No Cage Big Enough

Florida. A crossroads in the middle of nowhere. A man with a dog he shouldn’t have. 

It was a dumb place to get out, but I did it anyway. The woman behind the wheel was headed west, I needed to go south, and I was too stubborn to compromise. There was nothing here. Just two stupid lines on a Florida map crossing at some godforsaken point. I stepped out and waved her off.

The heat pressed down, thick and wet. In the southeast corner of the intersection, an acre of brush had been hacked away, leaving a patch of dead land littered with concrete blocks. Maybe the foundation of a shed. Or a gas station. Or the start of a subdivision that never got past the money running out. I knew there had to be a town somewhere nearby. I trudged over to the blocks and climbed up, pulled a bottle from my pack, and took a long drink. I didn’t have much on me. Just my backpack, some clothes, and camping gear. I was heading south because I had to go somewhere. Ride out the winter in the Keys. Maybe the Bahamas.

I stepped into the bushes to take a piss, and when I came back, an old Chevy Express had pulled up on the shoulder. The driver got out, and I sized him up. Fifty or so, gut hanging over his belt, thinning hair, sour expression. He walked to the back, opened the doors, and a big dog climbed down, slow and stiff. An old Amstaff, still huge, still built like a tank, but worn down. His tongue lolled out, and he dragged a hind leg. The man yanked the dog toward the tree line, close to where I’d just pissed. He glanced at me, then ignored me.

When the dog was done, he wanted to sniff around, but the man wasn’t having it. He kicked the dog in the ribs and snapped at him to hurry the hell up.

“Hey, knock it off,” I called.

The guy turned, eyes dark and mean.

“You don’t treat a dog like that, man,” I said.

“Mind your own goddamn business,” he muttered, gripping the old dog’s collar and hauling him back to the van. He shoved the dog inside, slammed the doors before I could get a better look.

“Get lost,” he growled, stepping closer, like he was waiting for me to flinch. I didn’t, but I stayed sharp. Never knew what kind of shit a guy like this was packing. It was Florida, after all.

“Bitch,” he muttered under his breath, then climbed into the van. The engine snarled, tires kicking up dust as he peeled out, leaving me alone at the intersection.

I followed the road south on foot. My pack stuck to my back, sweat soaking through my shirt. I tied my hair into a high knot, but it didn’t help. Kept a marching pace, right down the middle of the road. No traffic. Above me, power lines buzzed in the heat. Maybe a storm was coming. I hoped so. I could use the break.

Six miles later, I spotted low buildings in the distance. The town I’d seen on the map. But I’d played myself—it was nothing but a blip. A gas station and a roadside diner, with a squat little building across the road that doubled as a grocery store and a post office. Behind rusted-out fences, trailers and sheds sagged in the heat. The place was a wreck. Maybe once a decent stopover in the last century, now just a forgotten speck on the map. I shook my head and headed for the diner.

The air-conditioning hit me like a wet slap. The place reeked of stale grease and burnt coffee. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, giving everything a yellow tint. I dropped onto a stool at the counter. The waitress shuffled over and dropped a mug in front of me without asking.

“What’ll it be?”

I grabbed the menu, barely looked at it. “Coffee’s fine. And a burger.”

She nodded, yelled the order toward the kitchen, then leaned on the counter with one elbow.

“You ain’t from around here.”

“Nope.”

“Passing through?”

I sipped my coffee. “Something like that.”

She took me in. Sweat-stained T-shirt, worn-out jeans, scuffed boots, hair that needed a wash. Behind me, at a corner table, an old guy muttered something to his buddy. I caught a glimpse of their caps—faded logos from tractor companies and gas stations. I fit right in with the local fashion scene.

“Used to be you could find work here,” the waitress said, swiping a rag across the counter. “Not anymore. Ain’t much left but the truck stop and a few old businesses running half-legit.”

“What kind of businesses?”

She shrugged. “Hunters. Scrap. Import-export, if you catch my drift.”

I nodded. I got the drift.

A bell dinged from the kitchen. She turned, grabbed a plate, and set it in front of me. The burger looked decent.

“Folks do what they gotta do to get by,” she said, then walked off to check on another table.

I took a bite and mulled that over. I knew what it was like. Never had money, still didn’t. I’d done what I had to, more than once. Not always legal. But even I had a line I wouldn’t cross.

