The Pumpkin Seed Massacre

by Susan Slater

  “It’s about another mile and a half from here. You’ll see a green pop-up tent on your left just past where this road forks. Stay to your left.”

  “Do any of you folks travel? Or do you pretty much stay put?”

  Ben had no idea where these questions were coming from, but he felt the man was honestly curious.

  “I lived in California until this summer,” Ben said.

  “What did you do there?”

  “Went to school.”

  “No shit?” the driver said.

  “No shit,” Ben said. They continued in silence until the road forked.

  “Over there? I think I see your tent.” The driver pointed out the window at a hump of green canvas dwarfed by a piñon tree.

  “That’s it. If you could back up to the tent opening, it would make things easier.”

  The driver tried three times to line up the wide rear doors with the tent. Swearing, with sweat staining his brown uniform, he finally brought the boxy delivery truck to a halt.

  “Will this do?” The truck was fairly well lined up but one back tire had run up onto a six inch high boulder and now the back listed badly. “Yeah.” Ben didn’t think it would help to point out how lopsided the truck was.

  There were fifty cartons of traps. It took the two of them a half hour to empty the truck and stack the cartons under a lean-to beside the tent. “Hey, are these things any good to eat?” The driver had flopped down under the piñon tree and was holding a handful of pine nuts.

  “Sure.”

  “They could use a little salt, but you’re right, they’re really good. I always see people selling them along the road and I’ve wondered.” He sat munching the tiny brown nuts, breaking their shells with his front teeth. He had found quite a cache at the base of the tree hidden under a blanket of needles.

  “Thanks for helping,” Ben said.

  “No problemo.” The driver got to his feet and brushed the twigs and leaves from his uniform. “Not sure I took the allotted time for a break, but the company likes you to keep track of any downtime.” He stepped into the truck and reached for another clipboard hanging above his head and made some marks with a pen that was attached by a string. He then gunned the engine, slipped it in gear and the truck bounced off the small boulder and tipped upright. The truck’s snub nose dipped up and down as the driver navigated the ruts left by last winter’s snow and headed back toward the highway.

  Ben dragged the first carton of supplies into the tent and made room in the middle of the floor. Before he got started on the traps, he’d have to inventory the plastic containers, masks, anesthesia, surgical gloves, scissors, and tweezers—the full array of lab equipment that was necessary to a successful operation.

  The traps would take hours to log in and tag, check the working mechanism, load with bait and stack outside the tent to be picked up later. He would begin to place the traps tonight. There would be a full or partially full moon for the next three nights and he hoped to have all the traps out and operative in that time.

  His instructions were specific. Place the traps in a variety of locations—by the river, in the corn fields, along irrigation ditches, on all sides of the village, and some within the boundaries between houses by woodpiles and garbage containers. He was supposed to observe rodent activity, take notes, and report any aberrant behavior.

  It was late afternoon when he finished and he walked the two miles back to his uncle’s house to borrow his truck. The Ford 150 long bed would hold most of the traps and solve the problem of transportation. He’d grab a bite to eat at the house and head out at dusk.

  The basketball-orange moon, kept from being a perfect globe by an imperfect lower left side, cleared the mesa and loomed over the cornfields and river. Ben was already loading the traps into the pickup. He had three searchlight strength battery packs and an electric generator on the truck—enough energy to flood an area with light if needed. He had wanted a spotlight setup in case he encountered larger game. He knew he’d attract the interest of coyotes. It meant checking the traps as often as he could.

  He would set traps for six hours, grab some sleep, then check the ones he’d set and put out more, then rest and start the routine over again. Depending on the size of his ‘catch,’ the rest of his work could be done during the day. His contract said three weeks’ work, but in the first few nights he hoped to send a sizable number of rodents to the lab in Albuquerque.

  By midnight, he had placed two hundred and fifty traps and readjusted his plan. He would have to continue to place traps during the morning tomorrow, get some sleep in the afternoon and then check all, or most, of the traps tomorrow night. He had drawn a rough sketch of the pueblo and outlying area and carefully kept track of where the traps were. It made things easier.

