Faith in Strangers
Chapter 6 – Captain
5:10pm, May 19th, 2012
The ornate grandfather clock in the hallway ticked with a confident resonance, and my tapping fingers joined it.
Although I hadn't played the drums in years, the instinct to follow the rhythm of my surroundings remained, and my paws seemed to take on a nervous energy as I sat, waiting, outside Andre's office. The heavy scents of cigar smoke, whiskey and old mahogany swirling around me, usually staple comforts, did little to assuage my fears.
Andre Moreno, Sumatran tiger, head of the Moreno Family, owner of multiple entertainment businesses in Sahara Square, foremost purveyor of howler to Zootopia, and ultimately my boss, had been due to finish a meeting with his Family lieutenants at 5 o'clock. The extra ten minutes of waiting since the grandfather clock struck the hour had given my mind ample time to imagine how my own meeting might go wrong—how I might unknowingly insult him, and how easily he could send me straight to the bottom of the Rainforest District reservoir tied to a brick. This was not a meeting I could afford to mess up.
I heard shuffling and laughter from the other side of the office door, and with a jolt, I stood and swallowed back my nerves —my usual cool and collected façade quickly taking over.
The five lieutenants, each in specially tailored suits, filed out in line, chattering amongst themselves. The last of them, a white rhinoceros, looked down and smirked at me.
"Goodluck kid…" he said, tapping my shoulder.
His smile was cold, his scent uncanny, and I felt my insides recoil at his touch.
Resisting the primal urge to let my ears flatten in response, I muttered a brief thanks and brushed past him into Andre's office.
The tiger was sat behind an enormous oak desk, cigarette in paw, with documents and ash trays littering the surface. He was huge even for an aged tiger, his limbs and chest on the brink of bursting out of his suit. Whether this was fat or muscle I tried not to think on too much.
On the walls of the office several portraits of previous Moreno Family members stared down at me. Combined with the orange light seeping through the slatted window-blinds, the paintings made the room feel especially claustrophobic.
"Nick," he said warmly, "my favorite fox, please sit, sit!"
I nodded and sunk into one of the old leather couches in front of his desk.
"So…" Andre tapped his cigarette on one of the ash trays, leant back in his armchair, and fixated his piercing eyes on me, "I hear you've got this new deal of yours all figured out?"
I smiled, hiding my nerves with a well-practiced precision. I could smell the tiger now even over the tobacco smoke, it was a confident, dangerous scent, one that pricked my senses and kept me on high alert.
"That's right sir, I've triple checked everything, the company's legit."
He smiled back, "and what are they offerin'?"
"5 million dollars—they only wanted to pay 1 million at our first meeting, but I managed to persuade them in the right direction."
Andre chuckled, pointing his cigarette at me, "now that is impressive," he took a drag, "you've done good Nick, real good."
The praise went some way to easing my anxiety.
"Thank you, sir," I paused momentarily before continuing, "the only thing I need now is your go-ahead to synthesize the concentrated howler."
The tiger kept his eyes on me, stretching out a tense silence between us. He put out his cigarette, and stood up, reaching for a tumbler of whisky. With a slow deliberation he poured two glasses.
"I'm sure you realize Nick, what these mammals are payin' millions for, we've never made anything close to this strong before… It's not a drug now, it's a poison, we have no idea what it could do to a mammal."
He walked over to the couch and offered the whisky.
"Yes sir, I understand," I said, taking the drink as my tail twitched. Andre's gravelly voice now carried a deeper seriousness.
"Makes you wonder, why such a high concentration? And why would a pharma company come to us for this, over every other legal option in the whole fuckin' country?"
I sipped at the whisky and grimaced slightly as it burned my throat, "They wouldn't tell me the specifics, but it seemed like they wanted it for something not-quite-legal, something on the down-low, you know? And they wanted a lot of it, maybe for a new drug trial, a crazy experiment, fuck, it could even be a defense contract? We're the only Family with specialist chemists who can make pure quality howler around here, figures that coming to us they can keep it off the books..."
He remained silent, staring down at me, his hulking frame blocking the light.
"… I even checked the Zootopia commercial database, they're listed, 'NeuroCare: neurological pharmacology specialists' it said, no record of any shady shit in the past, and the guys I met are down as employees," I continued frantically as I fought to maintain my confidence.
Andre let out a concerned sigh, downing the whisky in one hit and leaning against the desk.
