Ol' man Nettles

It was hot; that hot wheat had turned greyish-red with the scent of honey suckle heavy in the air. Squinting against the summery haze, Lace mopped his moist brow. His voice hadn't broken yet but he felt man enough when he was with Merv. Older and more serious looking, Merv had that look: the kind that suggested he'd spent a while in some correctional facility. Yes, Merv was tough, alright: something Lace aspired to be.

Only he wasn't too sure about stealing chickens from Ol’ man Nettle's farm. It wasn't the stealing that bothered Lace. A chicken missing here or there wasn't exactly going to bust out anyone out. No, it wasn't that. It was the shit that happened there. Like kids going missing, folks seeing strange things and whinos spending a night in the woods never to be seen again. Or at least those were the rumours.

“Nothin’ but fairy tales,” Merv snuck his thumbs into his breeches as if he was a hardcore version of Huckleberry Finn.“ I ain’t seen anything there – eva.” There was an inflection in his tone suggesting this wasn’t an idle bragg. Somewhat of an outcast, he sometimes spent whole days in the woods. There were circles around his eyes and a hardened gaze borne of having to look after himself. He slung a leather satchel over his shoulder, giving Lace a final glance. “You coming ?”

“Erm,” Lace looked indecisive.

“Stay if you want but you’ll be missin’ out.” Tying a bandana around his forehead, he strode off. His halfman-half boy frame bristled with a sense of confidence. Or purpose.

“Damn,” Lace felt a tight knot forming in his stomach. That was the problem with Merv: he saw no cause to debate about anything. Struggling to keep up with the older boy's stride and somewhat unsure of himself, Lace wiped more sweat off his brow. It was continuous: like syrup. Damn it was hot he reminded himself then switched his thoughts to what Merv had in the satchel. The one with the dry cracks on it. The one he always carried.

The older boy continued on, swatting away another fly whilst moving through foliage.

“Say Merv, what’s in the bag...”

“You’ll soon see.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Lace followed. They’d perhaps walked a kilometre before Merv stopped, snuck his thumbs into his breeches and surveyed the mass of trees in front of them: the entry into the woods.

Right now, given the afternoon haze and the singing of birds, the woods didn’t seem any more sinister than a wheel barrow. Still, the knot in Lace’s stomach tightened. “Stay outta the woods,..” the towns folk had said. “Especially Ol’man Nettles farm.. He’s bat shit weird...”

“Maybe we should have a break,” Lace wiped his brow, squinting.

No reply. Merv turned on his heel, deftly stepping around a sprawling bush, chewing tobacco. Some how it seemed second nature to him, but then it would.

Shrugging again, Lace felt twigs crunch under his step and in pretence, attempted a swagger. It felt good, not being afraid despite the feeling of impending dread in his gut. Still he reasoned, he was wiith Merv. He would have followed Merv into the mouth of a volcano if necessary despite the fact his short legs kept getting caught in the foliage. Stout, gangly, weeds sprung up, as if waiting for him.

Occasionally, the older boy would stop, shake his head whilst looking at Lace. and spit tobacco. At least he didn’t cuss. “Careful now,” he shot a harsh glance before they strode into a patch where the foliage grew even thicker and the trees canopied to block out the light. Like a cavern waiting to swallow them whole. Surprisingly, it was cooler here, giving them some relief from the heat. Yet thorny plants and needles bit and stung as they yanked their way through.

The only thing missing was quick sand Lace thought but soldiered on. Perhaps Merv would give him credit for toughening up. He swat flies and insects, then rolled his sleeves down to stop more needles prickling his skin. If this didn’t make him tougher nothing would, he reasoned. Even Merv was breathing heavy, his shoulder muscles bristling whilst tugging aside obstinate branches. A little more effort and they were at the other side of the canopy, both taking huge gulps of oxygen, drenched. He glanced at the lacerations on Merv’s arm but the latter shrugged it off. "It's nothing." It was another half kilometre before they caught the bleak outline of the farm. Merv froze. “Keep the fuck still.”

Lace wasn’t about to argue. His legs felt like lead: he glanced upwards and detected an earthy scent in the air: the unmistakeable beginnings of dusk. Merv gestured to hide behind foliage. Once settled, they watched. Even from here you could see how dilapidated the farm was. Individual huts slanted too much this way or that, giving the impression they were coming apart. Some with fnecing panels missing. Those that hung on hadn’t seen a new lick of paint in years. Still, it was big: acres big.

Lace wiped more sweat off, thinking what he’d give now for a cold, chilled lemonade. Or a coke. Only Merv stared intensely, the bandana slanting above his eye. “There ain’t no No cattle grazing..."

