CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories

by J. F. Posthumus

  Her free hand clapped a cloth against my nose and mouth, and before I could jerk away, my vision swirled, my limbs went limp, and before me was only darkness.

  I awoke, but my vision was blurry. I could make out the metal table in the center, which told me I was in Lab A. Merryl’s room. The egg room.

  Panic gripped me, and I stumbled toward the door.

  Perry’s face greeted me on the other side of the window. “I’m so sorry. It might hurt, but I have full confidence you’ll come out of this okay. We have less than an hour and a half until EMS arrives.”

  I banged a weak fist against the window. “What are you doing to me? You’re going to kill me!”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I’m positive the best scientists in the world will save you. This is extraordinary, L.C. Do you see or understand the magnitude of this? Extraterrestrial life—and in a semi-recognizable form? It’s possible we can even name this… species.”

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Rattle.

  “Oh no,” she said. “It’s Merryl. He must’ve gobbled up the bags of mealworms I tossed in there.” She paused for a moment. “I have to try to keep him alive.”

  I shook my head. “No, you don’t. He’s gone. The carcass of these chicken-things should be more than enough to study. Let me out, Perry.”

  She frowned. “I’m sorry,” she said, as she turned and sprinted off down the hall, carrying a needle she’d probably filled with the same sedative she used on me.

  “Come back,” I yelled. “You’re going to get yourself killed!”

  I banged against the door, shook the knob, and nothing budged. She’d locked me in here. I slid to the ground, my back against the door I couldn’t open. I had looked up to her, admired her, even thought that maybe, in a different life our dry-rub humor would’ve blended us into a decent couple. I was wrong.

  She was more a rotten egg than any of those that surrounded me.

  I scowled.

  Eggs. The ones at my feet were still, but the ones toward the back of the room… moved.

  I pulled myself up, my hands balled into fists.

  “Never,” I said. “You’ll never peck me alive.”

  Weak-legged, I stomped on the ground, crunching shell after shell near me, scrambling yolk and white until the floor was slick. The ones on the counters and chairs, I threw to the ground, stomping my way to the back as though I was a drum major in a parade band.

  The eggs at the back, though, they were past stomping. Tiny flakes of shell fell around them as the thing inside each one strained to get out. Merryl’s face flashed in my brain, his wide-eyed, throat-clawing expression as the chick climbed further into his mouth. He had one nearly suffocating him. I had a room-full about to try to latch onto me.

  I retracted my steps, slipping and sliding like bacon on a greasy skillet until I reached the door. I had to get out and get to the K.F.C. Perry, hopefully, left in the lab room next door, and fry those eggs until they smelled like a Christmas morning breakfast.

  A high-pitched scream tore through the hall. Perry.

  Adrenaline surged, and I searched the room, pulled open the cabinets, threw the drawers on the ground looking for anything to help me break out and help her before she turned into chicken feed.

  I found a small reflex hammer in all the mess. The head of the hammer was a useless rubber, but the handle was a hard metal. I prayed as I slammed the butt of it against the window. The glass cracked, but so did the eggs behind me. I pummeled it again, and shards tumbled to the floor.

  Chirp. Chirp. They sounded off. A cute, soft sound, one that pleaded for me to turn around and hold them. I knew better.

  I reached my hand through the opening, shredding my skin on the glass remnants. I grazed a hard, ridged, metallic edge with my fingers as I felt my way toward the knob. Perry’s keys.

  I seized them and turned. The lock clicked, and the door swung open. I slipped into the hallway, and slammed the door behind me. The soles of my shoes, coated in egg like French toast, kept me unbalanced and sliding. I kicked them off, my socks too, and made my way into the Lab room next door.

  The K.F.C. rested on the ground, right where Perry had slipped it off. I reached for it with my hands, no longer shaking, and strapped it on. It was lighter than I remembered. I grabbed the nozzle. It was hot. Perry must have left the pilot on. I prayed there was enough kerosene left and had the sudden regret that I didn’t budget more for a gasoline-powered one.