The door swung open. The guy from the Chevy Express walked in. The guy with the dog, though the dog wasn’t with him now. His eyes flicked over the room, landed on me for half a second, then moved on like he hadn’t seen me. He stepped up to the counter, leaned in. The waitress came over.

“Ellison,” she said. Flat. Not warm, not cold.

“Helen.” He tapped a finger on the menu. “Burgers still ten bucks?”

She nodded.

“Jesus.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Just coffee and a grilled cheese, then.”

Helen poured his coffee. I watched him in the chrome reflection of the juice machine behind the bar. His eyes were heavy. Maybe tired. Maybe something else. Could’ve been a guy who’d worked late and started early. But I’d seen him with that dog.

“You look too hard, girl,” a voice muttered behind me.

I turned halfway. One of the old men from the corner. The one with the gas station cap.

“It’s a free country,” I said. “I can look wherever the hell I want.”

“I know that look. You’re chasing trouble. Best leave that man alone.”

“You know him?”

The old man scoffed. “Everybody knows Wade Ellison.”

“He’s got a dog,” I said.

“Yeah,” the old man said. “So?”

“And he kicks the shit outta it like it’s a fuckin’ sandbag.”

The man shrugged, took a sip of his coffee. “Ain’t my business.”

“It’s animal abuse.”

The old man sighed, set his cap straight like he was getting ready to leave. “Girl, let it go. We’re all just trying to make it.”

“That’s what I keep hearin’. Don’t make it right.”

He just shook his head and walked out.

Wade Ellison had his coffee now, sitting in the corner, back to the wall. The waitress refilled his cup without a word. I finished my burger, pulled a few crumpled bills from my pocket, and tossed them on the counter.

“Where can I sleep?” I asked.

The waitress scooped up my money and stuffed the change into her bra. “Told you—there ain’t nothing here. Best ask in the next town over.”

“Fantastic.”

I slung my backpack over my shoulders and walked outside. The air was thick and heavy. Too damn hot. I felt the storm coming.

I had two choices: keep walking to the next nowhere town or set up camp. My legs made the decision for me. I crossed the street, stepped into a convenience store, and grabbed a can of instant coffee, a bottle of water, and some junk food. The moment I stepped outside, I froze.

Wade Ellison.

He was leaving the diner, heading straight for his Chevy. Got in, started the engine, and rolled off the lot. Instinct took over. I shoved my stuff into my pack, slung it over my shoulder, and jogged after him.

The rustbucket disappeared fast, but that engine was loud as hell, rattling through the whole damn town. It didn’t take long to pick up his trail again. He was on a dirt road now, heading toward the trees. Then he turned a corner. I moved quick, slipped into the brush, and watched.

Ellison got out and fiddled with the padlock on a rusted-out gate. He pulled it open, climbed back in, rolled forward five yards, got out again, and locked the gate behind him. Then he drove off, swallowed by a cluster of thick palms.

I peered through the fence. Not much to see. Some kind of building in the distance, half-hidden in the trees. Looked more like an industrial yard than a home. Scrap metal, trash bags, stacks of wood dumped in the weeds. I waited. Nothing happened.

I pushed through the brush, moving off the road but not too deep. Florida had plenty of things to watch out for—snakes, wild hogs, mosquitoes big enough to carry you off. I found a spot between three skinny trees. The ground was dry, covered in dead leaves. Good enough.

I pulled my tarp from my pack and strung it low between the trunks, slanting it like a crooked roof, one side open. Gave me cover but kept my line of sight clear. Last thing I wanted was to wake up wrapped in my sleeping bag with something breathing next to me that didn’t belong. Laid out my mat, tossed my bag on top. I gathered some dry branches, scraped bark off a dead log with my knife, and sparked a fire with my fire stick. Pulled out my pot, filled it with water from my bottle, and set it over the flames. It boiled quick. Poured it over the instant coffee, let the bitterness cut through the thick night air.

Crickets screamed. Something splashed in the distance. Gator? Maybe. Didn’t know if the fire would keep it away. I hoped so. My thoughts drifted back to Wade Ellison. A real piece of shit. The kind of guy who took what he wanted and dared you to say something about it. The way folks in the diner talked, he had his hands in all kinds of nasty business.

The heat was still suffocating. I lay on top of my sleeping bag, knife close. The tarp rustled in the wind. I let my breathing slow.

