Breeds (2 page)

“No.”

“Nar I. But y’know somethin’? Somethin’ dat really turns my piss cold? I’ll tell ya. It’s de goddamn private corporations rulin’ everythin’ behind the scenes. Even de government ain’t about doing what dey can for de people, it’s about doin’ enough to get a fat pension and all dem lobster dinners. Taxes. Regulations. Shit, y’know what happened out in Quebec? Some French guy got tossed off his land, his own fuckin’ property, ‘cause a company wanted to buy it and he wouldn’t sell at their price. So what did de company do? Went to court and got dis guy evicted off his property dat was owned by him and his family for fuckin’ years as dey were ah, ah, detrimentialistic and preventin’ dese other cocksuckers from makin’ money and keepin’ deir shareholders happy. Said he was being greedy, too! Can you believe dat? Man owns his own land for a goddamn age and along comes a mining or oil company, says, ‘You got oil under dere. We wants it. And we’ll give you dis much for it.’ Which is only a pissdrop in the bedchamber pot really, and when someone says it ain’t enough, well! Yer upholding development so
fuck you
. Fuck you and yer fuckin’ land. We’ll go to court with our team of bigwig lawyers, pay off de judge and take it anyway, and you can go to fuckin’ jail and see how you like a little white room for a year or whatever, playin’ pond hockey with de soap in de showers and stayin’ de hell outta de corners. Who gives a goddamn ya lived on dat land fer all yer life, eh? Raised family on it. Jesus Christ. Law. Money. Banks. All fucked up. All twisted. People’s just as twisted by it, too. Never mind de fuckin’ pollution goin’ into de air. Goin’ into de groundwater. Never mind de open freedom of the wild bein’ regulated all ta hell. You know, I haveta start worryin’ about cancer now. Cancer!
Me!
Never been sick a day and it’s suddenly all pilin’ onto me. Biggest fuckin’ mystery. And folks don’t like it that I talk. I ask questions. I open me mouth. Can’t have dat. Makes certain people nervous. Some people like to live in de shadows, know what I’m sayin’, eh, b’y? Y’know? Dey’re more on living out deir days in secrecy, and keepin’ de rest of us in line with threats. Black hearted sonsabitches. Don’t listen and look out. Look out. You get a visitor some morning or some night. Low. Underhanded. Like… like fuckin’ spiders. Bah. Sick of movin’ I is. Don’t wanna leave dis land. Not dis time. Can’t have dat, someone says. Can’t have it. So why I asks, asks ‘em straight up. Man to man, like.
Oh
dey don’t like dat. Supposed to just fuckin’
take it
. Y’know what dat feels like? Feels like, like an electric eggbeater shavin’ at yer prostate. Jesus, Jesus.”

Blackbeard’s face remained unreadable during Borland’s disjointed vitriol. In fact, his youthful, bushy visitor sat quietly with his hands in his lap. Too damn quiet, really. Borland ran a dry tongue across his hairy upper lip, charging himself for the next rant.

“S’like dis place here,” Borland continued. “Claimed and bought dis land years ago. Not much, outta de way and all, so I don’t have to pay town taxes, right? Still gotta pay property taxes, though. Not dat I do. And the works of ‘em are too goddamn scared to come out here to face me. Any day now, some pork-assed municipal spaztic is gonna call de cops. And dey will, eventually. Knows dey will. But you think dey’re gonna get me to pay anything? No sir. Not I. Gettin’ it from all sides. The locals wantin’ their money for land I already own, and dat group of cocksuckers dere dat tink it’s time for me to move on. If I dig deep enough, I daresay one controls the other. Da fuckers wants me gone some bad. Some
shockin
’ bad. But I ain’t goin’ nowhares. I’ll
fight
before dat happens. I’ll
murder
whoever it is coming into me territory. Fuckin’
feast
on deir hearts.”

Borland growled the word “feast,” his voice taking on a frightening tremble that made Blackbeard straighten ever so slightly. His visitor appeared on guard, yet trying very hard to look relaxed, and that put a satisfied smirk on Borland’s own bearded jowls. Young fuck had finally gotten it. Young fuck understood now.

Another gust rose up and clattered against the window, rattling the pane. The kettle shushed Borland with heated impatience.

“Ah,” the old woodsman said with a fatigued flail of a hand. “Sorry b’y. Y’don’t want to listen to me go on about de ways tings are. I don’t speak much to folks. Don’t have time for it. And y’caught me at a bad time. Y’want some biscuits with yer tea?”

Blackbeard forced a smile and shook his head.

