Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalipse

“The county dump is north of here.”

Was that a note of triumph he detected in her voice? Trevin took the notebook. She dropped her hands to her side, chin up, staring at him. The zoo’s lights cast long shadows across her face. I could kick her, he thought, and for a second his leg trembled with the idea of it.

He tucked the notebook under his arm. “Go to bed.”

Caprice opened her mouth, then clamped it shut on whatever she might have said. She turned away.

Long after she’d vanished into the cab, Trevin sat on the stool, elbow on his knee, chin in his hand, watching insects circle the lights. The tigerzelle squatted on its haunches, alert, looking toward the river. Trevin remembered a ghastly cartoon he’d seen once. A couple of crones sat on the seat of a wagon full of bodies. The one holding the reins turned to the other and said, “You know, once the plague is over, we’re out of a job.”

The tigerzelle rose to its feet, focusing on the river. It paced intently in its cage, never turning its head from the darkness. Trevin straightened. What did it see out there? For a long moment, the tableau remained the same: insects swirled around the lights, which buzzed softly, highlighting the cages; shining metal against the enveloping spring night, the pacing tigerzelle, the ticket counter’s polished wood against Trevin’s hand, and the Mississippi’s pungent murmuring in the background.

Beyond the cages, from the river, a piece of blackness detached itself from the night. Trevin blinked in fascinated paralysis, all the hairs dancing on the back of his neck. The short-armed creature stood taller than a man, surveyed the zoo, then dropped to all fours like a bear, except that its skin gleamed with salamander wetness. Its triangular head sniffed at the ground, moving over the moist dirt as if following a scent. When it reached the first cage, a small one that held the weaselsnake, the river creature lifted its forelegs off the ground, grasping the cage in web-fingered claws. In an instant, the cage was unrecognizable, and the weaselsnake was gone.

“Hey!” Trevin yelled, shaking off his stupor. The creature looked at him. Reaching under the ticket counter, Trevin grabbed the baseball bat and advanced. The monster turned away to pick up the next cage. Trevin’s face flushed. “No, no, no, damn it!” He stepped forward again, stepped again, and suddenly he was running, bat held overhead. “Get away! Get away!” He brought the bat down on the animal’s shoulder with a meaty whump.

It shrieked.

Trevin fell back, dropping the bat to cover his ears. It shrieked again, loud as a train whistle. For a dozen heartbeats, it stood above him, claws extended, then it seemed to lose interest and moved to the next cage, dismantling it with one jerk on the bars.

His ears ringing, Trevin snatched the bat off the ground and waded in, swinging. On its rear legs, the monster bared its teeth, dozens of glinting needles in the triangular jaw. Trevin nailed the creature in the side. It folded with surprising flexibility, backing away, claws distended, snarling in a deafening roar. Trevin swung. Missed. The monster swiped at his leg, ripping his pants and almost jerking his feet out from under him.

The thing moved clumsily, backing down the hill toward the levee fence as Trevin swung again. Missed. It howled, tried to circle around him. Trevin scuttled sideways, careful of his balance on the slick dirt. If he should fall! The thing charged, mouth open, but pulled back like a threatened dog when Trevin raised the bat. He breathed in short gasps, poked the bat’s end at it, always shepherding it away from the zoo. Behind him, a police siren sounded, and car engines roared, but he didn’t dare look around. He could only stalk and keep his bat at the ready.

After a long series of feints, its back to the fence, the nightmare stopped, hunched its back, and began to rise just as Trevin brought the bat down in a two-handed, over-the-head chop. Through the bat, he felt the skull crunch, and the creature dropped into a shuddery mass in the mud. Trevin, his pulse pounding, swayed for a moment, then sat beside the beast.

Up the hill, under the zoo’s lights, people shouted into the darkness. Were they ball players? Town people? A police cruiser’s lights blinked blue then red, and three or four cars, headlights on, were parked near the trucks. Obviously they couldn’t see him, but he was too tired to call. Ignoring the wet ground, he lay back.

