Free The Troop by Nick Cutter

drowned in the sea or like that. But then one night Im pullin the trash can into the back yard and its there. The tiger in my yard.

It was so beautiful. Fatter and more hair like it was eating good things. MEAT. Its eyes were shiny like marbles, CAT EYES, that kind. It was hiding in the bush near the shed but it cant hide, its a TIGER. Looking at me too. I smelled its breath. Like raw liver, like mom left in the sink on liver night (also: I HATE liver).

Maybe it will kill me? Im thinking this. Rip me up. But Im happy too see it. Its wild and very special. More special than the birds or deers or coydogs around here. It doesnt BELONG here. It’s a special kind of wild. And . . . ok, doc, this is where it gets weird, but you ASKED . . . I feel like that tiger must have felt. Like, LOST. Like I dont really fit this place . . . the earth? Maybe just North Point. And I love my mom & my friends. Max mostly. But I feel like the tiger some days. Not ALL days but some. And thats when I get mad.

The tiger looks at me in my eyes and SOUL and then it yawns like its sleepy and jumps over the fence like you step over a curb.

I hoped it would live, be happy, have tiger babys (HOW? No tigers on the island). I hoped for that . . . but Kents dad shot it and it died. Fucking Kents dad . . . I cried. I think that was ok too. Right?

10
    “ JESUS . . . JESUS Christ . . . what is that?”
    These six words cracked over the walkie-talkie clipped to Kent’s belt at four o’clock that afternoon.
“Tim?” Kent said. “Tim, what’s wrong? Do you copy?”
The boys stood in a loose circle, waiting.
“ It’s nothing, guys, ” came the reply. “Just sat on this goddamn thing accidentally.”
Kent glared, his eyes squeezing to slits. “What’s the matter, Tim? Come in, Tim.”
Tim’s voice—ragged, frustrated: “Why do you have the walkie-talkie, Kent? I gave it to Max. Anyway, how’s it going? Fulfilling your merit obligations?”
ephraim snatched the walkie-talkie. “Kent almost walked us off a cliff.”
Kent made a grab for the walkie-talkie; ephraim stashed it behind his back, his chin assuming that challenging jut again.
    Silence from Tim’s end. Then: “I hope you’re joking. Where are you now?”
newton gave Tim the compass coordinates. Tim said: “ You’re a bit off-track, but it’ll be fine. Follow the path from here on out, okay? ”
The sun hung low in the western sky. Its reflective rays turned the poplars and oaks into pillars of flame. The boys had rounded down from the cliffs around the northern hub of the island. newton used his compass to keep them on track.
“none of this would’ve happened if Tim had come,” Kent sulked. “It’s his job, isn’t it?”
“oh, bullshit.” ephraim vented a harsh, barking laugh. “You wanted to play King Shit, Kent. Well, you played it. now wear your crown of turds.”
The muscles humped up Kent’s shoulders—a defensive, kicked-dog posture. They walked in silence until Shelley said: “Kent’s right, the Scoutmaster should’ve come.”
Kent gave Shelley a look of pathetic gratitude. next he was storming to the head of the line, which ephraim was heading, elbowing the smaller boy aside to assume the lead. Shelley smiled fleetingly, nothing but a slight upturn of his lips—not that anybody noticed. Shelley had this way of hiding in a permanent pocket of shadow, that spot at the edge of your vision where your eyes never quite focused.
The boys came upon a large rock pile covered with spongy moss and decided to play King of the mountain. It was a game they played often, but today it achieved a particular intensity—less a game and more of a fight. They played hard to dispel the jitteriness that had invaded their bones, a feeling whose root could be found back at the cabin. If they shoved and sweated and wrestled, it might just break the fear amassing inside of them, same way a good thunderstorm could break the intolerable heat of a summer