When Chicken Feet Cross the Highway

by Alma Boykin

  Alexi returned to the main gate. He got his kit bag out of the car, took a deep breath, and set one hand on the skull by the latch. The gate swung open, hinges screaming like damned souls, and the house jumped, spun around, and crouched down so that the front door faced him. “So much for a doorbell.” He closed the gate behind him, walked up to the house, climbed the three steps to the shallow porch, and knocked.

  Before his hand touched wood a second time, the door opened and an irritated-looking woman in a maroon business suit said, “Yes? What do you want?” Her voice matched the one on Babushka’s answering machine.

  “I’m really sorry to bother you, Ma’am, but my car’s out of gas. Do you have a couple of gallons I could buy to get me to town?” He laid the Southern accent on as thickly as he dared.

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again, and looked him over. “I don’t have any to sell for cash right now, but you can work for it if you know how to follow instructions.”

  “I can do that, Ma’am, so long as it don’t involve computers. They flat out don’t care for me.”

  “Don’t worry. Mother doesn’t like computers. Come inside and put your bag in that cupboard there.” The dark-haired woman didn’t seem curious as to why he’d have an overnight bag if he just wanted gas. “What did you say your name was?”

  “John, like my father and uncle and brother, Ma’am.”

  She rolled her eyes as if he’d confirmed everything she’d heard about Southerners. “Right. Just, ah, make yourself comfortable there in the corner. Mother will be up from her nap soon, and she’ll tell what you need to do. I hope you know how to work with—” Brrring, brrring, do do dit dit doot dit her cell phone started ringing. “Bother.” She answered, “It’s always a great day for a new home! Sokolov Realty, Marsha Sokolov speaking, how can I help you?” She chirped, smiling with her mouth as she sat down at a table and opened a laptop. Alexi tuned out the conversation and instead settled onto a lightly padded wooden chair, studying the room as he pretended to nap.

  The outside may have been changed, but the inside looked just like the stories said. A huge Russian bed-oven filled one corner of the main room, decorated with black and white designs that made his head ache when he tried to look at them closely. A large iron stove faced the bed-oven. Open shelves held knives, spoons, plates and platters, and other cooking things, including a long piece of metal he assumed was a spit. A bed-cupboard took up the wall behind Alexi, the same one where he’d stowed his kit. Two more doors faced the front door. It looked cozy, he supposed, if you knew nothing about the owner.

  “Oh, yes, I have just the house in that neighborhood. 33401 Townsand Road, yes, the one with the large trees. It is an older home,” the woman cautioned, typing with one hand. “It does not have an open floor plan like new constructions do, but it was re-plumbed and rewired, with new HVAC and carpet two years ago. Ridgeview Elementary, then Greenhorn Middle School and Ridgeview High. Yes, yes, ah, tomorrow? Yes, in the morning? I can meet you at your hotel or— No, that’s fine if you prefer that. Certainly, I’ll be there at eleven with the keys unless you call. That’s fine, Mr. Smith, and I look forward to seeing you then.”

  Alexi had a mental image of Ms. Sokolov arriving at the Smith’s hotel in the mortar and only managed to keep from grinning by digging the nails of one hand into his palm. He also reminded himself what happened to people who upset Baba Yaga without having an escape plan and allies.

  A grumbling, rumbling sound came from behind one of the doors. Ms. Sokolov busied herself getting a large pot out of a cupboard, filling it with water and putting it on the stove to start boiling. Her phone rang again and she pulled an earpiece out of her jacket pocket, put it in her ear, and talked to someone with a title company as she measured what appeared to be oatmeal and added it to the cauldron. The grumbling grew louder, then subsided for a bit. It resumed and Alexi almost thought he could understand a few of the sounds as Russian words. He wondered if that was …

  The door banged open, making Alexi and Ms. Sokolov both wince. A large woman filled the doorway. She yawned, giving Alexi a good look at her enormous black iron teeth, then closed her mouth, striking sparks. What he could see of her body as she walked into the main room reminded him of a twisted tree, and he suspected her scrawny hands and wrists could break his arm if she put her mind to it. Shiny black eyes glanced back and forth under grey eyebrows and a tangle of long hair the color of grey iron. The Sweeper wore a blue dress patched with all sorts of cloth, an apron of the same, and Alexi had a terrible feeling in his gut when he guessed who that material had come from. On the other hand, if she’d eaten a few hippie-wanna-bes or political fundraisers, he hoped she hadn’t suffered indigestion.

