Chapter One

I don’t need the headlights to drive, thanks to waxing moon and the straight gravel road. The driveway and yard are illuminated with a ghostly light as I ride slowly past the house and then coast down the gentle slope to the pen. I turn off the engine and pull on the handbrake, then get out to open the gate. The thick humid air hits me in the face and it feels like I’m trying to breathe underwater. I’m sweating and I can feel beads of moisture trickling down my spine and into the waistband of my shorts. The backs of my thighs are slick with perspiration and I stick to the truck upholstery as I slide across the driver’s seat.

I open the gate in the electric fence, satisfied that it doesn’t make a sound. I oiled it a few days ago to make sure. Then I coast through and close it behind me. Once I’m away from the house and well into the pasture I’m able to turn the engine on again. I turn the truck around and back it up as far as I can before my rear tires start to sink in the soft ground near the wallow. I keep my headlights off, but the light of the moon is enough to let me see where I am going.

This summer has been the hottest on record, and the rainfall the lowest in memory; the scorching sun has hardened the earth in the pasture and I’m able to turn the truck without leaving tire marks. It doesn’t matter anyway; I’m sure that whatever tracks I leave will be obliterated by sunrise.

I slip out of the truck and let down the tailgate as quietly as I can, then pull the heavy tarp out of the truck bed until it teeters on the edge. It’s caught somehow on the tailgate hinge and I can’t pull it any further. I’m about to climb up into the truck bed and give it a shove when the tarp tears free and falls, hitting the dirt with a sickening thump. I drag it as far as I can toward the boggy stream, my ears straining for any sound. I peer into the darkness but all I can see is the tiny lights of fireflies flickering in the brush.

I untie the tarp and roll the contents onto the earth.

He is naked. He lies facing up, staring at the moon. I don’t want to see his face, so I roll him over with the toe of my boot.

As I load the tarp back into the truck, I hear a faint grunt, followed by a snuffling sound. I don’t have much time and I start to move faster.

I drag the first ten-gallon bucket out of the truck and open it. The smell of corn mash and strawberry Kool-Aid makes me retch. I pour it over him then go to get the second bucket, this one full of corn mash and beer.

By the time I’ve poured that out I can hear them. Low growls and resonant rumbles that make it feel as if the earth is vibrating. They’re getting closer, coming through the brush and the long grass by the stream, snuffling, rustling, breaking twigs and snapping branches. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I quickly toss his clothes and boots–all soaked in corn mash, next to the body, run back to the truck, drop the buckets into the back, and start the engine. The noise won’t matter now; they’ve caught the scent and nothing will scare them off.

As I drive slowly back toward the gate I can see them in the moonlight. Their eyes and tusks gleam as they run out of the dense brush at the back of the wallow. The large one in front is a sow. She scents the air, her massive head bobbing up and down. She snorts loudly–a warning to the rest in case of any threat. She can’t see very well, but the scent draws her closer to the corn and she pauses, listening for danger. Then she squeals and trots toward the mash. The rest of them hear her signal and follow. I can see the hump-backed silhouette of dozens of the hairy beasts, trotting across the pasture in a thunder of hooves.

When I’m safely on the other side of the gate I pause to listen to the excited squeals, as they smell the corn mash and the deeper growls and roars of the boars as they tear him apart. And under the contented grunts I hear the steady crunch of corn kernels, the tearing of sinew and muscle and the snap of bone.

I look up and can see every star in the clear night sky. I listen to the crickets in the field and inhale the aroma of new mown hay. Then I drive back to the road. I don’t turn on my headlights until I’m a mile away.