"I'll be honest Nick, you're the best negotiator outside of my lieutenants—everything you've done for us these past seven years has been a win, so I trust your judgement…"
A small glow of pride took over my posture, it was good to hear those words coming from Andre himself.
"… But this, this is different. You get this deal done without a fuck up and it'll be legendary. I mean shit, if you do this right, I'll make you a fuckin' Captain!"
"Sir?" I choked slightly.
'You've got your boys already; I could give you a few more men and you'd have yourself the start of a Family."
A big grin took over my face and I stood to meet him—this was my chance, finally, to prove myself, to show the world that all the blood and tears had been worth it. The thought of how jealous Finnick would be was delicious.
"Sir I… It'd be an honor, truly I-"
"However," he forcefully cut off my babbling and pointed his claw at me, "if this whole thing goes south, it's on you."
I swallowed, my grin fading.
"If this new super-concentrated howler gets out to the public or ends up in the filthy paws of another Clan, you take the punishment, from the law or from me, I don't give a shit… But trust me, Nick, you'll be begging for that jail cell if it's from me…"
As he spoke, I felt his silhouette looming over me further, the glint of his fangs now more noticeable. His scent had become aggressive, and worryingly more excited. For a few moments my ears flattened against my skull, a humiliating gesture for foxes, and my whole body tensed as I avoided his gaze.
His enormous paw landed softly on my shoulder, and he smiled at me again, the predatory display melting away.
"I'll give the boys down at the lab a call today, get them started on this potion. I'm sure Mr. Rivers will be elated."
I remained rooted to the floor.
"You gave him the run down already, right?" Andre asked.
"Uhh, yeah I did, yeah," I muttered before tipping back the rest of the whisky and placing the empty glass on a table. I noticed that my paw was shivering slightly.
"Great!" He held his other paw out and I shook it, regaining some of my composure.
"I've got faith in you kid, you've got your head screwed on better than any other mammal here, I don't think you're gonna let me down."
"Thank you, sir, I promise I won't," I said, faking a smile and turning towards the office door.
"After all…"
I had my paw on the door handle as Andre continued.
"…It'd be a goddamn shame if the ZPD had to fish another body out of the sewers."
His voice was a cold, sharp icicle—a tone he'd clearly been saving for this moment, and one that touched my bones with dread. I dared not turn around to look at him.
"Good evening, sir," I said blankly before leaving the office.
A Month Later
6:35pm, June 20th, 2012
"So, where are we going again?" Winston asked through a mouthful of food.
I turned to look at him with deadpan eyes, taking another bite of my fish taco and savouring the salty mixture on my tongue. After an hour of begging from the backseat, I'd given in to the antelope's dinner demands and pulled the Mustang into the drive-thru of his favorite fast-food joint, Toro Loco. Now we were all lazing in my parked car, crunching happily. I was silently thankful Winston had persuaded me.
"I told you, it's a parking lot just off Pawson St.," I swallowed, "nice public area but not too crowded, pretty close to a park, not many tall buildings around – it should be perfect for this kind of exchange."
"No chances for them to try anything stupid on us," Finnick crooned from the passenger seat next to me.
I smirked, "exactly… They seemed like a bunch of pharma nerds when I met them anyway, I doubt they're gonna start a scene."
"They're all sheep, right?" Lopez gave an evil grin.
"All sheep yeah," I chuckled, picking more at the last of my food, "I dunno why, always figured sheep only had wool for brains."
"Don't underestimate those guys," Winston added as I watched him drop crumbs on my backseat, "I got scammed online by a ewe once, motherfucker got away with $300!"
This was the perfect opportunity for some gentle riffing.
"Yeah, but you see the problem there is… You're a dumbass Winston," my voice was laden with faux concern.
Fin and Lopez snickered, and the antelope's eyebrows knitted with annoyance.
"Even my grandpa would know not to pay that much for nudes unless he was sure the girl was real," I continued, relishing the view of my friend squirming.
"Whatever man," Winston crumpled his food wrappers, slouched into the leather seat, and folded his arms – winding him up had always been too easy.
Lopez glanced down at the Roarlex on his huge black paw and muttered, "It's almost 7 guys, we should get moving."
"For sure," I chucked my own wrapper under the car seat and turned the key in the Mustang's ignition. The engine growled to life. Brushing the last crumbs off my suit, I put on my aviators, adjusted the rear-view mirror, and shifted the car from park to drive.
