CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories by J. Posthumus (read after txt) 📕

on the ground, right where Perry had slipped it off. I reached for it with my hands, no longer shaking, and strapped it on. It was lighter than I remembered. I grabbed the nozzle. It was hot. Perry must have left the pilot on. I prayed there was enough kerosene left and had the sudden regret that I didn’t budget more for a gasoline-powered one.

I stood in front of Lab A. The chirping was closer and growing in number. I took a breath, and opened the door. With the pull of the trigger, the K.F.C. shot flame from its nozzle, and within seconds fire touched every corner of the room. I could hear pops and shrieks until the fire alarm kicked on and blasted my ear. The sprinklers above kicked on, but I turned the dial on the handle of the nozzle and fought the water with fire until steam formed, and the liquid on the floor bubbled.

Satisfied that the things therein were at worst, mush, and, at best, poached, I turned my attention to Perry… and the hallway she ran down.

I was torn between rushing to save her and taking my time and letting the monster have her, the traitor. The better part of me won out.

She was plucky and resourceful; I had to give her that. Her policy was always “make a way, even where there isn’t one.” I couldn’t blame her scientific mind for throwing me in a room full of life-sucking chicks, but, then again, I could.

With my hurt and anger flaring along with the K.F.C. pilot, I strode down the hall and turned toward the open door of the break room.

The break room was broken.

The fronts of the vending machines were gone, ripped open like the jagged top of a tuna can, their contents emptied. Nothing but shredded wrappers remained. Chairs were in pieces, tables too, and on the far wall, adjacent to the water cooler, was a human-sized hole—torn through sheetrock and metal—that led outside.

That’s where all the banging came from. The Merryl-thing wasn’t trying to leave through the door. It was trying to make its own way out. A shudder snaked down my spine.

It was strong, it was intelligent, and I had to take it down.

A trail of ooze, red and putrid, trailed from the center of the room, across the bottom of the hole, and into the night.

Splinters of metal and glass bit into the bottoms of my feet, and I looked down to find Perry’s crunched glasses among the shrapnel of a chair. They were next to our overturned barbeque grill, the black charcoal camouflaging the black frames. Bending down, I reached for the glasses, but a hint of silver and red metal caught my attention. It was a small rectangular can of lighter fluid. Putting in my back pocket, I stood up, and gritted my teeth against the pain as I stepped forward. I had to push through, to find Perry.

As I stepped over the jagged threshold, my shoulder brushed a sharp edge. I looked over to see a toe-nail the length of a human finger.

Merryl was mutating quickly, that was for certain, but where was he going?

I followed the trail, using the tiny flame from the pilot light at the end of the nozzle to help me see it. It wound around the building, through the back door I’d entered, and down the gravel path, directly toward the one place I’d hoped it wouldn’t be going.

Barn 21.

The keys were still in the ignition of the Gator, right where I’d left them. They were also in the accessory mode, where I had left them, and the ignition only clicked for me. I groaned, frustrated, hungry, scared, all the emotions boiling over. Tears poured from my eyes, some from the dust whipped up by the gusts of West Texas wind, and others for Merryl and Bodie… and maybe Perry. Regret wrapped around me, all the things I never said, and exhaustion threatened me.

I tried the keys one more time. It started, and I headed for the barn.

I could’ve waited for help. I wasn’t sure of the time. Others could’ve been on their way, right at that very second.

The problem that preyed on that hope in my mind like a raccoon in a chicken coop was what would they—the others—do with all of this? What would they want with these foul creatures?

More questions pummeled my weary brain as I neared the barn, dust flaring up behind the Gator, my foot aching as I pressed it against the pedal and my right butt check numb from the can of lighter fluid in my pocket. Two fears gripped me, tighter than I gripped the steering wheel. What if the larger… thing… was still alive, and more importantly, what if I ran out of fire?

I had answers for neither. I had no plans, no solutions, and no help. I was about to stare down the barrel of death, and all I had was sheer will.

And a Kerosene Flame Canister.

My odds weren’t great, but they weren’t entirely zero, or so I repeated to myself when I arrived at the barn. The bent rebar I’d attempted to use to secure the doors was on the ground. The doors were cracked.

Bits of luminescence flittered inside, the electrical system’s death rattle.

Over the buzz and hum, a sound permeated.

Scratching.

I turned the dial on the K.F.C. handle once more. With all the courage I could muster, I stepped inside… and fired toward the right side of the barn.

Feathers caught fire, and the blaze inched like a hungry caterpillar along the base of the wall, illuminating the barn.

The fried monstrosity in the middle bubbled, and, stepping out from behind it, I saw the thing formerly known as Merryl.

His right side faced me. His head and face were intact, but where his hand and arm had been was a white feathered wing. His bare abdomen was half-human muscle and half-white feathered flesh. His pants were gone along with his human legs.