  The second night the moon was fully round and seemed suspended in a black sky. Almost a harvest moon, Ben thought, light enough to drive by. The first three hours were successful. Seventy rodents, a mixture of field mice, deer mice, and a ground squirrel had been snared. Ben worked quickly to take them out of the traps, euthanize and drop them into tagged lab containers. He then baited and reset the trap noting time, date and type of quarry on a sticker across its stainless steel back.

  Ben peeled off the heavily insulated rubber gloves and pushed up the surgical mask. It would be so much easier to use bare hands and not have something constricting across his nose and mouth. But that was too dangerous. He got back into the truck and pulled up beside the northwest corner of the field and checked his map. He had five traps in a cluster, one row of corn in from the river. He cut the engine and slipped on the gloves.

  He could tell the traps didn’t look right before he got to them. All the doors had been sprung and the traps thrown back in a heap. All had had some kind of rodent in them judging from the droppings. Who would want trapped mice? Ben had put the word out among the teens in the pueblo that the traps were not to be touched. Still, it was probably a temptation that was hard to resist. The ground didn’t show any evidence of tracks; the mischief could have been done last night.

  He reset the traps and turned back toward the truck. The sound of a car drifted across the river. He listened, but the car seemed to have stopped. Could be someone out partying, Ben thought and felt a twinge of envy. This job would be more fun with a little female companionship. He got into the truck and left the lights off as he made his way along the river to the next site. There were seventy-five traps in the rocks and marshes where the river turned and formed a standing pool before twisting closer to the base of the canyon wall.

  He would check the traps and then catch a nap. He parked the truck in a stand of poplars and tall grass. He had thrown his sleeping bag into the back with a couple blankets. He worked quickly and had fifty-seven rodents tagged and fifty-seven traps baited and back in place in under two hours. He had earned a nap.

  He awoke to pull the blankets closer and zip the bag all the way to the top. The chill air drifted over him from the river and the dampness of the ground seeped through his bedding. He squirmed his body more comfortably into the cocoon and turned on his side.

  Cold awakened him again two hours before dawn. Or was it the fact that he had to take a leak? Pushing the warmth from his body, Ben rolled out of the sleeping bag and stood. A muffled clanging caught his attention, metal hitting metal—the sound of the traps being kicked or tossed aside. Suddenly he was fully awake. Someone was raiding the traps. He was twenty-five yards away. Slowly he pulled a high-powered flashlight from the bed of the truck—all the while listening to make sure these were human and not bear sounds.

  Then he dropped to a crouch and covered the first fifty feet to the edge of the marsh. Now he could see the intruder. Human and male, but that was about all he could tell. Ben watched him pick up a trap and, finding it empty, drop it. One trap must have held a rodent because the man reached into it and then slipped something into his pocket.

  The pre-dawn morning had turned cloudy. The moon high in the sky now
offered only pale filtered light. Ben decided to take action. Jumping out of the thicket, he flipped on the flashlight and ran forward.

  “Stop.”

  The figure froze, then drew something from his pocket. A gun. Ben saw the flash of light from the barrel and heard a crash behind him, but he had already hit the ground. He continued to roll toward the safety of the marsh grass even after he knew the intruder had fled. He lay on the ground looking up at the clouds floating over the moon and tried lo get his heart to stop pounding.

  He didn’t think he would ever forget the figure dressed all in Army green—except for the combat boots and the baseball cap pulled down over the ski mask. He wasn’t Indian and maybe too slightly built for the average Anglo. And Ben could swear that it wasn’t a teenager. But, for some reason that made absolutely no sense, he collected already-trapped rodents. Ben was thankful he was a bad shot.

