Rare Lansdale

by Joe R. Lansdale

  Suddenly one of the men turned to look up the bank. He made a snorting sound, rushed halfway up the incline, threw his massive chest out, opened his mouth, and yelled "Moooooo." He tossed his head from side to side. Spittle foamed and rolled out of the corners of his mouth. The mooing turned to a loud bellowing.

  The others, mostly women, drifted away from the pond and gathered behind him in the same manner the lieutenant had seen cows gather behind the lead bull in a pasture.

  The one with the spotlight chuckled softly. "Ferd'nand's a feisty old male, ain't he?"

  Lieutenant Maynard looked at the speaker, hoping he would fade away like cotton candy on a hot afternoon and that he himself would wake up on his hard firehouse bed with a stomach ache from the spaghetti they had eaten for supper. It had caused bad dreams before.

  But the image did not fade. It was as real as pain. The one with the spotlight, like the others, was dressed in farmer attire: overalls, boots, coarse shirt, and straw hat. One even had a hay strand in his mouth, and he was working it between his leathery lips like old Huck Finn.

  However, their resemblance to farmers stopped right there. Horns poked out on either side of the hat crowns and reminded the lieutenant of those ridiculous University of Texas Bevo caps. Only these horns were not attached to the hats, he was certain of that. Below the hat brims were bull heads. Wattles of thick flesh draped their necks; dark snouts glistened with dampness. Their chests were massive.

  Lieutenant Maynard trembled. This was the real thing, not a masquerade. But how? One moment he had been wearing the coat of reality, and now this. It was as if crossing that barbed wire, pushing through those woods, entering this pasture, had plunged him into madness.

  Or did something lie catlike and ready to pounce at the turning of twilight to day? Did this coincide with stories he'd read about people starting off across a pasture and suddenly disappearing? Were there rifts in reality, little rips in the tent of life? Did an even bigger and wilder circus lie beyond our everyday world?

  Lieutenant Maynard looked down at the pond again. The people did not go away; and when he turned back to the pickup, the bulls who walked and talked like men were still there.

  "Jerry Caleb, toss down some hay," said the driver.

  "Sure thing," said one of the bulls in the truck bed, and as he swiveled toward the bales, Maynard could see that his back was humped beneath the overalls like a brahma bull's. And God, now that more rosy light had percolated into the morning, he could see the others more clearly. Wasn't the one with the brahma a white-face Hereford? And the other two, with black and white spots on their face and hands - could they be holsteins?

  The brahma cut the hay with his pocket knife, and the little hay squares fell apart like cough lozenges. He cut another. The white-face began tossing the bundles over the cab toward the humans, who, like wild animals, were dropping down on all fours and tearing at the hay with their teeth. Strands of it projected from the corners of their mouths like massive whiskers, wiggling savagely as they chewed.

  My God! thought the lieutenant, They're herbivorous! And that means the bulls are...

  He didn't like to think about that part.

  "How many ya want loaded?" the brahma asked the holstein who'd been driving.

  "Aw, better make it four good ones, Caleb. Goin' to be a pretty good sale at the auction barn this afternoon."

  Producing four ropes from the truck bed, the bulls uncoiled them and moved down toward the humans, speaking calmly and softly to them as they went. "Easy there, old girl. Easy now."

  Maynard considered making a break for it, but where could he run?

  Then, as he watched the four bulls drive four humans up from the pond toward the loading trailer, something occurred to him. If he could get turned around topsy-turvy by coming through those woods on the other side, then just maybe, if he went back through, he could find his way home.

  If that were possible, he would have to move quickly. Daylight was sticking its bright, pink claws into the gray, and soon he would be spotted. There was another thing. If daylight came, it just might close the door to his world forever - the door that may have been opened by twilight.

  One thing was for certain: the idea of being some cow's filet mignon did not appeal to him.

  The bulls loaded the humans in the trailer and locked the gate. After tossing their ropes in the pickup bed, the brahma produced a big ice-chest from the cab and set it on the hood of the truck.

  "Oh, hell," the white-face said. "You mean to tell me you guys can drink beer this early in the morning?"

  The brahma opened the ice-chest and smiled. That smile was a hideous thing to see. He lifted out a beer in his fist and said, "Breakfast of Champions, Jerry."

  The bulls got comfy by leaning on the pickup, three of them with beers in their hands, and rode Jerry about not drinking. They laughed and guzzled like Maynard had seen so many of his friends do in the past. Christ, like he himself had done.

  Daylight came on pinkly.

  It was now or never.

  Lieutenant Maynard removed his clothes. He eased silently out of the wood and, creeping low, started for the pond and the humans. The bulls were so wrapped up in joshing one another that they didn't notice him. And maybe, without his clothes, they would think him one of the herd.

