Predator Country

Ransom Pike liked killers. Not all of them. The drunk who killed his wife with a kitchen knife because dinner was cold bothered him. So did the mother who drowned her children because God supposedly told her to. Those people stayed with Ransom afterward. Professional killers were different. A man who accepted money to erase another human being had already made the important decision. Ransom could hurt that kind of man. He could hurt him badly.

               And afterward, he slept just fine.

               Tonight, the man tied to the chair was named Victor Saye. “You're enjoying this,” Victor said. Rain hammered the corrugated roof above them. Ransom considered the accusation.

               “I suppose I am.”

               Victor laughed through bloody teeth. Calder City, Texas, flickered beyond the broken warehouse windows. From a distance, it resembled Houston because that was what Calder City had been designed to resemble when its founders invented the place for a television production 70 years earlier and somehow the joke became permanent. Four million people now lived in the joke. Freeways crossed freeways six stories above the ground. Glass towers stabbed upward from downtown. Refineries painted the eastern horizon orange every night. Bayous crawled through subdivisions, parks, industrial districts, and neighborhoods where people pretended not to notice the watermarks from previous floods.

               Calder City had money. Oil. Hospitals. Professional sports. Strip clubs. Megachurches. Chemical plants. Mosquitoes large enough to require clearance from air traffic control. And rain.

               God, the rain.

               When Calder City received 12 inches in an afternoon, nobody called it extraordinary anymore. They checked which freeway was underwater and went about their business. Tonight was different. A tropical storm had stalled over southeast Texas. Twenty inches predicted. Maybe 30. The weather people had stopped smiling. Ransom stood 6’4” and weighed 268 pounds. At 48, his body had accumulated evidence.

               Broken nose.

               Twice.

               Knife scar beneath his ribs.

               Bullet scar through his left thigh.

               Two reconstructed knuckles.

               A patch of skin on his shoulder that never tanned because a man with a blowtorch had once mistaken Ransom's silence for stubbornness. The blowtorch man had eventually learned the difference.

               Victor looked considerably worse. Ransom pulled another chair across the concrete and sat backward on it. “Let's try again.”

               “I told you.”

               “You told me several things. Unfortunately, they contradicted each other.”

               Victor spat blood. “You think you're some kind of good guy?”

               Ransom smiled. “Never said that.”

               “You're fucking insane.”

               “Probably.”

               Outside, thunder rolled over Calder City. Ransom leaned closer. “Who paid you to kill Adrian?”

               Victor's expression changed. Barely. Enough. Ransom stood. Victor pulled against the zip ties. “Wait.”

               Ransom picked up the hammer.

               Three weeks earlier, somebody had put two bullets into Adrian Pike while he was leaving a restaurant. Adrian was Ransom's younger brother. Accountant. Divorced. One daughter. Never arrested. Never carried a weapon. Never threw a punch after junior high school. He died beside his Toyota Camry holding leftovers he had promised to bring his daughter. Police called it targeted.

               Ransom called it Tuesday.

               People had been hiring Ransom to solve problems for 22 years. He collected debts when lawsuits were inconvenient. Found people who preferred not to be found. Recovered stolen property. Persuaded employees that blackmail was an unhealthy retirement strategy. There were rules. Ransom did not hurt children. Did not hurt spouses to punish husbands. Did not kill people for money. The distinction sounded ridiculous to outsiders. Ransom understood that.

               But everyone needed lines.

               Otherwise, you eventually discovered there was nothing separating you from the people you hunted. Victor Saye had no such lines. He had killed at least 11 people. Probably more. Ransom had spent three weeks finding him. Now Victor was tied to a chair inside an abandoned machine shop near Calder City's eastern industrial corridor while the worst storm in years swallowed the city. Ransom raised the hammer. Victor talked.

               Victor had always known something was missing. That was how he described it. He had been 14 when he first noticed. His father died unexpectedly, and relatives filled their house with casseroles and crying people. Victor's mother collapsed against the refrigerator when she received the call. His sister vomited into the kitchen sink. Victor remembered watching them. He understood what had happened. He understood that he was expected to feel something.

               Nothing arrived.

               He loved telling Ransom this story. That was the disturbing part. Victor did not tell it defensively. He sounded nostalgic. “I practiced crying in the bathroom,” he said.

               Ransom stood against a workbench, arms crossed. “You want a medal?”

               “I want you to understand something.”

               “I understand you fine.”

