Holiday of the Dead (16 page)

He stuck his index finger in his ear and wiggled it around. Was he hearing things? He’d been around these birds all his life, and knew every nuance, every intricacy of the noises they made. This was not the sound of seventy-five tired turkeys waking up at an unnatural hour. This sound was louder, more raucous, and more distressed.

Was there a predator in the barn?

He scurried to the door as quickly as his hips would allow and headed outside. The noise was definitely coming from the slaughter barn, where about $4,000 worth of fresh meat hung. The sun had not yet broken over the horizon and darkness still shrouded everything in heavy shadows. Emil didn’t have time to hunt for a flashlight. If there was an animal in the barn, time was crucial. His heart pounded loudly in his ears, not only from the effort of hustling outside, but from the thought that some crafty beast was helping himself to a free meal at his expense. His great grandfather used to keep a shotgun perched outside the barn door, but ever since the unfortunate shooting, the shotgun had been banned. His father had secured the barn doors and windows so well that they’d never had a problem with animals getting in – not even a squirrel. The shotgun had been replaced by a baseball bat, more of a security blanket than as a functional weapon. Nonetheless, Emil grabbed hold of the bat.

He eyed the barn warily. The latch on the door was still securely in place, but the darkness prevented him from seeing the windows clearly. It was possible that some ravenous beast had chewed through the mesh, although he didn’t think it probable. But as he stood outside the door, the gobbling from within reached a frenzied pitch – a sure sign that something was wrong.

With a shaky hand, he unlatched the door. He gripped the bat securely, holding it at the ready over his shoulder, and edged the door open with his foot.

The gobbling stopped suddenly, leaving an eerie silence.

Thick velvety blackness swallowed up the inside of the barn, stunting his vision. He listened intently for the sound of movement, the scuffling of a wild animal caught red handed.

Nothing.

Something wasn’t right. Not right at all.

He hesitated at the edge of the door, his forehead slick with sweat despite the chilly air. He licked his dry lips, and, while keeping hold of the bat with one hand, slowly snaked his free hand around the corner of the door, groping for the light switch. Heart thudding loudly, he flicked the switch, and the overhead fluorescents sputtered to life.

Nothing jumped, nothing moved, nothing uttered a sound. From where he stood, in the glare of the bluish light, the checkerboard cones were in clear view.

Rejuvenated by a sudden surge of anger, he brandished the baseball bat with both hands and kicked the door open the rest of the way.

A sea of one hundred and seventy five mutilated turkeys stared back at him, silent and menacing.

At least half of the turkeys had their heads hanging, dangling from severed throats, waddles red not from anxiety, but from the stain of their own blood. Their white feathers were mottled with brownish-red gore, and many of them listed to one side or the other, standing awkwardly on legs that had been broken or dislocated. Others, with heads still intact, had bloody tufts of flesh and feathers hanging from them where they had been gouged and scratched by their counterparts. The beak of one hung down from its face; the eyes of another had been plucked out, leaving nothing but gaping dark holes, empty yet filled with malice; and still another had entrails spilling from a gaping hole in its side.

Emil blinked hard, unable to fathom what he saw.

The floor swayed under his feet and he almost lost his balance. For a moment it was as if he was floating outside of himself, watching what was happening, but not really part of it. He was barely aware of the bat falling from his grip as he stared, mesmerized, at the implausible sight.

It was impossible.

He must have lost his mind, like his great grandfather before him.

Vaguely, it registered that twenty birds still hung in the shackles, clamouring noisily, heads waggling violently from severed necks. The pen was empty, the bedding stained with blood and gore. The birds that had been in the pen, now mangled and disfigured, stood with the birds that had been in the cones, the lifeless birds he had left upside down to insure all the blood had been drained from their carcasses.

But here they were. Dead, but alive.

His insides roiled and their fetid odour filled his nostrils, nearly overwhelming him. A wave of dizziness challenged his balance, and he almost toppled into the silent horde. One of the grotesque birds stepped forward, its head hanging by a thin strand of bloody sinew, and gazed at him sideways through a bulging, glassy eyes. Its beak hung open at an unnatural angle and a string of mottled drool slid from its mouth. With sudden clarity, Emil realized that, whether he had lost his mind or not, each repulsive creature now stared at him with greedy hunger.

His stomach sunk through the floor as one thought finally burst through his shock:

Run. Get the hell out of there.

Still, he didn’t dare make any sudden moves, and he didn’t dare turn his back on the maimed flock. Slowly, legs trembling, he stepped back from the putrid mass, hoping to back through the door, retreat to the safety and sanity of his little house.

As soon as he moved, the grotesque horde raised its collective voice in a deafening roar of guttural, unnatural garble. The sound pierced his head like a javelin and he threw his hands over his ears.

As if the movement was some sort of sign, the turkeys lurched forward.

Some crawled along on distended bellies, legs dragging from dislocated hip sockets, others tripped and stumbled over their own heads which swayed precariously from severed necks. Others, though, with legs intact, were swift and determined. They charged him, some with wings outstretched, all with malevolence reflected in their black eyes.

Emil stumbled backward and tripped on the baseball bat he had dropped. He landed with a sickening crack and screamed as incredible pain shot though his left hip. In a flurry of disjointed feathers and twisted gore the turkeys descended upon him. It was all too much and Emil could no longer suppress the gorge rising in his throat. The meagre meal of soup and crackers that he had had for dinner came surging up, burning his throat and nose. As he gasped to catch his breath, the zombie turkeys took full advantage of his vulnerability. Heavy wings beat against him and sharp claws dug into his skin as they drilled their beaks into his limbs and torso. The pain was excruciating, yet he was overpowered by their numbers and their frenzied hunger. He could not get away.

“No! Please no! Leave me be!”