  “What’s this?” she asked, her voice reminding him of storm winds, wolves, and the hinges of a Bradley’s rear doors after a sandstorm.

  “He needs gas for his car. I told him he could work for it,” Baba Yaga’s daughter said. “I need to go sign papers at the courthouse, Mother. Your breakfast will be ready soon.”

  The Sweeper grunted. Sokolov picked up an expensive-looking leather bag and left by the front door. Alexi thought he heard a car door slam and engine sounds. Where did she hide the car? Probably magic, he decided, since she was the Sweeper’s daughter. The old woman served herself from the cauldron, sat at the table, and ate. She made slurping sounds that turned Alexi’s stomach. “This will be better for red marrow bones,” she growled, looking in his direction. He pretended not to hear, even as adrenaline surged through him and he felt his mind shifting into combat mode. Calm down, he told himself, you can’t help Babushka if you are dead.

  After she finished eating, Baba Yaga rinsed the cauldron and put it back on the stove, then turned to Alexi. “You need gasoline.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he drawled.

  “Go to the barn. There you will find a dog and a pony. Brush the dog, beat the pony, and feed them both thistles. Then return here for your supper. If you do not finish before I come back, I will eat you for my supper.”

  “Brush the dog, beat the pony, and feed them thistles, then come back. Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Go.”

  Alexi blinked when he opened the door. Mountain shadows covered the yard and the sun had already begun to set behind the Front Range. The skulls’ eyes glowed just a little, like some of the solar-powered lights he’d seen around. Right, he thought, barn. He walked around the house, noticing that the legs had to be at least a meter-and-a-half tall, and had spurs like a rooster. They could probably take care of trespassers as well as a guard dog would. Alexi opened the barn door, blinked a little at the shadows, and found a battered flashlight on a dusty shelf by the door. It worked, mostly.

  “So, you are the lady’s next meal,” a dry voice said. Alexi almost jumped out of his skin. He heard metal rattling and saw a lean yellow dog peering out of one of the stalls. Heavy chains confined it to the stall, and Alexi could see every rib and bit of bone through the dog’s mangy coat. “She’ll get a fair number of servings off your bones.”

  “And eating thistles has not improved your temper.” Alexi saw the brush hanging from the open stall door. It looked terrible, with jagged, needle sharp teeth.

  The dog sat, tongue lolling. But Alexi could see something like fear in its depthless eyes.

  A magical talking dog? A bit of what he’d read on the ‘net and heard from the Navajo trooper sprang from Alexi’s memory. He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “You’re not just a dog, are you? You’re Coyote.”

  “A Coyote, not the Coyote. It’s complicated.” The yellow tail wagged a centimeter or so.

  “Complicated? That’s the understatement of the year. How can I help you?”

  “Beat me, don’t brush me, and feed me a rabbit. They come to eat the thistles.”

  “Beat you?” Alexi wondered about that, but didn’t ask any more questions. Instead he flipped the iron brush over and pounded Coyote lightly with the flat side, a bit like the guys on
the cooking shows did with meat. The yellow dog took the beating, then rolled over so Alexi could get his other flank. Dust and only-God-knows came out of Coyote’s fur, and Alexi tried not to breathe. He hung the brush back up on the wall, backed out of the stall, and went to see about the pony.

  The pony glared at Alexi with flaming red eyes. Like Coyote, its coal black haircoat looked dry and scraggly, the mane tangled. The pony snorted sparks. “Oh chit.” Alexi gulped. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Ma’am, not sir. Give me water and brush me with the dog’s brush.”

