by Alan Ryker
He rode his ATV to a spot along the fence line that he'd noticed the day before. Some scrubby hedge trees had grown quickly in one spot and were taking the barbed wire up with them. When he found the trees he grabbed his small chainsaw and started to work at the thin, thorny branches. Even young Osage orange trees were tough. They grew all along the fields in hedges, delineating the dirt roads and keeping the top soil from blowing away. They were good for this and nothing else. An Osage orange branch never grew straight for longer than a few inches. A fence with posts made from those gnarled limbs was a laughably crooked affair. Because the wood twisted so, it stacked poorly in a stove. You wouldn't want to use it anyway if you didn't want your house to burn down. For some reason, Osage orange wood cracked like firecrackers the entire time it burned, sending out showers of sparks that could make their way all the way up a chimney and onto the roof. He occasionally burned some anyway, and one time had caught a blast of sparks in his eyes while he tended the stove. It made him jerk up so that the backs of both his forearms hit the top edge. Irene said she felt bad for him, but you couldn't tell it from the way she laughed as she treated his burns.
After he finished trimming back the trees, he rode out to where he'd encountered the creature the night before. The sun had toasted the grass yellow-white, so the black stains of blood stood out even more distinctly.
The thing had been loud and it had been big. He wondered if it could be a mountain lion. They weren't common in those parts anymore, but maybe a mother and some older cubs had moved in looking for easy meat. He knew that mountain lions often attacked from above, and would sit on a prey animal's back while it worked at its spine at the base of the skull if it didn't go for the throat.
Keith knelt down and fingered the crusty, stained grass. Then he noticed something on the ground. Stiff and blood-encrusted as well, he had to pry it out of the dried pool. A small, ripped piece of cloth.
Keith sat on his porch in the dark. He drank a beer with one hand. The other rested on a dog's head as it laid its floppy muzzle across his thigh and looked at him with dopy brown eyes. Keith's shotgun stood propped against the other side of his chair.
Keith pondered over the bit of cloth he'd found earlier in the day. There seemed to be only two possibilities: either the piece of cloth had already been there and the predator simply happened to attack the cow as it stood right over it, or this creature attacked both man and beast and had brought the cloth with it, stuck in its fur or some such. The first option seemed very implausible, which left only the second. So Keith felt that he should be scared. He shouldn't go rushing into the night to face off with whatever kept attacking his cattle. But there he sat, shotgun near to hand.
The dogs began to whimper. They crawled to the door with their tails low. Keith hadn't heard anything. He hushed the dogs and listened, trying to hear whatever they were hearing. After a moment, he made out a scream. But it wasn't the same shriek he'd heard the night before. It was further away. And it was human.
Keith raced down the gravel road in his Ford. He gripped the steering wheel tightly in both hands, making small adjustments as the big wheels hit ruts and tried to redirect the truck into the ditch. He slowed after turning onto the paved county road. There was a slight hill, and he stopped before he crested it and pulled over on the tiny shoulder. Grabbing his shotgun, he got out and gently closed the door. As he jogged over the top of the hill, he saw a vehicle parked on the side of the road. He had a feeling that he knew whose it was. As he got closer he saw that it was indeed Brandon's van. He smiled and jogged as quietly as he could manage in his boots.
He crouched down as he approached the van and sidled up, shotgun at the ready. No one sat in the front seats. They must still be at the tanks.
Keith sniffed the air. He didn't smell ammonia. That confused him, but then it made him smile. He ducked under the top fence wire and jogged cautiously toward the tank. He still couldn't see anyone. He stared at the tank, trying to force his eyes to see better in the dark.
The blast of light felt almost physical and Keith cursed under his breath. He forced his eyes to adjust quickly and brought his shotgun up. The tank which had been floating peacefully in the darkness now reflected the security lights brilliantly. Blood splattered the tank and the surrounding grass, much of which had been stomped flat. A Technicolor red handprint stood out against the painful white of the tank.
