Tuskers. Chapter 1

I joked on Facebook about writing a story based on Bruce Millers constant struggle with javalinas (wild pigs).

Here's what I said:

"I want to write a book about a guy who retires from northern climes to a hot desert and thinks he's landed in paradise. Then the pigs come. Night after night, they torture him. The battle escalates, and the more he tries to fight them, the craftier and more numerous they become. He becomes besieged in his house, unable to leave without a sharpened spear. His dog disappears. Then his wife. The neighborhood is eerily silent and empty. Finally...they eat him."

Well, the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea.

I envision a kind of JAWS scenario.

Here's the first chapter, rough, of course.


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Tuskers

Chapter 1

“Hamilton?” the dispatcher Lara couldn’t quite hide her needling tone.  “Guess who just called about the javelinas?”

Shit, Hamilton thought. The guy just can’t let it go.

“I’ve got things to do, Lara,” he said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.  He wouldn’t give the dispatchers the satisfaction.  The phone was on the passenger seat, on speaker.  “I’ll get there later this afternoon.”

“He sounded pretty desperate,” Lara said.

“He always does.  Roger and out.”

Actually, his morning was clear.  He just wasn’t looking forward to listening to Barry Hunter bitching about the damn pigs again.

Still, without consciously making the decision, he drove the Animal Control van toward the foothills.  It was going to be a hot day.  Despite the irritation, it might be better to take care of the problem in the morning cool.

Barry was standing at the doorway to the porch, as if expecting him.  Hamilton got out and trudged up the steps, waiting for the onslaught.

But Barry was uncharacteristically quiet.  He waited until Hamilton had reached his side.

“They’re getting dangerous Hamilton,” he said.

“Just stay out of their way,” Hamilton began, his usual reassurance.  “You leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone.”

“Jesus, Hamilton.  You don’t have a clue, do you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dogs and cats are disappearing all over the neighborhood.”

“Coyotes,” Hamilton said.  “Keep your animals inside if you want them to be safe, or in pens.”

“That’s just it,” Barry said, sounding exasperated.  “They’re getting into the pens.  Hell they’re getting into porches and houses!”

“What?” Hamilton asked, dryly.  “Are they turning the doorknobs?  Using their keys?”

“Laugh if you want, buddy,” Barry said.  “It’s happening and you’re going to have to deal with it sooner or later.  Come on, I want you to see this…”

He led Hamilton to the back yard.  It looked like a tornado had touched down.  A row of birdfeeders were knocked down, a concrete birdbath was on its side, the flower beds where completely overturned and petals littered the torn up lawn.

“Why the hell did they do this?” Barry asked.  “They didn’t even stop long enough to eat it, this time.”

“Have you thought of a fence?” Hamilton said.  His suggestion was the standard one.  He had to admit that Barry had a point.  No one should have to put up with this.’

“How tall would it have to be?”

“To keep the deer out, too?  About six feet ought to do it.”

“Great, just great.  That’s why I moved down here…to look at the back of a fence.”

Hamilton was silent.  There was nothing he could really do.  He was allowed to kill a certain number of the wild pigs per year.  No more.  Personally, though, he thought that gardening was probably a non-starter in these parts.  If it wasn’t the javelinas, it was the deer, if it wasn’t the deer, it was the yellow bellied marmots (what the locals called rockchucks.)

You want a lawn? He wanted to say.  Move to Albuquerque.  

But his mouth had gotten him in trouble more than once.   Probably why he was still on duty roaming the foothills instead of safely back at the air-conditioned headquarters.

Hunter wasn’t done.

“I’m telling you, Hamilton.  There is something weird going on.  These fucking pigs are too damn smart.  And they fucking eat everything.  And what they don’t eat, they fucking destroy for no good reason.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” Hamilton said.  “But I’ll make a report.”

“Make a report…” Hunter repeated, eyeing him ruefully.  “Yeah, you do that.”

***

  Hamilton intended to drive back to town, get some lunch.  Instead, he found himself driving further up the foothills.   Below was the hot central part of the lower valley.   People there had the most vermin but complained the least, and when they did complain, they had the least clout.  Hamilton was rarely asked to go down there.