  I stood in front of Lab A. The chirping was closer and growing in number. I took a breath, and opened the door. With the pull of the trigger, the K.F.C. shot flame from its nozzle, and within seconds fire touched every corner of the room. I could hear pops and shrieks until the fire alarm kicked on and blasted my ear. The sprinklers above kicked on, but I turned the dial on the handle of the nozzle and fought the water with fire until steam formed, and the liquid on the floor bubbled.

  Satisfied that the things therein were at worst, mush, and, at best, poached, I turned my attention to Perry… and the hallway she ran down.

  I was torn between rushing to save her and taking my time and letting the monster have her, the traitor. The better part of me won out.

  She was plucky and resourceful; I had to give her that. Her policy was always “make a way, even where there isn’t one.” I couldn’t blame her scientific mind for throwing me in a room full of life-sucking chicks, but, then again, I could.

  With my hurt and anger flaring along with the K.F.C. pilot, I strode down the hall and turned toward the open door of the break room.

  The break room was broken.

  The fronts of the vending machines were gone, ripped open like the jagged top of a tuna can, their contents emptied. Nothing but shredded wrappers remained. Chairs were in pieces, tables too, and on the far wall, adjacent to the water cooler, was a human-sized hole—torn through sheetrock and metal—that led outside.

  That’s where all the banging came from. The Merryl-thing wasn’t trying to leave through the door. It was trying to make its own way out. A shudder snaked down my spine.

  It was strong, it was intelligent, and I had to take it down.

  A trail of ooze, red and putrid, trailed from the center of the room, across the bottom of the hole, and into the night.

  Splinters of metal and glass bit into the bottoms of my feet, and I looked down to find Perry’s crunched glasses among the shrapnel of a chair. They were next to our overturned barbeque grill, the black charcoal camouflaging the black frames. Bending down, I reached for the glasses, but a hint of silver and red metal caught my attention. It was a small rectangular can of lighter fluid. Putting in my back pocket, I stood up, and gritted my teeth against the pain as I stepped forward. I had to push through, to find Perry.

  As I stepped over the jagged threshold, my shoulder brushed a sharp edge. I looked over to see a toe-nail the length of a human finger.

  Merryl was mutating quickly, that was for certain, but where was he going?

  I followed the trail, using the tiny flame from the pilot light at the end of the nozzle to help me see it. It wound around the building, through the back door I’d entered, and down the gravel path, directly toward the one place I’d hoped it wouldn’t be going.

  Barn 21.

  The keys were still in the ignition of the Gator, right where I’d left them. They were also in the accessory mode, where I had left them, and the ignition only clicked for me. I groaned, frustrated, hungry, scared, all the emotions boiling over. Tears poured from my eyes, some from the dust whipped up by the gusts of West Texas wind, and others for Merryl and Bodie… and maybe Perry. Regret wrapped around me, all the things I never said, and exhaustion threatened me.

  I tried the keys one more time. It started, and I headed for the barn.

  I could’ve waited for help. I wasn’t sure of the time. Others could’ve been on their way, right at that very second.

  The problem that preyed on that hope in my mind like a raccoon in a chicken coop w
as what would they—the others—do with all of this? What would they want with these foul creatures?

  More questions pummeled my weary brain as I neared the barn, dust flaring up behind the Gator, my foot aching as I pressed it against the pedal and my right butt check numb from the can of lighter fluid in my pocket. Two fears gripped me, tighter than I gripped the steering wheel. What if the larger… thing… was still alive, and more importantly, what if I ran out of fire?

  I had answers for neither. I had no plans, no solutions, and no help. I was about to stare down the barrel of death, and all I had was sheer will.

  And a Kerosene Flame Canister.

  My odds weren’t great, but they weren’t entirely zero, or so I repeated to myself when I arrived at the barn. The bent rebar I’d attempted to use to secure the doors was on the ground. The doors were cracked.

  Bits of luminescence flittered inside, the electrical system’s death rattle.

  Over the buzz and hum, a sound permeated.

  Scratching.

  I turned the dial on the K.F.C. handle once more. With all the courage I could muster, I stepped inside… and fired toward the right side of the barn.

