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

All that remained were two giant peach-colored colored banded chicken legs. Five large, talon-tipped toes protruded. He scratched at the ground as he pecked with his still-human lips at the smoldering pile of monster next to him.

And then he turned to face me.

I could scarcely make where his face ended and Perry’s began, her flesh and mouth molded and stuck onto his. Her body, partially absorbed, hung limp at his side.

Between the sight and the overwhelming stench, I gagged.

Merryl-Perry-chicken’s eyes opened, and they stared through me. And then it ran, straight toward me, its wings flapping up dust and debris as it neared.

I felt for the control dial on the K.F.C.’s handle with my fingertips, and by a miracle, found it. Aiming, I pulled the trigger.

And the flame sputtered.

Shocked, I froze, until my instinct willed me to run. It reached the door before I did, and with a gruesome splurch, the conjoined mouth spoke.

“L.CCCCC.,” the garbled voice of Perry spoke. “Don’tttt dooo thhiss! Thinkkk ooof thee sssscience!”

I shuddered, and with a surge of panic, ran toward the back of the barn. I was trapped. That thing could run quicker than I and blocked my only way out. All that was left was to hide. There was nowhere to hide, not even among the five barrels we kept for additional supplies.

And what would I do about a weapon?

The Gator. Merryl kept a small bottle of kerosene under the seat. He had lanterns he would hang up when we lost electricity, refusing to burden himself with carrying flashlights when having to shuffle bags of feed or maneuver livestock.

I couldn’t outrun the thing, but maybe….just maybe I could distract it.

Perry had kept Merryl-chicken busy in the break room for a while, but how?

Mealworms.

And that was exactly what I kept at the back of the barn, tucked away in a corner. A barrel of experimental-protein-coated mealworms. Approved, of course, by Perry herself with specific rationing.

“Merryl… thing” I called out, popping open the plastic lid. “Want some treats?”

Scuffling followed and then the flutter of wings.

“Nooo, Merrylll,” Perry’s voice sounded. “It’ssss a trrap.”

I kicked the barrel, and it shifted. A few pushes, and it rolled to the feet of the thing. The conjoined faces studied mine for a moment and then lunged downward, pecking at the spilled goods.

I stepped away slowly, quietly eased myself to the opposite side—the ashen side—of the barn. My feet burned, and I choked down screams as I made my way to the door. I turned back, praying not to see the thing rushing toward me. It was silent, save for a human-like clucking.

My pace quickened, and my heart raced as I reached the Gator. A piece of Perry was still alive, still cognizant. How long before she could steer it to stop me?

I pulled up the seat, and there it sat. My salvation in a spare kerosene fuel canister. I grabbed it, popped the silver lid off, and plugged it into the bottom of the K.F.C. The small gauge at the end of the K.F.C.’s control handle moved, and then retracted. Was it broken?

A gust of wind licked my face, and I found myself falling backward, with one large chicken foot pushing me off the Gator. I turned as I fell, and landed on the K.F.C. Metal crunched beneath me as the Merryl-Perry-chicken jumped on my stomach and pressed its weight into me.

My ribs cracked until I imagined them splintered. The heat and metallic taste of blood launched up my throat as air sacs in my lungs burst. I squirmed in pain, squirmed against it. I grabbed the hose of the nozzle with my free right hand, and in desperation, swung it. The nozzle nocked against the thing’s head and then rebounded back to the ground.

The thing looked down at me, and then bent over, its hungry mouths open and clucking. They caught my left forearm as I brought it up to shield my face. I turned my face away as their jaws clenched my bone, the pressure building until I knew my arm would snap.

I’d nearly resigned. It had me pinned, my back breaking against the K.F.C. pack on the ground, my left arm turning into mush before my eyes.

But a small green arrow caught my eye. The gauge on the end of the handle. It was bouncing. Not much, but a little, and maybe… just maybe enough.

I pulled at the hose with my right hand, feeling for the grip of the handle of the K.F.C., my brain warring against the sensation of unadulterated pain and the feeling of my index finger on the ridges of the control dial. I pushed against it all.

“You’ll never peck me alive,” I yelled as I pointed the cone at Merryl-Perry-chicken thing’s face, and pulled the trigger.

Flames shot out, a vertical barrage of heat. It released my arm too late, and the pain of the burn spread to my shoulders. I held the trigger down, sending wave after wave of fire. Its wing flapped, sending plumes of vapor back toward me. My arm burned, my body tingled. My face flushed as though I had dipped it into a bonfire.

“Nice try, chickadee,” I muttered, the skin of my lips cracking.

Its foot slipped off of me as it staggered back, and—there!—I saw my opportunity. I released the trigger for a moment, and stood up. With a swift kick, I knocked it backwards onto the Gator, and stepping back as far as I felt I could, I unleashed a final string of fire aimed directly at the gas tank.

It blew. Heat engulfed me. I was airborne, and then, I was out.

I pushed myself up on my knees and sank into the ash. My body ached, each breath brought a feeling like my lungs were being needled by my ribs, my back was numb, and my back pocket was filled with heat. I reached back and pulled out a very dented, blazing hot metal can of lighter fluid that I’d forgotten I’d stuffed in there. I