  The lieutenant reached the water hole and the other humans. One of the women caught his eye. Except for her tangled hair, she was a beauty - could have been a Playboy foldout. She turned and looked at him with what Maynard could only think of as cow eyes. She sniffed at him curiously.

  "I won't hurt you," he said softly

  She just looked at him.

  "I'm getting out of here. Want to come? Do you understand?"

  The woman opened her mouth and mooed.

  "Say," Maynard heard the white-face say, "is that one of ours?"

  Oh, hell, Maynard thought. He turned and bolted the wood beyond.

  "A stray," he heard one of the bulls yell.

  "Not when he's branded," another said. Suddenly Maynard heard the roar of the pickup.

  He ran as hard as he could go. Damn! If only he had kept his shoes on. The grass burrs were tearing him up.

  "We about got him," someone yelled. Maynard chanced a glance over his shoulder and saw the pickup roaring across the pasture, clattering the trailer behind it.

  But now the woods were looming before him. He was going to make it. Less than ten feet in front of the truck, he entered the woods, felt limbs and branches tear at his naked hide as if it were ancient cheesecloth.

  "I'll get 'im," one of the bulls said. Maynard turned to see the brahma hop out of the truck bed and enter the trees after him. Not far behind him came the white-face.

  The woods went on and on. Maynard felt himself tiring. His feet hurt and he bled from a score of wounds. He looked over his shoulder again.

  The brahma had considerably outdistanced the white-face and was closing in. In an instant the big bull would be on him.

  Frantically Maynard spun, and though it was tight going, he managed to land a solid right to the brahma's shiny black nose. The bull went down on one knee. "Take that, and moo to you," Maynard snapped.

  The brahma looked up at Maynard, shook his head, and blinked his eyes, but already the fireman was turning and running again. Behind him Maynard heard the white-face crashing his way to the brahma, heard him ask the downed bull, "What happened to you?"

  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," the brahma said. "But you're right, it's too early for beer."

  "He'll break out on the other side soon," the white-face said. "Boss and Billy have gone around with the pickup. They'll get him."

  Oh, God, thought Maynard. They've gone around, and it's almost light. I'm trapped, lost here forever in something right out of the Twilight Zone.

  The trees thinned. Maynard began to run. He could see the road before him, dimly illuminated by ever-widening bands of sunlight.

  Suddenly he felt a sharp pain and found hi
mself flipping head over heels into the middle of the road. He realized that he had run blindly into a four-strand barbed wire fence and had somersaulted over it.

  Shaking his head, he staggered to his feet. His body was crisscrossed with wounds from the barbs, and the punctures stung violently Worst of all was the bee in his bonnet. There was a roaring in his head like - Wait a minute. It wasn't in his head. It was the sound of the engine.

  Terrified, he turned.

  Grill and headlights absorbed him...

  It was solidly morning when they opened the doors of the truck, climbed out, and stood over Maynard's body.

  "Dead," said Ted. "He's dead. We've killed the lieutenant."

  "Seemed to just come out of nowhere," said Martin, "like he was tossed."

  "Dead," Ted repeated, "and I killed him."

  The lieutenant sat up and held his hand to his head. "Oh, shut up, will you, Ted?"

  "You're alive!" Ted yelled.

  "No joke," the lieutenant said, and then he remembered the bulls. He looked at the fence he had catapulted over. The sun was bright now, and he could see through the trees to the pasture beyond. Way out there he could make out something moving-a cow, of the real variety. He had made it back home, through the gate of twilight.

  Or he'd been sleepwalking, which seemed more likely.

  In either case, Lieutenant Maynard felt it would be a while before he could eat a hamburger.

  "It was an accident, Lieutenant," Martin said. "The kid couldn't help it. But why-"

  "Uh, did I get hit before I went into the pasture?" Maynard interrupted.

  Ted and Martin looked at one another, then back at the lieutenant.

  "Never mind," said Maynard. "Well, are you going to just stand there with your mouths open, or are you going to help me up?"

  "Sure," Ted said. "But Lieutenant-?"

  "Yeah, what?"

  "Uh, why are you naked?"

  © 1981 Joe R. Lansdale.

  "The Pasture" originally appeared in Rod Serling's Twilight Zone Magazine. It later appeared in A Fist Full of Stories [and Articles], a collection published by CD Publications.

  QUACK

  The thunder pulled Pete out of sleep. He rolled over in bed and looked out the window. Great bolts of lightning stitched the sky. The rain pounded on the roof like nuts and bolts.

  He made a mental note that tomorrow he would move his bed to the far wall, away from the window. Mildred was the one who had wanted it here, and that no longer mattered. He could do as he pleased now. Being this close to the glass was too creepy, always had been for him.

  Thunder boomed and caused Pete to jump. Lightning, bright as mid-day, lit up his yard, the street and his neighbor’s garage, which was directly across from his drive. His stupid neighbor had forgotten to close his garage up again. In that flash he had been able to see their station wagon and their kid’s toys strung out on their drive. Dumb kid never remembered to put up anything. And with them being uphill, and him living on an incline, about half the time it rained, the kid’s junk washed up in his yard. He told himself that next time it happened, he was going to burn the stuff.

