Hunting Shadows

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Author's Note

This story was started and finished during the early days of the COVID-19 lockdowns that swept the country. In those days of anxiety and uncertainty, I could at least take pride that I had finished “Hunting Shadows” at a record pace. After all, what else did I have going on every evening? Now, as Tiger King Season 2 debuts, I am once again reminded of those early days when the virus was not yet a political issue, when we were united in our resolve, and, of course, when Tiger King seized the national conscience.

However, unlike most other viewers, I was less captivated by the boisterous Joe Exotic and his zoo empire and more intrigued by an event which was presented as little more than a footnote in the first episode: Zanesville. In October 2011, an exotic animal collector in Ohio released 50 tigers, lions, bears, cougars, wolves, and monkeys and then killed himself, forcing the local police to put the animals down with force before they escaped into the surrounding woods and town. The idea of being a police officer in rural Ohio forced to hunt down nature’s greatest predators was captivating enough. The fact that nobody except the owner who committed suicide was harmed is short of miraculous.

“Hunting Shadows” is the result of me asking the question: what if things hadn’t gone so well, as they very well could have in the real incident? What would it be like to be one of those police officers called in to face a horde of massive predators with no training and no grasp of the true magnitude? What would the insanity of this unlikely event feel like to witness firsthand? These are the questions “Hunting Shadows” attempts to answer.

***

Hunting Shadows

It was another autumn day in the backwoods town of Lynden. Leaves swirled about the patrol car as I cruised down the road, “Jet Airliner” gliding out of the speakers. Playing music was against regulations, but I could count the number of calls we had gotten over the radio in the past month on one hand. I glanced to the left to catch a glimpse of the Blue Ridge mountains through the trees. Who could concentrate long enough to plan a crime with these views surrounding us?

I pulled off to the side and grabbed my camera from the glovebox, trying to judge the best angle to catch the most peaks among the red and gold treetops. If only the wind could knock a few more leaves off, I thought, taking a step before a crackle stopped me. The radio had come to life.

“All units,” the dispatcher called as I leaned my head in the doorway. “Possible 10-54 on VA 33 near Mile Marker 54. Requesting nearest unit to respond.”

As I did the math in my head, another voice came on the frequency. “Deputy Gibbons en route.”

At that point, I could have continued grabbing pictures and gone on my way. But something pricked at the back of my neck. 10-54: livestock on the highway. The valley was well-known for its agriculture, but there weren’t any farms in that neck of the woods. Considering no other reports had come in today, I decided that Gibbons wouldn’t mind back up.

I pushed down on the transmit button. “Deputy Young also responding.”

“10-4,” the dispatcher replied.

I whipped the cruiser across both lanes of traffic to start back the way I’d come. Only then did I remember to flip the lights on. Sometimes we all get a little too comfortable with the quiet in this town. I smirked as I laid down the gas pedal, listening to the engine rev as speed limits fell by the wayside.

It didn’t take long to reach Route 33, and as I expected, I encountered no other cars. However, my initial excitement at being able to drift along the winding roadway had faded at this point. More calls had come over the radio.

Gibbons had arrived at the scene to find an abandoned Toyota Corolla with what appeared to be claw marks on the hood and a smashed-out windshield. Dispatch asked about the status of the driver, and Gibbons reported them missing, but noted the rear passenger side door was open. Next, Dispatch asked if Gibbons had eyes on the reported livestock.

“Negative,” Gibbons responded.

The radio was never the clearest, but I swore I could hear a change in his voice across the syllables. Statement turned to uncertainty. I imaged him standing beside the abandoned car, turning and trying to see the past the trees surrounding him as he said it.

Now other sheriff’s deputies were reporting in and rerouting to the scene. We all had the same question on our mind: What farm animal could do that kind of damage?

Dispatch ordered Gibbons to sweep the road for the missing motorist and report in with any updates. He didn’t take long.

“Dispatch, I have eyes on,” Gibbons’ voice shot over the radio. “10-54 appears to be… appears to be a tiger.”

The stumble revealed the deputy’s shock, even as his tone remained calm. This was matched by several seconds of silence on the air before Dispatch asked him to confirm the identification.

“Confirmed. 10-54 is a tiger moving along the roadway. Heading north.”

