Predators and Prey, fiction by N.M. Cedeno
He was so focused on how many gold necklaces he could grab from the smashed display case that the distinctive cha-chunk of a pump-action shotgun behind his head almost caused Ziggy to faint.
“You made a serious mistake, son.”
The booming voice of the wrinkled, pink dude behind the glass counter was unnervingly loud. It reminded Ziggy of his grandfather, who would have tanned his hide if he knew what Ziggy was doing. Gramps had been loud too, though Ziggy never considered why that might be. Maybe old dudes with big ears and bumpy, misshapen noses were always loud to compensate for being ancient.
“Drop the pistol, put down the necklaces, and face me,” the too-loud voice commanded.
Ziggy did what he was told. Under his ski mask his face and head were soaked with sweat. The droplets trickled down his neck.
The old dude came around the counter and collected Ziggy’s gun. “This thing is plastic. Is it a water gun? What the hell were you thinking?”
Ziggy bit the inside of his cheek. He’d been thinking the old man with the fuzzy white hair and suspenders working on jewelry repair in the hole-in-the-wall shop was an easy mark. He’d been thinking that everyone else was making easy money with smash and grab jobs, so why should he miss out. And he hoped a black plastic toy would fool people since he couldn’t afford and didn’t want a real gun. Living on the street, someone would likely kill him to get a gun from him if he had one.
“Come on. Answer me. Cat got your tongue?”
“I needed money.”
“So you thought you could steal from me?”
“You don’t lose nothing. Stores have insurance.” Ziggy tried to sound reasonable, but his voice shook, and he couldn’t take his eyes off the gun. The yawning, black double barrels looked like they would take down an elephant.
“And my insurance rates will increase along with everyone else’s if we allow these thefts to continue. My costs will increase to where I can’t make a profit without raising prices. Then people will see the price for a ring or necklace is cheaper from an online business with no storefront. They stop buyin’ from me ‘cause buyin’ online is cheaper. Then, I’m out of business in more ways than one,” said the shop owner.
“I don’t know anything about that.” Who thought that far ahead anyway?
“You’re lucky I didn’t blast you to send a message to the next guy thinking he can rob me. But I don’t need police poking into my business. Remove the mask and drop your backpack.”
“Do I gotta?”
“Do it.”
Ziggy chewed his cheek again as he removed the ski mask to reveal his greasy, sweaty, mousy hair and his itchy, acne-covered cheeks. Wearing ragged shoes with holes in the toes and filthy jeans that were too short, Ziggy was aware that he looked rough and smelled even worse. His guts twisted as he lowered his backpack to the floor. It held everything he owned.
“Houston ISD school started last week. This time of morning, why aren’t you in school? You can’t be more than fifteen.”
“Waste of time.” And he had no money for lunches, breakfasts, supplies, laptops, or phones, let alone clothes that didn’t smell, or pants that weren’t too short. He was fourteen, but tall for his age with a newly deep bass voice, so most people guessed he was older. But even if he was almost six feet tall, no one would hire him as young as he was and looking like he did.
“You got parents?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Live with someone?”
“I got people.” At first, after Gramps died, Ziggy stayed with different cousins. But they couldn’t afford to feed and clothe him. Each asked him to move to the next. They all thought he was living with someone, but no one bothered to check. Then he crashed with different friends each night, coach surfing. When that failed, he walked around twenty-four-hour stores, hid in bathroom stalls, showered at the rec center when he could, and slept in a chair at a branch of the Houston Public Library during the day.
The shop owner lowered the shotgun a fraction and tugged an old flip phone from his front pocket. Scowling at Ziggy, he made a phone call.
“Justin? This is Marty. I got one for you. Teen boy. Homeless. Come to my shop.” Marty ended the call.
“You call the cops?”
“No. Someone else.”
“Who?” Ziggy stole a glance at the door. He’d made the mistake once of letting some guy give him food and offer him shelter, and quickly learned that some people saw him as property. Ziggy had escaped the situation via a tiny bathroom window. Narrow shoulders, slim hips, and almost zero body fat made it possible to slither out spaces where most people wouldn’t fit. He took a step back.
Marty raised the shotgun again. “Hold still. See that chair in the corner? Go sit in it.”
“Who did you call?”
“A friend. Sit.”
With rising terror making his heart pound, Ziggy inched toward the chair. The shotgun had his full attention again.
