Fear No Evil

He looked desperately into his wing mirror for Big Charlie’s truck, and flashed his taillights in warning. His mind was racing. He was slowing to forty miles an hour, and the row of trucks was only five hundred yards away—now four hundred yards away, now three hundred … Now the last truck was only two hundred yards ahead, and the barrier one hundred yards ahead of that. And Davey trod on the accelerator and slammed his hand on the horn.

The blast of it split the morning like an express train, and his truck leaped forward, roaring down the highway again, blasting straight at the barrier.

Shocked policemen were scattering and waving and shouting, and Davey kept his foot down flat and his hand on the horn—roaring and blasting straight at the barrier, his headlights blazing, and Big Charlie roaring along behind him. Davey gripped his wheel, white-knuckled, his face ashen, his eyes wide and his teeth clenched. All he could see was that red and white barrier hurtling nearer and nearer, forty yards, then thirty, then twenty, filling his vision—and then he hit it.

With a crack like a cannon above the blasting of the horn, the barrier burst and flew like grapeshot, big shattered timbers flying high and wide into the Tennessee morning; Big Charlie’s truck hurtled through after him, leaving shocked policemen scrambling for their cars.

A quarter mile ahead was a turnoff to the town of Erwin and the Appalachian Mountains. Desperately Davey Jordan swung his truckload of elephants onto it.

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He kept his hand on the horn, tearing through the town like a locomotive—houses flashing by, people and dogs and cars scattering. Ahead was an intersection, the traffic light green. He heaved the wheel and swung into Main Street, the whole massive truck keeling over.

He roared up Main Street, leaning on his horn, storefronts flying past, cars screeching and dodging, people scrambling and staring and yelling, and Big Charlie right behind him. Two hundred yards behind came the first of the police cars, lights flashing and sirens screaming.

The two trucks went hurtling through Erwin, heading flat out for the Appalachian Mountains, with the police cars wailing behind them. Ahead was another intersection, lights yellow. Davey roared across it. At the next one the light was red and he kept his foot flat, his hand on the horn. A car squealed to a wild halt halfway across; Davey swung his wheel desperately and the truck hurtled through, Big Charlie still behind him. The first police car was almost level with Charlie now, siren screaming and a cop yelling out the window brandishing his gun, and Charlie just kept going. The car overtook Charlie’s truck and went wailing on after Davey on the wrong side of the road, and now the second police car was screaming up on Charlie’s flank.

The first car was drawing wildly alongside Davey, the cop yelling, ‘Pull over or I shoot!’ Davey jerked down behind the wheel and kept on going. Two hundred yards ahead was the turnoff to the mountains, and he headed for it, hunched over his wheel. The police car swung howling in front of his fender; there was a deafening crash of metal, and sparks flew. The truck jolted, and the police car bounced off, tires screeching and cops yelling. Davey kept his foot flat and swung into the intersection. His huge truck swayed and the police car swerved out of his thundering way, going into a wild skid. Big Charlie thundered across the intersection also, and the second police car crashed into his side, banging and bouncing off, then the driver swerved to avoid the first police car skidding toward him, and they crashed into each other. Sideways on, with a wrench of metal and screaming sirens, the two massive trucks roared into the suburbs of Erwin.

They hurtled along, horns blasting, hedges and fences and gardens and churches flashing by, dogs and cats scattering and astonished housewives clutching laundry, groceries and children. Back at the intersection the two police cars disentangled themselves and went racing furiously after them again, battered and howling. The two massive trucks full of animals hurtled past drive-in banks, and supermarkets and restaurants, laundromats and gas stations, heading for the Appalachian Mountains. Then one of the police cars was drawing alongside Davey’s cab again, and he ducked, his foot flat, his horn still sounding. There was a jolt and a screech, and the police car bounced wildly off his fender. The driver bellowed and swung the screaming car back at the truck. There was another crash above the siren; in the second car the cop was shouting into his radio ‘Pete’s jus’ bouncin’ off—there he goes again—these bastards’re too big to head off—Now he’s goin’ to shoot—’ And there was the cracking of gunfire above the wailing, and the bullets went ricocheting off Davey’s heavy-duty tires; fifty yards back the second car’s windscreen suddenly shattered like a spider web, and the car skidded to a stop against the curb.

