The Vultures Will Feed, fiction by Curtis Ippolito
Gary Ray prays his fleece-lined Carhartt, wool socks, and thermos of coffee will keep him warm enough to see daylight. The chill created by underarm sweat and the steel trimmings of the shotgun he hugs does him no favors in that regard.
He stands. Rests the shotgun on the folding lawn chair. Stretches. Exhaled breath pours from his mouth in frosty plumes as he glares at the fogged-over glass door to his store. The pink piece of paper glued to the other side indicates the Randall County Sheriff’s Office will seize the property at 1607 4th Avenue, Canyon, TX, and everything within its four walls at seven a.m.
Four hours from now.
Gary’s under no illusion his stand will stop the morning’s events from happening, but like any Texan worth his salt, he won’t go down without a fight. And fight’s all he has left.
Turning around, two camping lanterns allow him to see what’s left of the small business handed down to him fifteen years prior. RAY’S SPORTING GOODS. Empty metal shelves dominate the majority of the space. Akin to a lonely scrap yard. Gone are the various balls, football and baseball gear, uniforms, and sports equipment, all deeply discounted and sold over a series of going-out-of-business sales. Coat racks stand naked. The walls blank. Lining two, hooks with no socks, hats, or gloves hanging from them. A third wall now collects dust where it once displayed various shoes. And he can’t see it from where he stands, but around the corner is the desolate mountain bike annex. He built it in 2013 to rent bikes to those looking to ride trails in Palo Duro Canyon. Didn’t increase business like he’d hoped, though.
The only sign this was ever a successful store resides in the tiny room adjacent to the cash register. He hasn’t summoned the courage to clean out the office of the paper invoices, receipts, and other paperwork that’s piled up over the years. He knows he’ll come across his father’s name on much of it and the feeling of failure will invade and dominate his thoughts for hours. He’ll slip into a bottle, never to emerge. But he can’t. He must remain alert.
What little hope he has of retaining this space, reenvisioning it into something different in order to redeem himself, all hinges on if he can get the bank to extend the deadline on his overdue loan. First, he’ll have to bend the ear of the Sheriff, Cody Hinders. They went to high school together. Starting backfield for the Canyon Eagles. Beat their rival, Randall High, senior year, for chrissake. If history means anything to him, Gary should be able to get Cody to back down. Least for the time-being. He has to. Cause he can’t do a thing till the bank returns from Christmas break. Which, is bullshit they foreclosed on him, then went on vacation, keeping no business hours. Sheriff’s gotta understand that. Now that he thinks about it, maybe he does believe he can stop this from happening, after all.
A sudden, loud moaning above him breaks his concentration. He examines the drop ceiling. The noise fades away. Likely the strain of heavy snow settling on the roof, he figures.
Four hours. That’s all he has left with the store if he’s unable to work a deal.
He would’ve spent every minute this last night here if he could’ve. Would’ve posted at midnight, strictly on principle, but he had to pull a double at the 24/7 Whataburger on Hollywood Boulevard in Amarillo. That’s another reason he needs to keep his store. If he wiped down all those greasy tables and mopped shit, puke, and piss-filled bathrooms, only to lose his store, he might explode. Having to close Ray’s doors and sell off all his merchandise was humiliating enough. He did it, though, thinking he could generate enough money to catch up on payments to get right with Happy State Bank. But then the foreclosure notice hit him like a Hereford wind: hard and smelling of cow shit.
*
Hereford, the town to the southwest known for its substantial cattle feedlots from which a sudden shift in wind direction routinely ruins the olfaction of Canyon residents. His father used the saying whenever met with surprise disappointment. The fear of being a disappointment and something else his father said is what’s costing Gary sleep.
I’m trusting you to keep the family name going.
Ronald Ray turned the keys over to Gary in 2009. They’d weathered the nation’s economic downturn, and the more acute threat of the Wally Supercenter opening three years prior on the northern part of town. Store was still humming along when Ronald died two years later, too. Though devastated losing his father, his only family, Gary prided himself on showing him he’d made the right call in handing over the reins.