Marty waited until Ziggy sat, then he locked the front door and turned his sign to closed. “I have to clean up the mess you made of my display case. Any chance you’ll sit quietly while I work, or do I have to keep this gun on you so you don’t try to run away or hurt me?”
Ziggy kept his mouth closed. Of course he’d try to run if he could. And, of course, he might hit the old dude if he had to. That was life.
Marty harrumphed and kept the shotgun aimed at Ziggy.
Time crawled as Ziggy contemplated the barrel of the gun.
Finally, a knock sounded and Marty unlocked the door to allow a dark-haired, dark-eyed dangerous-looking man into the jewelry store.
Justin wore boots, jeans, and a black t-shirt, was maybe thirty years old, and moved like a cat on the prowl. Unhurried, confident, deadly.
Justin examined the black water pistol, Ziggy’s backpack, and the smashed jewelry case. “You’ve had an interesting morning,” he said to Marty.
“Tell me about it.”
Justin planted himself in front of Ziggy and stared down at him. “Scrawny. He’s a kid. Twelve maybe?” He spoke in a sardonic, syrupy East Texas drawl.
Ziggy, annoyed, said, “Fourteen!”
Justin showed a mouth full of white teeth in a feral, tiger-like grin and taunted Ziggy. “Not much difference between twelve and fourteen. Still a bay-bee,” he drawled.
“I’m no-no baby.” Ziggy stammered as his breath caught in his throat.
“My name is Justin Barrett. What’s yours?”
“Ziggy.” Ziggy squirmed in the chair, wishing he could run. Justin was dangerous. More dangerous than Marty, who still held the gun.
Justin rubbed his stubbly chin with his hand. “You like cats?”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Do you like cats?”
“Don’t know. Never had one.” That wasn’t true. Gramps owned a fat gray tabby cat named Bart, and Ziggy enjoyed rubbing its ears and stroking its back as it arched around his legs.
“Not afraid of them?”
“No.” Why would he be afraid of a cat?
“I got a job for you. You get a place to stay and meals in exchange for work.”
Ziggy tried to gauge Justin’s meaning. “What kind of job?”
“All you have to do is care for cats. Feed ‘em. Clean up after ‘em. Play with them to socialize them so they don’t act wild around people.”
“Play with cats? Do I get paid?” Ziggy knew there had to be a catch.
“You get meals and housing. If you’re a good worker, you might advance to a paid position when you are older.”
With a peek at Marty’s shotgun, Ziggy asked, “Do I got any choice?”
Justin showed his white, tiger-toothed grin again. “It’s my job or his gun. Which would you prefer?”
“The job.” If anything felt wrong, he could always squeeze out a window again.
#
Twenty minutes later, Ziggy exited Justin’s blue pickup truck into what felt like the middle of a sunny, humid pine forest. Ziggy had spent his life in Houston. He knew that nature was out there somewhere, past the edges of the city. A sweet smell startled him. Gone were the gasoline, asphalt, sludgy bayou, and fry grease scents of the city. That smell wasn’t the carpet of pine needles under his feet either. “What’s that sweet smell?”
Justin, striding forward with keys jingling in his hand, sniffed and said, “Probably the yellow and white flowers on the vines covering the fence. It’s called honeysuckle.”
Ziggy approached the fence covered in green vines. It was an effective wall, blocking his view of what was behind it.
Justin said, “Come on.” He stood by a vine-covered gate that Ziggy hadn’t noticed.
As Justin unlocked the gate, Ziggy inspected the vines. Some were covered in tiny, trumpet-shaped yellow flowers that did smell very sweet. A second vine mixed in with the flowers was covered with wicked thorns. “These vines got wicked thorns.”
“Greenbrier mixed in with the honeysuckle. You get tangled in that, you’ll have to be cut lose. It grabs and doesn’t let go. Discourages unwanted visitors.” Justin bared his teeth again, amused.
Ziggy realized the vines would also keep people inside the fence as he followed Justin through the gate. Escape might not be as easy as he thought. A lump formed in his throat as Justin locked the gate behind them. With his blood pounding, he stumbled forward, following Justin toward a sheet metal building that looked like a warehouse stuck in the middle of a bunch of pine trees.