He drove past the neighborhoods of snowbird retirees.  Some of these clueless folk thought the wildlife was just wonderful, deserving to be fed and pampered.  They filled their Facebook pages with pictures of deer and raccoons, and gushed about how wonderful it was to live in nature.

Then there were those, like Barry Hunter, who were convinced the animals were pests who ought to be exterminated.

Neither camp was right, as far as Hamilton was concerned.

His usual rant was coming and he let it spill out into the empty van and out the open window.  What he wanted to say to his bosses, to the public, to anyone who would listen.

“Wild animals should be wild,” he said to his imaginary audience.  “Don’t feed the damn things.  You aren’t doing them any favors.  You’re just acclimating them to humans so they hang around, making them easier to hunt, so they don’t get the natural diet that keeps them healthy and makes them dependent, that congregates them in overpopulated and disease ridden vectors, and makes them vulnerable to cars and trucks, and just generally makes the whole situation unnatural and unhealthy. 

“Dammit!” he ended lamely. 

He couldn’t work up much outrage anymore.  It was an insoluble problem, as far as he was concerned.  Unless they made him King of Arizona, (as they should), it was just going to get worse.

He drove past Barry Hunter’s secluded neighborhood, and up into the foothills, to the abandoned subdivisions.  Here were paved roads and sidewalks that led nowhere; an occasional forlorn house, already weathered by the neglect of only a few years. 

He stopped at his favorite spot and got out of the van.  He could see the whole valley from here.  It was a typically hot day, and he could see the wavy heat currents rising over the subdivisions.  There was a slight breeze up here, cancelled by a brutal sun.  But Hamilton had long ago resigned himself to sweat and grime, so he just stood in the shade of the van and took in the air.

He saw the streaking shadow from the corner of his eyes.  Whatever creature it was, it had gone under the car.

He sighed.  He’d had this problem before.  A fisher had tried to hide in the shade of his car and when he’d driven away, he’d squashed the damn thing.  Nowadays, he tried to shoo the damn things away, even snakes, though the snakes gave him the willies.  (Something he kept to himself.  Animal Control Officers were supposed to be fearless.)

He opened up the back of the van and grabbed the Snagger.  He loosened the metal loop to the size he thought would handle the size of the shadow he’d glimpsed, and then took the end of the tube in hand.  He got down on his knees, and bent his head under the car.  Usually the animals crouched near the illusionary safety of the tires.  He looked at the front end first, then the back. 

He heard something behind him.  A huffing that sounded almost like a growl.  He banged his head trying to turn around.

Five javelinas surrounded him.  The one in the middle was the biggest pig he’d ever seen, the size of a Rottweiler or bigger.  Lying on the ground as he was, it appeared enormous, with huge tusks, longer than normal, snobby legs and a broad chest.  Tuffs of fur around its mouth and eyes. 

The eyes…

He was transfixed by the look he saw there.  It was like looking into the eyes of something almost human -- an angry, malevolent and very intelligent creature.

The leader grunted something, and the pig on the far leg shot forward and ran down the side of Hamilton’s leg.  At first, he didn’t feel anything.  Then an agonizing pain shot through his leg and up his body and he screamed.  He could see the legs of his overalls flopping onto the road, and red blood, squirting out over the asphalt.

Then the pig on the right did the same to his right leg.

Again he screamed, and he tried to get up, but his legs weren’t working.  The pigs were watching him now, as if curious, like children watching an ant pile they’d tossed a match into.  

Especially the leader.  It cocked its head to one side, an almost human gesture. 

Then it approached quietly. It stank.  The pigs really reeked, and the odor lingered on he overall’s all day whenever he caught one.  He preferred to skip those calls whenever possible.  (Though that damned Barry Hunter always insisted on him.)

The leader came up to Hamilton’s face.  The javelina snuffed mucus into his eyes.  Hamilton closed his eyes, stinging and watering, and then opened them to see the pig had its teeth near his throat.  It was just waiting for Hamilton to look, and then it lunged and bit into the soft tissue below the chin.

Hamilton tried to scream but it sounded muffled. An overwhelming lassitude came over him.  I give up, he thought.

Fucking javelinas.