I woke myself up a little after three. Pitch dark. Broke camp, packed everything except my sleeping mat. I crawled through the brush, found Ellison’s driveway. Slung the mat over the fence, took a running start, and climbed over smooth, no snags. Dropped to the ground and froze, listening. The mosquitoes were deafening. Frogs croaked. Something scuttled through the bushes. Thunder rumbled, close now. A fat raindrop hit my arm. Then another. But the storm wasn’t here yet.

Slowly, I crept up the path toward the house.

I watched for dogs. I like animals. But a guard dog’s a guard dog, and noise is noise.

The trees thinned out, and I found myself in an open yard. To the left, the house—nothing fancy, just a wooden box on stilts. The yard was silent under the moonlight.

The Chevy Express sat dead center, caked in dust and mud, nose pointed at the gate like it was ready to bolt. Along the edges of the yard, under flimsy tin shelters, were cages. Chicken wire, splintered wood. Shapes in the dark. Still. Motionless.

The air rumbled with distant thunder. The rain started coming down harder.

My heart pounded as I crept closer. I crouched beside one of the cages, squinting into the dark. Something moved. Something small.  A bundle of bones wrapped in fur. A monkey, curled tight, eyes hollow like black marbles. The next cage was empty, except for a filthy food bowl.  I forced myself to keep looking, but there wasn’t much to see. Most of the cages were half-empty or so caked in filth that whatever was inside was barely visible. Then my eye caught something. A piece of paper, half-buried between two cages. I reached for it. A shipping manifest. Stamped by U.S. Customs in Miami. Cargo: foodstuffs. Nicaragua. 440 pounds. I exhaled slow. Foodstuffs. Yeah, right. I ran my thumb over the damp paper. Maybe it was old. Maybe it had nothing to do with the animals. But if it did… I straightened. Maybe there was more inside that Chevy.        

Rain hammered the Chevy’s roof. Lightning flashed, and I caught my reflection in the back window. I eased the door open. The stench hit me like a brick. Blood. Ammonia. Panic. My eyes adjusted. Rows of crates, stacked like goddamn coffins.

Parrots in tubes, their feathers dull, their eyes empty. Some weren’t breathing. Others had nothing left of their beaks but raw, chewed-up stumps. Salamanders. So many they wriggled over each other in plastic tubs, a living, writhing mass. The van floor was littered with feathers, shit, shattered scales. My stomach flipped.

This wasn’t a hunter. This was trafficking. Big time. The van itself was a goddamn vault of evidence.

Then I heard it. A low growl.  Every muscle locked up. A shadow moved under one of the tin shelters. A stocky shape, limping forward. The fighting dog. Head low. Dragging one paw through the dirt. His eyes glinted in the dark. Another growl. Not aggressive—just a warning.

“Easy, buddy,” I muttered. Hands up. Let him see me.

His nose twitched. Maybe he remembered me from the parking lot. Maybe he just knew I wasn’t a threat.

He didn’t move. Still wary, but no attack. His growl faded into the rolling thunder. I eased the Chevy’s door shut. I had to get out. This was too big for a one-woman job. I came here to save a dog, not take down a syndicate.

Then the house door slammed open.

I hit the ground fast, heart hammering in my chest. Ellison stepped outside, a shotgun in his hands. His eyes swept the yard, lips pressed tight like he’d chewed on a nail.

“Who’s out there?” he bellowed. The lightning lit up his face. He looked like a damn demon. I held my breath. The fight dog still locked eyes with me but didn’t bark.

Ellison took a few steps off the porch, gravel crunching under his boots. I pressed my body to the earth, praying the shadows would swallow me whole. I crawled deeper into the mess of empty cages. Ellison moved from cage to cage, rain beating down on him, but he didn’t care. Every few seconds, the thunder flashed, showing off his grin. The gun stayed steady, ready, practiced. I kept crawling, but I could only get so far.

The dog danced around Ellison, not giving me away. Then, I bumped into something metal in the dark. Some pipe clattered to the ground, loud as hell. Instantly, Ellison spotted me. He swung the gun toward me and fired. The shot cut through the storm, louder than thunder. I hit the ground. I heard bullets tearing into metal, but I was lucky. Just a few inches to the side.

I ducked behind a post, but I knew I had seconds before he found me and blasted me to pieces.

“Show yourself!” he yelled.

Hiding was pointless now. Nowhere to run. I stepped out from the shadows.

“You again!” he hissed.

“Yep. Me again.”His eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you?”

“Just a girl who can’t stand animal cruelty.”