The dead creature smelled of blood and river mud. Trevin rested a foot on it, almost sorry that it was dead. If he could have captured it, what an addition it would have made to the zoo! Gradually, the heavy beat in his chest calmed. The mud felt soft and warm. Overhead, the clouds thinned a bit, scudding across the full moon.

At the zoo, there was talking. Trevin craned his head around to see. People jostled about, and flashlights cut through the air. They started down the hill. Trevin sighed. He hadn’t saved the zoo, not really. Tomorrow would come and they’d leave one of the trucks behind. In a couple of months, it would all be gone, the other truck, the animals—he was most sorry about the tigerzelle—the pulling into town with music blaring and flags flapping and people lined up to see the menagerie. No more reason to wear the zoo-master’s uniform with its beautiful gold epaulets. Newsweek would never interview him again. It was all gone. If he could only sink into the mud and disappear, then he wouldn’t have to watch the dissolving of his own life.

He sat up so that they wouldn’t think he was dead; waved a hand when the first flashlight found him. Mud dripped from his jacket. The policemen arrived first.

“God almighty, that’s a big one!” The cop trained his light on the river creature.

“Told you the fences warn’t no good,” said the other.

Everyone stayed back except the police. The first cop turned the corpse over. Laying on its back, its little arms flopped to the side, it didn’t look nearly as big or intimidating. More folk arrived: some townies he didn’t recognize, the old couple from the farmhouse across the ball fields, and finally, Caprice, the flashlight looking almost too big for her to carry.

The first cop knelt next to the creature, shoved his hat up off his forehead, then said low enough that Trevin guessed that only the other cop could hear him, “Hey, doesn’t this look like the Andersons’ kid? They said they’d smothered him.”

“He wasn’t half that big, but I think you’re right.” The other cop threw a coat over the creature’s face, then stood for a long time looking down at it. “Don’t say anything to them, all right? Maggie Anderson is my wife’s cousin.”

“Nothing here to see, people,” announced the first cop in a much louder voice. “This is a dead ’un. Y’all can head back home.”

But the crowd’s attention wasn’t on them anymore. The flashlights turned on Caprice.

“It’s a baby girl!” someone said, and they moved closer.

Caprice shined her flashlight from one face to the other. Then, desperation on her face, she ran clumsily to Trevin, burying her face in his chest.

“What are we going to do?” she whispered.

“Quiet. Play along.” Trevin stroked the back of her head, then stood. A sharp twinge in his leg told him he’d pulled something. The world was all bright lights, and he couldn’t cover his eyes. He squinted against them.

“Is that your girl, mister?” someone said.

Trevin gripped her closer. Her little hands fisted in his coat.

“I haven’t seen a child in ten years,” said another voice. The flashlights moved in closer.

The old farmer woman stepped into the circle, her face suddenly illuminated. “Can I hold your little girl, son? Can I just hold her?” She extended her arms, her hands quivering.

“I’ll give you fifty bucks if you let me hold her,” said a voice behind the lights.

Trevin turned slowly, lights all around, until he faced the old woman again. A picture formed in his mind, dim at first but growing clearer by the second. One semi-trailer truck, the trailer set up like a child’s room—no, like a nursery! Winnie-the-Pooh wallpaper. A crib. One of those musical rotating things, what cha’ call ums—a mobile! A little rocking chair. Kid’s music. And they’d go from town to town. The banner would say THE LAST O-FORM GIRL CHILD, and he would charge them, yes he would, and they would line up. The money would fall off the table!

Trevin pushed Caprice away from him, her hands clinging to his coat. “It’s okay, darling. The nice woman just wants to hold you for a bit. I’ll be right here.”

Caprice looked at him, despair clear in her face. Could she already see the truck with the nursery? Could she picture the banner and the unending procession of little towns?

The old woman took Caprice in her arms like a precious vase. “That’s all right, little girl. That’s all right.” She faced Trevin, tears on her cheeks. “She’s just like the granddaughter I always wanted! Does she talk yet? I haven’t heard a baby’s voice in forever. Does she talk?”

“Go ahead, Caprice dear. Say something to the nice lady.”