The front car swung back toward Davey’s truck. There was a wrenching crash, its front wheel wobbled, and the car went into another skid. It skewed wildly across the road; then it nose-dived into the picket fence of the No-tell Motel Drive-in ‘n’ Nite-Club.

Elizabeth Johnson slammed down the telephone in her office, grabbed her medical bag, and dashed out. She scrambled into her Volkswagon. She drove fast out of the zoo grounds, heading for the airport in New Jersey.

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Up in the Appalachians, a few miles from Erwin, there is a disused bridge across the Nolichucky River. It is one lane only, over the sheer cliffs of the gorge, which drops to the river below.

David Jordan roared his truck up the crest, then brought it to a hissing halt. He shoved her into reverse, and the huge truck swung backward off the highway, down onto the bridge. He leaped out of his cab, ran to the back, wrenched out the bolts and dropped the big tailboards. There stood the elephants and Sally, jam-packed, blinking at him.

He gave an imperative whistle. Rajah squeezed himself around and started uncertainly toward him, shoving past the hippopotamus.

It only took two minutes to get them all down the tailboards and onto the narrow, old bridge. Davey climbed back into his cab feverishly, and drove his vehicle out of the way, to allow Big Charlie to reverse his truck into the same position.

Five minutes later all the animals were on the bridge. The big bewildered elephants, the wide-eyed lions and tigers, the bears, the gorillas and Sally, blinking and frightened. Davey ran to the other end of the bridge and whistled, and Big Charlie began to shoo them from behind. The circus elephants began to lumber after Davey, then the bears and circus lions, then the others followed. Across the bridge they went, then they were scrambling up the steep dirt track into the Appalachian Mountains, Davey in front with Champ the Chimpanzee beside him, and Big Charlie and the wolf-dog, Sam, bringing up the rear.

For the first two miles they ran uphill, into forests of pine and laurel, the long line of animals huffing and panting, their nostrils dilated at all the smells, adrenalin pumping, flanks heaving. Davey ran, his knapsack bouncing, his heart pounding with exhaustion, his eyes bright with fury that this had happened, just one hundred miles from the Smokies—just two more hours in those trucks. He ran and ran, following the narrow dirt path that was the Appalachian Trail, looking over his shoulder, gasping at the animals to follow, but they were right behind him: the chimpanzee galloping hard on his heels; and Mama the zoo tiger; then Rajah and the circus elephants, trunks swinging; then the zoo elephants and the performing bears and, at the rear, Sally the hippopotamus, wheezing. Davey knew they would follow him, and anyway Big Charlie was herding them and Sam would bring back any that scattered off the trail. He kept glancing back only to urge them to hurry, desperately putting as much distance as possible between them and the abandoned trucks. He ran and he ran, then at last he slowed to a rasping jog.

He shuffled along the crest, his arms hanging loose, his heart thumping against his chest. He knew that a few miles ahead, near No Business Knob, there was a spring. About a mile beyond that, a creek. The animals needed water. But the spring was too small; it would take too long; they needed the creek … and he had not brought the pig’s carcass for the lions. Nor did he have a rifle.

‘But ole Professor Ford’s right,’ Frank I. Hunt drawled, eyes closed. ‘I’m not an expert.’ His makeup girl was putting the finishing touches to his tan.

‘But to them you are,’ Charles Worthy said. He jabbed his finger downstairs at the Hilton Hotel lobby. ‘You’re the big lion tamer to them, and don’t you forget it, Morris.’

‘And don’t call me Morris,’ Frank sighed.

‘And those grizzly bears, everybody’s scared of grizzly bears. Even those elephants are dangerous—that’s what you got to tell them. And you’re going to get them back.’

‘Sure,’ Frank said.

