Jacob
the mountain lion lies comatose in his cell, thinking. He wants to do
something drastic. He can't move, though, and stays slumped in the
corner, watching. Waiting. His computer, which he has been using
since becoming literate some months ago, hasn't been switched on for
days. The zoo keeper has worked very closely with the zoological
consultant, Fluffy Oakes, but neither can diagnose him. Jacob,
sprawled on the floor of his enclosure, lies still, breathing slowly.
His heartbeat is regular; he's eating steadily in small measures. The
two employees suspect diabetes, although it is unusual for his
species.
When he was in Newcastle, Jacob says, he bought an instant cold pack, a flu remedy. It set his
head straight. He tried an energy drink that gave him the strength to
stay alert the whole trip. It was incredible. Without that strength,
the trip could have descended into anarchy.
It
did, Fluffy reminds him. But regardless, says the consultant. I'll
give it a go. Let's get you some meds.
Days
later, the order arrives. The zoo receives a delivery of a large
quantity of instant cold packs and energy drinks. The staff move a
kettle into Jacob's lair. He's taught to use it safely- part of his
freedom training, even though the release scheme is still on hold.
A
zoo porter, a young, enthusiastic lad, tentatively enters Jacob's
enclosure and begins emptying a bottle into a steel trough.
“Young
fella,” Jacob mumbles.
The
porter looks into Jacob's sad eyes. The cat still has all his muscle.
His groomed coat shows no sign of wear or infection. The lad pours
the last of the bottle into the trough. His shaking hands let every
drop fall out.
“You've
got to help me,” says Jacob pitifully, his pride stinging him. “I'm
gonna need more than that. This calls... for some serious... sugar.”
“I
can only give you one bottle,” says the boy.
“Have
you ever had a cat die on you?”
The
boy slouches slightly. His eyes narrow, like he's concentrating.
“Happened
to me once,” says Jacob. “Before you joined us. Horrible feeling.
They just didn't listen to her. She needed sugar for type 2 diabetes,
but they didn't believe the cat family were prone to it. She was a
wonderful woman.”
The
boy has backed to the door, facing the sprawling, giant feline.
Jacob
moves his head for eye-contact. “You wouldn't want that kind of
guilt on your shoulders, boy. Not at your age. I can administer it
myself. Just haul it all in here. I'll take full responsibility.”
The
boy looks over his shoulder through the enclosure's window. The
pallet of drinks is on a pump-truck. It's narrow enough for him to
wheel it straight in through the enclosure's entrance. He does so
nervously, banging the pallet's edges on the corners of the door.
“God
bless you,” whimpers Jacob.
The
boy, damp with sweat, leaves and locks the door with a sigh.
Jacob
lies listening to the boy's footsteps echoing down the corridor,
followed by the cold, metal slam of the enclosure's door.
That's
when he leaps to his feet. He blows the dust off his computer and
fires it up. Behind the rocks and branches in his cell, he pulls out
a makeshift laboratory of sorts- tubes, beakers, a Bunsen burner and
gas supply- all mail-ordered black-market packages the zoo never
thought to check on. He assembles the work station. He sparks the
Bunsen. He mixes solutions and breaks down compounds. He develops
formulas and reforms elements to new compounds. He evaporates,
distils, and purifies until- from the litres of energy drinks and flu
remedies- only a dribble remains. It looks like a shot of vodka. This
liquid has a much bigger kick, however, than any other spirit you'd
find in a bar- even a Russian one.
If
his science is right, Jacob has made enough ammonium nitrate to blast
through his enclosure wall.
He
picks a brick near the bottom of the wall and, where the top ledge of
the stone meets the mortar, he takes the pipette and adds droplets in
a row. He works quickly to avoid evaporation. He picks up the kettle.
He turns it upside down, still holding it by the handle, and closes
his eyes. Jacob slams the appliance into the cold, concrete floor. He
rips off the remaining plastic and extracts the heating element. He
paws at the component and watches it spark. The solution is
evaporating, so he works quickly. If this doesn't work, his entire
plan will fall through. He pulls the work station noisily to the rock
and stands behind it for shelter. He mimes a couple of throws, then
crouches behind the rock, the table a makeshift roof.
The
gate CLANGS again at the end of the enclosure. The staff are onto
him. He takes a deep breath, and launches the element at the wall.
The
blast is deafening. The alarms trip, shrieking into every area of the
zoo. Brick fragments and mortar fly past him, slamming into the
opposite wall. A cloud of dust fills the room. Animals in
neighbouring cells screech and hoot and roar. Jacob bounds over the
table, through the smoke and ashes, into the new cavern formed by the
explosion. The lights are on inside the zoo but the daylight,
breaking through from the other side, still dazzles him. The outside
Manchester air is colder now, much colder than Newcastle was a few
months previously. He enters the tunnel, loosening bricks with his
shoulders, widening the cavern and broadening the beam of light. He
prowls forward. Freedom is a lunge away-
It's
gold, or looks like it. It's some kind of plaque, buried deep into
the wall.
Jacob
has stopped. His bladder swells. Why was it built over? He
thinks. And when? This zoo was a mill before it closed. Even if
this was an extension, it would have been built before the Internet
was available in Britain. When these bricks were set, the Web was
handled only by a group of tech geeks in the States. This is too
weird, thinks Jacob.
A
shadow passes over him. He looks back to the cell. A man in a gas
mask fires a tranquilliser gun. There's a thump
as the dart lands in Jacob's thigh.
He
pauses, looks at the dart, then looks at his exit. He makes a lunge
for the opening, but slumps in sudden exhaustion, his nose a whisker
away from the outside world, his tail just touching the plaque, which
reads:
Additional
published work by Matt Tuckey:
Stakeout
in Thrillers, Chillers and Killers
Winter
Canons- a short fiction anthology to which Matt has no recollection
of submitting
An
advert for The Knife Job, a script Matt wrote, on the website for the
now-disbanded Northern Film Network
http://www.northernfilmnetwork.com/blog/are-you-looking-for-a-script