“What ? Should there be...”

Merv grunted, scooping out a bottle of root beer from his bag. Biting off the cap, he took a couple of swigs and gave it to Lace. A little hesitant, Lace sipped the drink. He winced at the taste but felt grown up. It had kept surprisingly cool in Merv’s trusty bag. Another swig before he felt something crawl on his trouser leg: a huge roache. Grimacing, he flicked it off with his finger, the nail broad and long.

It was rare but Merv was amused. “ You don’t trim your finger nails ...”

“They help,” Lace took another swig.

“What with... Scracthing your ass ?”

“No. For splicing open grocery bags when I’m at the store.”

With his half boy- half man grunt, Merv looked away. They waited perhaps another half hour for the dark to take hold before the older boy inched forward.

Normally, it would have been a thill. Sneaking through the woods, chancing the risk of getting caught. But this was different. The knot tightened in Lace’s stomach, saying ‘get the fuck out..’

“ Keep low...The coop’s about a hundred yards."

Lace felt another cold sweat as they flexed their way through yards of grass ,weeds and debris. It was dark but not pitch black: meaning they navigated their way easily until nestling around one side of the chicken coop. Chest heaving, Lace took a deep breath. There was the smell of poultry, heavy, like stale porridge. Making him feel nauseous.

Only something wasn’t right: there was no sound coming from the coop. Not a single flap or squawk. Curious, Lace sneaked a glance glance through a gap. His eyes widened. The damned things were huge: with feathery manes like those of an ostrich.

Of course, Merv couldn’t give a damn. He’d already opened the bag, touting a hunting knife that resembled more a scabbard.

“What y’gonna do with that ?”

“Shut up an’ keep the bag ready. Even with it’s head off it’ll still be moving about...? ”

With a steely gaze, he scanned the rotting fence, looking for a groove that was big enough. Scraping his knees against the rubble, he crouched, watching through a jagged gap. “What the fuck ..,” he whispered when he saw the size of them. A particularly plump one hobbled over, the glint in its eye somewhat unnerving.

The procedure was simple: grab and down came the knife. Stretching, Merv managed a grip except the damned thing lunged, sinking its teeth. It was a good, long second before Merv wrenched his hand free and flung to the ground. “Fuckin’ bit me !” he cushioned the wound. Furious, he glared at Lace and grabbing a stick, stood over the fence lunging at it his assailant.

“Merv,” Lace panicked, not really processing what was going on. The older boy lunged, a sillhoute bristling with anger, not caring whether he was seen or not.

“I’ll kill the fucker !”

No sooner had he uttered the profanity before a huge fist, a farmer’s fist, crashed Merv to the ground. There was a sharp rush of air and a sickening thud. Merv was motionless, out cold. Lace widened his eyes as a tall and wiry form stood before him. Ol’ man Nettles. Perhaps it was the dark but he seemed twenty years younger. “They always sai-eed I had heavy fists.” He spit out tobacco, nodding with satisfaction before looking at Lace with eyes blacker than coals. “Yes sirree...Your friend sure is busy doin’ nothing.” There was a laugh: a big, roar of a laugh with his chest heaving out.

Looking at his stricken companion, Lace pulled his knees up, bracing himself. “Mister we were only messin...”

Nettles seemed not to listen. “ My chickens like feed,” he twanged, as if talking to himself. “Yes sirree... But what they don’t like is straeen-gers... “ He hooked his massive thumbs into his breeches, gaze settling on Lace. Sizing him up.

“Lemme go Mister !” Swampy tears welled in his eyes. If there was a chance to negotiate, perhaps it was now. He glanced at Merv again, his form still motionless before realising the birds, as if on cue, were watching through the cracks in the fence. Large, pebble eyes glinted in the dark. Unblinking.

The farmer was calm, too calm. Looking even taller, he breathed in the night air as if sampling it. “Nice night... The kinda night special thi-eengs happen... Sure does bring some memori-ees.” Once again he seemed to be talking to himself. Next came a swiftness that made Lace skip a beat. Nettles had him up, binding him with thick rope. Lace may as well have been a sack of feathers the way Nettles man handled him. Then came a slap: a heavy thunderclap slap that disorientated him. Lace was bound, lassoed to the fence.

Appraising his own handi work, Nettles chewed on more tobacco. “This here’s hogwash rope... Braided with cotton and yes, you guessed it....Hog intest-eens. At school it was the only damn thi-eeng I was okay at... “.

He’d bound the rope that tight chinks bit into Lace’s skin. Never mind moving, it was difficult breathing. A thicker part of the rope snuck against his throat.

