Granny went inside, dusting dirt off her hands. Supper had to be gotten for her sons and her workers. Life for the living went on. That poor fool of an Ide Pilkington. She didn’t want to think about him no more.
Pilkington was jubilant as he strode up and down the rows of tomatoes. The traps had worked. It had been over a week, and no more fruit turned up with bites taken out of them. No plants were uprooted. It looked like good common sense had won out over superstition. The critters wouldn’t go where some of their kind had died. He had not seen a single raccoon on the property for more than a week. With any luck they’d start getting decent picking going pretty soon.
“You see what I told you, Ruiz?” he said. “No curse. No problem.”
“Si, Señor Pay,” the foreman said. “I get people here in one week, okay?”
“You do that,” Pilkington said. Damn, it felt good to get things rolling the way they should be. Superstition be damned. Farming was a science. Combine the elements of the right weather, the right seeds, water, fertilizer, pesticides, weeding, and harvesting at the right time, and everything ought to come out okay.
Ruiz went back to supervise his men, who were hoeing the peppers, also untouched. Pilkington remembered he had to call the farm bureau. He headed for his old jeep to drive back to his office.
Just ahead of him, something crossed the open space between rows. Pilkington halted. Could be a snake. Fields were always full of mice, good hunting for corn snakes and black snakes, all harmless to humans. But that had been too bulky. An animal? It didn’t scoot like a rabbit, and it wasn’t big enough or the right color for a fox or a coyote. In fact, Pilkington could have sworn it was a raccoon. But they didn’t come out in daylight unless they were starving or sick. He stepped over the row of plants, trying to catch up with it. Dammit, why couldn’t they stay away from him?
He checked row after row. It was either too fast for him or it must have gone to ground. Well, if he found any more bitten tomatoes, he was going to reset those traps.
Pilkington hated office work. There were more forms to fill out than vegetables to sell, the guys used to joke. And even in this day of computers, most of them couldn’t be done online. It was just a way for the government to keep the farmer from catching up and figuring out what a bad deal they were getting from everyone. He picked up a stack of papers for his accountant and smacked them on the desk to make them line up. Something sifted down onto his desktop. He looked at it. Dried soil. He brushed it away. Must have brought some in on his
sleeve. It was hard to keep anything clean. Good thing he wasn’t a dairy farmer.
He felt eyes on the back of his neck. “What do you want?” he asked.
No one answered. He spun the creaking chair around. The end of a tail disappeared around the door jamb. Pilkington shook his head. Probably his late wife’s ancient pug dog. That animal was so arthritic it moved like a robot, but it just hung on. But that was too long and too furry to have been Dagwood’s curly little tail. Could be a stray cat. Pilkington went out to see.
The pug was in his cardboard box in the hallway where he could see everyone coming and going. He looked up expectantly at Pilkington, who stooped to give him a quick pet on the head.
Dagwood always paid attention when something was in the office. He loved people and he barked at cats. Something had just walked through. So why didn’t the dog make a fuss?
Hell with it. Pilkington went back to his paperwork. He sniffed the air. Something smelled foul, but he didn’t think much about it. Everything stunk on a farm. No big deal. He picked up the stack of forms he had just been examining.
Right across the center of the first page was a line of muddy footprints. They looked like little hands, four fingers and a thumb. Raccoon prints.
Pilkington dropped the papers and looked under the desk. Those damned animals! They sometimes got into the vents or set up housekeeping in the ceiling. There had to be one in that room right that minute.
The footprints led off the back of the desk and ended at the closet where he kept his files. He opened the door.
A gray blur shot out of the cubicle. Pilkington let
out a yell as sharp teeth fixed in his shin. He kicked at the shape, which flew into the corner. It
was
a raccoon. Something about it looked wrong to him. Its fur was di sheveled and dirty, and its head hung sideways. He also saw round, matted, dark marks on its belly. It rolled back onto its feet and leaped for him again. Pilkington fended it off and ran out, looking for a weapon. The animal came after him. He slammed the door on it. Dagwood stood up in his box and looked at him curiously.