  + + +

  Sitting outside the psychologist’s office at the Indian hospital, Johnson Yepa studied his wife. She had not said more than five words since breakfast. Now she sat opposite him reading a two-year-old copy of Redbook. The feature article was, “How I Can Get a Date with Your Husband,” written by a group of “other” women. That’s all he needed. He thought of trading her another magazine but all he saw was a dog-eared Popular Mechanics, a Field and Stream, and a pamphlet on diabetes.

  He sighed deeply, filling his chest with air and then exhaled in a rush. He followed through by letting his head fall forward and bob ever so slightly coming to rest on his chest. The man dejected, neglected, spurned. He peeked at his wife through the lashes of his lowered eyes. Nothing. She continued to read, her expression impassive. He sat up straighter and reached for the Field and Stream. They had been married a long time, thirty-two years. He thought their problems had started with that Continuing Education course his wife took on relationships. She had spent a lot of time talking about ‘getting in touch.’ He had never been able to figure out what that meant. But he knew that he didn’t want to be here today. This could only mean trouble.

  The door to the psychologist’s office opened and a woman left, a wad of damp Kleenex in her hand. That was a bad sign. Johnson had seen enough crying over the weekend when his wife had called their two daughters. One lived in San Diego, the other in Tuba City, Arizona; both had taken his wife’s side.

  “Mrs. Yepa? Will you come with me?” The psychologist held open the door to his office. Johnson got to his feet.

  “Mr. Yepa? I prefer to see you and your wife separately for the first few visits. I’d like to see you next week. You can schedule an appointment with my secretary across the hall.”

  “Oh, sure Doc, no problem.” Johnson looked at his wife. Her head was bowed and turned slightly away from him but he detected the smugness, felt the silent taunt. “I need to talk with Dr. Black about some clinical problems, anyway.” He pulled his shoulders back but kept his eyes averted. The Anglo psychologist was wearing soft brown Hushpuppies a little scuffed at the heel. This was not a man who would own a powerboat.

  “Mrs. Yepa and I will be finished at four.” The psychologist followed Johnson’s wife into his office and shut the door.

  Johnson replayed the phrase ‘first few visits.’ He would have to put a stop to this foolishness. Maybe he’d see the doc once, but no more. Now he had an hour to kill. He hated the smell of hospitals. He’d sit outside.

  He walked toward a cement bench under some pines and had just sat down when a group of white-coated men and women pushed open the door to the old maintenance building and hurried toward the back door of the hospital. They were talking and gesturing, but Johnson was out of earshot. He recognized Dr. Black and Ben Pecos. Seemed like everyone was pretty excited.

  Johnson wasn’t sure what he expected to find, but he was curious about the building. It looked different now that he’d moved closer. Lots of shiny duct work on the roof and the one window had been closed, permanently, with cement blocks. And the place had a new coat of white paint. An awful lot of money to house a couple riding lawn mowers and two government pickups.

  The door was new. Heavy gauge steel about two inches thick. It was propped open with a wedge of wood. Johnson looked back at the hospital and waited to see if he was being watched. All was quiet. He squinted and put one eye to the crack in the door.

  He was astounded. There were no lawn mowers or any other kind of maintenance equipment. Within his limited vision were tables lining the wall to his right. Stacks of papers, logs of some sort, were piled on the floor under the tables. Computer cursors blinked. He counted four machines in a cluster at the back. And then he saw them. The clear plastic packets of dead rodents. Hundreds of dead mice and rats and squirrels. Some he recognized only by their fur or tails because the heads were missing.

  “Can I help you?” The door jerked open, making Johnson lose his balance. It took him a moment to regain his footing and focus on the speaker, a young woman in cutoffs and a form-fitting t-shirt. A surgical mask dangled around her neck.

  “I’m the governor of the Tewa Pueblo. Are you doing research on the mystery illness?” Quick thinking. Johnson congratulated himself when he saw her eyes light up at his title. If he was lucky, she was an Anglo who thought Indians were mystical and wonderful.

  “Yes. This is the research lab. I’d be glad to show you around if you have a moment. I’m Nancy Carter, a research specialist from Maryland.” She opened the door wider and stood to one side.