  Right. Alexi looked around the barn and found a bucket and a tap. He turned the handle, using a good deal of body English to get the lever to shift. It groaned as it moved, and rusty water spat out of the tap. Alexi wrinkled his nose. He wouldn’t give that kind of crap to an animal. “Yes!” he heard from the end of the barn. “Water!” On the other hand …

  Alexi filled the bucket and poured the contents into the pony’s trough. Then he took the brush from Coyote’s stall and set to work. The pony’s skin felt solid under the hair, like metal, and Alexi used firm strokes despite the nasty hooked bristles. He had to stretch on his tip-toes to reach the top of the so-called pony’s back. When he finished, the beast looked better, or at least not quite as bad, crimson glowing eyes notwithstanding. He ventured outdoors and found a pile of tumbleweeds, or Russian thistle, as he knew them, and brought an armload into the barn for the pony. He went back out, picked up another load, and discovered a dead jackrabbit. “That’s convenient.” It smelled, but not too nasty yet, and he carried it into the barn, tossing it into Coyote’s stall. He rinsed his hands under the pump, rust and all.

  By the time Alexi finished, full night covered the yard and the skulls glowed yellow green, illuminating the little house on chicken feet. The light grew brighter as he crossed the yard and went into the house, then dimmed again. Alexi found bread and water on the table but no sign of either woman. He sniffed the food, ate it, drank the water after adding a purification tablet from his kit, and had some jerky and a soda pop. An open door revealed a small water closet. Alexi made use of the facility, putting the seat back down when he finished, and retreated to the sleeping cupboard and curled up.

  He needed to find his grandmother. Baba Yaga knew something, so did Sokolov, but how to find out more? He wasn’t certain. Asking them straight out wouldn’t work and would blow his cover. In fact, he heard a car door slam and felt the house sinking down. The front door opened. Alexi heard the sound of high-heels on wood and caught a glimpse of maroon through the slit between the doors of the cupboard.

  He dozed until Baba Yaga returned. It was kind of hard to miss her arrival, with the storm wind howling and the house bowing and her steps thundering across the floor. The smell of meat did not help, and Alexi wondered if it was meat-meat or … He heard cooking sounds and smelled mutton. Ugh, he hated mutton. Alexi pinched his nose closed to keep from getting sick. Ever since that tribal feast in Eretria the smell of mutton mad him queasy.

  “And?” a growling voice snarled.

  “Nothing yet. She will not sign. My magic is not strong enough to bend her will.”

  Alexi listened hard.

  “Three days and the blessing will fade.”

  Sokolov said something he couldn’t quite hear, then, “Yes, Mother. What shall I tell the young man, John the son of John the brother of John?”

  “Tell Ivan Ivanovich he must work another day for his reward.”

  That wasn’t what Alexi wanted to hear, but it was better than becoming the main dish at a victory feast. The lights dimmed and the women went to their rooms. Alexi let himself sleep.

  The next day he read, napped, charged his phone, and pretended to be half-deaf as Sokolov talked with other realtors, a title assurance company and a banker. It seemed a little strange to Alexi that a powerful witch would have to have a day job.

  He thought about the question as he skimmed through an especially bad military thriller. It was a good thing the book had been the free book of the month, because if he’d had to pay for it, he’d have thrown the e-reader at the author’s head. If Colorado laws matched Kansas, the fastest way to attract attention from the sheriff and Department of Revenue would be to have no visible means of support and to skip paying property taxes. He had no doubts as to what Baba Yaga could do to a sheriff’s deputy or a couple of IRS agents, but why bother if her daughter could earn real money? And from what he’d heard from other GIs, selling a house in the Front Range was easier than selling air conditioners in Saudi.

  Another thought struck him and he shivered a little. How many people disappeared while looking for houses? He’d read about a realtor or two who were murdered or robbed while showing properties out in the boonies. What if that was how the Sweeper’s daughter kept the larder filled? He certainly couldn’t imagine her eating any of the vagrants in the area, not after the pot legalization law’s passage. And if she was hunting the predators, it fit the stories about the Sweeper acting as a goddess of justice. But she was still a predator, he reminded himself. And she was using a missing man’s cell-phone. Or had been using it.

  “Beat the pony, brush the dog, and feed them thistles,” the Sweeper reminded him as she left that evening. “Follow my orders or it will go badly for you.”

  “Beat the pony, brush the dog, and thistles, yes, Ma’am.” He bowed a little. Alexi waited until the sound of her mortar faded before going out to the barn.