"Alright, let's go make 5 million dollars!" I boomed as my friends gave vulgar shouts of approval.
Winston had finally recovered from my teasing as we approached the parking lot. He gripped the back of my seat with both hooves and I spotted his excited smile in the mirror.
"Can I do the briefcase thing?" he asked. The electricity of the moment had been building for all of us, but the antelope looked to be almost vibrating with anticipation.
I let out a deflated sigh.
Finnick's eyebrows raised at the question, "Fuck no, you'll just drop it," he scorned.
"What?! No I won't," the ungulate had a ridiculous look of confidence on his face now, "I just wanna be the one who seals the deal, hands over the goods, yeah?"
Once again, I gave in to his demands, "ok, ok, Winston! You can give them the briefcase…" I said wearily, "just make sure you get the money at the same time." Winston was still prone to acting like a teenager, despite his two-year head start on me. I knew he'd be pestering me constantly if I didn't give him this chance. His triumphant expression, goofy as it was, prompted a swelling of genuine pride within me. We had come so far in the last decade, and the possibility of leading my friends as a Family captain was so tantalizingly close. We only needed to make the exchange.
Andre began to loom in the dark corners of my mind.
"It's the next right," Lopez said, staring down at Zoogle maps on his phone. It snapped me away from my daydreaming.
I turned the Mustang into the large tarmac rectangle and surveyed the scene in front of me. Sahara Square looked particularly gorgeous today, all citrussy summer colour and burning haze. The evening sunlight splashed across the parking lot, making the washed-out walls on either side shine orange. I could see the dusty park in the distance beyond, spindly pines bunched around a sparkling water fountain – a few mammals were milling around in shorts and tank tops. The lot was empty save for a deserted truck in the far-right corner, and a dark blue van parked in the centre. I recognized it immediately as our client's vehicle.
As we approached, three rams in black suits and sunglasses emerged. One was the mammal I'd met previously to arrange the transaction – he was a tall and stocky white sheep with a long face and broken right horn. He was carrying a black briefcase. The other two rams I had never seen before, one a chocolate brown and one a light cream.
I stopped the car a good distance away from the van, the two vehicles now facing each other.
"Uhhh… Are you sure that's them?" Lopez questioned, a hint of worry in his gruff voice, "they don't look like scientists."
He was right, they seemed nothing like the mammals I had met previously. I had met with sheep that dressed as normal, if slightly awkward, civilians – all turtlenecks, tweed blazers, and polite smiles – these sheep looked like government bodyguards. I sensed our mood shift at that moment, from a buzzing confidence to a nervous apprehension, and the faintest scent of fear reached my nose.
"Yeah, it's definitely them," I chimed in, attempting to rescue our bravado, "maybe they're just desperate for us to take them seriously? Sheep aren't exactly threatening when they're all fluff and fear."
"They look like a bunch of fuckin' tryhards," Finnick said with a sneer, although I knew him well enough to hear the tension in his voice. I decided then that letting my friends stare and worry wouldn't help anything.
"Well," I took off my aviators and put them on the dashboard, "let's get this thing rolling, you boys ready?"
I turned to look at Winston and Lopez in the backseats, an expectant grin plastered on my snout. They nodded and smiled back, but more uneasily than I'd hoped.
"Fin, you stay in the car, keep an eye on everything."
"Got it," he replied blankly.
I opened the car door, leaving it ajar, and stepped out into the dry Sahara Square heat. Winston and Lopez followed. The antelope opened the Mustang's trunk and grabbed the brown briefcase as the jaguar took a watchful stance on the opposite side of the car.
"Mr. Shearling," I smirked at the ram with the broken horn, adjusting my blazer, "dressed to impress today aren't you? Does NeuroCare give expensive suits to all its employees?"
For a brief second the sheep was awkwardly silent, his face unmoving. My playful expression remained, but unease began to settle in my mind. What worried me especially was the absence of his smell – something was masking all their scents, leaving me blind to their primal emotions.
Had my previous conversations with him all been an act?
"Do you have the chemical Mr. Wilde?" he asked, no humour in his speech.
"Not feeling talkative this time, huh?" I scuffed at the ground with my foot, paws in my pockets, as I peered at Shearling, "yeah, we've got what you want – do you have the money?"
He held up the briefcase and addressed me curtly, "5 million dollars, as agreed."
