No Sanctuary

Christ, give me strength.

When that fuckin’ turd leaves us alone, we’ll find a way out of his goddamn cage.

“Rick,” Bert said quietly. “Look at this.” She pointed to a heap of canvas humps in the comer of the cage.

“Backpacks. Old backpacks, Rick.” She looked at him and the same thought passed between them.

“Huh. Kids who never got around to repenting...” Rick said.

“Looks that way.”

“Probably butchered and got eaten for breakfast.”

Rick’s watch told him it was six o’clock already. “We rest up till dark. Okay?” he whispered. “Meanwhile, we’ll figure out a way to escape.”

Bert was near to tears. “Oh, sure, Rick. What d’you suggest? Please Angus, let us outa here ’cos we want to go home now?”

Rick hadn’t got an answer. Yet. They couldn’t climb over the staves. Too high, too pointed and far too dangerous. They couldn’t try to shake the staves loose from their moorings either. Angus might be watching.

When it got dark, they’d find a way.

They sat together, their backs leaning against the palings. They felt defeated.

Bert huffed loudly. “I’m so hot and sticky. Can’t take my shirt off, our friendly fuckin’ neighborhood creep’d probably get off on it.”

“Rest while we can, Bert, that’s about all we can do.”

As the shadows lengthened around the cage, they fell silent and dozed a little.

A low, throaty snarl brought Rick to his senses.

He lay stretched out on the floor. Eyes closed.

Christ. His head hurt.

What in the name of Jesus happened to us these last few hours?

He remembered this morning, so long ago now, sitting and staring at Bert, thinking that he could do that all day.

Hell, I shoulda just done it. Stayed there. All day.

Bert?

Where is Bert ...

Rick’s hand shot to his head. It felt like it had been kicked around a baseball pitch, non-stop. He groaned and let his hand drop to his side. Easier that way. Just lying there.

Eyes open now.

Staring at the night sky ...

Another low snarl. More like a warning growl, Rick thought. It was deep, throaty and seemed like it was sending him a message.

Coming to getcha, white man ...

Okay. Here I am .....

He watched the clusters of stars above.

Constellations.

Asteroids.

Planets.

They were all up there, in the yawning blackness.

He moved his head—first to one side, then the other.

The lump on it throbbed like crazy. He lifted his left hand to feel it.

Ouch ... maybe I should have a brain scan...

A gut-wrenching stench brought him to. A den of lions?

He sat up.

Flashes of pain shot fresh stars into the hurt already there. He groped his eyes with a hand and saw more bright lights.

Fuck smars. I got big, blinding asteroids.

Rocking to and fro, he remembered where he was. And why.

Small, stifled sobs caught his attention. They broke off, snagging in their owner’s throat. Sobs and waits of frustration.

Louder this time.

“Bert?”

“Rick...” she sniffed. “Thank God you’re awake. You passed out.”

“Yeah. My head’s killing me.”

“Rick, I’ve not heard Angus for a while. But I’ve heard his playmates...”

A low warning snarl was joined by another. And another. And another in a higher key. Then a sharp yelp as if its owner had received a hefty swipe.

“Yeah. Cougars, Rick. They’re here and they’re dose ...”

Rick staggered to his feet and moved forward, hands held before him. God, it was dark.

And that fuckin’ smell...

His outstretched arms touched palings. Placed about four inches apart. He fingered the twine holding them together at intervals, and tugged at the staves.

God, I need a drink. My mouth’s like the bottom of a lion’s cage.

Nice choice of words, Rick. Go to the top of the class.

The staves had been hammered in firmly. Too firmly. There was no moving them. No tools to loosen them with either. Rick’s heart sank.

“Wooden bars all around and goddamn mountain lions waiting for our skins,” he muttered.

“If we could just loosen the staves, perhaps I could slip through ...” Bert muttered, testing each one to see if she could work it free.

A blinding light slashed through the darkness. Covering their eyes against it, the preacher’s high-pitched giggle rang out.

“Welcome to ‘Braeside’ chapel of rest for all ye who are heavy laden. You’re very welcome indeed to lay down your weary bones and tarry here for a wee while.”

The r’s were strongly pronounced—a bizarre parody of a Scottish accent. A pious greeting you might expect from a preacher’s wife.

Angus stood outlined in the yellow glow from the doorway. A gnome-like figure, hopping from one foot to the other in excitement. He held a lighted candle in one hand.

“So that’s what was hiding behind the blanket,” Bert muttered. “Not weapons. Not stove-wood. Another door.”

Another peephole.

Angus was wearing his coyote hat again. It swung about his shoulders as he giggled. Over his free arm he nursed the old rifle. He still hopped from one leg to the other like a maniac.

Scuttling forward, the flickering flame lit up the dog snout from underneath. His straggly beard was in serious danger of going up in smoke.

Angus glared at his prisoners. His eyes, gleaming through the holes in the coyote head, darted gimlet sparks in their direction. His beard moved up and down as he cackled and jibbered an endless stream of profanities.

“Rick,” Bert whispered. “What is this screwball gonna do with us?”

Angus hurried past their cage. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty...” he called softly into the darkness.

A volley of mild growls and snarls came back.

The preacher turned to look at Bert over his shoulder. “Does that answer your question, whore?” he simpered, with sneering emphasis on the last word. “My kitties haven’t had a good meal in quite a wee while. Not since the last godless sinners passed this way. Hee, hee ...”

“He’s crazy.”

“Bert, hold on. Don’t say anything to spook the guy.”