  Her breasts were enormous for her frame, Johnson thought. And her tanned legs were perfect; thighs and calves curved sensuously, tapering to a trim ankle. It was then that he noticed she was a full foot taller than he was. A foot taller, but he could see those legs wrapped around his neck.

  “Sir?” She leaned toward him; a floral scent floated between them. He wondered if she dabbed it behind her ears or knees or ....

  “Thank you.” He stepped quickly into the lab and moved as she closed the door. He noticed that it had a combination of locks, and the rubber seals were thicker than the ones on his new Kelvinator at home.

  “I was just finishing some work over here. Let me show you something.” She pointed to a bank of microscopes. Shiny strips of glass glinted under the rows of fluorescent lights. A centrifuge, some things that looked like microwaves, boxes of slides, two refrigerators, and an upright freezer crowded the back wall. He followed her to a backless swivel stool in front of a high counter.

  “Have you found what causes the illness?” Johnson asked.

  “We are really close. Look here.” She slipped off the chair after adjusting the microscope and checking whatever was on the slide. “We’re looking for commonality, something all the victims share. We’re testing for everything from common microbe cultures to genetic sequence matching. We can even do Polymerase Chain Reaction.” She seemed to be waiting for him to say something.

  “Really? How does that work?” And he knew that she would like nothing better than to tell him. Anglo women scientists were hard to understand. He remembered the anthropologist who wore her shirts tied to expose her naval and short shorts. Spent all summer sifting through dirt and seemed to be orgasmic over potshards. Women without men could get strange.

  “The technique lets scientists try to enhance or magnify unique genetic sequences from blood samples to look for DNA matches with known organisms. But I better get this road kill back in the freezer.” She laughed, popped the mask over her face and gathered up an armload of tiny corpses in the lab baggies. “Dr. Black took everyone back to his office for a conference call with the CDC in Atlanta and I promised to clean up.”

  Johnson nodded, then turned to look through the microscope. At least nothing was moving. One time in biology lab in high school, Bobby Wiebe jerked off in the john and made a slide. When Johnson took his turn at the microscope all the wiggling had made him queasy. He looked back at the slide and let the cool metal circle of the scope push against his eye.

  “Well, that’s done. Let’s see what we
have here.” She peeled off heavy rubber gloves and leaned toward the microscope. A breast brushed his arm. He felt a blip of life between his legs. He tried to signal the appendage that he affectionately called ‘Montana.’ Not now. An erection in tight slacks meant that his penis would be forced down his pants leg and would protrude like a goiter along his inner thigh. Maybe if he thought about baseball.

  “We are beginning to get a good idea of what our culprit looks like—it has a protein coat with receptor spikes that hook into the cells it attacks. Internally, it has coiled genetic material allowing it to reproduce while hiding out in host cells.” Johnson felt the same feverish excitement that had bothered him with the anthropologist.

  “You know, I feel like a real detective, sort of a Wild West deputy riding down a killer.” Her giggle seemed out of place. She cleared her throat and regained her composure. “Here. Look at these lungs.” There were two negatives clipped to the twin viewing screens. “These are the lungs of a healthy twelve year old. This X-ray taken during her back-to-school physical examination.” She pointed to the negative on the left. “Twenty hours later these are the same lungs, this X-ray taken after she died.”

  Johnson winced. Jennifer. He didn’t like looking at someone he knew. Photographs had been outlawed for years by his people because they believed the lens stole your soul. What would his ancestors think of these pictures? Pictures of a person’s insides. But it was the young girl’s death that bothered him. She’d had everything to live for. She shouldn’t have died—that weighed heavily on his conscience. He needed to change the subject. He cleared his throat.

  “What does this have to do with mice? Our people consider mice to be a vital link to preserving our life in the desert. They gather and spread seeds and guarantee the abundance of food.” Johnson watched Nancy’s face register an ‘oh, you poor dear’ expression and felt her hand lightly touch his forearm.