Justin gestured to the metal building, “That’s the barn where we keep the cats.” As Justin swung open the door, Ziggy heard a loud cry from some kind of wild animal. It didn’t sound like any housecat.
“What was that?” Ziggy asked.
“One of the cats,” Justin said with a smirk. “You’ll see.” Justin nudged Ziggy ahead of him into the building.
Ziggy’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the darker space. He wrinkled his nose at the odor of animals and dust. Once he could see, he noticed three teens, two girls and a boy standing between three rows of cages. The teens were all watching him. The barn lacked a floor and air conditioning, and even with large windows open near the ceiling, the space was hot and humid.
One row of cages contained house cats. But the other two rows contained something else. Definitely not housecats. Wild cats. Some were golden brown or gray with rounded ears, tiny heads, and long sleek bodies twice the size of a house cat. Other cages held spotted cats that were even bigger than the solid-color ones.
“What are those?” Ziggy asked.
“The spotted ones are ocelots. The solid-colored ones are jaguarundis. This is a breeding facility. We sell the wild cats and crossbreeds of the wild ones with the domestics to people who want an exotic pet. People pay a lot for designer cat breeds.”
“How much?”
“Thirty thousand to one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“For a cat?”
“You know how some people want to own a tiger? Once they realize that tigers grow too large to handle, they want something exotic that’s more manageable, a smaller cat like an ocelot or a jaguarundi. Or they want a crossbreed. Breeders have crossbred domestic cats with African wild cats, servals, and Asian leopards, to create the Bengal cat, the Ashera, and the Savannah cat. Those breeds bring in big money as pets. I’m developing crossbreeds with ocelots and jaguarundis. Only one or two crossbreed kittens are born at a time, making them valuable.” A boastful note crept into Justin’s sardonic drawl.
“Oh.” Ziggy scratched at the acne on his face. If he was going to be working with wild animals at least they were too small to eat him. They might bite though.
Justin called out to the nearest teen girl, “Maze, come here.”
The girl, almost as tall as Ziggy in tattered jeans and a tight t-shirt, was lean to the point of gauntness with baby fine blond hair that barely covered her pink scalp. She left the cage she’d been attending and stepped cautiously toward Justin. Her expression was wary.
Justin said, “This is Ziggy. He’s the new guy. Show him how to feed the cats.”
Maze crooked a finger at Ziggy. “Come on. I’ll show you what to do.”
“Your name is Maze?” Ziggy asked as he followed her down a row of twenty cages.
“Maisie, but Maze is shorter. Justin does everything the quickest way. He’ll be calling you Zig before the week is out.” She whispered out of the corner of her mouth in a Southern drawl that was even stronger than Justin’s, “He keeps his hands off of us, though, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
“Uh-huh.” Ziggy assessed the situation. No way keeping all those wild cats in cages was legal. In his limited experience the people who wanted to own tigers and had a hundred thousand dollars to throw around on cats were with gangs or, worse, cartels.
Maze said in a louder voice, “These bags have kitty litter; these have cat food; and we refill the water bowls with gallon jugs that we fill in that sink.” She pointed as she spoke. Touching her ratty tennis shoe to a huge bag of cat food, she said, “This is for the domestic cats.”
“Are the wild cats dangerous?” Ziggy asked, flinching at the sound of a wild cat’s yowl.
“The ocelots are friendly. Justin says people have kept them as pets for centuries. They can bite though. And they are quick and can jump, so you have to watch them. The jaguarundis are shy, but Justin says people used to keep them for controlling mice in the past. The wild cats are predators. They prefer meat over cat kibble.”
Ziggy tried to keep it all straight. Spotted were ocelots. Solids were jaguarundis. “You ever get bit?”
“Not me. Some of the others have.”
“Who are the others?”
Maze slid her eyes sideways at Ziggy. “You’ll meet them. They’re okay. Nico and Xóchitl.”
Xóchitl, a curly-haired brunette a little older than Ziggy, carried a jug of water from cage to cage and poured it into bowls. She was barely five feet tall, with a china doll perfect face and round hips and full breasts forming a symmetrical hourglass revealed by black yoga pants and a sleeveless orange t-shirt. Her perfect hips swung as she moved, and Ziggy was entranced by the motion. Xóchitl noticed him gawking, raised her chin, and ignored him.
Justin’s voice floated from the front of the barn. “Have Zig help Nico with the litter.”