  "Damn," Pete muttered. If there was one thing he needed right now it was sleep. It had been one hell of a day. Work had been lousy. The board had rejected his idea after he had invested six months of hard work on it, and then he came home to Mildred’s goodbye note. He had been expecting her to run off with their dentist ever since she had come back from having her teeth capped with more than a proud smile on her face. That did not concern him. He was glad to be rid of her. The fact that she had left before fixing dinner did concern him. He had been forced to eat out at a pizza joint, one of those quickie-service places, and that damn pepperoni had been wrestling with him every since.

  And now this. A storm complete with bass drums and light show. Grumbling, Pete rolled out of bed, went to the bathroom to fix himself a seltzer for his stomach. When he went back to bed he saw a peculiar thing. So peculiar he shook his head to see if he were dreaming. No. He was wide awake.

  On the tail of a lightning flash, Pete felt certain that he had seen something fall from the sky and land in his yard. It looked as if it had hit at the tip of his drive, just off the cement and on the grass, but he couldn’t make it out.

  Lightning flashed again, and Pete was positive that the object was closer now, perhaps a couple of feet. And it looked to be bigger than he remembered. But the flash was so brief he could not make it out.

  He climbed back into bed, put his face to the window and watched for a long time, but he could see nothing, the rain had grown so thick.

  Just getting jumpy, he decided. What with a day like this one, and then that pizza, it was no wonder he was imagining things. He hoped Mildred’s caps fell off her teeth.

  Pete pulled the covers up around his neck, and at that moment the lightning flashed. Out of the corner of his eye he felt certain he had seen something, movement, and the object was considerably bigger now. Maybe a foot long and half a foot wide.

  He was reminded of a science fiction film he had once seen, Invaders from Mars. A kid had seen a space ship fall from the sky one night and land in a sandlot in back of his house. Of course no one believed him, and one by one, the aliens turned his family into zombies.

  Lightning again, and Pete saw it this time, recognized it. A wave of relief washed through him. Halfway between his neighbor’s house and his own was a large rubber duck. The biggest he had ever seen, but nonetheless, a rubber duck.

  It was clear to him now. The neighbor’s kid had left the duck out with his other toys and the water had washed it into his yard. That was why it had seemed larger with each lightning flash. Optical illusion. It was slowly sliding down the incline, getting closer, and since lightning can play tricks on the senses, it only seemed to be growing. It was merely getting closer at a faster rate than he had realized.

  The lightning flashed again.

  Pete blinked. The duck was very big now, too damned big to be any optical illusion. It was less than a yard away from his window.

  It was some kind of trick, had to be. Someone had inflated a huge rubber duck and . . .

  Lightning flashed again.

  The duck’s rubbery bill punched through the glass not less than an inch from Pete’s face. Fragments of glass flew every which way. Pete opened his mouth, froze. He could not move. The duck was as big as a cow.

  "Quack," it said, revealing dagger-size teeth in its otherwise duck-like countenance.

  And then it grabbed Pete by the head, pulling him through the window before he had time to scream or see the other rubber-like ducks falling from the sky, growing rapidly as they touched ground.

  © 1997 Joe R. Lansdale.

  "Quack" was originally published in 1997 in The Good, the Bad, and the Indifferent, a collection of Lansdale’s short stories published in a limited-edition hardcover by Subterranean Press.

  THE SHADOWS, KITH AND KIN

  "…and the soul, resenting its lot, flies groaningly to the shades."

  The Aeneid, by Virgil

  There are no leaves left on the trees, and the limbs are weighted with ice and bending low. Many of them have broken and fallen across the drive. Beyond the drive, down where it and the road meet, where the bar ditch is, there is a brown, savage run of water.

  It is early afternoon, but already it is growing dark, and the fifth week of the storm raves on. I have never seen such a storm of wind and ice and rain, not here in the South, and only once before have I been in a cold storm bad enough to force me to lock myself tight in my home.

  So many things were different then, during that first storm.

  No better, but different.

  On this day, while I sit by my window looking out at what the great, white, wet storm has done to my world, I feel at first confused, and finally elated.

  The storm. The ice. The rain. All of it. It's the sign I was waiting for.

  ––

  I thought for a moment of my wife,
her hair so blonde it was almost white as the ice that hung in the trees, and I thought of her parents, white-headed too, but white with age, not dye, and of our little dog Constance, not white at all, but all brown and black with traces of tan; a rat terrier mixed with all other blends of dog you might imagine.

  I thought of all of them. I looked at my watch. There wasn't really any reason to. I had no place to go, and no way to go if I did. Besides, the battery in my watch had been dead for almost a month.

  ––