The lawn had been mowed. A handful of dogs watched him from the shade under the tree in the side yard. A large cardboard square, wrapped in several garbage bags stretched tight over it, covered a cracked window. He wandered out to the barn. The monkeys were full of fruit and happy. He had even reinforced several sections of chicken wire. The rhino’s stall had been mucked out, giving the rhino a thick, luxurious bed of fresh hay. The rhino chewed contentedly on a mountain of oats.

* * * * *

He found a half-full bottle of rum under the seat in the long black car and collapsed into the driver’s seat and tried to sort everything out. The situation with Annie was well and truly fucked, but he should have known better. Did he really think that she would quit using sex, or at least the suggestion of it, for cash? It wasn’t like they were going to run off together and live in a cozy little house with a fucking white picket fence.

If nothing else, at least he now knew the effect of the pale blue pills. He finished the bottle and felt a little better, but not much. He decided he would shower, find something to eat, and head out to the ranch.

* * * * *

Driving out there, he got nervous, and pulled into the gas station. The sign had just been turned on, pale against the twilight sky. He needed gas, yes, but this little place was also the only place open in town, the only place to get any alcohol. The clowns had moved whatever was left in the liquor store up near the park into the gas station. The last time he’d been here, he’d been with Sturm, and Myrtle had made a point of ignoring Frank. This would be the first time he’d be alone with her since the night her cat died.

He’d thought about trying to break into a house instead, see if there was alcohol left, but he figured there wouldn’t be anything left behind. Especially alcohol. Facing down Myrtle was quicker.

As he unscrewed the gas tank, he watched her reflection in the driver’s side window. Encased in her reinforced plastic shell, she stared at his back. Frank slammed the gas nozzle into the long black car and waited, making a point of ignoring her.

Gallons and dollars thunked along, and with a prickling of hair on the back of his head, Frank realized he had his back to the Glouck house.

He stood and stretched, working his shoulders, and glanced surreptitiously at the house. The dead tree was empty. The yard was still. Smoke did not rise from the kitchen vent. The gas pump shut off with a deep clunk. He put the nozzle back into its holster and went on in the store.

It was as hot as always. Myrtle had suddenly come across some important paperwork; her head was down, attacking the order form with her pen. Frank went straight to the alcohol, a stack of boxes shoved into the near corner, leaning against the bulletproof glass.

He picked out a bottle of whiskey, a bottle of vodka, and three bottles of cheap rum. He lined the bottles up on the counter and waited.

She made him wait a while. Finally, she looked up and added up the bottles, stabbing the prices of each bottle into an angry adding machine that spit out a strip of paper like a machine gun. “Thirty-nine ninety-five.” The words were delivered in such a flat monotone the adding machine might as well have been speaking.

Frank slid two twenties through the slot. She took both bills and snapped them into a cash register drawer, kept loose under the counter. Then she went back to her paperwork.

“You owe me a nickel,” Frank said.

Myrtle checked the cash register. She took her time. Sure enough, she owed Frank five cents. She flicked a nickel through the slot. But she still wouldn’t look at him.

* * * * *

Frank drove for about a mile before he couldn’t take it anymore and simply stopped in the middle of the highway. He fumbled through the bottles on the passenger seat and managed to find one of his bottles of rum. He cracked the seal and took a long, long swig. He shut the engine off and listened to the crickets for a while.

Off to his left, the sun had disappeared completely behind the mountains, but there was still a little light left in the sky, enough to see the scraggly fence posts on both sides of the highway stretching away into darkening hills. The rum pooled and warmed his stomach, massaged his mind. He rubbed his newly shaved head, still not quite used to the short bristles of black hair.

Headlights hit his rearview mirror. Hard. High beams, most likely.

The sudden flash of lights gave him a start, despite the soothing rum. He started the engine, jerked it into Drive, and put the gas pedal on the floor. The long black car surged forward, picking up speed. Fence posts slid past, fast and faster. He realized he didn’t even have his own headlights on yet.

He turned them on, juggling possibilities. The headlights behind him probably belonged to new hunters. But just for a second there he wondered if it was more quiet gentlemen in another long black car. No. There was no way they could have found him. He didn’t think he could be recognized in the photo on the website. Not this fast, anyway. It might be the cops, Olaf and Herschell. He hadn’t seen them around much, but ever since the day at the vet hospital, he’d been keeping an eye out.

He pressed down on the gas even harder. The headlights were gaining.

He was going so fast he damn near missed the turnoff to Sturm’s ranch. He locked up the wheels and slid past the driveway in a blue, acrid cloud. He jerked the gearshift into Reverse. The headlights crested the rise behind him and the highway around him began to glow. He savagely stomped on the gas, downright panicked now, and the car jumped backwards. Back into Drive, turning into the driveway lined with palm trees, he told himself he was being fucking stupid. He had the protection of Sturm, didn’t he? Those cops couldn’t touch him.

He slowed, watching the flickering headlights as they rushed down the highway. They slowed as well, and turned into the driveway behind him, filling the car with orange light. He hit the gas again, roaring through the palm trees. When Sturm’s house came into view, the front littered with SUVs, he exhaled and realized he had been holding his breath.

Frank slid to a stop behind the Assholes’ white Cadillac Escalade and jumped out, forgetting the bottles. He crouched low and ran along the fence line out to the barn. There, in the deep shadows, he waited, struggling to catch his breath. Off to his right, the back yard was softly lit with lanterns. He heard laughter and the clink of dishes. It looked like it was dinnertime.

The headlights reached the house and a deep, vibrating air-horn sounded, once, twice, three times. It seemed celebratory. The vehicle slowed, and Frank could now see it was a tractor-trailer lit up like a Christmas tree. It wasn’t the quiet gentlemen; it wasn’t the cops. Jack and Pine were back.

Jack shut off the big engine and climbed out. Sturm came around the corner of his house, followed by Theo and the rest of the hunters. Pine opened his door, but stayed in the cab, just swiveling on the bucket seat and propping one leg on the doorframe.

“Well?” Sturm asked.

“Thirty-seven,” Jack said.

“Outstanding,” Sturm said. “Any problems?”

“Fuck no. Worked slicker ‘n shit. Hell, I think most of them people woulda’ paid us to come haul ’em away. But I can understand. You would not believe how much these suckers can eat. Good thing we’re back, ’cause we’re fresh out of meat.”

Sturm turned to the hunters. “Well gentlemen, I hope you all are ready for some real shooting, and I ain’t blowing smoke up your ass. The main course has arrived. So here’s the plan. Come dawn tomorrow, you have your rifles ready.” He walked out to the truck and gestured grandly. “You have just been delivered some of the deadliest big cats in the world.”

Everyone funneled through the gate in the front yard and took a look at the truck.