I turned to Winston and nodded my head, "You're up."
He responded with a tilted smile and strode over to our client. Flicking the briefcase round, he opened the clasps and displayed the contents to the Ram. I could see the slightest hint of blue peaking out from inside. This was the pivotal moment of the deal – pull this off and not only would we be in the clear, we would all be legends.
As Shearling scrutinized our offering, my vision detected a glint of light far in the distance, atop one of the taller buildings to my right. I made sure not to move my head, but my eyes watched it shimmer and vanish. My breath hitched in my throat, senses sharpening immediately, as my thoughts raced for an explanation. Was I just on edge? Was it a trick of the sun, a satellite dish maybe? Surely no firearm could reach us from so far away. My paw brushed the hilt of the revolver tucked into my belt.
"Everything looks to be in order," The ram stated, taking the chemicals before extending the briefcase of money towards Winston, "the transaction is complete."
The antelope grinned with wide eyes, took the handle in his hoof, and excitedly clicked the briefcase open to reveal the stacks of paper money – he looked to be dreaming. Meanwhile, hearing Shearling's words, the other two rams stirred from their leaning positions against the van and moved to flank both sides of the head sheep. My posture tensed, and the atmosphere of the parking lot grew immediately heavy with the possibility of violence. Something was very wrong, and in response my paw found its grip on the revolver's hilt.
I exchanged a quick glance with Lopez, dread rising in my chest, and he desperately mouthed something to me that I couldn't make out. It was only then that I realized Shearling had placed the briefcase of high-concentrate howler on the ground next to him. He stood motionless.
The glint appeared again.
They had a sniper.
"Winston…" I said, my voice a raw wound of innumerable feelings.
He turned to me, closing the briefcase, and the only thing I saw in his eyes was confusion.
"WINSTON GET DOWN!"
Crack.
The air in front of me exploded with sound. Winston's head jolted violently, his body slackened and crumpled, the tarmac was painted scarlet, and the scent of blood assaulted my nose. In the same moment, I stared as all three rams uncovered rifles from under the backs of their blazers – one was pointed at Lopez, one at the car, and one directly at me. Time slowed as my senses were overloaded, and a deep, cold, sickening shudder racked my body, akin to the heaves of vomiting. I thought of my mom just before the gunfire ripped through my mind.
A white-hot shard of pain crashed into my shoulder, and I spun off balance, stumbling backwards to the ground. I squirmed and cried in agony, before glancing up and realizing that the brown ram's gun had jammed. He was smacking the action in a desperate rage. Still lying on the tarmac, I fumbled with the revolver in my belt, pulled it out and spared no hesitation with the trigger. The first of my shots went wide, piercing the van, but my second and third hit their mark, one in the stomach, and another in the forehead. The sheep was gone before he collapsed.
My firing had drawn the attention of the two remaining rams, and I scrambled behind the Mustang's door as gunfire, smashing glass, and scraping metal rung around me. The loud cracks that shook the car told me the sniper was searching for my head.
Finnick was still in the passenger seat, and still alive. He was cowering behind the dash, a red-drenched paw pressed firmly to his neck. I dived onto the driver's seat to meet him, the stench of fear was now ripe on both of us.
"Nick what the FUCK is happening?!" He croaked; his voice was all wrong.
"I don't know but Winston is dead and I think Lopez is too," I whimpered, my mouth was dry and cold. Through the cracked windshield I could make out the rams advancing on us, taking pot-shots at any movement we made. Shards of glass tumbled onto my fur and scratched my skin.
"I saw Lopez go down…" Finnick mumbled to the air.
With panic still shaking my limbs, I started the car and slammed the stick into reverse. I kept my head below the dash as the gunfire increased, punching the accelerator with as much force as I could muster. The Mustang creaked before skidding backwards out of the parking lot, crossing the road, and smashing into a streetlight on the other side. I slammed it again into drive, spun the steering wheel, and we careened down the street, weaving between traffic as the last of the bullets smattered the car's body. The distant whine of Police sirens was already audible.
The high of adrenaline that had sustained my escape receded, although I was firmly aware that the rams might be in immediate pursuit behind us. Pain glowed once again around my shoulder, reaching a peak of intensity that I had never felt before; every flinch of muscle or movement of bone brought a fresh wave flooding through my entire left side. I touched the wound tenderly with a paw and became immediately nauseous on seeing the blood leak through my shirt.