               Victor smiled. “I don't think you do.”

               Ransom picked up the hammer. Victor glanced at it. “You think I kill people because I enjoy killing them.”

               “Don't you?”

               “Sometimes.” The honesty stopped Ransom. Victor continued. “Usually it's boring.”

               “Eleven people.”

               “At least.” Ransom's jaw tightened. Victor noticed. “That's what the cops know about, right?”

               “How many?”

               Victor shrugged as well as the restraints allowed. “Stopped counting.” Ransom crossed the distance between them and struck him across the face. The chair nearly toppled. Victor spat another mouthful of blood onto the concrete. Then he laughed. “You see?”

               “See what?”

               “You needed that.”

               Ransom tightened his grip on the hammer. Victor looked at his hand. “I don't.”

               For the first time that evening, Ransom felt genuinely uncomfortable. Victor leaned forward. “I've killed people I liked.”

               “You expect that to impress me?”

               “I killed a man once after talking with him for four hours. Funniest bastard I ever met. We drank bourbon together. He showed me pictures of his kids.” Ransom stared at him. “Then I shot him in the bathtub.”

               Victor smiled faintly at the memory. “Why?”

               “Because I had been paid.”

               “You're a fucking animal.”

               “There it is.”

               Victor looked delighted. “The word you needed.” Ransom said nothing. “You need me to be an animal, Pike. Otherwise you're just a big man in a warehouse beating another man tied to a chair.”

               Ransom drove the hammer into Victor's ribs. The laughter stopped. For a while.

               Ransom had known men like Victor before. Men who thought acknowledging their depravity somehow made them sophisticated. Ransom hated them. He hated the smugness. The implication that morality was merely a fairy tale frightened people told themselves before bed. Ransom believed in morality. His morality simply had exceptions. Quite a few, if he was being honest.

               He remembered the first man he had seriously hurt. Ransom had been 26. A bar owner owed money to the wrong people and decided he did not intend to pay. Ransom had been hired to change his mind. He broke three of the man's fingers. Afterward, Ransom vomited behind the building. He nearly quit. Two weeks later, he learned the bar owner regularly beat his girlfriend. That changed the memory. Suddenly the broken fingers bothered him less.

               Years passed.

               Ransom became remarkably skilled at discovering reasons his victims deserved him. A debt collector happened to abuse his children. A thief had robbed an elderly woman. A dealer sold fentanyl. A blackmailer threatened someone's family. Sometimes Ransom learned these things before hurting them. Sometimes afterward. Either way, he slept.

               Victor watched him from the chair. “You're thinking.”

               “Dangerous habit.”

               “About what I said.” Ransom walked toward him. Victor smiled. “You know the difference between us?”

               “I shower.”

               “You need permission.”

               Ransom stopped. “I don't.”

               Victor's eyes were bright despite the swelling around them. “I can kill a good man. I can kill a bad man. I can kill somebody whose wife loves him and somebody whose wife wants him dead. Thirty thousand dollars spends exactly the same.” Ransom felt his pulse in his jaw. “But you?” Victor continued. “You need a story first.” Ransom hit him. Victor laughed. “You need me evil.” Another strike. “You need me disgusting.” Another. “You need me to deserve it.” Ransom grabbed Victor by the throat. Victor struggled for breath. Yet somehow he still smiled. Ransom released him. Victor coughed. Then whispered, “That's why I'm freer than you.”

               The name Victor finally gave him meant nothing. That disappointed Ransom. He had expected revelation. Conspiracy. Some ancient enemy. Instead, Adrian had apparently discovered irregularities while auditing a logistics company. Money moved through shell corporations. Shell corporations moved money somewhere else. Adrian asked questions. Someone decided questions were dangerous. Victor received $30,000. That was it. $30,000.

               Ransom stared at him. “My brother died for 30 grand?”

               “I didn't set the price.”

               “Did he know?” Victor looked puzzled. “That he was going to die.”

               “Eventually.”

               Ransom stepped closer. “What did he say?”

               Victor studied him. There it was again. That terrible intelligence. “He asked me not to do it.”

               Ransom's hand closed around the hammer. “Anything else?”

               “He said he had a daughter.”

               Ransom struck Victor in the stomach. The chair tipped backward. Victor hit the floor. Ransom stood over him. “Did you know her name?”

               Victor coughed. “I don't remember.”