His desperate pleas only increased their fervour and his cries were muffled by the fetid horde that covered his face, his nose, his mouth; suffocating him as they tore into his flesh. Agony burned through him and tears of anguish filled his eyes. As if attracted to the saltiness of those tears, several of the birds clawed and pecked at his face and eyes. Completely at their mercy, Emil surrendered to the anguish as his body twitched and spasmed and his life seeped from him. At last, he gave into his tormentors, melding with them, feeling their greedy lust for flesh as if it were his own, letting his pain melt into their satisfaction, feeling nothing more – nothing but desire, nothing but a thirst, nothing but an insatiable, driving hunger for more …

Sheriff Gary Turnbull was always the first to arrive at Emil’s place on Wednesday morning. His shift started at 6:00am and even though Emil didn’t start handing out the birds until 7:00, the old man had always made a special exception for him. After all, he would say, if you can’t bend the rules a little for the law, who can you bend them for?

He always got his pick of the turkeys; one of the few fringe benefits of his position in this dull little town. He swung his cruiser into the long drive and rolled up the gravel to the front lawn.

No lights were on.

Strange. Usually by this time, Emil had a big pot of strong coffee brewing. Maybe the old guy had overslept. He parked the cruiser, wandered up to the door and knocked hard. The door creaked open. He frowned. It wasn’t like Emil to leave his door unlocked, let alone open. He pushed the door a little further with his foot, unlatched the strap on his gun, and laid his hand on the weapon. His pulse quickened at the possibility the he might have to use it. Not much call for that in Shakers Point.

Nothing. He wandered into the front room, then into the kitchen. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was conspicuously missing. Emil was nowhere to be seen. Gary crept to the stairs and called loudly. “Emil? You here?” Nothing.

Maybe the poor old guy had kicked it. That would suck, croaking the day before Thanksgiving. It would suck even more to have to buy a frozen turkey every year from now on, instead of enjoying one of Emil’s rare gems. He should check the bedroom just in case.

Gary checked the bathroom, and the spare room at the end of the hall before making his way back downstairs. He rubbed the back of his neck and went into the front room. A note was tucked under the lamp. He hadn’t noticed it before.

Maybe Emil had written a note explaining his absence. But then again, the poor old guy couldn’t read a lick, so how could he write a note?

He gently lifted the lamp and took the note. It looked old, tattered and discoloured. The scratchy handwriting was faded, but legible.

To whoever finds this here Nife. You need to leave it be. There’s something real bad about this Nife. Evil. Don’t do nothing with it. Don’t use it. Don’t try to destroy it, or it will destroy you. Don’t use it on nothing, or the evil will spread. Just leave it be. LEAVE IT BE-or else
.
EHL II

Strange note. Gary scratched his head and looked around. There was no knife.

Could Emil have written this after all? Probably not. Either way, the note didn’t make much sense.

An unusually loud garbling disrupted the eerie silence. Gary reached back, pulled the curtain aside, and peered out the window toward the side of the house. The light in the barn was on. That’s where Emil kept the holiday turkeys for slaughter. Most of those turkeys should’ve be cleaned and dressed by now, wrapped and sitting in the cooler, but from the sound of it, it sure didn’t seem that way.

Emil must be behind a few steps this year. It’d be a sin if the turkeys weren’t ready yet. People sure wouldn’t like that. Folks in this town didn’t like their routines disrupted. He’d better go out to the barn and see what was up with the poor old guy.

He placed the note back on the table, clipped the safety strap back in place on his weapon and headed out to the slaughter barn.

THE END

OATMEAL COOKIES

By

Eric Dimbleby

"Don't let her in," Tyler whispered in his sister's ear. She was a good foot taller than him, which she never failed to mention alongside her being three years his senior. And so Tyler had to stand on his tiptoes. He leaned against her backside, and the sticky residue around his mouth temporarily glued to the back of Susan's grimy shirt.

Susan nudged him back with her shoulder, huffing in annoyance. "I'll do what I want, y'little brat." Susan tossed her golden pigtails aside and peered through the peephole again. "She doesn't look so bad."

"She's sick. Just like Mommy and Daddy," Tyler whined, trying hard to bite back the tears of the realizations that were coursing through his brain. He was only six years old, goddammit. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. His only defence was his sister, who couldn’t care less about what happened to him. Why couldn't he have been born earlier? If so, then
he
would be in charge. Susan would have no say. Fate was a cruel bitch, and so was Susie.

The oldest always has all the power, thus goes the kingdom of children. "But she's our grandmother, chump. Back up," Susan threatened, showing her teeth. A couple of her formerly white fangs were missing, but the Tooth Fairy had not come. In fact, the Tooth Fairy was
nowhere
to be found these days, which troubled them both. Tyler had not started losing teeth yet, and so the prospect that the Tooth Fairy had also
turned
made him angry.

"Please, Susie. Please!" Tyler shouted, not wanting to see his Gram ever again. She was a monster, an undead beast like all the rest of them
out there
. A zombie, as Susie had once explained.

"When you broke your leg, who brought you oatmeal cookies?"

"Gram did," Tyler whimpered, suckling on his thumb in an attempt to make all the bad things go away. It didn't always work.

"That's right. And who brought you to church every Sunday?" Susie asked next.

"Gram," Tyler replied in the same tone as before, though he despised going to church. Everybody smelled of cabbage there, wet and steamy cabbage. "But …"

Susie snapped, "Then shut your hole! All the grownups are dead, and our Gram is here to save us, you dummy. Don't make me bite you." Her threat was not idle, for she had bitten him on dozens of occasions, each time worse than the last. Based on her progress towards more violent chomps, Tyler estimated that she would fully bite an entire appendage off by the time he was ten years old.