The treetops whipped past my windows, but I kept willing my cruiser to move faster. Heading north on the road seemed like the best news at first. The tiger hadn’t run off into the woods where we would have to pursue on foot, and it was moving away from town. In the next second, I realized that also meant the odds were slim any deputies would be coming from that direction to intercept.

Dispatch had also come to this conclusion. “Deputy Gibbons, do you have a shot on the animal?”

“Affirmative.” He paused. “But I don’t have the range.”

“Understood, continue tracking and await backup.”

“10-4.”

Gibbons remained professional, but I could imagine the possibilities swirling through his mind. Either I attempt to shoot this 400-pound cat with my tiny sidearm, or I follow a massive predator that can run me down at the drop of a pin.

“Hopefully somebody gets there soon,” I said to myself, swerving through a turn on 33 as I refused to let my foot off the accelerator.

My decision to respond was now doubly wise, for I happened to have one of the few Remington Model 700s owned by the Sheriff’s office in my trunk. Much better suited to felling big game – or rogue tigers. As long as I don’t miss.

I was getting close to the scene, and I decided it would be better to slow down than ram the back of Gibbons’ cruiser. As I eased off the gas, I rounded a bend in the road and found myself barreling down on a black mass. The brakes screeched, I drew back, but the creature did not move until my hood slammed into its side.

A bear, I realized, blinking at the slumped mass of tan and gray fur. A grizzly bear.

All speculation of what it was doing here vanished as it rose back up. I watched as its front paws slammed down onto the hood that had attacked it. As the suspension rocked and the metal groaned under its weight, only then did I release white knuckles from the steering wheel.

My shock had saved me so far. The bear’s fury appeared to be fully directed at the car – it had yet to realize a man had driven it. The collision had reduced none of its strength as it ripped away the hood. Next its claws turned to the engine. Until now I had felt relatively secure despite one of nature’s most potent predators standing two feet away from me, but the risk of fire and fumes forced me to start plotting an escape.

I unhooked the restraining strap on my Glock, facing much the same dilemma as Gibbons tailing the tiger. I could empty my entire clip into this monster, and unless I hit something vital by luck, it would only get angrier. Yet if I ran, if I even moved too much, its fury would turn from car to man with similar results.

Fate made the choice for me. A crackle started from the radio. I reached for the volume button, but it was too late.

“Dispatch, tiger has left the road and moved into the woods, heading west near Mile Marker 55.”

Whether it was the voice or my shoulders flinching that made the black eyes look up from the oil reservoir, I couldn’t say. A paw smacked into the windshield above my head, cracking the glass around each of its claws. Another thud pounded through my ears as the other paw made contact. I drew my gun, pointing it up at the rippling chest, fighting to control my breathing and keep my hand from shaking.

Another stomp sent a spiderweb of fissures all throughout the windshield in front of me. The glass is bulletproof, I told myself as I switched the Glock’s safety off. No sense shooting until it’s out of the way.

Beneath the groan of collapsing glass, I thought I heard the dim squeal of tires fighting for traction, but the grizzly roared above me in anticipation. Even the bear knew that the windshield couldn’t possibly bend this far outside its natural state and hold for long. I exhaled, closed my eyes, and waited for the final snap as my finger tightened around the trigger.

But that momentary celebration cost the grizzly. A shotgun sounded close by, and the bear roared again, this time in rage. Turning, I watched as two deputies inched up along the opposite side of the road. Pellets pinged off the side of my car as the lead officer fired another shell into the grizzly, which fully drew its attention away from me. Its great legs hurtled forward as the bear charged its new aggressors.

Saviors had now turned to prey as the deputies scrambled backward. At the same moment, I kicked open the door to my car, stumbling into the road as I tracked the flying predator with my Glock. No time to get the Remington. Panicking, the second deputy opened fire with his sidearm at the same moment I started pumping bullets into the grizzly’s side.

I credit this wild crossfire with preventing tragedy, but the first deputy fired a final blast from his shotgun as the bear raised its paw to crush the pair to the ground. Instead, the beast’s other front leg gave way, and it slumped over.

“Zane,” I said as I ran up to the two dazed deputies. “I guess I owe you two one.”

“Marvin,” he replied, lowering the shotgun to shake my hand. “If I’d known it was you in there, I would have kept on driving.”

I turned, firing two more shots into the grizzly. The ejector flew open, confirming I had fired all twelve rounds into the bear. Still, its chest rose one last time before the beast died. A final act of defiance. We all stared at the body before us, sagging jaws and limp claws removing none of the primordial terror it struck.