“Okay,” Maze called out. She tapped Ziggy’s shoulder to get his attention off Xóchitl. “She doesn’t like people who stare. Come with me.”
Ziggy flushed red and straggled behind Maze as she led him toward the other boy.
Nico was shorter but more muscular than Ziggy, with wide shoulders and a torso that tapered to narrow hips. His light brown hair was overgrown in an unkempt afro. Ziggy suspected they were around the same age. Nico gave Ziggy a sour-mouthed pout and kept pouring litter from a bag into a plastic bin. “How’d Justin get you?”
Ziggy considered lying, which would be his normal choice with an adult, but said, “I tried a smash and grab at a jewelry store. The owner called Justin instead of the police.”
Nico straightened and gave Ziggy a look of incredulity. “Are you stupid? A smash and grab? In Texas? You’re lucky you didn’t get shot.”
“I was out of options.”
Nico’s expression softened. “Oh. I know what you mean.”
“What do I do?”
Nico hefted a bag of kitty litter onto his broad shoulder, the muscles in his arms showing like bands under his skin. “I already emptied the used litter. We have to refill the bins. Grab a bag and come with me.”
Ziggy tried to pick up the bag, but it was heavier than he expected.
Nico watched as Ziggy struggled to balance the bag on his shoulder. “It’s fifty pounds. I had trouble with it at first, too. It’ll get easier.”
For the next two hours Ziggy worked with Nico cleaning cages, catching glimpses of Maze and Xóchitl as they watered and petted the cats. A bell rang, and Nico dropped what remained of his litter bag in a corner. “Come on. Lunch,” Nico said.
Ziggy followed Nico. Xóchitl and Maze joined them by the front door. Ziggy wondered why they were waiting by the door until he heard a key turn and realized that they’d been locked inside the barn.
“Come out, kids,” said a woman’s voice. The woman, wearing tight jeans and a button-up plaid shirt paired with long fake eyelashes and dyed pink hair, held a sleek, solid brown kitten with rounded ears against her boney chest as she swung open the barn door.
She ran critical eyes over Ziggy. “You’re the new kid. I’m Rita, Justin’s wife. You better not make trouble, or you’ll go the way of the last kid. Hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ziggy wondered who the last kid was and what had happened to him. He glanced at Maze, but she was examining her shoes. Nico had found something or nothing to study in the distance. Only Xóchitl was staring at Rita, and her face held nothing but impatience as she crossed her arms over her ample chest and tapped one foot.
Rita said, “Lunch break. Thirty minutes.”
Ziggy followed the others to a single-wide mobile home painted a dingy brown that was situated behind the barn. He was glad to find the house had air conditioning as he stepped into the kitchen. From the laminate countertop by the sink each teen grabbed a paper plate with a ham and cheese sandwich, an individual serving bag of chips, and an apple. Ziggy copied the others and filled a glass of water from the sink to drink.
“Eat. Then back to work.” Rita’s tone was resentful, as if the kids were a burden she didn’t want. She stroked the kitten in her arms as she sat perched on a countertop. When she caught Ziggy studying her, she stared him down with contempt wrinkling her mouth.
Ziggy, whose stomach had felt hollow since yesterday, wolfed down the food. No one spoke. Ziggy studied the others. They were all around his age. Xóchitl was a bit older, maybe sixteen. They all wore ragged clothes and shoes with holes. All needed hair cuts. All homeless kids no one would miss. Like him. They were cleaner than he was though. They had access to a shower and a laundry room. He didn’t see any black eyes or obvious bruising either.
After thirty minutes, Rita shepherded them all back to the barn and locked them inside, saying, “Back to work.”
Ziggy asked, “Now what?”
“Now we socialize the cats. Feral cats are no good for sale. People want cats that don’t spit and hiss at them,” Maze responded in her soft drawl.
Xóchitl said, “It’s my turn with the jaguarundis, Nico’s turn with the ocelots, and you and Maisie can handle the domestic cats.”
“We just play with ‘em?” Ziggy asked.
Maze pulled his arm. “Pet them. Handle them. Give them treats. Let’s get started.
As Xóchitl and Nico approached the wild cat cages, Ziggy watched Maze open a cage to pick up a cat. “This isn’t so hard,” he said.
Maze hugged the cat to her chest. “This is the easiest part of the day.”