Keith went home and called for the Sheriff. He knew it would take Wheeler a few minutes to get dressed and drive over, so he opened a beer and drank half of it down. His empty stomach was angry but began to absorb the alcohol immediately. Keith took a long slug of bourbon from the bottle and chased it down with the rest of the beer.
A half an hour later, Sheriff Wheeler and Deputy Thomas pulled up ahead of Keith's truck, which was ahead of Brandon's van. Deputy Thomas flipped the lights on as Wheeler got out and the scene pulsed with the spinning light. Keith stood to meet Wheeler, not liking to sit around the man.
"So what's up this time, Keith?" Sheriff Wheeler asked.
"I told them on the phone. I think someone's been killed."
"And what makes you think that?"
"An awful lot of blood."
Keith led them over to the tank, warning them about the motion-sensitive security lights. They examined the scene. Then Wheeler started asking questions. The first were innocuous, basic, and Keith thought that maybe Wheeler would be decent given the gravity of the situation. But Keith wasn't surprised when the tone soon changed.
"So, you heard a scream all the way from your house? What is that, half a mile?"
"As the crow flies. Almost a mile by road."
"So as far as sound is concerned, half a mile. That's still quite a ways."
"The breeze was blowing my way. I was listening close 'cause my dogs heard it first."
"Okay, so you heard a scream…" He gestured for Keith to continue.
"My first thought was of whatever animal's been getting at the cattle. Then I realized it was coming from my field, not my pastures. And that's when I remembered the fertilizer. I told the co-op it didn't make sense to set it right by the road."
Deputy Thomas walked over holding a small tank up with one gloved hand. Thomas was a big man. "I found this tossed over in the grass. It's empty."
"So he didn't get around to stealing Keith's fertilizer," Wheeler said.
The big deputy gestured over his shoulder to the large tank. "Nope. The security tie is still on the valve. Keith's right. I don't know why they're having people put these tanks right by the road."
"That's the new practice," Wheeler said.
"Just last year they were saying to set them somewhere nobody could find them," Thomas said. "Now they want them out in the open where anybody can get to them."
"These junkies'll find the tanks wherever you put them. At least forcing them to steal right out in the open makes them think twice." Wheeler gestured to Keith, "Anyway, go on."
"After the scream, I thought some druggie had gotten hit with ammonia."
Deputy Thomas nudged Sheriff Wheeler. "Remember Cody Schuller?"
"That was terrible."
To Keith, Deputy Thomas said, "He didn't get the nurse tank secured. Got blasted right in the face. Sucked in a big breath, probably to scream. Kenny Craigston found him dead, his lungs half dissolved and running out of his mouth."
The deputy was a nice man. Big and tough, but willing to hear all sides. Even-tempered, basically. But Keith couldn't share his empathy, and said, "Meth heads get what they deserve."
Deputy Thomas had been clucking in sympathy for Cody Schuller. His expression hardened and he walked away.
"He was only nineteen," Wheeler said.
Keith didn't reply, but waited for the next question. After staring at Keith for awhile, Wheeler eventually asked it.
"So you suspected someone was trying to siphon off your ammonia."
"Yeah, but when I got close, I couldn't smell it. So I kept going. Forgot about tho
se new security lights. Nearly bowled me over."
Sheriff Wheeler gestured to the blood. "And that's what you found?"
Keith nodded. Wheeler closed his notebook and put it in his shirt pocket.
"Keith, we've known each other for a long time."
Keith nodded.
"Ever since grade school."
Keith nodded.
"Which is why I have a hard time believing you. I don't doubt that you'd kill a man you found stealing from you, especially one like Brandon. That's Brandon's van."
Wheeler paused. Keith knew he wanted some sort of reaction. He wasn't going to give him one. He'd wait for a question.
"Everybody knows what you did to Dennis's arm. None of them will say anything because they're scared shitless of you, but we all know it was you."
Still not a question. Keith stared straight into Wheeler's eyes.
"And Roger told me that you got into a little altercation with Brandon outside the QuickStop just yesterday."