Zane voiced all of our thoughts. “Where the hell did these monsters come from?”

Monsters, I thought, remembering the report of the tiger on the road.

“Come on,” I said to the two men, attempting to shake off our collective shock. “Gibbons is still out there by himself with who knows what else lurking in these trees.”

Together, we pushed my savaged car onto the shoulder to avoid blocking any backup who would be following us. There wasn’t much we could do about the giant grizzly corpse in the other lane, despite the three of us trying to roll it. I made sure to grab the Remington from the trunk and all the ammunition I had. Like hell I’m going to be caught without it again.

I hopped into the back of Zane’s cruiser, and the three of us raced down the road toward the scene of the original report, but by now it was becoming clear that there was no one crime scene to reach. I scanned the tree line as Zane reported in the bear attack.

Dispatch replied with only a “10-4.”

“They’ve gotten other reports,” I inferred as Zane and the second deputy looked at each other with disbelief at the flippant response. “We’re old news at this point.”

Indeed, the next report made all our arm hairs raise. “Dispatch, we’re going to need to coordinate an immediate closure of Highway 33 with VDOT.”

It was not only the implications of the message that made us all silent, but the speaker: Chief Deputy Sheriff Ben Kilm, second in command of the entire Sheriff’s department. From the sound of the radio, he was not putting in this call from an office or a command center. He was out in the middle of this nightmare.

Once again, Dispatch replied only to confirm the transmission.

Ahead, the road straightened out, and we all caught sight of the Corolla with giant gashes in its hood and roof. Gibbons’ empty cruiser was parked behind it, its lights still on. Two sheriff’s vehicles had already arrived on the scene and parked directly on the center median. Zane positioned his own vehicle above the double yellow lines.

As we hopped out, our eyes all moved to the edge of the road. A body lay sprawled across the pavement, its tan hide and long mane leaving no doubt to its identity. Still, we all had to ask the question:

“Is that a lion?”

Kilm himself answered from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. “Sure is.” He nodded to my rifle. “Glad to see we finally got ourselves something made for this kind of work.”

Behind Kilm, another deputy leaned against the side of an SUV, blood streaking down his forehead. “Ryan there dodged just a bit too late.” Kilm filled in the gaps. “He shot that lion in the throat, though, so I guess he gets to claim the kill. Wasted thirty bullets on it before he finally bagged it.”

“I believe it,” I said, thinking back to the grizzly.

Kilm turned back toward the tree line at the top of the hill. Three other deputies had their guns trained in the same direction. This is a perimeter – or as much of one as we can create. At least some of these guys have shotguns.

“Movement, I have movement,” the deputy on the north end of the line shouted.

Everyone pressed against the cars, and the sound of half a dozen weapons chambering rounds followed. A gray shape loped out from the cover of a browning shrub, red tongue hanging out as the wolf started to wander down the hill.

“Hold your fire,” Kilm barked. “Let Marvin take the shot.”

Elbows braced against the roof of a cruiser for stability, I looked back. “But, sir, it’s not attacking us.”

“You got any tranquilizer darts with you, Deputy?”

“No, sir.”

“Then drop it.”

I sighed, letting my heartbeat slow. The gray side filled my sights as I took up the slack on the trigger. “Sorry, buddy,” I whispered.

The Remington kicked back, its rapport echoing down the road. On the hillside, the wolf happened to look up the same moment the bullet struck. I swore I could see confusion in its yellow eyes as it rolled over. It didn’t get back up.

“See, now that’s how you deal with a wild beast,” Kilm announced to the group. “Nice shot, Marvin.”

He moved beside me and grabbed my arm. “Don’t try none of that bullshit again, you hear me? Next time we might not have the luxury of second guessing.”

Despite my better instincts, I felt my eyebrow raising. “Next time, sir?”

Kilm nodded, his jaw tightening. “Oh, yes, Deputy, this is only the start. We’re holding position until the big guns get here. Then we’re moving in.”

The look in his eyes left little doubt what that meant.

***

Nothing else emerged from the trees as other deputies arrived, until it was clear the entire Sheriff’s department had been called in. Still, that put only twenty of us against an unknown number of wild beasts roaming free in the woods. Worse, the sun was moving lower in the sky with each passing moment.