‘You know much more about those animals than that Professor Ford—’ He jerked his thumb at the television screen. He tossed his showman’s head: ‘“I am unaware that circus personnel are experts …” Well, I tell you something you’re going to make him aware of. He just keeps animals like museum pieces for people to ogle at. But we—we bring the animals to the people! We bring knowledge of animals. Entertainment. Happiness. Most kids in this world would never see an elephant or a lion unless we brought them to their town. And we’re proud of that! Zoo?—they just keep animals in cages. Us?—we go into the cages!’

‘Sure,’ Frank Hunt said wearily.

‘Are you listening, Frank? We’re not going to take that insult from Ford lying down!’

‘Certainly not.’

‘And something else Ford’s unaware of,’ the old man said vehemently. ‘He’s not going to steal the show, Morris! Hell, they’re mostly our animals that’s been stolen, our trucks, our gear thrown all over the zoo, our circus that can’t go on! What’s he lost? One tiger and a coupla gorillas and three or four elephants, and bet they’re all as miserable-looking as he is.’

‘Actually,’ the makeup girl said, ‘I thought he was kind of cute. All serious and cuddly.’

‘Whereas you?—you’re photogenic, Morris. You go into that ring, and you knock all the ladies dead. And the kids love you, you make everybody happy. And you’re the expert. I’m not saying you must go down there to those television cameras and cash in on what’s happened … That wouldn’t be … in keeping with our proud tradition. All I’m saying is … there’s going to be an awful lot of publicity—and if it rightfully belongs to anybody it belongs to us—not to Professor Ford, Morris … This is very important to put across Morris!’

‘Morris isn’t a very photogenic name. Try Frank I. Hunt.’

‘What’s the I supposed to stand for?’ the girl asked.

‘Ignatius,’ Frank said.

‘Ivan,’ Worthy said testily. ‘Can’t you take anything seriously? Listen, Frank—you don’t seem to realise what this means. The whole world’s watching, Frank! We’re going to hold their attention for weeks while those animals are recaptured. And you, sir, are going to be a national figure—the guy who goes into the cages, remember that!’

‘It’s getting the animals back into the cages that I’m not wild about.’ Frank looked at himself in the mirror. ‘Am I or am I not,’ he said, ‘a dead ringer for Tony Curtis?’ He blew himself a kiss. ‘Or Dean Martin?’ he added reasonably.

‘Be serious for once!’

‘Serious? …’ He reached for the bourbon and sloshed some into his glass. ‘I am deadly serious, Chuck. I an not a big white hunter. Never have been, you know. Ringmaster, that’s me.’

‘You’re not a comedian either!’

‘Comedian?’ Frank mused. ‘Maybe that’s what I should have been. Or an escape artist.’

‘You don’t even care that we’ve lost our animals! Even if they’re shot!’

Suddenly Frank Hunt looked serious. ‘Is that so?’ He took another big slug of his whiskey. ‘Well, I’m here to tell you’—he jabbed a finger—‘that I do care.’ He jabbed his finger again. ‘I want all those big cats safely back in their cages! And that tiger. Because I, Chuck,’ he tapped his chest, ‘trained the bastards. I, as you so correctly pointed out, go into the cages! Not you—me. And I don’t want to start all over again with new sonsabitches who want to eat me for breakfast every goddam morning!’

He shucked on the jacket of his white safari suit, then clapped on his leopard-skin-banded hat at a rakish angle.

‘You know why I’m so happy? Because I’m not going into the ring with those cats tomorrow.’ He turned to the girl and said pensively, ‘Maybe I should have been the Human Cannonball?’

Then he opened the door with a flourish and strode down the carpeted corridor to the elevator, Worthy hurrying behind him. He stabbed the elevator button and waited jauntily. The doors opened on an elevator full of people standing solemnly. Frank gave them a businesslike smile and intoned, ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I called you all together? …’

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‘Why not?’ Dr. Elizabeth Johnson demanded indignantly.

‘Because, ma’am,’ the air-hostess smiled, ‘we’re not allowed to serve alcohol over the Bible Belt.’