“M-i-s-t-e-r...” his voice was a croak.

A heavy silence lingered before Nettles seemed to realise something , He chuckled, as if he were at a dinner party. “Ste-ill, it’s a nice night. And Yes Sirree, I’m sure glad you came by...” He was laughing now: laughing real hard as if he’d won a prize draw, tugging the rope to see if it was still tight. His breath had the stink of some bottomless pit. “ You listen careful now... Y’see ,these here creatures... Well, they prefer their meat young. real young. The type that ain’t hardened yet ang gone sinewy.”

Lace’s mind froze. What was the supposed to mean ? Tears began forming in his eyes.

“Well, I guess poor folk can-eent waste time procastinat-eeng,” Nettles said and in one swift movement, hurled the motionless Merv over his shoulder. Murmuring something, he trudged forward to the porch. Lace strained to look, watching the parlour lights switch on with the rickety door left open.

What he heard next was unmistakable: the sound of a cleaver coming down on something dense with Nettles’ voice vibrating through the thin night air. “ What’s that ol’ song now... The hip bone’s connected to the thigh bone... The thigh bone’s connected to the knee bone...The knee bone’s connected to the...” Then furious cussing.. “Damn it, fuck it.!” The cleaver came down faster. “Taking ‘vantage off a meeee... People blaming me for stuff I never done... Bet they were thinkin' what's this old fucker gonna do.. Bet they were! ” More chopping continued as if in a frenzy. Then nothing. Nothing except the glare of lights casting shadows.

Lace struggled against the rope, muscles contorting, pulling this way and that. There was no give: if anything the section of the rope around his throat was becoming tighter. He took a gulp of oxygen, his chest heaving with the effort. Only his boot tapped on something metallic. Something he’d forgotten about.... With the rope tugging at him, he stifled a glance. Merv’s knife, lying there in front of him.

He stretched for it: vocal cords compressing with effort. Another gulp of oxygen and he tried again, getting a searing cramp in his leg. The fence creaked; rotten bits of wood breaking off. Except his foot was on the handle now, kicking up dirt. One more tug and... Treacherously, it flipped away making with a dull, clanking tone. Realising he’d frittered away his only chance. What had Merv had once told him ? “When the jive’s against you, it’s against you.” He shut tight his eyes, energy draining away from his muscles. In that moment, Lace was no longer some young boy faking a swagger. This was coming of age. A strange feeling that seemed to give calm. A sense of resolve. He had to think: and think quick.

Inevitably, the tall, wiry figure emerged with a sack slumped over his shoulder, singing to himself as if delivering groceries. “Yes Siree..I found a plump one. No doubt about tha-eet. Now what’s that song ...Thigh bone’s connected to the knee bone... The knee bone’s connected to the - “ Curiously, he stopped, as if suspecting something. There was a sharp glance at Lace before he stooped to toss the sack into the coop. “Damn, this boy’s a heavy ‘un.” There was a muffled thud, then another and another... Pieces of meat... Immediately the birds grappled over the feed, tearing, threshing, pulling.

“We’eeeell well,!” Nettles was impressed, clapping his huge hammer like hands. “ See tha-eet ! These birds got two sets of teeth. Yes, two, see... I think they like your frie-end.” Then he shrugged, as if there was nothing more to debate about.

“I won’t- tell- anyone...”

Nettles’ coal black eyes surveyed him. “ That’s ri-eeght you ain’t tellin’ anyone... See boy, they like ‘em young. and tha-eet, they eat who-ole.” Then he looked down and blinked, spotting the knife. There was a disapproving nod before he reached for it, snapping it in half.

“Well, ain’t no need for tha-eet,” he spat tobacco, stopping to reflect on something before settling blacker than coal eyes on Lace. As before, there was a rush of air as he lunged, pinning Lace to the fence, untying the rope and about to haul him over as if Lace was nothing more than a bag of chicken feed. A split second before that, Nettles glanced curiously, as if he's expected Lace to blabber and squeal... This pitch black eyes narrowed. Only Lace scratched into them with those sharp nails of his... The ones that helped him splice open grocery bags. His mouth twisted like something savage. Again and again, he scratched into the whites until Nettles let go. Half blinded, Nettles swung wildly as the fence crashed in and he plunged into the coop

Having devoured one meal, the birds hissed greedily, flapping and jostling each other. It was a sound Lace would never forget: the tearing of flesh with Nettles still cussing and screaming. As he’d said, young meat was a favourite but old and wiry wasn’t off limits either.

[Finishes]