The beaver and her kit swam across the river that split Golden Sunrise Village into two. The water was twenty yards or so across at its longest, and they’d dammed off a section big enough for the two of them and her mate. The spring day was glorious, sun reflecting off the water and the warmth in the air casting off the long winter. The golfers had returned, and the old people were spending hours on their decks. The beaver neither knew nor understood what a golf course or an over-65 community were. She knew that even the humans in the houses that didn’t need walkers were incredibly slow. She’d seen a squirrel’s brains scrambled by a golf ball as a kit, so she understood that when she heard the word “fore” and metal tinging she ought to cover her head. In comparison to somewhere with bears or alligators or fur traders though, it was a good place to raise a kit.

            She was bringing him to the birch trees that abutted the eighth green. She and her kit crouched and watched the golfers in their ridiculous plaid shorts tap the white ball into the hole before they moved on. She wondered why. Were they doing this to attract mates? To get food? Surely, no species would golf without a purpose because of the sheer frustration of trying to hit a ball the size of an acorn into a hole so small.

            Once they’d moved on, she and her kit crossed to where the birch trees were. The sight of them made her drool. She brought her kit over to the smallest one and let him eat. He nibbled in the beginning, but then he took off. He was only a few weeks old, and yet he was already coming into his own. It filled her with joy, seeing him thrive. He had his hands holding the tree for support, his tail sticking straight up in the air. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the happiness of motherhood. But of course, that still didn’t quite trump the joy of eating. She dug into the tree next to his.

            The papery bark peeled off and crunched against her teeth. She stuffed it into the pouches of her cheeks, isolated a piece, and brought it to the center of her tongue. She pooled the drool in her mouth and swished the piece of bark back and forth, letting it dissolve. It was heavenly.

            Mary Olson rolled onto the green with the groundskeeper. She was an average woman with unnatural dark brown hair. Her skin looked like sun-fried leather. If she didn’t have skin cancer already, she’d have it soon. Not that skin cancer stood a chance in a battle of wills with Mary Olson. She pointed to a spot near the center of the green. The beaver had stopped eating and crouched down not to be seen. Her son had not, and she swatted his shoulder so he did.

             “Don’t you see it?” Mary said.

            The groundskeeper, a fat, bumbling man leaned over. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Mrs. Olson,” he said.

            She tapped her foot on a spot where the green had become slightly discolored. “I played eighteen holes yesterday, and I found thirty-three spots like this one.”

            The groundskeeper got down on his knees, buttocks held high as though he were presenting to Mrs. Olson.

            “You’re not going to tell me you can’t see that, are you?” she said. She crossed her arms and shook her head, as if she were the only person in the world who’d ever done anything correctly. She adjusted her visor so it would more perfectly shade her eyes.

            “I’ll get right on that, Mrs. Olson,” he said. He faked a smile. “Thanks for pointing it out.”

            “You’re welcome,” she said.

            “I could give you a ride back to the club house?” he said.

            “No. I’ll walk,” she said. “I don’t think you’d be able to find this again on your own.”

            She walked slowly, and thankfully, away before the beaver began to feel safe again. The groundskeeper had spotted her plenty of times, and he’d never chased them.

            He pulled a bag of fertilizer from the back of the golf cart. “I’m going to need to get a hose,” he said and slapped his thigh. “‘I don’t think you’d be able to find this again on your own.’ The old bitch couldn’t find a dick at a Richard convention.” He piled the other tools he might need—a shovel, a bag of grass seed that made the beaver’s stomach rumble, and then the boom box. It was old, painted silver so the hard plastic would look like metal. The side she could see was scuffed, and part of the wire mesh in front of the far speaker had torn away. The hell rained out of it.

            There is no combination of noises more petrifying to any species than that of Jim Morrison's off key moaning with the terrible screeching of the Hammond organ. The lyrics vapid—though some wrongly contend that Morrison was a poet—the music grating. Many disillusioned individuals believe that the worst thing that ever happened to the Doors was Jim Morrison dying. The beaver knew that it was Jim Morrison living. She ran behind her kit, nudging him forward to keep him moving.

            But there was nowhere to escape. The groundskeeper was between them and the river. They couldn’t flee toward the houses. Some residents bore gifts, but others would sic poodles on them. They went the only way they could. Straight away from the river. Home. Toward the back of the clubhouse. 

            The trees went by quickly as she waddled. She made note of which looked good enough to chew down and add to their dam as she went. The infernal noise followed her, Jim Morrison's voice sounding like rotten cauliflower smelled.

            Then she saw it. Gray rock with a black hole in the center. A cave. She'd lived both her years, her whole life, in the river that bisected Golden Sunrise Village and she'd never seen it before, but there were lots of things she'd never seen before above the water. The cave promised silence. The Hammond organ's shriek invaded her brain, stabbing the cortexes responsible for hearing. How could anyone, human or otherwise, listen to this?

            She couldn’t see what lay below, but she threw her kit into the cave first to make sure he was safe. Whatever was down there couldn’t be worse than the music of the Doors. Her kit, her son, squealed as he rolled down. She stepped in herself after him, not knowing that the bats were already startled. She fell back. The wings, black and leathery, beat all around. The teeth nicked her. But her kit. Her poor kit.

            She watched as the bats tore him apart below her. If he were older, more substantial, this might’ve been just a bad day. But as it was, he was too young. His body couldn’t sustain the cuts, the bites. His tail thumped in desperation, then fell.  It was over in less than thirty seconds. Sometimes that was how long it took to shatter a world.

            She lay on the grass above. The music still hadn’t stopped, but the song had changed. The Doors had rolled over to Jimi Hendrix. She climbed the path down the cave and in front of her was her kit. Arms. Face. Legs. Stomach. All cut to shit. She could smell the death before she climbed down. She felt a bit dizzy. Her vision tunneled. She picked up his tail and let it go. It dropped. Everything had been so good. She’d been so happy. She closed her eyes, and it all faded out.

                                                                ***

The next few weeks, the beaver suffered from what she thought was grief. Her mate tried his best to cheer her, beating his tail against the water loudly, trying to mate again, splashing her, holding his breath until she worried that he drowned before popping back up, but she didn’t worry. Nothing he did snapped her back. When the fever started, she knew it was something more. The end for her too, and in her way she was thankful. Her mate brought her food. She ate ravenously. When he took her to the water though, she didn’t drink. She fought her way back into the dam. Water. Where she spent most of her life. What she needed to drink. It frightened her.

            It was as if the water, her home, had grown teeth, become solid and threatened to tear her up from the inside out. As if it were an acid, and if she let an ounce of it inside her it would dissolve what was left of her. Something she had to get away from.

            At first, she managed to just ignore her mate bringing her to it. He was, after all, only trying to do right by her. And then something in her seemed to break. It could’ve been the fever. She knew it wasn’t grief, though she had no other name for it as she sunk her teeth into his neck. No word other than murder for what she did when she chewed in circles, as if it were a tree. She put her little paws into the holes she’d made. The blood painted their dam brown. There was a crack as she pulled his head off of his body.

            She climbed out of the dam and surveyed Golden Sunrise Village. The houses were still the same one-story ranches, painted to match the trees around them. The clubhouse was the same massive one-floor building. The roads the same asphalt purple. The river the same dark blue. It’s impossible to say if it was a need for vengeance or rabies, but she wanted to kill all of it.