At once, it became clear what “big guns” meant. A thrumming filled the air as a SWAT vehicle appeared at the end of the column, moments before a helicopter passed overhead. As men in body armor and assault rifles poured out of the van, I couldn’t take my eyes off the rifle hanging out the side of the state police chopper. An M24 equipped with scope, a real work of beauty.

“Blackbird reporting in,” the radios crackled all along the line. “Point of origin appears to be an aluminum shed and barn one mile west of the road.”

Kilm radioed back. “Blackbird, do you have eyes on positive contacts?”

“Confirmed, clearing appears to have at least five different targets. Do you want us to thin them out for you?”

“Negative, let us form the net first.”

Net? He wants us to trap these things? I stared over to where the SWAT team had assembled. Their Kevlar might stand up to a lion’s claws, but even the best body armor was a joke to a grizzly bear. At least they had their M4s to knock them down first. The rest of us stood even less of a fighting chance.

“Listen up, everyone,” Kilm stepped in front of the vehicle barrier to address the force. “We believe we’re dealing with an exotic animal collection that has escaped. We don’t know how many we’re facing, but we’ve already killed a wolf, a lion, and a grizzly bear so far.” His hands tightened around his MP5. “So expect some excitement.”

I shook my head, already knowing what would come next.

“None us trained for this scenario, so we all need to keep our wits together.” The Chief Deputy pointed to the SWAT team. “The state police were kind enough to lend us some of their best, so we’re going to put them in the center of our line. The rest of you, space yourselves twenty feet apart. Our job is to flush out anything lurking in those woods and drive them back into the field where Blackbird’s waiting. Only engage if absolutely necessary.”

“God help us all,” I heard Zane mutter behind his shotgun. He hadn’t stopped aiming at the trees.

***

At first, everything went smoothly. We all fanned out, the SWAT guys forming the center while the deputies formed the flanks. Weapons loaded and hands twitching, the line advanced into the picture-perfect Virginian forest, but the crimson foliage and golden sunlight were lost on us as we moved into the gray beneath. I passed the corpse of the wolf as we went, and I swore the glazed eyes followed me into those shadows.

Our objective was not stealth, and we announced our presence by shouting and banging our weapons against the tree trunks as we went. More than once, I heard leaves rustling in front of me in the gloom, but the animals retreated before I could drop into firing position. Despite my doubts, the plan seemed to be working.

Blackbird’s voice crackled across our shortwave radios to confirm. “We are seeing more targets leaving the trees. Keep up the chase, ground team.”

But then a softer sound came across the frequency. “Hold on, I’m seeing two of them going into the woods. Are those-”

It was the sniper on Blackbird, I realized, which explained the quietness of the voice. The pilot must have left his finger on the transmit button by mistake. It was the first lapse in discipline. It would not be the last.

I had taken a few more steps when the first gunshot rang out. Far away, I decided by the weakness of the sound. Keep moving. A screech echoed between the saplings and trunks, cutting off in a snarl. Three more gunshots came in quick succession, scattered, desperate. My grip tightened around my Remington’s stock. I almost pulled the trigger by accident when the radio flipped on.

“Deputy Clark,” a ragged voice called across the line. “I need backu-ahhh.”

To this day, I don’t remember whose damn idea it was for all of us to carry radios, but the entire line stopped as the scream continued on thirty different belts. Then a snarl sounded close to the transmitter, and the crackling ceased.

I attempted to control my breathing, not because I cared about looking afraid, but because I needed to listen. The land dropped down in front of me, and a creek trickled its way through the trees. Among the shadows, I suddenly caught a gleam of orange. Eyes. I slid down into firing position, but they darted to the left.

As I attempted to track the dim figure through the shrubs growing against the creek, the world suddenly exploded with gunfire much closer to home. Only M4s could fire that fast. Against instinct, I turned, catching several flashes through the gloom.

A twig snapped in the creek bed. I whipped back, watching as a brown shape hurled itself across the ravine, jaws opening to reveal huge incisors. Adrenaline made every muscle tense, including my trigger finger. The Remington fired, and the figure struck the dirt, sliding to less than a foot in front of me.

Sheer luck. I didn’t even have time to aim, I thought, the sight of a mountain lion at my feet almost comforting after seeing so many unnatural predators today. I searched the body for the killing wound.

