by Jeff Strand
He read for about an hour, having difficulty focusing on the words, until Mia got up.
"Good morning, Sunshine!" he said.
Mia muttered something incoherent and unpleasant. She wasn't a morning person even when her sleep wasn't interrupted by insane wildlife. Rusty had taken her home schooling extremely seriously and made her work hard, but he'd quickly learned that it was much more pleasant to let her set her own hours.
"I'm going to check on the squirrel," he told her.
"Why? You think it might not be dead anymore?"
"Smartass. I want to see if there's any blood in the bag now."
"So you think it could've just been a slow bleeder?"
"I don't know. Maybe. That sounds dumb, but can you think of any explanation that doesn't sound dumb?"
"Nope," said Mia. "All I can come up with is zombie squirrel, and that's dumber than slow-bleeding squirrel."
"Let's go check on it."
"Can I make some coffee first?"
"No."
Mia muttered something less coherent and less pleasant as she put on her shoes. They walked out onto the front porch. Rusty had thought about grabbing his rifle before they went out there, but he didn't want to foster more of an environment of paranoia than necessary.
Some birds were chirping. The sounds of nature seemed normal.
They looked into the back of the truck.
"Uhhh..." said Mia.
There was just a shredded garbage bag. No sign of the dead squirrel.
"I'm going to run back and get the broom," Rusty said. "Don't touch anything."
"I totally guarantee you that I won't."
Rusty hurried back to the cabin, unsure why his heart was racing. A dead animal getting eaten by a live animal was the way things worked in nature. Maybe less often when they were tied up in garbage bags in the back of a pickup truck, but still, it wasn't as if the squirrel had disappeared without a trace.
He took the broom out of the closet then returned to the truck. He climbed up into the back and then used the broom handle to move the pieces of garbage bag around. There were bits of fur, but no blood and no bones. Whatever got to the squirrel had either taken it away or devoured the entire thing.
"What would eat a dead squirrel like that?" Mia asked.
"Lots of things."
"Bugs, maybe, but they'd leave remnants. Birds wouldn't swoop down, tear open the bag, and carry the squirrel away. There's no animal that would just climb in the back of your truck and do this."
"Well, clearly there is," said Rusty.
"You don't think it's weird?"
"Yeah, I think it's weird! I think it's beyond weird. I'll even say that it's creepy and upsetting. But I know I didn't take it, and I know you didn't take it—you didn't take it, right? So we're left with two possibilities: an animal got rid of it, or it climbed out of my truck on its own." Rusty furrowed his brow, stroked his chin, and pretended to weigh the alternatives. "I don't know, I'm not God or anything, but I'm relatively certain that the dead squirrel didn't leave on its own."
"Are we sure it was dead?" Mia asked.
"Was it an optical illusion that you stuck a machete right through its torso?"
"I'm just saying, we didn't chop off its head or do a thorough medical examination of it."
"You turned it into a shish kabob."
"Maybe I missed the vital organs."
"Are you hearing yourself?"
Mia sighed. "Uncle Rusty, I've been here for every step of this. I know how it sounds."
"Well, I'm way more inclined to believe that a wolf jumped up in here and ate it than that the squirrel woke up and left."
"All right, that's reasonable. I guess it doesn't matter now anyway. Are we still going into town?"
Rusty thought about that. Without bringing a dead animal to examine, he and Mia were left with sharing a story that sounded like something you'd make up to play a joke on a gullible veterinarian. He didn't want to travel all that way just to tell a story that completely lacked credibility. "Nah," he said. "We'll wait until we have to murder another one."
"That's a good idea," said Mia. "Because after you told the story, I was going to pretend like I had no idea what you were talking about. Let them cart you away. Inherit the cabin early."
Rusty smiled. "It's scary how much you remind me of your mother."
* * *
After breakfast, they got to work. Rusty and Mia had very different processes. Unless he was using a large tool like the table saw, Rusty liked to work on the front porch. He liked to show off his creations each step of the way, describing to Mia exactly what he was doing and what he planned to do. Mia, on the other hand, didn't like Rusty to see her projects until they were completely done. Not to the point where she'd throw a cloth over them if Rusty came into the shed to use some tools, but she'd glare at him if his gaze lingered on her work. Rusty supposed this was a byproduct of him being overzealous with his advice while she was still learning the trade. Though she did ask for assistance if she truly needed it, for the most part she built her furniture completely on her own. And while he couldn't honestly say that her craftsmanship rivaled his own, she was getting there.
Usually he could completely lose himself in his work, become so immersed that Mia had learned to make eye contact before telling him it was time for lunch to avoid startling him. Today he kept thinking about squirrels.
There were squirrels all over the place. He saw them all day, every day. They were such a constant presence in his life that he was barely aware of their existence. Now, every time he heard a squirrel scurry across a branch he wondered if this one might also leap down upon him. (The porch was covered, so the only way one could leap down upon him was if it was a flying squirrel, but that wasn't sufficient consolation.) Each rustling of leaves, even those caused by the wind and not wildlife, made him tense up a bit, as if there might be a reprise of last night. If he worked back in the shed with Mia he'd be free of even the irrational concern that a flying squirrel might get him, but he'd be damned if he was going to hide away like that. If he wanted restrictions on his freedom, he could go back to live in the civilized world.