Something in her tone held a warning, hinting at trouble. Ziggy lowered his voice and asked, “What happened to the last kid?”
Tears sprang into Maze’s eye as she stroked the gray cat in her arms. “Thompkins was older, eighteen, and hated being locked in here. He asked for more food and free time. He wanted to be able to leave in the evenings, to go into town, do stuff. The more he asked for things, the more he clashed with Justin. Finally, Thompkins tried to leave one night. We heard a gunshot. Justin said Thompkins was more trouble than he was worth. Told us not to get any ideas or we could join Thompkins in a shallow grave.”
Ziggy felt his stomach clench.
Maze put the gray cat back in its cage and moved to the next one.
Ziggy bit the inside of his cheek. “How long have you been here?”
“Six months.”
“And the others?”
“Xóchitl was here when I arrived. Nico arrived about four months ago. Thompkins was here before Xóchitl. I don’t know how long, but he was from Louisiana, like me.”
“How did Justin get you here?”
“Same as the others. Hitchhiking. He picked us up on the side of the road and offered us a job and a place to stay. Xóchitl had been trafficked, moved from hotel to hotel and city to city before she broke free. Nico is happy to be out of the weather where no one is going to jump him in his sleep.”
“Do you want to stay here?”
Maze kicked the dirt under her feet. “Thompkins said there was a place we could go that helps kids like us. He had the information written down, and he gave me a piece of paper with the address. If I could get out, I’d go there. Cov House. It’s short for something, but I don’t remember what.” Maze moved to the next cage. “Get a cat. Pet it. You have to work or you don’t eat. They’re watching us.”
Ziggy searched for cameras as he opened the cat cage. As he spotted a camera, the cat jumped out to the ground. The large gray tabby wound around his legs, and he leaned over to stroke its back.
After a few minutes he returned the unwilling cat to its cage and moved to the next one with only one scratch on his arm. Maze was at the next cage over.
“Is there a way out?” Ziggy asked.
“Thompkins went out the bedroom window, so Justin put bars over it. Nico found a way out of here. A loose section of sheet metal near the back.”
A few hours later, the bell rang again. Rita appeared with water and packages of peanut butter crackers for each of them. The activities changed again as the kids fed the animals, cleaned up, and readied the barn for the night before the bell rang again.
#
That evening, they had bowls of stew for dinner. Then, the teens led Ziggy down a hall past a bathroom to a shadowy room containing two sets of twin bunk beds. Three of the beds had sheets, blankets, and pillows. The fourth held an empty mattress. The sole window was covered by a heavy curtain.
Nico said, “The empty bed below mine is yours. The sheets are in the trunk by the window.”
Ziggy made his bed with Nico’s help.
Xóchitl called out, “Laundry time. Dump your dirty stuff by the washer.”
The kids collected clothes for washing in a laundry closet next to the bathroom. Ziggy loved the smell of fresh laundry and happily added the few items of clothing that he had in his backpack to the wash pile. Xóchitl took charge of the laundry, starting the washer and moving items to the dryer.
While the clothes washed and dried, the teens took turns showering. Ziggy liked the way everyone smelled of soap after they showered. He liked Maze’s soft Louisiana accent and the way her blond hair dripped down her back as she combed it out after showering.
Taking his turn in the shower was a relief in more ways than one. Ziggy discovered a narrow window near the ceiling above the tub. And it didn’t have bars. Justin probably didn’t think anyone could escape out it, but Ziggy could fit. When he decided to run. Regular food, a bed with a mattress, regular showers, and clean laundry were considerable reasons to stay for a bit.
When the clothes were dry, Xóchitl said to Ziggy, “Laundry is done. We each get our own.”
Wearing pajamas, Xóchitl folded her clean clothes immediately and stored them under her bed in a cardboard box. Maze only had the outfit she’d worn that day and an oversized t-shirt to use as a nightgown while washing her clothes. The t-shirt exposed jagged, white scars on the backs of her thighs. When she bent to retrieve a dropped sock, Ziggy noticed that the scars continued under her panties. Rather than folding her clothes, Maze hung them on the end of her bed. Nico, who wore only boxer shorts for the night, tossed his clean clothes in a pile on his bed, not bothering to fold or straighten them. Ziggy didn’t ask Nico about the round burn scars on his shoulders or Maze about the scars on her legs as he stuffed his own clean clothes into his backpack.