But I didn’t find it; my bullet had only struck its front leg. Snarling, the cougar lashed out with its other paw, and I felt five hot points hook into my calf. Its strength swept me off my feet, the rifle flying from my hands. The mountain lion kneeled on its injured leg and pulled me toward its jaws.

Clasping wildly, my hand grazed the butt of the Remington, and I twisted my body to grab it. Swinging around, I jammed the rifle between the white incisors before they could tear into my leg and fired. This time it went down for good.

I stood, testing my leg. Still works. The gunfire had stopped to my right. I pulled back the bolt on my rifle, preparing to chamber another round. Then the bushes rustled beside me.

Only the fact that I hadn’t yet reloaded saved the SWAT officer from death as I swung around. He stumbled into the open, his eyes barely pausing on me and my rifle in his face as he limped past. I watched as blood dripped from the barrel of his M4.

“Mountain lion got my friend…” he mumbled.

The sight of the man, so deadly with his body armor and assault rifle, wandering lost stuck with me. My lungs suddenly felt empty, and I gulped in huge breaths of air.

“All units,” Kilm’s voice came over the radio. Despite the static, I could detect a shake in it. “All units, report in.”

Everyone sounded off across the line. Two deputies did not report in.

“Continue the sweep,” Kilm ordered, not acknowledging the silences we all heard. “We’re over halfway now.”

For a moment, no footsteps came through the trees in response. Then finally Zane started moving to my left, and I followed suit, clamoring over the creek and up the embankment on the other side. We had only gone a dozen more yards when I heard him calling “Marvin!” in a hushed voice.

“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered before responding. “What?”

“I need your rifle here. Now.”

I attempted to pick my way as quietly as I could to Zane, but the leaves crunched under my boots no matter where I stepped and my injured leg didn’t help. By the time I reached him, I swore every beast in the forest knew where I was.

I almost stepped on Zane. He had lain down in a patch of shrubs and held a finger up to his lips, pointing in front of him.

Ducking my head around a trunk, I caught sight of a massive shape lumbering through the shrubs. Another grizzly bear? I mouthed to Zane. He shrugged, which I suppose is the most humor I could expect in this situation. I attempted to track the bear with my rifle, but it moved behind a copse of pines and the branches blocked my shot. At this range, if my first shot missed, the odds of having enough time to line up a second were almost zero. There was only one thing for it.

Zane’s eyes widened as I stepped out from behind cover. I could only focus on my breathing and each footstep as I picked the patches with the least leaves to place my boots. Despite my bravado, I was no woodsman, and the chances of being detected increased as I inched closer. But I needed to be sure.

The bear was only twenty feet away now. I had a clear line of sight on it as it moved past the pine trees and closer to Zane’s position. It stopped, sniffing, and I realized its head was starting to turn to the side. Toward me.

Then a twig snapped from the other side of the bear. Another deputy, moving forward as ordered. The bear shifted, trying to locate the source. The footsteps were drawing nearer as the grizzly tensed its shoulders and started to trot forward. The same movement revealed a perfect angle along its side to the back of the head.

One shot, and the bear slumped down. I put another bullet into it as Zane ran up.

“You insane bastard,” he said, clapping me on the back as he caught sight of the bear. “Let’s go see your work.”

As we approached the corpse from one side, the deputy who had served as the diversion walked up from the other side. She blinked, stunned at how close the grizzly had been without her even realizing.

The rest of the approach continued without incident. There was no need to shout and bang our weapons against the trees anymore; all our shooting had spooked anything that was going to run out of the forest by this point. Those beasts who weren’t going to flee had already made their stand.

At once, the trees thinned out, and the gray light of twilight illuminated our approach. Finally, we laid eyes on the compound.

Across a field of rusting farm equipment and abandoned cars, an aluminum shed stood upon a rise. Beyond it, a barn with a sagging roof defied gravity in the fading light. Nothing about the scene would have struck anyone as unusual in this part of the valley – except for the lions, tigers, bears, and wolves roaming about the hillside.

“Christ, there’s got to be two dozen of them,” Zane said next to me.

We all paused, at a loss facing this sight, until Kilm’s voice came over the radio. “All units, we’re going to do this nice and professional. Engage closest targets in range, and then shift position. Don’t waste any bullets on things you can’t hit. Blackbird, engage any targets that attempt to leave the area.”

“10-4.”

“Marvin, you have first shot,” Kilm finished.