               That hurt more than anything else Victor could have said. Adrian had died thinking about his daughter. Victor had forgotten she existed. Ransom hauled the chair upright. Something scraped outside. Neither man noticed. Not yet.

               Ransom had learned something about himself years ago. He required justification. Not much. But something. He could not hurt an innocent person. Could not torture some random accountant because someone offered him $50,000.

               But give him a murderer?

               A trafficker?

               A man who put cigarettes out on children?

               Ransom's conscience became remarkably accommodating. Victor had murdered Adrian. More importantly, Victor murdered strangers professionally. That made him safe. Morally safe. Ransom could do anything to him. The first hammer strike broke Victor's left hand. His scream disappeared beneath the rain. The second destroyed the other. Victor screamed until his voice cracked. Ransom continued. He asked questions he already knew Victor could not answer.

               Who else?

               Where?

               When?

               Names?

               Accounts?

               Each useless answer purchased another injury. Eventually Victor understood. “You don't want information.”

               Ransom wiped rainwater from his forehead. The roof had begun leaking. “Not anymore.”

               “You just want to hurt me.” Ransom considered lying. Instead he nodded. Victor's breathing came in ragged little bursts. Then, impossibly, he smiled again. “There you are.” Ransom frowned. “That's the real you.”

               “Shut up.”

               “I was wondering when he'd show up.” Ransom raised the hammer. Victor did not flinch. “You found your permission.” Something struck the outside wall. Hard. Both men turned. Another impact. Then a strange guttural sound. Victor whispered, “What the fuck?”

               Ransom walked toward the broken window. Lightning flashed. For an instant, the lot outside became daylight. Water covered most of it. Something enormous moved through the flood. Then darkness returned. Ransom waited. Another flash. Three shapes now. Low. Thick. Moving through water.

               Hogs.

               Ransom smiled. Calder City's feral hogs had become increasingly bold over the years. They destroyed golf courses, invaded subdivisions, ripped apart landscaping, wandered onto highways. The storm must have pushed them from the flooded brush along the bayou. Victor saw Ransom smiling. “What?”

               “Hogs.”

               “Then let's get the fuck out of here.”

               Ransom looked at him.

               Let's.

               That was funny.

               The water rose quickly. Within 20 minutes it crawled beneath the warehouse door. Ransom checked his phone. Emergency alerts stacked across the screen.

               FLASH FLOOD WARNING.

               TORNADO WARNING.

               SHELTER IN PLACE.

               ROAD CLOSURES.

               Victor watched him. “You can't leave me here.”

               Ransom slipped the phone into his pocket. “I can.”

               “You got what you wanted.” Ransom walked toward the door. Victor pulled violently against the chair. “Pike!” Ransom stopped. Another grunt came from outside. Closer. Victor's bravado vanished. “You can't leave me tied up with those things.” Ransom looked through the doorway. Five hogs moved through the flooded lot. One was enormous. Perhaps 300 pounds. Maybe more. Black hide. Shoulders like concrete. It stopped and looked toward the warehouse.

               Ransom looked back at Victor. Something occurred to him. It was ugly. Even by his standards. That should have stopped him. Instead, Ransom dragged Victor's chair toward the door. Victor understood. His eyes widened. “Don't.” Ransom kept pulling. “Ransom.” Interesting. First-name basis now. “You don't have to do this.” Ransom dragged him outside. Rain struck them sideways. Victor screamed. “PLEASE!”

               Ransom tipped the chair onto its back. Victor hit the flooded pavement. The hogs scattered several yards. Then stopped. Ransom backed toward the warehouse. Victor thrashed. “PIKE!” The largest hog approached. Ransom watched. Victor screamed at the animal. It hesitated. Then another came from the darkness. And another. Ransom told himself Victor deserved whatever happened. He had murdered Adrian. Murdered others. Accepted money for human lives. This was justice wearing tusks.

               Then the first hog reached him. Victor screamed. Ransom watched longer than he needed to. That was the part he would remember. Not leaving Victor. Watching. And just before Victor's screaming became something Ransom could no longer identify as language, their eyes met. Ransom expected accusation. Instead Victor looked almost amused. As though, in the final seconds of his life, he had received confirmation of something. Ransom understood what.

               You needed permission.

               Then the hogs closed around him.