Sill was coming toward the office, probably for a cup of coffee.
“There’s a rabid raccoon in there!” Pilkington shouted.
“I’ll get the shotgun,” Sill volunteered. He ran back toward the barn. Pilkington found a shovel. His heart was still pounding heavily from the surprise. He gave a nod, and Sill threw open the door. They looked into the office.
“Nothing,” Sill said.
“It’s in there somewhere,” Pilkington assured him.
The two men searched the room, pushing the desk and chairs out of the way.
“It’s gone.” Sill sounded relieved.
“There’s no way it could have gotten out!” Pilkington said. He glanced into the hallway. Dagwood still didn’t react. Could the old dog be getting deaf and blind as well as creaky?
“Granny Morrow might have had something to do with it,” Sill said. “A ghost raccoon.”
“Don’t start with that again. No such thing as ghosts.”
“Right,” Sill said, uncertainly. “I’ll just be getting some coffee, okay?”
“Yeah.” Pilkington put down the shovel disgustedly.
Sill poured coffee into one of the battered mugs on the stand and went back outside. Pilkington threw himself
into the chair. He pulled up his pants leg to look at the bite on his leg. He wiped the blood off the puncture marks with his handkerchief. It wasn’t too bad, but there was no rabies in raccoons this far west. He’d put something on it later.
Ghosts. He had never believed in them, but how else could a critter as big as a raccoon slip into a closed closet, or out of a room that had no other exits?
A wave of stink made his throat tighten, and he felt eyes on him again. He turned cautiously around.
The raccoon stood in the middle of the room. Its narrow jaws snarled at him. The eyes in the black mask were hollow. Pilkington scrambled up. It wasn’t healthy. Nothing should look like that and still be moving. It lurched toward him, teeth bared. He felt behind him for the shovel. The raccoon snapped at him. He swept downward with the face of the shovel and smacked it right in the head. It rolled backwards. Before it could move again Pilkington went into a frenzy, battering the body over and over. He chopped off one paw with the blade of the shovel and pounded the head. He heard the skull let out a dull crack. He stood back, panting. It ought to be dead now.
To his horror, the creature stirred. How could it move? But it staggered up and resumed its march toward him. The foot he had chopped off remained on the floor, along with a chunk of furry belly. There were smears of dark slime but no blood. The critter didn’t bleed!
The hollows in the dark mask regarded him balefully. He would have called anyone crazy who’d have suggested it to him, but that raccoon looked
familiar.
It looked like the one he had chased across the road to Granny Morrow’s. But that was impossible. It was dead. She had buried it!
“What are you?” he asked, his voice hoarse with shock.
He should call someone. He ought to get Sill back here.
Granny had told him he had to make amends, or there would be consequences. Was that what it would take to get this specter to go away?
“What do you want?” he asked.
But raccoons, even those returned from the dead, couldn’t talk. He backed away from it. The raccoon lowered its head. He’d seen that behavior among animals that were setting up for a dominance contest. He felt at a loss. He couldn’t kill it. All he could do was get away from it or trap it so it couldn’t follow him no more.
That was it! The traps! If he could get it stuck in one of those, he could bury it somewhere. It wouldn’t be able to dig its way out of a grave with twenty pounds of metal clinging to it.
He backed out the door. Dagwood whined as he went, but he never made a sound as the raccoon went past. Didn’t he see it?
He’d take the dog in for a checkup later. He had to take care of that damned raccoon first. Like a bad nightmare, it followed him around the side of the big barn toward the trash heap. Granny had been mighty obliging, opening all them traps up and leaving them set for him. That’d be just perfect. He looked over his shoulder to make sure it was following.
Was it grinning? No, that had to be its broken jaw. Pilkington ran. On three legs, his nemesis loped behind.
He reached the waste pile long before it did. He kicked all the rotted straw off the tarp that concealed the traps. He’d piled them up, not troubling to trigger them. It saved him time now. He set them in a line. All
he had to do was lure the raccoon into one or more of them, and bang! Problem solved.