Keith gave him nothing and watched Wheeler break first.
Wheeler leaned in, snarling low so that his deputy couldn't hear him. "You're no better than a goddamn animal, Keith. And now that Irene's not around to make you roll over and heel, you're a dangerous animal. And then there's the matter of Irene's death—"
Keith squared up to Wheeler. "You be very careful what you say next."
"Nobody exactly knows—"
"Sheriff, consider your words."
Sheriff Wheeler turned away. When he turned back, he'd regained control, but the hatred sat behind his eyes.
"Be straight with me. Brandon was a low-life junky. You didn't like him. None of us did. He deserved this."
Keith decided to meet him halfway, and nodded.
"Did you do this?"
Keith hated explaining himself, but saw that he was going to have to. He scratched his head and looked at the scene, then turned back to Wheeler. "When I saw Brandon's van, I thought about how he sits all day at the QuickStop, smiling his smart-ass smile. I saw that van, and I thought, 'Now's my chance to smash that rotten grin right down his throat.' So when I got close and didn't smell ammonia, I smiled. You know why?"
Wheeler looked confused. "No. Why?"
"Because I knew he'd be conscious for the beating I was about to give him. I know you don't like me. You've got plenty of reason. But I wouldn't have killed him. Not because he wouldn't deserve it, but because I'd rather beat the Hell out of him and then let him serve out a meth-cooker's sentence in Federal prison, where his punk ass would have gotten raped raw on a daily basis."
Keith could see Wheeler's mind working. He saw the reluctant admission that yes, Keith was cruel enough to think just such a horrible thing.
Wheeler nodded. "Okay. Fine. I believe you. At least, until I have a reason not to."
Keith felt a little thankful for Wheeler dropping the issue of Irene, for not forcing him to hurt him. He knew his silence unnerved people, so in thanks, he tried to get more talkative. "I notice we've been talking about Brandon like he's dead."
They both looked at the blood around the tank, now dried burgundy even in the intense light.
"Nobody bleeds this much and survives," Wheeler said. "We'll search the property. Make sure he didn't crawl off somewhere to die. I think whoever did this probably took him."
Keith shrugged. "No big loss."
"Nope. Okay. We don't need you here for this."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. We won't find anything. If we do, I'll come knocking."
"Sheriff?" Deputy Thomas said. Keith had almost forgotten he was there. They both turned and looked at him.
The big man was peering into the windshield of Brandon's van, his flashlight pressed against the glass. "Sheriff, there's something moving in there."
"Brandon?"
Deputy Thomas drew his gun and aimed it at the windshield. "You in the van, come out slowly!"
Something exploded out of the back door of the van. But before anyone could make it around, before anyone could even react, it was gone.
"What in the Hell was that?" Wheeler asked.
Chapter 6
Earlier that night, the few streetlights of the town disappeared behind Brandon and Dennis as Brandon drove them into the dark countryside. Dennis's nerves had him looking for people who weren't there. He and Brandon were the only people on the road.
"I hate this shit," Brandon said.
It was weird, seeing Brandon that nervous. Nothing much spooked him. But raw, pressurized, fertilizer-grade ammonia wasn't an enemy you could stare down. It made the old boys at the co-op nervous, and they weren't working with scavenged equipment, in the dark, and clumsy from fear of the law appearing at any moment.
"I thought you were tough," Dennis said. He smiled and reached over, giving him a friendly punch. The fact that he had to twist in his seat because the arm on Brandon's side didn't work annoyed him. The world was full of little reminders like that. It found ways to let him know that he was no longer whole. "I don't like it either, but this deal pays off big."
Their meth supplier, Rob, cooked the best shit in the whole county. Consequently, he also smoked a lot of the best shit in the county, and got real paranoid about leaving his ten-acre plot. Especially when it came to stealing the fertilizer he needed to make his product. So he offered a deal to a few small-timers. If Dennis provided him with raw materials, Rob didn't sell his product to anyone else in Dennis's territory. Dennis knew that it wasn't a big market to corner, but he liked being the guy. It added to his status.