Everything turned on a dime, went to shit, after that, however. Gary found himself in an all-out fight for survival against the multinational online company named after a river. Seemed the bald asshole woke up one day and decided to drive small businesses into the ground. Sell folks common household goods, clothing, and, yes, sporting goods, at absolute rock-bottom prices that people like Gary could in no way compete with.
“Fucking Skeletor,” Gary mutters while pacing.
Last few years have been a blur. Now his only hope to regain his father’s trust is to breathe new life into “Ray’s.” His conscience might then allow him sleep well again.
*
“Who’s there?” Gary shouts. His voice booms and bounces around the store, echoes back to himself.
He’s pretty sure he heard footsteps on the roof this time. Snow, no matter how heavy, doesn’t scuffle. The noises stop with his protest. Then start up again seconds later. Definitely footsteps. This time, harder, faster, like someone’s running. Least, they better be running.
“Goddamn vultures.” He’s got the shotgun gripped tight. Has a good mind to fire into the ceiling to scare off what he imagines is someone stripping the copper wiring out of the air-conditioning unit. Stops himself. The damage he’d create would only pull money away from making things right with the bank. He’s close, too. Needs less than a thousand.
The thought comes to him that he should call someone, a friend, to check it out so he can maintain his position. But no names come to mind. No one he can burden with such a request at four in the morning. If the possibility of losing his store wasn’t bad enough, it’s sadly his only friend. Guess that’s what happens when you don’t keep up with friends, get edged out when they all get married and have kids, he thinks.
Gary strains to listen. The wind’s howling. It creeps him out, has since childhood. He does his best to block it out, listen for more footsteps. They seem to have stopped.
Satisfied for the moment, he lays the shotgun on the cash register counter. Blows into his hands to warm them. He wishes he’d brought more than two lanterns for light since it’s so dim, but supposes it’s best he didn’t as to not draw unwanted attention. Still, the place looks spooky, feels spooky. Long shadows dance across the metal racks. The wind blows hard enough to wake the dead. And someone’s catting around on his flipping roof.
About the time he gets back to his post to sip some coffee, an ungodly metal creaking noise startles him. The rear door. He knows that sound anywhere. Been hearing it since he was eight. And he knows he locked the door earlier. No way the wind is blowing that strong.
He rushes to the cash register counter. Sweeps up the shotgun and continues toward the back in fluid motion. Before he can reach the hallway leading to the back door, a long shadow flickers against the wall. Stops him cold. Which is fine because it allows him to collect himself. He stands tall, drags his right boot backward, widens his stance. The shadow is shrinking against the wall as it approaches. Gary hugs the shotgun, breathes deep, and relaxes his shoulders.
“Stop, asshole!” He’s got his intruder dead to rights.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” The intruder’s wearing grease-stained jeans a size too big for him, a holey thermal shirt, and no coat or hat.
“Billy? What the good goddamn you doing breaking into my store?”
Billy Porter. Worked for Gary’s father for the summers during his high school years. Then again three years ago for Gary, but only for a week-and-a-half that time. His time cut short when Gary found him out back smoking meth. Never did like the guy, but he was cheap help in boxing up online orders.
Shaking from fear, cold or both, Billy says, “I used my key. Still had it.” He holds it up.
Gary snatches it from him and pockets it. Levels the shotgun at him again. Motions for Billy to move into the store. He does, backing up against one of the empty metal racks.
“You were on my roof, too. Weren’t you?”
Billy drops his head, mumbles a clipped sorry, then something else.
“Come again?”
“Figures you’d lose the place.”
“Who told you that?”
Smirking, Billy says, “Piece of paper out front.”
“And you think that gives you the right to steal my wiring—whatever else in God’s name you tweakers scavenge for money?”
“Not yours if you don’t own the place.” Clucks his tongue. “What your Daddy must be thinking right now…”
Gary growls.
Billy says, “What? You’re gonna shoot me?”
Lowering the shotgun, Gary says, “And put you out of your misery? No sir.”
A look of relief washes over Billy’s face.
“But you ain’t getting away scot free neither.” If his father taught him anything, it was actions have consequences.
“C’mon, man. Don’t call the cops.”
“No cops. All I need you to do is look at the front door.”
Billy looks perplexed, but turns his head.
Gary tosses up the shotgun, catches the barrel in one hand, stock in the other, muzzle facing behind him. He jabs, cold-cocking Billy in the temple with the butt of the shotgun.