“I’m havin’ some den,” Borland muttered. “Only time I can eat d’damn tings. I likes to dunk ‘em. Me teet hurt if I chow down on ‘em dry.”

Borland got up, knees crackling, and turned his back on his unwanted guest.

And in that instant, Blackbeard’s face became a shockingly stern thing. His right hand stole behind his back and went up under his winter coat. He leaned forward just a little as he quietly freed the hidden Bowie knife from its sheath, already picking the most critical point to stab in Borland’s spine. He lifted himself from the chair.

The kettle’s hissy fit heightened.

Borland whirled with a speed utterly unexpected. Three-inch claws flashed across Blackbeard’s face, raking hair and meat in a grisly explosion of force and leaving the flesh in fine tatters. The surprise and ferocity of Borland’s attack rendered Blackbeard stunned for all of a split second––more than enough time for a second clawed hand to uppercut, swung from the hips, leaving a foursome of lines as fine as gills in his throat, spouting arcs of cherry black. The blow lifted Blackbeard over his chair to crash-land flat on his back. The Bowie skittered from his fingers.

Borland pounced. With unnatural nimbleness for a man his age and size, he landed knees-first on the man’s chest, breaking ribs as if they were weak ice, and snatched up the silvery blade. He grabbed the younger man’s throat, blood bubbling around his fingers, and positioned the weapon’s tip right under the chin. Blackbeard’s right eye swiveled around but the left didn’t. Borland’s claws had sliced that orb open, making it weep an almost colorless jelly that slid into Blackbeard’s ear.

“Little shit,” a black-eyed Borland hissed through bared fangs. “Tink y’can just walk in heres and
fuck
wit’
me
?”

Blackbeard blinked in terror.

With a grunt, Borland shoved the Bowie’s point up through the man’s skull, burying the weapon deep and allowing it to shiver just for a second… before twisting.

A smoky blanket of cloud stretched across the sky as snow floated down in silent tufts, frosting the land in white deep enough for the need of snowshoes. Ross stopped in his hike and just savored the scene before him, listening to nothing, as there wasn’t anything to hear out in the woods at times like these. He scanned the ghost-white hills ahead of him, blinking when flakes drifted into his eyes, and simply appreciated the view for what it was. Snow covered the land in an unspoiled sheet of dull brilliance. A canvas of cold sugar, bordered on either side by stout fir trees left untouched by Christmas. Rocks poked their dark tips up through the fresh sheets, reminiscent of pebbles in the smiles of snowmen. In between some of the smaller trees lurked rising reefs of drifted snow, shaped as fine as any museum sculpture. Some of the larger ones resembled the backs of mighty whales breaking the surface for a quick breath.

Sheer, freezing beauty.

And not a goddamn soul in sight.

Just the way he liked it.

Fir and spruce trees covered much of the land beyond where he stood on a low hill, and he could faintly make out the landfill area that once served as a dumping zone for garbage. The communities of Upper and Lower Amherst Cove, King’s Cove, and all the others on the peninsula now sent their refuse toward the new dump near Bonavista. And while Ross hadn’t visited it yet, he imagined he would sooner or later. Sometimes he’d find perfectly good items to salvage from the nearby Catalina dump, and for a guy who recognized their worth and didn’t mind a little work on the side, it was as good as shopping at any of the bigger chains in Clarenville.

Ross stood and hefted his rucksack on his back, shifting the weight of his water bottle, a wrapped bologna-and-cheese sandwich, and the three frozen rabbits he’d taken from his wire slips. Slips he had to dig down to reach. He didn’t mind. He was an outdoors person, a born woodsman, and the land provided a good portion of what he needed. In the fall and winter, he hunted rabbit, duck, bear, and moose. Fished in February if he was bored, but he usually caught his fill of trout during the summer months, and kept them in his freezer.

Freeze.

The thought made him sniff at the cold. He felt his face loosen from the chill that hardened his exposed skin. It was only minus seven today, least that’s what the truck’s thermometer told him. Moving around in his black-and-yellow winter snow suit, with the weight he carried, kept him more than warm. He thought about heading back to the truck and getting home, starting a fire and heating the place up, but the weather was too fine for that just yet. The scenery too glorious. He wanted to enjoy it as much as possible because, in the spring, chances were he’d have to board up his house and move out west, to the oil fields or some other area ripe with employment opportunities. As beautiful as the land was around here, the economy was depressed. It had already forced most of the younger folks to move, seeking work elsewhere. Ross had held on as long as he could, but the writing was on the wall.