It looked so easy when the matadors on television did it, but bulls were straightforward animals. Raccoons were wilier. This one, dead or not, tracked him with its hollow eyes. Pilkington dodged back and forth, trying to draw it to leap at him again. It didn’t take the hint. It followed his movements with its sunken eyes.
“Señor Pay!” Ruiz’s voice distracted him. “You there, Señor?”
At that moment, the raccoon bounded toward him, mouth snarling. It hit him square in the stomach. Pilkington fell backwards onto the line of traps. SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! The steel teeth banged shut on his arms and legs, crushing bone and tearing tissue. He lay spread-eagled, unable even to moan at the horrible pain. He felt hot blood pour out of torn arteries. His life was seeping into the soil he’d spent his whole life on.
The raccoon sat on top of the waste heap, looking down on him from the hollow sockets in its mask. It looked satisfied.
Ruiz came running toward the sound. He crossed himself as he knelt beside his employer.
“Dios mio!”
he exclaimed. “I call the ambulance.”
“Did you see that raccoon?” Pilkington gasped out, trying to lift his hand, but twenty pounds of steel held it down.
“No, Señor Pay,” Ruiz said, his round face creased with pity. “I see only a curse. Lie still. I get help.” The Mexican foreman got up and ran for the office.
Pilkington felt the pain in his limbs sift away, to be replaced by a numbness that left his mind clear at last. Granny was right, devil take the old witch. It had been stupid to start a blood feud over a couple of tomatoes
or a few raccoons. He never realized how horrible and disproportionate the punishment he had inflicted on other living creatures was. He looked up at the raccoon and saw an instrument of justice. Pilkington swore that if God let him live, next time he had a problem with a critter, he would be more understanding. This raccoon could have been his death, but it showed him more mercy than he ever had.
The raccoon almost smiled at him. Then it turned and waddled out of sight.
BUNRABS
By Donald J. Bingle
Donald J. Bingle has had a wide variety of short fiction published, primarily in DAW-themed anthologies, but also in tie-in anthologies for the Dragonlance and Transformers universes and in popular role-playing gaming materials. Recently, he has had stories published in
Fellowship Fantastic, Front Lines, Imaginary Friends, If I Were an Evil Overlord,
and
Gamer Fantastic.
His first novel,
Forced Conversion,
is set in the near future, when anyone can have heaven, any heaven they want, but some people don’t want to go. His most recent novel,
Greensword,
is a darkly co medic thriller about a group of environmentalists who decide to end global warming . . . immediately. Now they’re about to save the world; they just don’t want to get caught doing it. Don can be reached at
[email protected], and his novels can be purchased through
www.donaldjbingle.com
.
“I
t’s a myth,” clucked Doris as she picked at her salad. “I don’t believe it, not for one instant.”
“You’re just a spring chicken, dear,” responded Doris’ Aunt Clementine as she absentmindedly primped and groomed herself while they sat gossiping. “You don’t understand how dangerous the world can be, how vicious.” Clementine readjusted her sitting position, shifting forward and cocking her head to one side, bringing it closer to Doris. “Why do you think your mother treasured you oh so desperately before she was taken from us? You were the only child she raised but not the only child she might have raised. It’s so sad, really.”
Doris swiveled her head, looking about for someone else to greet or bring into a new conversation. She hated being cooped up with her old biddy aunt when she became melancholy like this. She acted quite addle-minded. Doris was convinced it was something in the old bird’s diet; she’d heard there was something in commercial feed that can make your mind go when you get older. Dioxin, scrapie, or something. No doubt, that was what was happening to her aunt. Oh, she didn’t mind that the dear old girl was consorting with a young stud less than half her aunt’s age, but lately Clementine had begun to ramble constantly about danger and conspiracy theories. Really, she said the most outrageous things. It had gotten worse during the last part of winter, and now, well now she hardly shut up about it.
Doris looked out the open door toward the yard, but no one was approaching. She figured she might as well humor the old hen. Maybe if Clementine finished her story without too much aggravation, she would nap most of the afternoon.
Doris fixed Clementine with a steely gaze. “So, I would have had siblings, if they hadn’t been taken from Mother. Is that what you’re saying?’