Billy goes slack. Time immediately slows as he’s falling. Gary realizes in horror that Billy’s head’s tracking to strike a jagged edge of the bottom of the metal rack. There’s nothing he can do to stop it, though. He reaches out, but Billy might as well be in Lubbock, he’s so far out of reach. When he lands, his head nails the edge with a wet piercing sound. His momentum rolls him onto the floor. Blood gurgles from the wound, pooling around his head.
“Fucking hell.” Gary drops the shotgun and rushes to Billy’s side. Kneeled down, he doesn’t know what to do. Billy’s eyes are open, filled with the same dumbfound, empty gaze as a wild animal that’s been killed but hadn’t seen it coming. His skin goes bone white. His body tremors. Once. Twice, and a third time. Then, all movement stops.
Gary checks his neck for a pulse.
Nothing. He’s dead.
Gary smothers his face with his coat and screams.
*
Even after throwing up, Gary feels sick. He’s killed someone, somebody he knew, at that. He’s not a killer. Didn’t mean to do it. And he can’t change it, neither.
All of that means nothing, right now. Fact is, he has a dead body in the middle of his store with precious hours until the Sheriff and his deputies arrive.
He paces, thinking through his options.
As the owner of the store, he could argue that he stood his ground. But he isn’t sure that will hold water now with the bank foreclosing on him. The store is his for a few more hours… He’s not sure the legalities, to be honest, so he can’t risk it.
Only option he sees is to get rid of Billy’s body.
But how?
Palo Duro Canyon comes first to mind.
“Toss him in. They’ll find him, but not until the snow melts…”
But who would believe Billy got a ride or walked 13 miles to commit suicide?
Gary thinks of other ways a head injury could be played off as an accident.
Car crash? Too many moving parts.
Throw him in front of the train? No. Someone’s bound to see him.
Maybe he should bury him out in the prairie? But he quickly disregards this idea because it makes him feel like a murderer trying to get away with it, when he’s really an innocent small business owner with shit luck. Why’d he strike Billy, anyway? Couldn’t he have just let him go? Those questions are for him to mull over later. For right now, he has to stay focused. And no matter how much he disagrees with Billy’s lifestyle, he’s still a human, deserving of being found so his kin can put him to rest, proper like.
Toss him off a building? Won’t work. Only buildings over two stories tall in Canyon are on the campus of West Texas A&M, and no way he can risk a college kid spotting him.
His mind spins, firing stupid ideas one after another.
Gary rips off his ball cap and slaps his leg with it out of frustration. He pulls his phone out and checks the time. Four-fifteen. He’s gotta move.
After pocketing the phone, he gives his hat a once-over before putting it back on. He looks at the buffalo in the WTAM logo and it sparks a plan. The solution to his problem.
*
It takes him an hour to move Billy’s body to the bed of his pickup, towel up the puddle of blood inside the store, and wash himself up. When he gets back he’ll have to cut out that piece of carpet, move a piece of shelving or something to obscure it, time being.
After locking the back door, Gary takes a deep breath and exhales. He stares at the million stars blanketing the black sky. All the vastness up there makes him ponder what the hell he’s doing. If any of it means a thing in the grand scheme. Why’s he trying so hard to hold on to something for someone that’s been stardust now for more than a decade?
The wind blows in gusts, slapping his face with bitter cold. Least it’s not a Hereford wind, he thinks. Truck’s warmed up when he gets in. He glances over his shoulder to see Billy’s body, wrapped in a blue tarp, and puts the truck in gear.
The drive is a calm one. No other cars on the road. Families all nestled in their homes, asleep. Snow stands in two-foot-high drifts on both sides of the road. Under a full moon he can see wisps of frozen prairie grass and decaying yucca blooms poking up everywhere.
He slows when he reaches the turn, taking it nice and easy onto Valleyview Road. The truck’s tires roll over the asphalt with a smacking sound, like a cow chewing its cud.
Soon, his destination appears on the left. He pulls in. The entryway is gated. A sign above reads HERDSMEN, the moniker for the West Texas A&M students who care for the university’s mascot—Thunder, the buffalo. Just beyond, a lone light post provides enough illumination to see the large steel-beamed and sheet metal barn with adjoining cattle pen.