A tiger jumped atop a dilapidated Tahoe, its orange fur standing out against the pink sky above. It snarled as a lion approached and swatted at the edge of the roof. The lion blinked as its challenger yowled and collapsed. Then several claws pierced its side, and all at once its legs felt heavy.

As the initial volley waned, Kilm ordered the line to move forward. I stepped past a wolf in the final throes of pain as we moved into the long grass, stopping short of the first row of cars.

At least the Remington dealt death swiftly. I took out another tiger as it fled toward the shed on the hill and moved my sights toward a bear that had been shot in the leg. It staggered another step before slumping over. Above, Blackbird’s blades whipped up the air as it moved toward the far side of the field. Beneath the thrum of the helicopter, I could hear the M24 firing as the sniper picked off those trying to escape the culling.

We moved up again, putting down anything that still twitched on the ground. My nostrils stung with the smell of gunpowder and blood, but there was nothing else to be done, I told myself. Imagine a tiger roaming free through the countryside.

By my own count, I had shot five tigers by the time we had cleared the field. I couldn’t ignore the prickling at the back of my neck when I recalled I had shot all but the first in the back as they ran. Silence returned to the compound as Blackbird moved off to pursue a lion that had escaped the perimeter. Minutes ago, the world’s greatest predators had roamed free, until man had come to reassert the natural order at the end of a gun.

I turned back, observing the field of carnage. Tigers lay splayed across rusting cars where they had jumped in their attempt to escape, lions and wolves were sprawled together in the tall grass. Great mounds marked the spots where bears had collapsed.

Atop the hill, the SWAT team stormed the shed, M4s at the ready. Another detail of deputies was sweeping the barn behind it. Kilm had assigned me and Zane to guarding the perimeter, which was just fine with me; a Remington was an awful choice for a close-range encounter. Besides, nothing was moving now in the surrounding darkness.

Several gunshots came from the shed. Zane and I ran up the hill with several of the other sentries to find two SWAT officers carrying a body between them. Not one of our own, I breathed a sigh of relief.

“The owner,” one said to us as they passed. “Pulled a gun on us.”

Kilm walked out behind them. “Son of a bitch asked us if we enjoyed the show.” He pointed back into the shed, where rows of metal cages stood empty. “He let them all out.”

It was a stupid question, one without an answer, but I asked it anyways: “Why?”

Kilm shrugged, his shoulders seeming to sag lower afterward. “Wasn’t in a mood for talking. More like he wanted to get one last laugh in before he went out. I almost think he was going to turn that gun on himself, but we weren’t taking chances as soon as he drew it.”

Zane and I stood in silence as Kilm turned, but then he paused. “He did ask us if we’d gotten Zeena yet. I didn’t get a chance to ask what he meant before the SWAT put him down.”

Zeena. That sounds like a pet name. I noticed a plaque on one of the cages from the doorway.

“Keep watch,” I told Zane. “I need to look at something real quick.”

“All right, but don’t touch anything. That’s an active crime scene in there.”

“The whole damn forest is a crime scene,” I muttered.

Inside the shed, rows of metal cages marched down both sides of the central aisle, giant metal water dishes and tire toys knocked askew behind open gates. Plaques marked the names and breeds of the former inhabitants who now littered the field outside. None matched the name I was looking for, until I reached the very end.

A final enclosure spanned the entire back wall, twice the size of any other cage in the place. The plaque sent pins down my spine.

“Zeena: White Bengal Tiger”

White tiger. I could still vividly remember the dozen different tigers that I and the other deputies had put down, and none of them had white fur. I ran back outside, scanning the field for confirmation. So where the hell is Zeena?

Realization struck as a thunderbolt. “Gibbons,” I gasped.

In all the madness of wild beasts flying out of the trees, we had forgotten the original responding officer. Gibbons had been tracking a tiger, and unless that tiger had found its way back to the compound and Gibbons hadn’t, it was still out there. And so was he.

But how can I find him in the dark?

“Blackbird,” I called before I even realized I had grabbed my radio. “Do you have thermal imaging?”

“Affirmative, ground team.”

“Requesting sweep of the forest north of the compound by Highway 33. Can you confirm any contacts?”

“Stand by.” I listened as the helicopter moved to the north end of the compound. “Confirming two contacts about three hundred feet from the road. Hard to identify, but we definitely have two thermal signatures in the same area.”