As much as he hated to even consider it.

With another sniff, he got to hiking, making his way over hoary ridges populated with stunted trees and hoping that, in September, the wild blueberry bushes he knew existed underneath would provide a few weeks of uninterrupted picking. The time spent in the outdoors agreed with him. At forty-two, his doctor marveled at his overall general health, telling him he had the heart of an athlete. Tobacco held no interest to him, and he sipped alcohol only in moderation, so he was free of those particular vices… although, after catching a glimpse and a hello from the social worker at the local community hospital, Ross did feel the urge to develop a gambling problem. Not that he would have a chance with her. He wasn’t a pretty man. The razor graced his chin only when absolutely necessary, the last time being four or five days ago, so his lower face appeared prickly with stubble. In his usual state, his unshaven beard could skin the ass off a cat if he tried, as his departed grandmother often remarked about his grandfather’s sandpapery jawline. Ross also buzzed his hair low if only for the ease of maintaining it. His vision wasn’t the best, and in the evenings, when he chose to read by lamplight––just to save a few dollars as the cost of electricity was outrageous––he found he held his books farther and farther away from his face.

Gambling addiction. Damn straight that was a fine idea. Only trouble was the social worker, with her hair done in a golden droop of a ponytail. Couldn’t have been any more than twenty-five, if that. Twenty-seven at most. Young enough for him to feel awkward about ever saying anything more than, “Hello.”

Then again, who knew who he might meet while playing blackjack? The notion made him chuckle. There were better things to do than play cards online at the local community library. Watching porn came to mind. Alvin knew all the good, virus-free sites.

The wind blew snow into Ross’s face and made him squint. He cursed softly for not bringing a pair of goggles. The land dipped into a gulley and he thumped down the incline, keeping his snowshoes apart, careful not to trip. He didn’t have any more rabbit slips to check on, and this hike was only because he loved the outdoors. The worsening weather scratched going any farther, however. A short walk and he’d turn around and make his way back to his waiting truck.

Snow whorled around his ankles in white puffs of magic as he descended, accepting help from tree limbs. Even through the dwindling visibility, he had no difficulty spotting the tracks, almost hidden under a low-hanging roof of heavy boughs. At first he thought moose, but upon closer inspection, he could see that they were much wider. Snow filled them at an angle, reminding Ross of loose socks fallen slack upon thin ankles. He crouched down and the chilled expression on his face worked into one of sheer puzzlement.

What the hell?

The tracks weren’t fresh, as the stiffness of the bottom layer of snow informed him, but that wasn’t the perplexing thing. He’d seen all manner of prints in these hills: coyote, bear, moose, rabbit, and even squirrels––not to mention the boots of fellow hunters and folks who enjoyed the outdoors. But this set made him uneasy. Though the heel was partially filled, the tip of the print could be made out, as could the grainy imprint of toes… widespread
human
toes.

Ross’s face scrunched in blatant puzzlement. Who the hell would be running around out here in their bare feet? There were no polar bear clubs around seeking mid-winter dips, and even if there were, the coastline was a kilometer away. So who would be prancing about ankle-deep in their birthday boots? Ross saw where the tracks emerged and where they were going. A scowl hardened his salty face. The wild was an unforgiving place at the best of times. Anyone heading into the woods at extended lengths should be prepared, especially if the territory was unknown. A memory surfaced of a missing person’s report about three weeks or so ago—some guy from either the West Coast or out of Province had come in to do a little hiking and winter fishing. Just last year a couple of old hunters up from Maine had flown in to chase moose and ended up blasting themselves in what the cops concluded to be a suicide pact. The Mounties discovered their frozen corpses three months after the closing of the season. Strange shit went down around these hills sometimes.

With some effort Ross followed the tracks, sensing they were heading back toward the highway and hoping they stopped there. Grim images of what might be waiting for him clouded his mind. Dead animals he could handle, but dead people were something else entirely.

“Gonna regret this,” Ross muttered and left the gulley behind. He pushed snowy branches from his face as he trudged onward, the chilling dust coating him from head to toe. He stopped every so often to get his bearings, wondering when the snow was going to let up. The highway drew closer, and he expected to hear the wet hiss of passing traffic any moment. A few minutes later, he emerged from the treeline and lost the tracks at a clear-cut incline which was the shoulder of a frosty ribbon of asphalt. The highway department had plowed the snow over the slope, covering the tracks. Ross huffed and continued on, climbing up to the road and peering in both directions, frowning at how the falling snow skewered the visibility a hundred meters out.