Lying in the bunk beneath Nico that night, Ziggy thought more than he ever had in his life. Thinking about his choices gave him a headache, so he gave up and drifted to sleep.
#
The next day while they worked in the barn, Ziggy asked Maze, “How was Thompkins going to get over the fence without getting tangled in the vines?”
Maze kept her head down and her soft voice low, “He was going to prop a tree branch on the fence and climb up it, then jump from the top.”
“What tree branch?”
“It’s on the ground behind the house. You can see it from one of the kitchen windows.”
As the days went by, Ziggy watched Justin and Rita, learning their schedule. Some nights, they left the compound. Other times Justin left, and Rita parked herself in front of the television for hours. Rita treated the kids like dirt beneath her feet. Justin thrived on verbally intimidating them.
Nico and Maze accepted Ziggy as an ally, but were quick to duck for cover and skittish around Justin. Xóchitl was standoffish, defensive, and sometimes angry, treating Ziggy and the others with apparent indifference, while overseeing the regular washing of laundry and bed sheets, and making sure the bedroom was swept and clean. She supervised the evenings like a house mother, fussing if anyone tracked in dirt from the barn.
Life fell into a regular, stable rhythm. While days became routine, every glimpse of Justin’s tiger grin rang alarmed Ziggy. He stashed away supplies– a bar of soap picked up here and a bag of chips there– in his backpack in case he needed to escape. His fifteenth birthday passed.
Lying awake at night, Ziggy got used to Nico’s recurring nightmares. Nico had a tendency to cry out in his sleep, though during the day, he never spoke of whatever haunted his dreams. Ziggy learned to whisper Nico’s name, which worked to calm the other boy’s restless thrashing.
Every night before sleeping, Ziggy reevaluated his situation and decided to stay one more day. Thinking became a nightly habit, less difficult each day.
#
Then one afternoon in November, about three months after Ziggy arrived, clients came in person to select cats. Before that day, Justin had always taken single cats directly to clients, never allowing any in the barn.
Justin escorted two slick-suited brothers into the barn one morning. Both had slim frames and wore multiple heavy rings. The older one, named Chuy, had a touch of grey in his dark wavy hair. The younger brother, called Tito, had tattoos peeking from beneath his crisp white dress shirt around his neck and on his hands. These men wanted pure ocelots, not crossbreeds. And they wanted to choose their own. The clients wandered past the cages examining the cats.
Justin treated his customers with deference. The high-handed manner and predatory grin he displayed with the kids vanished.
Ziggy watched with his peripheral vision. He suspected the customers were armed and kept his head down while he and Nico kept cleaning out cages. Ziggy had grown used to the smell of the cats, their food, the litter boxes, and nature outside, so the strong cologne drenching these two visitors hit his nose painfully and tickled his throat. He choked back a cough, but couldn’t contain an explosive sneeze.
The noise drew the attention of the buyers. The older brother, Chuy, asked, “Who’s this?”
Justin replied, “My workers. Homeless street kids.”
Chuy sauntered around the room and considered Ziggy, Maze, Xóchitl, and Nico with the same speculative interest that he’d shown the ocelots and jaguarundis. Ziggy felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny, feeling like one of the mice they fed the jaguarundis. This man was a predator. Even Justin was prey to these brothers.
“We’ll buy them from you,” Chuy said to Justin.
“The cats?” Justin said. “Which ones?”
“No, the kids.”
Tito interrupted, “I want my ocelot.”
“We’ll take both.”
Justin put his hands on his hips and said, “I need the kids to do the dirty work.”
Ziggy bit his cheek as his heart rate spiked. Nico had a look of horror on his face. Ziggy sensed Xóchitl and Maze moving closer together. They had all stopped working.
“How about two? You keep the other two for your cat business.”
“Yo, Chuy, we don’t need no kids,” said Tito.
Chuy said, “You get your cat. I get my own playthings.”
“You’re a sick man, you know that. Just get your cat. We don’t need complications.”
“I need to let off steam.” A vicious sneer twisted his face as he assessed Ziggy and Nico. He turned to Justin, “I’ll give you a fair price for two of them, one boy and one girl. We can discuss payment.”