Damn, there were a lot of squirrels around here.
Furry little creeps.
Rotten nut-burying little shits.
Their chatter, which he'd always been able to tune out, was really getting on his nerves. Like they were laughing at him.
Oh well. Better that they were laughing at him than pissed off at what he'd done to their sibling. He didn't need thousands of squirrels dropping from the trees and charging at him en masse.
He really needed to get over this. Yes, last night had been upsetting, but a fifty-year-old man who'd spent half of his life living in the woods should not be trembling in fear over the thought of vengeful squirrels. He needed to suck it up. Odd things happened in the world, and you couldn't let them scare you. At least not once the danger was over.
Rusty made a conscious effort to focus on his work.
After a couple of hours, the effort was no longer conscious. He was back to being able to tune out those wretched creatures while sanding down some table legs. It was soothing work. Even a little hypnotic.
They had ham sandwiches and potato chips for lunch. They did not speak of squirrels.
By late afternoon, Rusty was amused by the whole thing. If he was the kind of person to speak to a therapist (and there was no conceivable scenario where he would be) they'd be too busy laughing to get any psychoanalysis done.
He'd forgotten about squirrels altogether until he saw a familiar figure slowly crawling toward him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rusty knew he wasn't hallucinating.
Nor was he mistaking what he was seeing. Various parts of his body were no longer operating at the efficiency of his youth, but his eyes were still fine. Perhaps it wasn't the same squirrel (they all pretty much looked identical) but there was most definitely an injured squirrel crawling toward the front porch of hi
s cabin.
He stood up and stepped off the porch, not looking away from the animal. Though it was moving too slowly to pose a threat, it was headed straight for him. It lifted its head and let out a soft but angry squeal.
"Mia!" Rusty called out. "Hey, Mia!"
If she was in the shed with the door closed while sanding wood she might not hear him. It would only take a moment to go get her, but he didn't want to leave the squirrel. He walked over to it—closer, but not close—and, yeah, the machete wound was there. Not that there'd been any real doubt, but it was the same freaking squirrel.
The most appealing course of action was to stomp on the unholy abomination a few times. Unfortunately, if he was going to get answers, he had to keep it alive.
The squirrel looked at him with its bloodshot eyes. Though it was difficult to gauge homicidal intent in the gaze of a squirrel, this thing really did give the impression of wanting to kill him.
"Mia! Get the hell out here!"
The squirrel was now about six feet away from him. That was too close. Rusty took a step back.
Nobody was going to believe this. Nobody should believe this. Only the most gullible idiot would believe an anecdote about what was happening right here.
On some level, he had to admire the creature's determination. If Rusty had a machete blade go right through him, he'd abandon whatever task he was trying to complete. He felt bad that the squirrel was going through hell on earth to get to him, yet would be denied even a single bite of its chosen prey.
He called Mia's name again, stretching it out as long as possible. The squirrel would surely still be here after he went to get her, but he didn't want to risk it. He didn't even want to risk looking away long enough to grab something with which to trap it.
Mia hurried around the side of the cabin. Before she could ask him what was wrong, she saw it. "Is that the same—?"
"Yes."
"Holy fuck."
"Yeah."
"I don't even want to know what's going on with it," said Mia. "It's nothing good. Do you want me to get you a block of wood to drop on it?"
"No," said Rusty. "I do want to know what's wrong with it."
"Something demonic."
"It's not..." Rusty didn't finish his sentence. He didn't have enough information right now to rule out the idea that it was a demon squirrel crawling toward him. "We're not going to crush it. Get me something to put it in."
"A bowl of holy water?"
"Something to put over it." Rusty had to take another step back. He was curious as to just how devoted this thing was to getting at him. If he went back onto the porch, would it try to get up the two stairs?
Mia went into the cabin. She returned a moment later with the large pot he'd used to make spaghetti. "You can trap it in this, or you can use it to flatten it. I'd use it to flatten it."
Rusty took the pot from her. "Don't we have a box or something?"
"Have you made a box lately?"
He approached the squirrel. He was fairly certain that he could slam the upside-down pot over it without getting injured, but "fairly certain" was not the same as "one hundred percent certain." He'd toss it instead. He crouched down, took careful aim, and then tossed the pot, which successfully landed over the squirrel, not even pinching its tail.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
"He's pissed," said Mia.
The clanging continued.
"I mean, he's really pissed."
"You would be too," said Rusty. "Make sure it doesn't go anywhere. I'll be back in a second."
"Where are you going?"
"You didn't get me a lid, or any way to turn the pot over without letting it go."
"Oh. Yeah, I guess I didn't think it through because I was so distracted by the zombie squirrel. I'll go get it. You babysit your new pet." Mia went back inside.
The clanging was really intense. That thing had an amazing amount of energy left. Did squirrels have adrenaline?
Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!
Mia came out with the lid to the pot and a metal cookie sheet. "You can slide this underneath it," she said, stepping off the porch and handing the sheet to him.
The clanging stopped. Rusty set the cookie sheet on the ground, next to the edge of the pot.
"Do you need help?" Mia asked.
"Nah, I've got this."
Mia crouched down next to the pot and placed her hands on the top. "I'll keep it from moving. But if that thing gets out, I'm jumping right in the truck and starting my two-week vacation now."
"If it gets out, I'll come with you." Rusty took a deep breath, gathering his courage for a task that really should not have required courage. "I have to lift the pot a tiny bit." He raised it just enough to get the cookie sheet underneath it, then slowly slid the sheet underneath the entire pot. The squirrel didn't seem to be moving anymore.
"That wasn't so hard," said Mia. "On the count of three, we'll flip it over."
They counted to three, and flipped the pot over while keeping the cookie sheet pressed against it. No incident. There was a thunk as the squirrel dropped to the bottom.
"I don't think it's going to leap out at us," said Rusty. "In fact, I'm positive it won't. But move back anyway."
Mia, without protest, stood up and took several steps backward.
Rusty quickly swapped the cookie sheet with the glass lid. The squirrel did not leap out at him. It would not be doing any more leaping. Rusty grimaced.
Mia returned to the pot and peered inside. "Oh my God..."
The squirrel had bashed itself into mush. There was still clear evidence that it was a squirrel, like the fuzzy tail, but little remained of its head and the left side of its body was severely mangled. Still no blood; plenty of brain matter, intestines, and other assorted innards. Its bloodshot eyes had both burst, assuming that Rusty was indeed looking at its eyes in the sludge.
"How did it even do that to itself?" Rusty asked.
"It must have really wanted out of that pot."
"Look at it. You don't smush up your head like that with one smack against a metal pot. It kept going after its skull was broken and its brains were leaking out. You could splatter my head like that, if you were really mad at me, but I couldn't do it to myself."
"Zombie squirrel?"
"I mean, your body twitches and stuff after you're dead. If it got some momentum going, I guess it's possible that it killed itself with one really vicious bash against the metal and then it was muscle spasms that did the rest, but it would have to really hit that thing hard to do this kind of damage."
"So...zombie squirrel?"
"I'm not ready to go 'zombie squirrel' quite yet."
"What's your diagnosis, then?" Mia asked.
"I'm going with 'We don't have the expertise to say with any kind of authority what exactly the hell is wrong with that fucked-up squirrel.' We'll let somebody else take a look at it. Let's go."
The first part of the drive into town involved fourteen and a half miles on a dirt road that seemed to have been designed by sadists who hated travelers. Rusty knew where the gigantic potholes were and instinctively avoided them, but if you weren't in that natural rhythm, you had to drive very slowly and stay very alert. There were parts where it was easy to get stuck in the dirt if you didn't know to give your vehicle that extra boost of gas at the right moment. There were parts where the road was just loose jagged rocks. On occasion he'd have to move a fallen tree out of the road; nobody else was doing maintenance because nobody else used the road. There was a brutal hill. The road sucked. And Rusty liked it that way.
After finally making it to the paved road, it was then a simple twenty-three mile drive to the nearest town, which was barely a town. And Rusty liked it that way, too.
Mia had become an expert on navigating the unfriendly road. She'd been driving the truck since she was twelve. Rusty assumed at some point that he'd have to get her an official driver's license.
He was driving this time, though. The pot was resting
on the seat between them. Rusty wished he could say that its close proximity didn't make him nervous, but that would be a lie. If he weren't concerned about it toppling over and spilling, he would've put it in the back of the truck.
After a couple of miles, he regretted the decision not to transfer the squirrel to something besides a spaghetti pot. They were going to look like squirrel soup-eating hillbillies when they brought this into the veterinarian's office. Maybe they'd buy a more appropriate container after they reached civilization.
The drive was uneventful. There was one fallen tree that was thin enough that Rusty probably could've driven over it without a problem, but they got out and moved it just to be safe. They listened to the '50s station on the radio after getting within signal distance (Mia was going to be gobsmacked by how much other music was available in the world) until they arrived in Clovisville. Rusty pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store and shut off the engine.
Clovisville was too small to have a veterinarian's office, of course. They'd have to make the extremely rare trip to Danners (where they went for rare doctor's appointments and even rarer dentist appointments—Rusty and Mia made it a point to take really good care of their teeth), but he needed an address.
Rusty hated cell phones. In the days before them, he could've simply found a pay phone, looked through the Yellow Pages, and found what he needed. Now there were no pay phones in Clovisville, meaning he'd be forced to talk to somebody.
"Hello, Mr. Moss," said Jake, one of the cashiers. He was a good kid who occasionally flirted unsuccessfully with Mia. "Didn't expect to see you back so soon."
"I'm looking for a vet."
"Army vet?"
"Cat and dog vet."
"We take Duchess to Dr. Teal. He runs a private practice out of his house. He's, like, a mile from here, if that."