The situation provided another opportunity, too. They had to steal the fertilizer from someone, so Dennis figured they might as well steal it from Keith. It wasn't much, but it was something, especially after the confrontation at the gas station.
That year, Keith was keeping his fertilizer right at the edge of his property along the county road. It made the tank easy to find, but it also made Dennis nervous. Someone driving back into town could easily see them from the road. Especially because Keith had put the tank as far from the gravel roads that flanked his property as he could, giving them nowhere to park. The county road had almost no shoulder, so Brandon had to pull as far down into the ditch as he could without rolling the van. Anyone driving past would immediately know something was up, and almost certainly know that they were the ones up to it, since everyone in the area knew Brandon's vehicle.
"This sucks," Brandon said.
"So let's do it quick."
They crept from the van, down the ditch and up the steep opposite side. Brandon slipped between the top and middle strands of barbed wire, then turned around and held the wires apart so that Dennis could follow him through. Dennis wore his sling, but still gripped his bad arm with his good one, not trusting it to stay put as he ducked under the wire. He had neither control nor feeling in the arm, and if it slipped loose and snagged on the barbs he wouldn't even feel it.
God he hated Keith so much.
The big white fertilizer tank glowed in the moonlight, and they ran for it in a crouch. That part of the field was grassy, but it had been plowed before, and uneven ruts still striated the earth. Though the tank sat only thirty or so yards from the fence, Dennis nearly fell on his face several times.
Dennis was mentally preparing himself for the dangerous operation they were about to perform when the world suddenly went white and disappeared. Pain stabbed into his eyes and he clamped them shut and clapped his good hand over them. Beneath his hand, his vision faded from white to shifting stains of every color.
"Goddamn," Brandon said.
Dennis managed to take his hands away from his eyes and saw incredibly bright lights mounted on the tank carriage. "Shit, we gotta do this quick." Now surefooted with the ground fully illuminated, Dennis jogged over to the fertilizer. "Bring the tank over."
"Uhhh…"
Dennis turned around and looked at Brandon's empty hands. "You forgot the tank!"
"I'm sorry. I'm nervous."
"Go get the tank, fast."
"With the lights? Maybe we should just—"
"Shut up and do what you're told, jackass. Go get the tank. And run."
Brandon ran for the van. He was tall and athletic, and could really move. Dennis leaned over the valve. The key would be to be sure their connections were secure before turning that valve. As long as there were no leaks, they'd be fine.
Only a few seconds later, Dennis heard Brandon running up from behind. He felt bad for yelling at him, but sometimes he had to. He didn't think Brandon held it against him. Still. "Way to hustle. Let's get this done."
But the running feet didn't slow, and Dennis turned just in time to see a white blur plow into him, knocking him to the ground. He screamed and tried to drag the thing off him with his one hand, but he couldn't get a grip on it. It moved so much, so fast, and even though its limbs were long and thin, it was strong. In just a moment, it had buried its—face?—muzzle?—into Dennis's neck and bit down. Dennis's vision went black for a moment as he felt the mouth suck powerfully, drawing away blood intended for his brain. It was so alien, to feel the blood being pulled out of his body that way, that he finally stopped screaming.
"Hey! Get off of him!" Brandon shouted.
Over the creature's shoulder, Dennis watched Brandon bring the nurse tank back like a really thick aluminum baseball bat, then slam it against the thing's head. The noise was a combination of a sickening crunch and a gong.
Brandon leaned over Dennis, mouth agape. He reached down towards Dennis's neck. "Oh my God. It bit you good. We gotta get—"
Dennis watched the creature arc through the air and land on Brandon's back, and the sight, in the incredible brightness of the security lights, broke him. Ribs and limbs glowed incandescent from the lights. The black crust covering its face blended into the void of night behind it. But the teeth, the ring of fangs floating in that void until they sank into Brandon's shoulder… God.