Justin veiled whatever he was feeling, be it shock, or greed, or both, with a hand over the lower half of his face. He ignored Nico, Ziggy, Xóchitl and Maze. “Chuy, let’s discuss this outside. We need to get the cats set for delivery and arrange payment.” He led them outside.
Ziggy heard the door lock click into place as they left. His blood was pounding in his ears. Nico had retreated toward the back of the barn and ducked behind the cages. Maze was crying silently with her thin arms wrapped around her gaunt middle. Xóchitl had her hands clutched into fists, like she was ready for a fight.
“Will he sell us?” Ziggy asked.
Xóchitl said in her tight, angry voice, “He can always find more street kids. If they offer him enough money, he’ll take it.”
“Should we try to run for it? Out the loose section of sheet metal and over the fence?” Ziggy ran to the back of the barn.
“Wait!” Xóchitl tapped her foot furiously. “Wait. He won’t give us up without the money in his hand. They probably don’t have it with them. They’d have to come back with the money tomorrow.”
Nico said, “Don’t forget the cameras. They’ll chase us down if we run now. Easy to see us in broad daylight.”
Ziggy would prefer to take his few belongings if he left, including the chips and soap he’d stashed in his backpack. If Xóchitl was right, they had time to wait until nightfall.
They all stood waiting. After thirty minutes the barn door opened. Rita stood in the doorway. “Why are you all lazing around? Get to work.”
She glared at them until they returned to their assigned tasks. Then she left, slamming the door behind her. No one came to feed them lunch or snack.
Hours later, the dinner bell sounded, and Rita returned to escort them to the house.
The evening continued as normal. Justin didn’t reappear.
After dinner, Ziggy collected his belongings and shoved them into his backpack. He huddled with the others and whispered, “I’m leaving. Anyone coming with me?”
Xóchitl, her angry eyes flashing, murmured, “How?”
“Out the bathroom window, up the log, over the fence.” Ziggy turned to Maze. “You can go to that place; the one Thompkins told you about that helps homeless kids.”
Xóchitl asked, “What’s that?”
Maze stuck her hand in her bra and pulled out a tiny scrap of paper. She unfolded it with care and read out Cov House and the address and phone number.
Ziggy said, “I’m not waiting to see who Justin decides to sell. I’m going out the window in the bathroom. Maze will fit. I don’t know about you two.”
“I’m leaving, but I need your help.” Xóchitl reached under her mattress and pulled out a pocketknife. “I’ve been working on the screws holding the bars in place over the window. They’re loose. All you have to do is finish unscrewing them with my knife. Then, Nico and I can climb out this window. Be quiet. If Rita hears anything, she’ll call Justin. He’ll track us down.” Xóchitl tossed her pocketknife to Ziggy.
Nico wavered. “I don’t know, guys. How do you know that address is safe, Maze? It’s worse out there than here.”
Xóchitl cursed at him. “Not if Justin sells you! I’ve been sold. You wouldn’t like it.”
Ziggy slid the pocketknife in his pocket. “Maze, come to the bathroom in about a minute.” He crept out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. He climbed onto the edge of the bathtub, opened the window, and pried the screen loose. As he set the screen aside, Maze joined him.
He whispered, “I’ll boost you. Feet first so you don’t land on your head.” Lifting her was awkward, and Ziggy was sure Rita would come to investigate the bumping noises they made. Maze climbed on Ziggy’s shoulders and got her feet out the window. Ziggy pushed her while she straightened her arms over her head to wriggle her shoulders through the opening. She vanished out the window. Ziggy heard a thud on the other side. He stood on the edge of the bathtub and peeked out.
“Give me your hands,” Maze said, reaching up.
Ziggy slithered out the window and fell head first on top of Maze. They scrambled to their feet and ran to the bedroom window.
Sure enough, several of the screws holding the bars in place were loose. Ziggy used the pocketknife to remove the screws as fast as he could. Still, it took at least half an hour. Ziggy’s hands were shaking, his adrenalin pumping. Maze kept lookout, her thin frame trembling like a leaf in the cool November night air. When at last he finished, Ziggy lifted the bars down, and Xóchitl and Nico jumped out the window.