Ellison snorted. “You shouldn’t have come here, girl.”

“Probably not,” I said. “But now I’ve got the chance to shut down your whole illegal operation.”

“You looked in my van,” he snapped. “I should’ve finished you off in that parking lot.”

I sniffed. “Why? ‘Cause I found your nasty little secret? You’re nothing but a cowardly animal smuggler with a gun. How’s that feel, huh?”

His mouth curled. “And you’re a stupid bitch who doesn’t get that she needs to stay the hell outta other people’s business.” His finger twitched toward the trigger.

The storm was full-force now. Fat rain slammed down on the yard, turning the mud into a mess. Lightning and thunder were swapping places, flashing like a strobe light.

My fingers brushed an empty cage next to me. Found a heavy wrench. I grabbed it and threw it at Ellison’s head the second the gun fired. The blast rang through my bones. I felt the heat of the bullet graze my arm. I hit the mud with a thud. My ears rang.

And then, a growl. A scream.

The dog. It had sunk its teeth into Ellison’s calf. He howled and swung the shotgun, trying to shake the dog off.       

This was it. My shot. I scrambled up, found the pipe I’d tripped on earlier, and swung it at Ellison’s arm. His muscles were thick from years of hauling heavy crates, his body protected by layers of fat from his bad diet. The bone didn’t snap, but the gun slipped from his hand. I kicked it away.

But the fight wasn’t over. He grabbed me with his other arm, a claw that locked onto my bicep. I couldn’t break free. I swung the pipe at him, but it didn’t phase him. Then, with one arm, he lifted me and threw me. For a second, I was weightless, then I slammed into a wooden crate and hit the mud hard.

I lay there gasping, my back screaming in pain, arm throbbing. Fighting him was pointless. There’s a reason they do weight classes in boxing. Ellison had four inches on me and weighed a good 200 pounds more.

Ellison picked up the shotgun and walked toward me, steady, like he had all the time in the world. He aimed it at my head.

“Bitch,” he said, shaking his head.

I scooped up a handful of mud and threw it in his face, just as the dog bit his ankle again. I saw it coming. It was like we were synced. The gun went off again, deafening, the bullet slamming into the ground inches from my boots. The dog ran off, but I jumped up. With all my strength, I drove my elbow into Ellison’s face. He staggered back, clutching his nose, but I didn’t stop. A second elbow hit him, and I could feel his nose shatter. He screamed like a beast, his face a bloody mess, the storm flashing around us like some nightmare. I kicked him in the balls. A good, hard kick. Ellison crumpled to the ground, puking. This one was for the dog.

I ran to the Chevy Express and threw open the door. The keys were in the ignition. The dog seemed to get it, wiggling into the passenger seat. I glanced back at Ellison. He was getting back up, shaky but moving. I slid into the driver’s seat, fired up the engine. The door window exploded into pieces as Ellison fired the shotgun. The Chevy’s tires fought with the mud, got traction, and shot forward. I followed the path out, not even bothering to open the gate. The truck barreled through the rusty gate, screeching and jerking before finally hitting the road. I didn’t let off the gas until Ellison’s place was long gone.

***

I tore down Florida’s backroads until I hit another town. Drove slow loops around Main Street until I spotted the police station. Pulled up, killed the engine, and sat there for a second. The dog watched me, expectant. I ran a hand over his massive head.

“I can’t take you with me, buddy.”

His tail thumped once against the seat. He didn’t get it. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

“You don’t walk right,” I muttered, like I owed him an explanation. “I’m always moving. Wouldn’t be fair to you.”

I leaned in and wrapped my arms around his thick neck. “They’ll find you a good place. Better than riding around with me.”

I climbed out, left him sitting in the Chevy, keys still in the ignition. A couple doors down, I found a diner that was already open. Washed up in the bathroom, then headed for the payphone, dropping a few coins in. I called the station. Kept my voice steady. “Anonymous tip. Illegal animal trade. You’ll wanna check the van parked outside.” I hung up before they could ask anything else.

With a coffee and a bagel in hand, I stood outside and watched. Two cops walked out, hands resting on their guns, scanning the lot like they expected a fight. They relaxed when they saw the dog. One of them crouched down, gave him a scratch behind the ears. The other cop yanked open the van’s back doors. He froze. Stared inside for half a second before calling his partner over.

I finished my bagel, tossed the coffee cup in the trash. I slung my pack over my shoulders, turned a corner, and headed south.