               The screaming eventually stopped. Ransom turned away. Lightning split the sky. He started toward his truck. The water was already knee-deep. His truck sat 70 yards away on slightly higher ground. Behind him came a grunt. Ransom looked back. The enormous black hog stood beneath the warehouse light. Blood covered its snout. Ransom stared at it. “Dinner's back there.”

               The hog advanced. Ransom laughed. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.” Another appeared behind it. Then another. Ransom walked faster. The hog followed. His amusement disappeared. Ransom reached beneath his jacket and pulled his pistol. He fired once into the pavement. The explosion echoed through the industrial complex. The hogs scattered. “That's what I thought.” Ransom turned. The black hog charged.

               It hit him like a motorcycle. Ransom flew backward. His pistol vanished into the water. Pain ripped through his thigh. He kicked. The hog came again. Ransom rolled behind a concrete barrier. Tusks scraped concrete. He grabbed the first object his hand found. A length of steel pipe. The hog charged. Ransom swung. The pipe struck its skull. The impact numbed both arms. The animal staggered. Ransom hit it again.

               Again.

               It squealed. For one glorious second, Ransom felt familiar. This was his world.

               Violence.

               Pain.

               Something trying to hurt him. Something he could hurt back. He raised the pipe. The hog lunged beneath it. A tusk opened his calf. Ransom screamed. He fell. The animal climbed over him. Its smell filled his nose. Mud. Blood. Wet hide. Ransom drove his thumb into its eye. The hog shrieked and recoiled. Ransom crawled. His leg poured blood. He reached the support columns beneath an elevated freeway. Above him, thousands of pounds of concrete carried abandoned traffic across flooded Calder City. Below, Ransom dragged himself through filthy water. The hog followed. For the first time in decades, Ransom Pike understood helplessness.

               He had frightened men his entire adult life. Sometimes intentionally. Sometimes simply by entering a room. Size mattered among humans. Scars mattered. Reputation mattered. A certain expression could end a confrontation before it began. The hog did not know who Ransom Pike was. It did not care that three men had once tried to rob him and two left in ambulances. It did not care that Victor Saye had killed his brother. It did not understand justification.

               Ransom was wounded.

               Ransom was bleeding.

               Ransom was in its territory.

               Those were the only facts that mattered.

               The hog charged again. Ransom braced the pipe against concrete. The animal struck. The pipe penetrated beneath its jaw. Momentum drove it deeper. Ransom screamed as several hundred pounds crashed into him. Then everything stopped. He lay beneath the animal. Rainwater flowed around his face. For several seconds, he could not move. Then he laughed. A horrible, exhausted laugh. He pushed. The hog rolled aside. Ransom sat against the column. “Got you.”

               The animal twitched once. Then stopped. Ransom laughed again. “Fucking got you.” He looked toward the distant glow of Calder City. Sirens wailed somewhere beyond the flooded freeway. He would make it. Of course he would. Ransom Pike always made it.

               Then he heard the grunt. His smile disappeared. Another answered. Then another. Ransom slowly turned. Shapes moved beneath the freeway.

               Five.

               Ten.

               More behind them.

               Some small.

               Others enormous.

               The storm had driven an entire sounder onto the elevated ground. Ransom gripped the bloody pipe. The animals spread around him. For 22 years, Ransom had divided humanity into categories.

               People he could hurt.

               People he couldn't.

               People whose suffering mattered.

               People whose suffering allowed him to sleep perfectly well afterward.

               Victor Saye had belonged to the easiest category. Ransom looked at the approaching animals. For the first time, he understood Victor's face as the chair scraped across the warehouse floor. Not remorse. Ransom still hated him. Still believed he deserved punishment. But beneath the freeway, bleeding into floodwater, Ransom finally understood the terror of realizing another living thing had placed you into a category where mercy was unnecessary. Victor's voice returned.

               You need me evil.

               Another hog emerged from the darkness.

               You need me disgusting.

               The animals spread around him.

               You need me to deserve it.

               Ransom looked down at the dead boar beside him. For the first time, the distinction between himself and Victor felt considerably smaller than it had inside the warehouse. Victor killed without permission. Ransom manufactured permission first. Perhaps that was morality. Perhaps it was simply better bookkeeping.

               The largest hog stepped forward. Ransom raised the pipe. The others followed. He suddenly understood something else. Predators did not recognize their own. That had always been a human fantasy. Nature had simpler categories.

               Threat.

               Territory.

               Blood.

               Meat.

               Ransom Pike had spent his life believing himself complicated. The hogs disagreed. They came for him together.