Xóchitl gave Ziggy his backpack and Maze her bag. Ziggy returned Xóchitl’s pocketknife. By the fence, Nico and Ziggy held the downed tree branch in place as Maze climbed it. The log made cracking noises, but she reached the top of the fence and jumped. Xóchitl went next. Nico held the log for Ziggy, but it cracked under his weight. Ziggy leaped into the vines, landing on his stomach with his head and arms on one side of the fence and legs on the other. He felt thorns pierce him all over his stomach as vines scratched his face. He twisted, threw his legs over the fence, and fell, dragging vines with him. He bit his tongue as he landed, tasting iron blood as he gasped for breath.
“Climb, Nico!” Xóchitl whispered as she used her knife to cut Ziggy free of the vines. In the distance, a cat yowled in the barn.
Nico hesitated, then used the broken pieces of log to help him climb. He reached the top of the fence and became entangled in vines.
“Cut him loose!” Xóchitl hissed, handing the knife to Ziggy, who had dragged himself to his feet.
Ziggy stood on his toes to cut the vines holding Nico. The moon slid from behind a cloud and illuminated the area, making it easier to see the treacherous vines, but exposing all of them.
Ziggy and Nico were both bleeding from a hundred cuts and pricks before Nico made it over the fence.
Xóchitl took her knife and said, “If we stick together, we’re too easy to track. Goodbye.” She ran into the night.
Nico said, “I’m following the road.” He turned and limped away.
“Are you going to find that place?” Ziggy asked Maze.
“I’m going to try.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there someday.” He liked Maze, but he hadn’t met Thompkins and didn’t trust the address that Thompkins supplied any more than Nico did. Ziggy couldn’t bring himself to trust blindly and go with Maze.
Maze grasped Ziggy’s fingertips and her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but she didn’t say anything. She released his hand and vanished into the night.
The sound of an approaching vehicle caught Ziggy’s ears. He chewed his cheek, considered his options, and ran in the direction Nico had chosen. Moving from pine tree to pine tree at the edge of the road, he ducked out of sight anytime he saw headlights.
After a while, he spotted a truck stopped in the distance and heard a faint scream. In his gut, he knew it was Nico. Was he dead? Or being captured and dragged away by Justin? The night was too dark, and Ziggy was too far away to see. He retreated into the woods and followed a stream.
As the sun rose, Ziggy climbed into a dry drainage culvert pipe to hide. Travel by night would be safest. He’d head out again when the sun went down. Exhausted, Ziggy tucked his backpack under his head and fell asleep.
Ziggy awoke to the elongated afternoon shadows of a mild November day. He dug in his backpack for his clean shirt. The one he wore was bloody and torn. Tossing the damaged shirt aside, Ziggy pulled on the clean shirt, which still smelled of laundry detergent. He savored the smell, suspecting it might be a while before he had clean clothes again. He tugged his hoodie over his head and raised the hood to hide his scratched face.
Ziggy ate the chips he’d stashed in his bag as he walked. Eventually, he spotted a bus stop and climbed aboard the first bus that arrived. He had to ask the driver for directions, but he made his way back to a familiar part of the city of Houston by midnight. Worried about Nico, he decided to make a phone call. Finding an unattended phone in a Walmart proved a challenge. Ziggy had to wait until the night manager went to the bathroom.
The call to nine-one-one was short, reporting that Justin and Rita Barrett were breeding wild animals in a barn on their property and holding a kid named Nico like a slave to care for the animals. He described the ocelots and jaguarundis and the cages. He remembered to say that Justin killed a guy named Thompkins and dumped his body in the woods. He hung up without giving his name. Then, Ziggy hid under an overpass for the rest of the night.
The next morning, Ziggy trotted into the closest library branch the moment it opened. His inner skeptic told him that he was foolish to bother with the address Maze had given him. He logged into a library computer and entered the address into the search bar with no real expectations. A surge of relief flooded through him when he found out the address was real. Tears welled in his eyes as he read the description. Covenant House did help kids like him, though they wanted them to be older. He was tall for fifteen. Maybe he could pass as eighteen.
And if they figured out his age, maybe it didn’t matter. He was tired of being prey to every predator out there. A few minutes thought allowed him to envision what his future would be without any sort of help.
Ziggy wiped his eyes, double-checked the map, and used a pencil and scrap of paper to write down the directions. As he set out, his throat tightened thinking of Nico, Xóchitl, and Maze. He hoped they were alive. Their odds weren’t good alone. Too many predators dogged their footsteps. At least Maze had a plan. And now, so did Ziggy.
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