  Feathers caught fire, and the blaze inched like a hungry caterpillar along the base of the wall, illuminating the barn.

  The fried monstrosity in the middle bubbled, and, stepping out from behind it, I saw the thing formerly known as Merryl.

  His right side faced me. His head and face were intact, but where his hand and arm had been was a white feathered wing. His bare abdomen was half-human muscle and half-white feathered flesh. His pants were gone along with his human legs. All that remained were two giant peach-colored colored banded chicken legs. Five large, talon-tipped toes protruded. He scratched at the ground as he pecked with his still-human lips at the smoldering pile of monster next to him.

  And then he turned to face me.

  I could scarcely make where his face ended and Perry’s began, her flesh and mouth molded and stuck onto his. Her body, partially absorbed, hung limp at his side.

  Between the sight and the overwhelming stench, I gagged.

  Merryl-Perry-chicken’s eyes opened, and they stared through me. And then it ran, straight toward me, its wings flapping up dust and debris as it neared.

  I felt for the control dial on the K.F.C.’s handle with my fingertips, and by a miracle, found it. Aiming, I pulled the trigger.

  And the flame sputtered.

  Shocked, I froze, until my instinct willed me to run. It reached the door before I did, and with a gruesome splurch, the conjoined mouth spoke.

  “L.CCCCC.,” the garbled voice of Perry spoke. “Don’tttt dooo thhiss! Thinkkk ooof thee sssscience!”

  I shuddered, and with a surge of panic, ran toward the back of the barn. I was trapped. That thing could run quicker than I and blocked my only way out. All that was left was to hide. There was nowhere to hide, not even among the five barrels we kept for additional supplies.

  And what would I do about a weapon?

  The Gator. Merryl kept a small bottle of kerosene under the seat. He had lanterns he would hang up when we lost electricity, refusing to burden himself with carrying flashlights when having to shuffle bags of feed or maneuver livestock.

  I couldn’t outrun the thing, but maybe….just maybe I could distract it.

  Perry had kept Merryl-chicken busy in the break room for a while, but how?

  Mealworms.

  And that was exactly what I kept at the back of the barn, tucked away in a corner. A barrel of experimental-protein-coated mealworms. Approved, of course, by Perry herself with specific rationing.

  “Merryl… thing” I called out, popping open the plastic lid. “Want some treats?”

  Scuffling followed and then the flutter of wings.

  “Nooo, Merrylll,” Perry’s voice sounded. “It’ssss a trrap.”

  I kicked the barrel, and it shifted. A few pushes, and it rolled to the feet of the thing. The conjoined faces studied mine for a moment and then lunged downward, pecking at the spilled goods.

  I stepped away slowly, quietly eased myself to the opposite side—the ashen side—of the barn. My feet burned, and I choked down screams as I made my way to the door. I turned back, praying not to see the thing rushing toward me. It was silent, save for a human-like clucking.

  My pace quickened, and my heart raced as I reached the Gator. A piece of Perry was still alive, still cognizant. How long before she could steer it to stop me?

  I pulled up the seat, and there it sat. My salvation in a spare kerosene fuel canister. I grabbed it, popped the silver lid off, and plugged it into the bottom of the K.F.C. The small gauge at the end of the K.F.C.’s control handle moved, and then retracted. Was it broken?

  A gust of wind licked my face, and I found myself falling backward, with one large chicken foot pushing me off the Gator. I turned as I fell, and landed on the K.F.C. Metal crunched beneath me as the Merryl-Perry-chicken jumped on my stomach and pressed its weight into me.

  My ribs cracked until I imagined them splintered. The heat and metallic taste of blood launched up my throat as air sacs in my lungs burst. I squirmed in pain, squirmed against it. I grabbed the hose of the nozzle with my free right hand, and in desperation, swung it. The nozzle nocked against the thing’s head and then rebounded back to the ground.

  The thing looked down at me, and then bent over, its hungry mouths open and clucking. They caught my left forearm as I brought it up to shield my face. I turned my face away as their jaws clenched my bone, the pressure building until I knew my arm would snap.