The full weight of what I'd just experienced bore down on my body and mind – I felt hollow, scraped out, cold. There was a stretched silence in the car as Finnick and I both processed the deaths we had witnessed, they danced in my eyes as if from a dream, something that couldn't possibly be real. For me, three terrible thoughts played on an infinite loop: Winston was dead, Lopez was dead, I had killed someone. They were all dead because of me, I'd guided my friends into a trap, failed to recognize any danger, failed to live up to the Family, and failed to protect the people I cared most about. Everything had crumbled into nothing in only a few minutes.
"Nick…" Finnick's usually mellow voice was faint and airy, "they got me on the neck man, I-I can't stop the bleeding."
I looked at the fox, a lump rising in my throat as I choked out, "Don't we have anything to stop it? Can… can you use your shirt?"
"If I take my paw off… It's all gonna come out," he murmured, slumping against the passenger door.
"Then I've gotta pull over," I breathed, "I'll do it."
He shook his head and stared into my eyes, I thought I could see a faint wetness in his.
"You've gotta keep driving Nick, don't stop… get as far away as you can… I think I'm finished anyway."
"No you're not Fin," I shook my head erratically, losing control of myself and my wavering voice, "you're not, you're not, you can't be!"
There was barely any sound to the fennec's voice as he spoke again, "I'm sorry kid."
Full tears welled in my eyes and streaked down my face, over my quivering jaw. I turned to look at the road ahead, then back to Finnick. His eyelids looked sleepy, and his paw had slackened, so I reached over with my own shaking paw and tried to press it back in place, but blood continued to pour over his suit. The fox's fingers were loose in my grip, his arm fell to his side, and I finally noticed the filmy glaze over his pupils. There was no life left, I was alone now.
My eyes squeezed shut and I felt a violent surge of something horrible rise from the depths of my stomach and into my head, contorting my body as it travelled.
"GOD FUCKING DAMNIT!"
The screams erupted from me like a clap of thunder, directing my flesh into a frenzy of thrashing and saliva. The pain in my shoulder was caustic, so unbearable I thought I might faint, as I slammed myself repeatedly into the seat – I couldn't stop, I desperately needed it now, I deserved every moment of it. My wailing quickly transitioned into aching sobs, the kind that make your nose run and your throat hurt for hours afterwards. I had no idea what I was feeling, it was beyond any concept my mind could understand.
I was coming up to the outskirts of Sahara Square now, following the long straight highway that led out of Zootopia and into the countryside. Time had passed without my perceiving it, every intersection, street corner, and group of mammals melting into one smudge of movement. Darkness was also descending on the city, its bright chromatic lights reflected in the damaged wing mirrors of the Mustang. My sticky eyes were locked open, staring ahead with the headlights – I dared not look at the body in the passenger seat. My emotions too had become locked, after crying so much I felt numb, only the briefest glimmer of anxiety crossed my mind as I passed pedestrians who stared at the bullet holes in the car.
It wasn't until I had made good progress into rural surroundings that the anxiety finally caught up with me, and I thought once again about the dangers of the police, the Family, and my potential escape plan. Finnick's hollow presence in the car, however, was making me ill – besides the hum of the engine, the drip of his blood had been my only companion for hours.
I grimaced and pulled the Mustang over by a corn field, the road ahead and behind me was deserted. Stealing myself with a sharp breath, I turned to look at the fox's body and was met with the same scene I had witnessed previously. He was leant against the door, eyes still open, mouth in an expression of slight bewilderment, now bathed in twilight gloom. The image was oddly peaceful, but the scent was not – the smell of death was in the car, and I couldn't stand it any longer.
My weak arm pushed the door open, and I stepped out, feeling the ruffle of the soft wind across my ears. I trudged around the trunk to the passenger door, the dusty grass crunching under my paws, and opened it gently, crouching and bracing myself as the fox's body tumbled into my arms. Through gritted teeth I supported his head and legs, cursing my wound while his blood dripped onto my pants.
I carried Finnick onto the verge and with a similarly pained expression laid him down by the wire fence. Kneeling beside the body, I moved his tiny arms to his side, shut his mouth, and closed his eyes with a brush of my fingers.
The wind whistled past me, and I too closed my eyes.
"Four beers," I whispered to the darkness.
The shade of a smile graced my face before I stood and returned to the Mustang.