dedicated to the real-life Double-Trouble or, as her abusers only knew her as, G07, who never made it out of that college in Madison, Wisconsin and for all the other defenseless innocents who have senselessly died as test subject during cruel and archaic lab experiments that have provided no real benefit to science at the cold hands of humans who saw them as nothing more than a number.  To learn more about Double Trouble the Cat, just type the underlined into a search engine or follow the link below to view one of several videos of Double-Trouble—but be warned, the content is graphic:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hTaS7Z3z4e0&feature=player_embedded

Double Trouble: Part I

           

Like so many stories, this one began with a girl.

A ten year old girl named Kayla, to be exact-one who’d witnessed her best friend being forced into a rusty, white van right before her eyes. 

In the blink of an eye her best friend was gone—she’d been the one Kayla talked to while her parents were out drinking.  She was the one who’d made her feel needed.  And on occasion, when Kayla’s parents had spent the money for the heat bill at the bar, and left their daughter shivering in her bed with only a thin, stained sheet to cover her, her best friend had been the one who’d kept her warm.

Kayla’s parents weren’t around much, so they didn’t care if her friend was gone.

And the cops had “bigger fish to fry”—because after everything her friend had done for her, and for all she meant to Kayla, her friend was still “just a cat,” after all.

So that’s when Kayla contacted me.  It took a few days and some doing, (I don’t exactly have a 1-800 number), but eventually I got the message.

I’d gotten wind of other, similar reports coming in from all around Vilas County, which meant only one thing: this wasn’t an isolated incident and was probably a precursor to something much bigger than a bully terrorizing a small child. 

I staked out families with pets in nearby neighborhoods until finally I hear the sound of a bad muffler coming around the bend of the culdesack.  So far I’d come up with nothing and Kayla had mentioned the van was loud.  The hairs on my neck stand straight up as I watch tensely from the roof of an overlooking house, holding my breath in anticipation of what I hope is my first lead. 

And then it comes, chugging around the curve.  I tap my cowl, switching to eagle lenses and I zoom up on the van.  Two hoods are in the front—the driver and the spotter, and I catch sight of at least one shadow moving around in the back—he was the grabber.  “Baiters.”  I swear under my breath.  Baiters are people hired by dog fighting rings to go out and find smaller animals that’ll be thrown into the ring to get the blood flowing at the start of a match.  I grit my teeth at the thought and I can’t wait to break up their disgusting business.  The van parks outside a nice two-story home with white siding and red trim.  A man, maybe in his early thirties, plays with a brown Wookie-looking Lhasa Apso on his snow-covered lawn and the van backfires.  Nervously the man ties up his dog on a cable runner and makes haste back inside his house.  His dog looks agitated and he scratches on the door after him but his owner’s T.V. is already on.

The dog knows something horrible is about to happen.  And regrettably, if I want to get to the slime running the show, I have to let it happen.  But I also have to know for sure…

I turn the dial on my belt and my suit goes invisible as thousands of tiny cameras built into the fabric record and playback my surroundings.  I stretch my arms out as far as I can and the glider-flaps under my arms catch the wind.  I push off the slush-covered roof and glide down on thermals.  When I land on the roof of the van I hear commotion inside.  The rear door bursts open and a thug with a green trench coat and a five o’ clock shadow emerges with his hand hovering over his holstered pistol, itchy to use it.  I keep still, not wanting to press my luck and he eventually looses interest and turns towards the house, casually strolling up the walk and into the yard. 

I don’t have much time so I grab a hold of the roof rack and swing down into the back of the van with a nearly soundless metallic THUD, but it’s still enough to alert those up front.  “HEY!”  The driver shouts with a pound of his fist against the metal backing behind his seat.  “Keep it down back there or I’ll skin you all right now!”  The light is dim so I switch to owl lenses.  My mouth gaps open at the stacks of small cages with cats and small dogs crammed into them so tightly that some of them can’t even move.  The air is thick with the scent of blood and urine and I have to fight the urge boiling inside me to free the animals and take out the degenerates right now, but that would solve nothing in the long run—it wouldn’t stop anything. 

Not to mention the fact that Kayla’s cat is not among the imprisoned.  If I jump the gun now I’ll never find her cat—her best friend.  And I have to—the reason the cops didn’t help Kayla in the first place—the “bigger fish” the policeman referred to—is me.

I flip on the Jargon and let the creatures trapped in the van know that they’ll be freed presently.  I move in to place a small tracking device I engineered to look like a tick onto an old beagle in a cage on the bottom row but he doesn’t move.  I gently lay my palm on his belly—it doesn’t rise with breath and he feels cold.  His dry tongue lies limp outside his mouth.  I hang my head as I finally let myself realize what his stillness means…

I’m too late. 

A shiny chain-link collar around his neck catches my attention and I remove it, I don’t know why.

I read the name on the tag and promise Rascal that his death won’t go unpunished.  Then I slip the tick tracer on another prisoner and dive out of the van just as frantic high-pitched barking fills the air as trench coat nabs the Lhasa.  I reach a row of hemlocks on the opposite side of the street just as the grabber slams the van door shut and they peel out of the neighborhood.  I call for the Sky Fox, my hover craft, and within a few moments I feel it swoop in overhead.  I enter the craft through a hatch on the ventral side of the ship and the light filtering in through the green glass of the cockpit baths me in a pale glow.  The radar screen to my right blinks with the location of the tick tracer and I set the autopilot to follow the signal.  I place my hands on the accelerators and realize for the first time that I’m still clutching Rascal’s collar.  I stare at it for a moment before looking back down at the white house with red trim as the Lhasa’s owner comes back outside looking for his dog.  I glance back at the collar and for some unknown reason, shove it in my utility belt then I hit the thrusters and take off for the van and the nerve center of the dog fighting ring it’ll lead me to.

 

Three hours later we cross into the city limits of Madison, Wisconsin.  Five minutes after that we seem to have reached our destination—and it’s not where I thought we’d arrive.  Dog fights are usually held in little-known, out of the way places—abandoned factories, old warehouses or shacks out in the woods.

But the building the petnappers pull into is neither out of the way nor is it abandoned.  I check my scope one more time to make sure I’m hovering outside the right place.

I am. 

I rub my eyes through my mask and check the sign outside the buildings’ main entrance again, convinced that I’ve misread something.

But the name of the building remains the same—and I know I’ve had it all wrong all along.

This case isn’t about dog fighting.

This is about something far more sinister because the van has pulled into Madison College…

 

To Be Continued…