I could dimly hear Kilm’s voice over the radio ordering me to relay all communications to Blackbird through him. I heard Zane’s voice much closer, asking me where the hell I was going as I raced past. My own voice gasped out Gibbons’ name. Only when I reached the edge of the woods did I realize the stupidity of charging into the trees with a tiger lurking among them.

After moments of internal argument, I decided it was better to have a flashlight on than risk walking into every tree trunk. At least until I get closer. I rested the stock of my Remington on my forearm as I pointed the light in front. My finger never left the trigger as I scanned the shadows beyond the yellow ring, so much that I almost tripped over obstacles perfectly illuminated.

All the while, I noted the quiet, so alien in a world where gunfire and screeches had ruled only minutes ago. Only my footsteps filled the silence and my shaking breath beneath them.

I judged I was getting close to the road, so I paused to sweep the scene in front of me. Behind a fallen log, I caught a glimpse of a gray object, and I swung the light back to it. A radio lay among the brown leaves, its components scattered across the forest floor.

Shit. Now I know why Gibbons never responded to any of our calls. I moved in the direction of the radio, feeling my throat tighten. Maybe he just dropped it.

I knew how naïve the thought was, yet I clung to it as I stepped over the broken transmitter, if only to quell my terror at what would lie beyond. Looking up, I kicked into something that sent the leaves scattering. I turned my flashlight down and stumbled backward.

Before me, a white palm lay toward the sky, its fingers splayed and stiff. The arm continued beneath the unmistakable tan sleeve of a sheriff’s deputy uniform, but both cut off at the elbow in a pool of blood. Flashlight shaking in my hand, I forced myself to look up. To search for the rest of the body.

As I stood frozen among the shadows, I heard a groan. Weak, barely audible, it was still unmistakably human. Horror morphed into purpose, and I started moving toward the source.

Past a pile of dead brush, I found Gibbons. His face was pale, but his eyes squinted in the light and he grunted. He had wrapped his belt around his left arm to stem the bleeding, but a pool had still dripped onto the roots and moss beside him. His remaining hand gripped his Glock to his chest.

“You got… any bullets?” he muttered, still squinting against the light.

“Sure, Gibbons, sure.” I kneeled, replacing the clip in his handgun before handing it back to him.

“Thanks…” He pointed the Glock toward a depression. “It went that way.”

“White tiger?”

His groan confirmed my question. “When it turned… I emptied the whole clip. Didn’t matter.”

“This will,” I said, hoisting the Remington. I handed him the flashlight. “Do me a favor and keep the light shining down into that pit. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Sure thing,” Gibbons grunted.

Freed of the flashlight, I stepped down into the newly illuminated ravine. What had first appeared to be a dip in the ground instead led to a cave. My shadow stretched out in front of me as I drew closer, stopping where my silhouette met the true black of the opening. Damn, now I wish I had brought the flashlight with me.

As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I swore I saw a shape move among the darkness. The puncture wounds in my calf started to burn. Raising my rifle, I exhaled the same moment as claws scraped against stone.

Two green circles flashed, then I was tumbling to the ground. My back struck the dirt, and I felt massive paws crushing my chest. Above me, yellow teeth bared themselves between white fur and stripes that blended with the night. Zeena roared in my face.

The front legs that pinned me now started to slash at my vest, but the Kevlar proved just as adept at resisting tiger claws as bullets. Remembering the rifle through the pummeling, I started to lift it off the ground. Snarling with frustration, Zeena ceased using her claws. Her jaws down plunged toward my head.

Only by shoving the rifle stock into her mouth did I keep the three-inch teeth from puncturing my skull. Zeena’s hot breath steamed against my hands as I propped both arms against her unfailing strength. She moved her front legs, pinning my shoulders down as her muscular neck sought to overcome my shaking limbs. With each rattling breath, I could feel my elbows bending under her weight.

Desperate to escape, I pivoted the rifle butt and struck the tiger in the side of the head. Stunned, she temporarily released her grip, but only long enough to raise her paw. Claws clanged off the Remington’s barrel as Zeena swung, and the rifle spiraled into the darkness.

I tried to scramble out from under her, but massive paws pinned my shoulders again. Freed of the obstacle, she opened her jaws once more. Squirming, I thrust my hands against her chin, stopping the teeth a few inches from my face.

“Come on, you bitch,” I sneered through gritted teeth, attempting to muster up some reserve of strength. But my arms knew only agony, and the green eyes flashed as she sensed her prey weakening. A growl rumbled deep in Zeena’s throat, the foul breath and saliva lathering my face from less than an inch away.