  Coyote looked a little better, and when Alexi pounded on him, less crap came out of the dog’s coat. The chains looked thinner too, although that could have been a trick of the light. “Ask me a question,” Coyote said as he rolled over.

  “Where is my grandmother?”

  “In the loft, but you cannot reach her. Tomorrow night.”

  Alexi almost dropped the brush and went looking for a ladder. Coyote gave him a look and he settled down. If you helped Coyote, sometimes he’d help you, but on his terms, or so the stories said.

  Alexi filled the bucket with rusty water before approaching the pony mare. She too seemed different, less black colored perhaps? Her eyes still shot fire and she snorted sparks as he filled her trough. “Ask me a question.”

  “Is my grandmother safe?”

  “Until the morning after tomorrow.”

  Right. Tomorrow night he had to get her away. Alexi thought as he hauled more Russian thistle into the barn. This time he found a lost-looking spotted bunny crouching by the fence. “Sorry dude,” he whispered as he grabbed it from behind, pulling it under the lowest rail and breaking its neck before it know what hit it. The skulls did not seem to notice. Some jerk had probably dumped the rabbit when it stopped being small and cute, he growled as he gave it to the Coyote. He’d love to get his hands on the former owner and dump him in the back of beyond without survival training.

  The conversation when Baba Yaga returned included a discussion of property tax law that almost put Alexi to sleep. He wondered if Baba Yaga had liked it better back in Russia in the old days, when she was boss of the forest. Or had she been? Was Katschai the Deathless stronger? Alexi decided that was one of those questions he probably didn’t want to be around to see answered, like, “How well does a Bradley function after a tactical nuclear strike in the vicinity?”

  Then he smelled the women’s supper. It smelled very rich, like pork but stronger. If the mutton had made him queasy, the smell of cooking human pushed him to the point of losing it right then and there. You’re not in a Bradley, you’re not in a Bradley, this is not Iraq, this is not Iraq, breathe in and out, he repeated over and over.

  “This one was well fleshed,” the Sweeper said.

  “Yes. He has killed twice and raped twice more.” There’d been more emotion in Sokolov’s voice when she complained about changing tax calculations. “He will not be missed.”

  Damn it, he did not want to root for the bad guys, Alexi growled silently, but if they were putting down rabid animals then they had his suppo
rt. He dozed lightly that night and early morning.

  For the third time Sokolov departed just after noon and her mother left at twilight. Alexi stashed his kit by the gate, then walked past the house to the barn. He picked up an armload of tumbleweed on the way and gave it to the pony before he thumped the Coyote. “Ask me a question,” the much sleeker and plumper canine ordered.

  “How do I get to grandmother?”

  “Toss the old rope up to the loft and climb. It will hold two. Then run.”

  Alexi gave Coyote’s tail an especially firm pounding. The chain on his hind leg seemed thinner, but Alexi didn’t test it.

  Even in the dim light the pony looked more red than black now. Alexi brought water and brushed hard, each stroke revealing hide the color of burning coals. Heat seemed to radiate from the mare despite the water she drank. “Ask me a question.”

  “How do I get away?”

  “Take the brush. Race like the wind, and throw the brush behind you.”

  Alexi went back to the mountain of tumbleweeds. Two dead jackrabbits lay by the pile, and a third seemed to be having a seizure. That warned Alexi, and he went back to the barn and hunted around until he found a rake. He pulled one dead rabbit away from the pile and started moving the second one. He heard a rattle and jerked back. Then he used the rake to shove the dying rabbit closer to the rattling sound. As the snake struck the corpse, Alexi flipped the other rabbit toward himself, grabbed it and its partner, and hurried to the barn. The snake only needed one, after all. He tossed the other rabbits to the Coyote.

  A faint sound like a distant storm reached his ears. Crap! Alexi hunted around until he found the length of old, frayed rope. “Right. Magical rope.” He tossed it into the loft above Coyote’s stall and it hung, spreading out until it became a rope ladder. “The guys will never believe this,” he muttered, climbing. He’d pocketed a light stick from his bag and he cracked and shook it. He saw a box with bars on it. Alexi crawled over and pried the latch open.