Peck E-Book

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

• Herausgeber: Wayne Kyle Spitzer
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

I entered the building—which, despite its name, was just another steel barn—from the east, taking out my Maglite and turning it on. The chickens were there; sleeping (I presumed), although it was hard to tell with animals who routinely slept with one eye open (as they had often done on my grandfather’s farm, an evolutionary adaptation, he’d explained, that allowed them to rest while also watching for predators). I suppose that’s when I first noticed it, the fact that the chickens seemed bigger (I mean, bigger even than earlier in the day), more robust, and that their combs seemed more colorful—not brighter, per say, but deeper, redder, more fearsome, somehow. Yes, I decided, sweeping the Maglite’s beam across them, stirring them not at all, they were definitely sleeping. I swiveled to inspect the other pen, the one on the other side of the walkway—and promptly froze. For there was a chicken—a great, golden rooster—staring back at me through the mesh. Just staring, his amber yet bloodshot eyes gleaming. And so startling and unexpected was this that I recoiled virtually immediately and gripped the Maglite tighter—ready, on pure instinct, to use it as a bludgeon—before turning and exiting the structure, wondering why I had been so compelled to go there in the first place and why too I had napped and dreamed of chicken shopping in the hours right before work; a dream in which I’d reached for a package of breasts and realized that what was pressing against the clear plastic was not chicken at all but a human face.

Leseprobe

PECK

by

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Table of Contents

Title Page

Peck

“So what’s your secret?”

The End

REIGNDEER | by | Wayne Kyle Spitzer

SADIE | by | Wayne Kyle Spitzer

CLOUDS | by | Wayne Kyle Spitzer

GOLEM | by | Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Copyright © 2020 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. All Rights Reserved. Published by Hobb’s End Books, a division of ACME Sprockets & Visions. Cover design Copyright © 2020 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. Please direct all inquiries to: [email protected]

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this book is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

“So what’s your secret?”

That’s how it all started, to the best of my recollection, just me posing a question to the big man in the coveralls—who’s chickens had just won the coveted Champion Rosette purple ribbon. It was an innocent enough question, directed at someone I thought would be delighted—he was an expert chicken farmer, after all, it said so right there on his placard.

“Humph,” he said, not so much as looking up; he and what I presumed to be his wife had set up a portable table near the enclosure and were playing cards.

“They’re so big!” said Trang, her face lit up like a child’s, “What you feed them to grow so high?”

The man only frowned. It was funny, because until that day I’d never met a stranger who hadn’t taken to her—with her thick South Vietnamese accent and innocent, carefree demeanor—right away.

At last he said, “Vegetable peels, bananas, apple cores—'bout what you’d expect.” He looked up for the first time, to where Trang was leaning against the enclosure. “Please don’ lean on’a pen. Upsets the chickens.”

“Oh, they’ll eat anything,” said his presumed wife, who was possibly the homeliest woman I’d ever seen. “Corn, broccoli, mealworms, yogurt. They love table scraps. Why, just the other night—”

“That’s enough,” said the man—peevishly, it seemed. “These city folks don’ care nothin’ about that. They’re just making small talk—aren’t you, city folk?”

Jesus, but the guy really talked like that.

“Well—no, actually,” I said. “I was genuinely curious. I mean, chickens don’t exactly grow that big eating grain pellets, do they? What’s your secret?”

He paused, turning a card over and over in his dirty fingers (the tips of which were blistered), locking eyes with the woman. “Just that. A secret. And it’s goin’ stay that way. Now if you don’t mind, there’s others waiting to see the chickens— them’s children right there, for an instance. Yes, sir. People come from all aroun’ to see my chickens, all the counties—not just city folk.”

And that was that, we’d been unceremoniously dismissed—nor was I in a position to complain; I was, after all, due for work at those same fairgrounds that very night, which would have been January 12, 2020. The night I learned the awful truth about the “expert” chicken farmer whose name I would later learn was Jud Farmington. The night of the blowing snow and the Kensington Station Blackout—which effected not just the suburbs but the entire east side of Brighton. The night Jud Farmington’s chickens finally came home to roost.

––––––––

“K-12, this is K-91, for a radio check, over.”

“K-91—this is K-12; copy you loud and clear.” There was a burst of static. “I trust you found the duty map next to the battery charger?”

“Affirmative,” I said. “Sector 4 until 0200, or as otherwise indicated, at which I’ll switch off with Rosco. Is that correct? Over.”

“K-12 to K-91, yes, that’s correct. That includes the Beef Barn, 4-H/FFA Barn, the Wonderful World of Sawdust, and the picnic grove. Oh, and don’t forget the Poultry Building—although it’s pretty hard to miss.”

I had to laugh. “Roger that, K-12. And, yeah—those are some chickens. Me and the wife used our free pass today, and—”

“Cut the chatter, K-91. You’re on duty.”

“Yes—yes, sir, K-12. Sorry about that. K-91 clear. Have a good one. Over.”

“Copy and clear.”

I holstered the radio and adjusted my duty belt, which included the club-like Maglite and pepper spray. Nice one, I thought. It’s your first night on the job and you’ve already annoyed your supervisor.

I walked through the Artisan’s Village; past Dogtown and the food courts—the wind blowing my hair, the forecasted snow already starting to fall—toward the Poultry Building. It’s funny, now that I think of it, how I should have headed straight for that; but then it wasn’t every day you encountered chickens the size of large dogs, or, for that matter, cranky farmers who seemed as likely to spit on you as to look at you.

People come from all aroun’ to see my chickens, all the counties—not just city folk.

Oh, I could believe that, but why such disdain for “city folk?” And what the hell had he been feeding them, really?