A shot rang out, and at once I felt the impossible strength wane. The green eyes blinked as I forced the jaws away from my face. Zeena exhaled, then collapsed on top of me.

When I finally crawled out from beneath the dying cat, I found a trickle of blood leaking from the side of her head. I turned, following the trajectory to the hillside where Gibbons lay. He was still pointing the Glock at her as our eyes met.

“Best go find that rifle, Marvin,” he called. “Make sure it’s done.”

I retrieved the Remington from where it had landed and put another bullet in the white tiger’s head. She did not move again.

“Glad you’re okay…” Gibbons gasped as I ran to his side. “Glad I got to pay the cat back, too.” He smiled as he drifted into unconsciousness.

When Zane and the other deputies found me, I was stumbling through the woods with Gibbons slung across my shoulders. They grabbed him and ran him back to the compound where an ambulance was waiting. The paramedics declared Gibbons dead on arrival at Rockingham Memorial Hospital.

***

The next day, the job turned from hunting in the dark to reconciling all the carnage. The sheriff decided that, despite the quick response of our deputies, the only way to be sure all the animals had been contained was to count the bodies against the records we had found in the shed. Much as we all hated to admit it, it was entirely plausible one of the beasts – or more – had escaped in all the chaos. It made our losses even tougher to swallow.

I watched as the John Deere front loader deposited another lion corpse in front of the shed, its mane smeared with mud. The tractor turned back to retrieve another body from the field beneath us. The sun had risen just minutes ago, but already the flies had begun feasting.

“You going to go home and sleep at some point, Marvin?” a deputy asked as he passed to take photos of the shed’s empty interior.

“Nah.” I shrugged. I still held my Remington at my side. “Got too much left to do.”

“From the sound of it, you did plenty already.” He moved closer, lowering his voice. “Is it true what they say about Gibbons?”

I nodded. “Died in the line of duty.” I left the rest of the sentence unfinished: because some dumb shit forgot to do a headcount of his men before charging off to play cowboy in the woods with his posse.

I had refused to make eye contact with Kilm since I had staggered back to the compound, my shirt stained with Gibbons’ blood and my vest carved up by tiger claws.

“It’s funny,” I mused, looking to the rising sun beyond the buzzing cloud of flies. “He shot that tiger from at least thirty feet away. A headshot, no less. Despite the blood loss, despite the missing arm, he managed a shot most of us wouldn’t make any day of the week. His final act was saving a fellow officer and avenging himself. I’d like to think that counts for something.”

I would say very similar words at his funeral.

***

Lynden would not forget that day for years to come, and the sheriff’s department never would. It would be the single worst day in the force’s history, etching three names in the granite of the memorial wall that had only seen five come before them.

When the press got hold of the photos of the dead beasts lined up in rows, the reaction was swift and visceral. The animal rights organizations called us murderers, and the whole world expressed its horror. Through all the emotion, we all maintained that our response was the only way to stop far greater bloodshed and loss of life. At least the townsfolk recognized our point.

As far as the final count, we came up with eight tigers, including Zeena the white tiger that had nearly added my name to the granite wall. Beyond the limp shapes of orange and black stripes, we found a staggering fourteen lions, five grizzly bears, nine black bears, four wolves, and two mountain lions. The count matched the records, thankfully, but not the number of enclosures – and all had evidence of recent use.

To this day, rumors remain that a tiger escaped the culling and is roaming the mountainsides. Every so often, a hiker reports hearing a large animal moving through the forest or a motorist claims they saw a cat-like beast dart across the road in the darkness.

I laugh off these rumors if anyone asks, saying it would be more believable if a mountain lion had escaped than a tiger raised in captivity surviving in the foothills of the Blue Ridge. Still, I sleep with the Remington by my bed, not because I believe a tiger is stalking the woods outside my house, but because I found I could breathe again if I grabbed the stock after I dream of the jaws closing around face. It’s proof that I didn’t die that day.

No, I do not fear a survivor of the Lynden Massacre laying in wait for me. I fear the tigers that stalk our dreams, the spirits of those animals we slaughtered in the line of duty. No rifle can stop them. No cage can contain their rage.

***

Want to learn more about the Zanesville Massacre? Check out this excellent documentary on the incident: