Page 78 of Butcher

We slowed down and pulled into a driveway. Toxic hit the horn a few times. The others must have been right behind us because Priest came to the back of the SUV and opened the door. “Have a good nap?”

“Fuck off,” I told him.

He chuckled and shook his head. “You good to walk? Or should we have Crash bring a gurney?”

“I could carry him,” Hush offered, crossing his arms over his chest. “Like a big baby.”

“No one is fucking carrying me,” I snapped. “Get the fuck out of my way. I’ll walk.” Sitting up was like someone raking shards of glass down my sides and banging on my head with a damn shovel, but I managed. I shoved Hush out of the way as he hovered close by while I got out of the vehicle. “Move.”

“Make sure he doesn’t try to run off,” Lock ordered.

“Fine. Fall on that pretty fuckin’ face of yours,” Hush said with a shrug.

“What am I looking at?” Isla asked from the other side of the SUV.

“I fucking told you this was a bad idea,” I said, pointing toward her. “Even she sees that this place is an unholy nightmare.”

There were goats. Everywhere. But not whole goats. I stared at one as it made its way over to me. Its back end was in a saddle, with wheels supporting it. The little thing had no back legs. It strolled overto me and bleated suspiciously before chewing on my pant leg. My eyes slowly panned around and took it all in. There must be dozens of goats here. Some were in saddles like this one, some were walking on their own. All of them were missing at least one leg.

Isla turned to Lockout. “What. The. Actual. Fuck? I thought this guy was a doctor?”

He held his hands up in a calming gesture. “It’s not what you think. Part of Special Forces medic training is learning to do amputations and surgeries in the field, under fire, in helicopters, and in moving vehicles. The Army uses goats to practice because, well, they can’t use humans. It’s sad, but necessary training.”

Her eyes were wide as saucers as she came to stand next to me. I didn’t say anything. I just pointed to the two-legged goat that had moved on from my pants and decided that the bottom of my shirt was much tastier. “Quit that,” I told it.

Lockout continued, “Crash is softie at heart. Loves animals. He never liked that the Army used goats. He probably would have preferred practicing on people. Anyway, he did his best to rescue as many of the animals as he could and brought them here. I told you that Crash was good at his job.” He waved his arm out, indicating all the goats. “Real good. He made sure they survived, in fact, I don’t think he’s ever lost one. And well…now he makes goat prosthetics and such.”

“You make him sound all noble and shit. Guys a fucking weirdo. Nobody sane has this many goats. It’s not too late to get me out of here,” I muttered.

“He saved them?” Isla asked.

I scowled at her, because I could hear it in her voice. She was already starting to respect the man who’d rescued the goats. Sure, it was a good thing for him to do. That didn’t mean I wanted to let him work onme. I wasn’t a good patient at the best of times and right now wasn’t even close to the best. Those damn field surgeons were too damn hack-happy. I never let them near me if I could. Not that they just amputated limbs anymore like they used to back in the day. Still,it was the principle of the matter. He might patch a bullet wound and chop off my foot just for funsies.

Priest was coming back now, an older man with a cigar in his mouth following close behind. He was carrying what looked like a medic’s bag. He ambled over and placed it on the back seat, peering at me through the cigar smoke. “You again?” His voice was gruff and partially muffled by the cigar. “What stupid shit did you get yourself into this time?” He reached out and prodded at my gunshot wound.

“Fucking Christ! Don’t play with it!” I barked.

“Yeah yeah, let me get my torch.”

“Torch?” Riptide asked.

“Torch?” I echoed. “What do you need a torch for?”

Crash narrowed his eyes at me, grasping his cigar in two fingers he pointed it at me. “I don’t need any commentary from the peanut gallery. Especially some civilians. I’m going to cauterize it.”

“No torches,” Lock said with a sigh. “Just use the shit in the packets.”

“Won’t work, needs a torch,” he said with the cigar hanging out of his mouth, arms folded across his chest.

There was a chemical agent that cauterized wounds these days, but guys like Crash were stuck in the past. They liked to use old school methods and those methods usually hurt like a bitch. “Motherfucker, this is because I kicked your stupid goat isn’t it?” I accused. I hadn’t actually kicked it. More like nudged it because the creature had been trying to eat my damn clothes. Kind of like what was happening now.

“You said it asshole, rule one is don’t fuck with my goats.” Now he was pointing the cigar at me. He looked over at Isla, feigning innocence. “He kicked Gary,” he said, pointing to the wheeled goat at my feet. Gary was now giving my shoelaces a taste. Then he jabbed the lit end of the cigar into my chest. I hissed and slapped at it as he continued, “Knocked him out of his wagon. Poor boy was dragging himself around by his two front feet. Pitiful sight.”

Isla placed her hands on her hips, turning, and giving me her full attention. “Is that true?”

“No,” I argued, still rubbing the cigar burn. “I nudged him and that damn wheelchair tipped over.”

Isla’s glare was far more threatening than anything that Crash could cook up. She reached down and ran a hand over Gary’s back. “Apologize,” she demanded.

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