The Gay Man and the Butcher’s Boy: Shadows of Terror
The Bear and the Slaughterhouse Boy, 4
From across the room Jack heard, “Get the fuck out, boy!”
The child looked Jack full in the eye for half a second, nodded a quick thanks, then gasped and ran.
Jack straightened, turned to the butcher and said, “OK, enough. Glen Miller sent me. I have a dead bear in the back of my truck. You gonna go get it or what?”
The man drew in a sharp breath and threw a sneer at Jack. He opened his mouth as if he had something violent and nasty to say, but then his face melted into a satisfied grin. He pointed over his shoulder with his chin. “Them boys there’ll drag it in. C’mere and sit down at the table with me.”
Jack walked over to find a metal flask stuck under his nose.
“Go on. Take a slug and take the chill off. Fuckin’ freezing out, eh? Always seems too cold closing night. Every damn year.”
Jack hesitated before he reached for the container, then shrugged his shoulders and tilted it back into his mouth. A trickle of pungent syrup burned its way down to his stomach. Cheap blackberry brandy.
The butcher said, “You gonna mount it or rug it?”
“Huh?”
“The bear! How should I skin it?”
“Oh, right. Yeah, rug, please,” said Jack, setting the bottle on the flimsy card table and sitting down in a folding chair.”
“Check. And the meat? Mostly hamburger?”
“No, mostly steaks and chops if you can.”
“Check, no problem. I been doing this since I was younger than my kid is now.”
Jack narrowed his eyes and pushed out one last request. “Package up a few pounds of fat. I’m gonna make sausage.”
They negotiated a price while the butcher’s helpers rolled up the garage door, dragged Jack’s huge trophy over the dirt floor, hooked a chain around its body, and hoisted it up to swing beside an enormous beast that almost made it look small.
The butcher stood and motioned Jack out. “Be ready in three or four days. Make sure you call before you come … if you manage.”
He walked Jack to his truck and held open the driver side door, breathing sour brandy up Jack’s nose. “Just so you know, I outta kicked your ass back there. You don’t never come between a man and his kid.”
Jack snorted. “Whatever, man. You won’t throwing me into a wall like a sack of flour. I’m not 10 and defenseless.” He pushed his nose in closer to the butcher’s.
The man turned and spit. “Any other time, I woulda, but I don’t need to kick yer ass, not tonight.”
“Let go of my door.”
The butcher backed away from the truck, smiling. “Have fun tonight! I’ll be thinking of you.”
That bizarre comment echoing in his head, Jack slid in and started the engine. He scattered gravel as he roared onto the dirt road, asking himself what the hell he was doing isolated in the wilderness with people who seemed to get more brutal and more weird each moment he spent with them.
He asked himself what Greg would think, wishing he had a signal so he could chat with his boyfriend and connect with the normalcy of the City as he tried to find his way out of the woods.
He hit the accelerator right before he sensed a small figure blocking the left beam of his headlights.
No time to slow down!
He felt as much as heard a thump, followed by a thin cry. He stood on the brakes, threw the door open, and jumped out. “Hey! Hello? What happened?”
A dark shadow flowed into Jack’s peripheral vision. Something was coming at him! He shouted, “Is somebody there?”
A familiar piping voice answered. “You hurt me! Dincha see me waving?”
The butcher’s boy! “Oh, my God. Are you all right?”
“You knocked me in the ditch.”
The small figure stepped into the headlights. He was still barefoot and wearing running shorts, but he’d slipped on a long sweatshirt with a hood. Jack looked him up and down fast, checking for injuries. “I am SO sorry.”
The boy just nodded.
“Nothing seems to be bleeding. Can you move your neck? Arms? OK, good. Legs?”
“Duh, mister. I’m standing up, ain’t I?”
“Thank God!”
“My shoulder hurts like fire. But you didn’t do that. You was still drivin’ slow. You made me twist my ankle, I think.” He stepped toward the truck and winced. “See?”
Jack’s panic started to calm. Just a little. “OK, let’s get you in the truck and then back to your dad.” He let the boy lean on him and limp around to the passenger door.
When Jack lifted the kid up onto the seat, the dome light revealed an angry swelling on his left cheek and around his his eye. Jack whistled and swore. “Fuck, dude. That’s gonna be some shiner.”
He raced around to the driver’s side and hopped in. “You gotta get some ice on that like now. I am really, really sorry I didn’t see you.”
The kid stared at him, silent. When he spoke, he was almost whispering. “You didn’t do it. Not my shoulder or my face. I got slammed into a wall, ’member? My dad is really, really pissed at you.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” snorted Jack as shifted into reverse. “Come on, let’s get you home safe.”
“No! You can’t!”
“Of course I can. It’s just a hundred yards down the road, and if your dad thinks I’m scared of him, he can think again.”
“He’ll KILL me if he sees me in your truck. Then he’ll kill YOU. I mean it, he’s got a gun!”
“Don’t be silly. He’s mad, not insane.” Jack’s tone was warm and reassuring, but he didn’t entirely believe himself. He reached over and pulled something out of the glove box. “Besides, I got this if he gets squirrely. A loaded .44. I carried it on the hunt in case I got in trouble with a bear.”
“Please! You don’t understand! You can’t go back there right now. You just can’t!”
The boy’s almost animalistic pleading twisted Jack’s stomach into knots. He couldn’t let a child get beat up or worse. But he couldn’t just drive away with him. He didn’t know what to do.
The kid wasn’t done talking. He shouted, voice cracking into near sobs. “THEY are coming. Like they do every year. They might be here already. You gotta get out of here. NOW! FAST!”
The boy’s sincerity sent icy needles dancing up and down Jack’s neck. He almost stepped on the gas and roared off. But he made himself snap out of it.
“Listen, kid. I don’t know who’s coming, and I don’t much care. As for them being here already, have you seen any headlights pulling up? I sure haven’t. This is ridiculous. I’ll just drive you around to the back to your mom.”
“No! She ain’t there! Just go!” The boy’s eyes darted around as if he was seeking an instant escape from some terrifying danger. “She’s with Gramma Sonya at the Crossroads. Take me to her? Please? Now!”
“Sonya is your grandmother?”
“Yeah. Oh, my God? Did you hear that? Shit!”
“Hear what? And how’d you know I was staying at the Crossroads?”
The boy didn’t answer, he just pointed a spindly finger out Jack’s window. “Shut your door. They’re coming! They’re here now!”
Jack had left his door cracked so the dome light would stay on as he examined the boy. He opened it a little wider to peer into the ditch. He heard a faint rustling from a few feet away.
Then he smelled something. Acrid and unpleasant. He recognized it just as the boy lunged across him and slammed the door shut. “Drive! Drive now! Drive, you idiot!”
Something in the boy’s voice made Jack slam his foot onto the accelerator. He forgot he’d left the truck in reverse, so his head snapped forward just in time to see a black shadow lunge out of the ditch, stealing all the light from the spot where Jack had just been parked.
What you just read is fiction loosely based on a real hunting trip I took a few years ago. There’s more to come, but not too much more. The “real” bits are pretty much done now as this story dives into Halloween terror. Fun terror, I hope!
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James Finn is a former Air Force intelligence analyst, long-time LGBTQ activist, an alumnus of Queer Nation and Act Up NY, an essayist occasionally published in queer news outlets, and an “agented” novelist. Send questions, comments, and story ideas to [email protected].