That Thing At the Zoo - 01 Read Online Free Page B

trunk and slid my key home.
    He came around to stand beside me. “This is a real nice car, man.”
    I nodded. I know it is.
    “Got a Hemi in it?”
    I shook my head. “Souped-up 351 Windsor.”
    Hemis are the epitome of redneck hot-rod cool. They are considered by most to be the best motor ever built. They are badass, but not the only motor out there that is. The Windsor and Cleveland motors are just as boss and can also be hot-rodded to the max. Jimmy nodded at the information. The trunk swung up and his mouth fell open again.
    Inside the trunk I had my spare tire, a thirty-gallon fuel cell, and a lot of guns. Not knowing what I was hunting, I wanted to be prepared. Reaching behind my back, I pulled out my back-up gun and laid it in the trunk. It’s a .44 caliber Taurus snub-nose revolver. Dead reliable, which is what your back-up gun should be. I picked up a thick leather belt and strapped it around my waist. It had loops that held spare clips for my Desert Eagle. With it on, I had six more clips than I started with, which was an extra fifty-four silver-coated bullets.
    Silver bullets are standard in my business. A company called Orion Outfitters in Massachusetts makes mine. They are silver-coated hollow points, with a drop of silver nitrate sealed in the tip with paraffin. They shoot like butter. A lot of supernatural things can be harmed by silver and nothing else. For the things that don’t need silver, well, they are still bullets.
    Once the belt was in place I slipped my back up gun into the holster attached to it. A silver-coated bowie knife hung on my left hip from the same belt.
    I picked up a shotgun. It was an old Stephens 12 gauge that I had “gunsmithed.” By “gunsmithed” I mean I hacksawed the barrel down to eighteen inches, took out the wooden rod that kept it from holding a full six shells, and whacked the stock down to a duct tape–wrapped pistol grip.
    Told you I had some redneck in me.
    I loaded it and slipped an elastic bandolier over my bicep that held another six shells filled with silver shot. Flexing my arm to make sure it wasn’t going to slip around, I reached to close the trunk.
    Jimmy put his hand on the lid to stop it. “Think I could use a gun?”
    Digging around, I found a Glock .40 caliber with two spare clips. I hate Glocks. They don’t feel right in my hand, but they are reliable and intuitive, a good fit for someone unfamiliar with firearms. Jimmy took it from me.
    “It’s loaded and doesn’t have a safety, so watch what you are doing.”
    He nodded and reached behind his back with the gun. I put my hand up in a “Stop” motion. “What the fuck are you doing?”
    “Putting this thing in the back of my pants like they do on TV.”
    “Don’t do that. That is the most dumbass thing Hollywood shows people doing. Guns don’t ride in waist-bands like that, they fall out.”
    “You’ve got a gun back there.”
    “I’ve also got a holster back there.”
    “What do I do with it then?”
    “Just carry it in your hand and don’t shoot me by accident. That would really piss me off.” I looked up at the sun disappearing behind the horizon. I felt it drop out of sight like a snap against all of my skin. Jimmy the zookeeper followed me toward the gate for the gorilla enclosure, gun in hand.
    The hunt was afoot.

6
     
    The moon came up fast and full, throwing its light across the enclosure. It hung huge in the night sky, throwing clear off-white light over the gorilla habitat. Deep pockets of shadows, stark and black, cut away from trees that jutted up making abstract silhouettes. The gorillas had all been put away in the concrete bunker that each enclosure had for quarantine and medical care. Locked away safe and sound. Their muffled howls and screams carried across the breeze. So did their smell. It wafted into my nose. It smelled a little like deep-roast coffee mixed with BO.
    I stepped carefully, following the perimeter. The concrete wall loomed fifteen feet over my