  I’d nearly resigned. It had me pinned, my back breaking against the K.F.C. pack on the ground, my left arm turning into mush before my eyes.

  But a small green arrow caught my eye. The gauge on the end of the handle. It was bouncing. Not much, but a little, and maybe… just maybe enough.

  I pulled at the hose with my right hand, feeling for the grip of the handle of the K.F.C., my brain warring against the sensation of unadulterated pain and the feeling of my index finger on the ridges of the control dial. I pushed against it all.

  “You’ll never peck me alive,” I yelled as I pointed the cone at Merryl-Perry-chicken thing’s face, and pulled the trigger.

  Flames shot out, a vertical barrage of heat. It released my arm too late, and the pain of the burn spread to my shoulders. I held the trigger down, sending wave after wave of fire. Its wing flapped, sending plumes of vapor back toward me. My arm burned, my body tingled. My face flushed as though I had dipped it into a bonfire.

  “Nice try, chickadee,” I muttered, the skin of my lips cracking.

  Its foot slipped off of me as it staggered back, and—there!—I saw my opportunity. I released the trigger for a moment, and stood up. With a swift kick, I knocked it backwards onto the Gator, and stepping back as far as I felt I could, I unleashed a final string of fire aimed directly at the gas tank.

  It blew. Heat engulfed me. I was airborne, and then, I was out.

  I pushed myself up on my knees and sank into the ash. My body ached, each breath brought a feeling like my lungs were being needled by my ribs, my back was numb, and my back pocket was filled with heat. I reached back and pulled out a very dented, blazing hot metal can of lighter fluid that I’d forgotten I’d stuffed in there. I said a soft prayer, thanking God, angels, universe, whoever had gone to bat to keep it from blowing up in my pants.

  Before me rested a charred pile, bones, crisped sinews. I crawled to the still-burning skeleton of the Gator.

  Blackened feathers blanketed the ground, some only singed.

  In all that fire, with all that heat, pieces, proof of its existence, remained. I coughed, smoke catching in my throat, and stood up.

  It wasn’t too late. Maybe Perry was right. I could save a piece of it, perhaps enough for scientists to pull DNA samples. I stooped over the pile that had been Merryl-Perry-thing, and picked up a single white feather, resting on top. I rolled it in my hands, letting the sunri
se catch the soft green flakes tucked between each barb. What would come of this, though? Keeping it tempted me, of course it did.

  I released it, letting it float back down to the pile of its originator.

  Sirens sounded off behind me. They were pulling down our county road. It was now or never.

  “Not today, motherclucker,” I said, as I uncapped the can of lighter fluid. “Not today.”

  The End

  About the Author

  Author Amber (A.R.) Draeger specializes in macabre, fantastical fiction, spreading her interest across multiple genres including horror, sci-fi, fantasy, thriller, and romance. She resides in rural Texas with her husband and son.

  http://www.amberdraeger.com

  PŪKEKO: The Blue Swamp Hen

  An Earthcore Story

  Grace Bridges

  PŪKEKO: The Blue Swamp Hen

  Grace Bridges

  Tiny shreds of high clouds drifted over Lake Rotorua in the afternoon sun. Silhouettes of birds crossed the water towards the island in its middle. From Tiger McRae’s perch on the roof of his house, he could see almost the entire caldera region with its Shire-like hills and occasional volcanic mountains.

  But he wasn’t up here for the view. He tossed down the last chunk of broken rooftile and glanced down at his friends on the ground.

  Graeme and Harley watched, a stack of new tiles ready to pass up to Tiger. Harley’s cat, Sunshine, wound her way around all the legs she could find, sending a dirty look up at Tiger as if he’d deliberately deprived her of his ankles. Graeme’s majestic tui bird guardian towered nearby, almost higher than the manuka trees, and Harley’s sun-dragon sat a small distance away, the flames of his fur forming a halo around him. Thanks to these creatures, Harley and the cat were able to run on the lake’s surface, and Graeme could summon birds.