Gary gets out of the truck and walks to the gate. A small padlock secures the two gate doors, but luck of luck, it’s undone. He removes it, pulls up the poles, and swings the doors open.
He drives the truck right up to the barn, parks with the tailgate perpendicular to the pen.
This will only work if Thunder’s in the pen, so he hoofs that way to check. The air’s thick with the odors of livestock and hay. When he reaches the pen, it’s too dark to tell, so he uses his phone’s flashlight. Sweeping the pen, he gets worried Thunder’s inside the barn for the night. But then, his light passes over a huge mass in the far-left corner. The buffalo grunts when the light hits his eyes.
“Sweet Jesus, you’re a big boy.”
Gary hustles back to the truck. Unwraps Billy’s body from the tarp and slings him over his shoulder. When he makes it back to the pen, Thunder is right up on the panels, waiting, like he’s expecting a fresh bale of hay. Gary side-steps to the right, praying the buffalo doesn’t follow. And he doesn’t at first, but then snorts, lowers his head and starts heading Gary’s way.
“Shit.” In a panic, Gary heaves the body up and over the panel into the pen.
Thunder keeps his focus trained on Gary. Drops his massive head and snorts. Plumes of breath stream from his nostrils. It takes everything Gary has not to make another move in fear of getting gorged by those two sharp horns. Slowly, he inches off the panel, and backs away.
Soon as he feels a safe enough distance away, he jumps back. Claps his hands on his jeans, and lets out a whoop. This triggers Thunder, who stomps his front hoof, which lands on Billy’s chest. The crunching sound is sickening. Gary gags, but somehow holds it in.
He rushes back to the truck, secures the tarp—which he’ll burn later—backs out, and leaves. Adrenaline floods his body on the drive back to the main road. He’s elated, relieved, and amped up all at once. He prays the surge of energy helps him get through—he checks the time on the radio—the next hour.
When he hooks a right onto the main road, the horizon to the north is flushed pink. It’s still dark around him, but day is coming on fast. He passes the university’s basketball arena on his right. He wonders if he has enough time to swing by the Braum’s and grab some breakfast before the Sheriff arrives. No, he decides. Can’t cut it that close.
Ahead, a glint of light, like a reflection, flashes in his eyes. He expects it to stop, but the reflection persists. Blinds him a bit. There’s definitely something in the road up ahead. His tired mind is reeling, working overtime to figure it out. Then, a slight raise in elevation reveals a band of swirling lights. He takes his foot off the accelerator.
Four Sheriff’s cruisers are forming a W, blocking off the road.
“What the shit is going on?” Gary whips off his hat, rubs his forehead. This feels too surreal, his brain entirely too exhausted to snap the pieces into place. The scene looks as foreign to him as if a flying saucer had landed in front of his truck.
He puts the truck into park. The cops are about 100 yards away.
His pants start buzzing. A phone call.
“Hello? Yeah, this is him. Why’re you calling me, Sheriff? It’s only just after six. Not supposed to hear from you for another hour.”
“Gary. The university campus police called... They say you tossed a body into Thunder’s pen.”
“What?”
“What’ve you got yourself into, man?”
“How—I…”
“The Herdsmen got that property canvassed with cameras. Who was it? The body.”
Gary takes the phone away from his ear, fixes his eyes straight ahead. Is this really happening? They’ve come for him, but not how he’d thought when the evening began.
He realizes he’s not going to get to defend his store from seizure; definitely won’t keep it. This whole evening’s been a waste. His entire life a bust. He’s disheartened, but strangely, he’s not angry. Can’t summon one ill-thought toward poor Billy, even if he could argue he’d still be sitting in his lawn chair, waiting for daylight, if Billy hadn’t broken into Ray’s. In fact, a wave of regret and guilt washes over him. He pictures Billy’s body getting trampled by Thunder and feels sick to his stomach again.
“The hell did I do?”
He tosses the phone onto the passenger’s seat. Shifts the truck into drive. Before punching the gas, he wonders if he can outrun four cop cars to Palo Duro Canyon. If vultures are gonna feed on him, might as well give himself to the real thing.
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