A Day in the Cornfield

by Glenn Gray

part VIII

One day, Karl and Stew discover strange “turd”-like things appearing in their cornfield. The things have a strange power of mimicry, and their intentions are far from clear. Karl and Stew elicit the help of Sheriff Maynard and his daughter Roxy. Consternation ensues, and the once quiet farm becomes the epicenter of national attention.

Ida Mae Wheeler had lived in Deer Haven County here in West Virginia for all of her eighty-four years, and never in her life had she seen anything like this thing that was perched in her front yard.

She was getting on in age, yeah, but heck, she didn’t drink or do drugs or anything like that, ’cept of course the hot toddy or three before bed and the morning fizz; but that didn’t count, no way.

And she didn’t think it was her eyeballs either. She knew her old lookers weren’t the sharpest, even with those cheap magnifying readers she picked up at the new fancy-schmancy Wal-Mart down the mountain.

No-sir-ee.

This critter was real.

Ida was slipping a 12-gauge shell into the barrel of her Winchester shotgun, all the while not taking her eyes off the thing in the yard. She moved real slow but careful, so as not to make any noises that might scare it off, or make it angry.

Ida finished loading then rested the gun on the back of the loveseat. She lifted one foot onto the couch, started tying up the boot laces good and tight. She passed a little gas and said, “Whoops.”

Ida stood and did the top button on her leather pants, yanking them up. They were just a tad snug. Gosh, she hadn’t worn them in six months, since before Ern passed, the last time they had the Harleys out.

Ida didn’t mind the sidecar on Ern’s bike, but after he passed, why, she just went out and got what she wanted the whole time anyways, her very own black Softtail Cross Bones; single seater, ape-hangers and special pipes with a sound could wake old Ern up from the dead.

She wrapped her head and gray bun in an American flag do-rag. The leather Harley vest covered her favorite t-shirt, the one that said “Born to Ride” across the front in red white and blue.

Ida could still see the thing through the window. It was standing there as if it was waiting for a bus or something. It was taller than the apple tree and the head was real hairy, kinda like old Chuck, the guy round the mountain, the one always sittin’ next to her at Biker Poker. Fact, it resembled a rabid dog, like Chuck when he lost his shirt at poker, which was all the time. The thing had bunched-up wings on its back that kept twitchin’ and twitchin’.

Ida Mae thought, heck, it might be one of them there Sasquatch things, old Bigfoot hisself. She heard they had been seen in the woods not too far from these parts. But she never heard of one with wings.

No mind.

Ida Mae pinched a cheroot from a wood box on the end table and popped it in her mouth, started to chew the end a little. Now the critter was crouching in the yard. The heck was it doing? Ready to pounce? Or maybe it was relieving itself, which kinda made Ida mad, given all those other critters that helped themselves to her yard any time they darn pleased.

Ida felt a subtle shiver shoot through her old bones. She lifted the rifle and pulled a lighter from her vest pocket, lit the cheroot so it flamed up good. She clenched her front teeth, what was left of ’em, over the end of the thin cigar, pulled back her lips, savored the leafy aroma.

Ida then reached and patted the 9mm semiautomatic Glock tucked in at the small of her back. Her shoulder pained up.

She strutted over to the garage door, stepped down the short staircase into the garage and over to the small window. She didn’t turn on the light like usual. Just took a peek and she saw the thing still crouched over. Ida was gettin’ madder now.

She climbed onto the steel horse, positioned the butt of the gun in her crotch, rested the barrel over the handle bars.

Ern would be proud.

Ida grabbed the handgrips and flicked the kickstand with her foot. She took a deep drag on the cheroot. Then she simultaneously hit the button for the garage on the adjacent pole and the start button on the Harley.

The exhaust roared to life, rattling the windows, drowning out the hum of the garage door. As soon as the door was high enough she pulled the clutch and slammed the gearshift down into first and gunned the throttle.

Ida Mae blasted from the garage and up the driveway, about two-hundred feet from the thing. Ida let out a high-pitched wail and the thing turned and shuttered and darted off toward the cover of the forest.

Ida gained quickly and got within fifty feet alongside and eased off the throttle a bit, lifted the shotgun, propped the butt into her gut, aimed, and BOOM. The explosion had a nasty kick.

The buckshot sprayed the hairy critter’s buttocks and it half-hopped and the wings fluttered, trying to get some traction, but it was under a dense canopy of evergreen and it got only a little airborne before it scraped the roof of evergreen branches and came down flat on its stomach, wings flailing and waving like it was having a seizure.

Ida slowed up along side, looked, and blasted again, this time only getting its wings and some neighboring tree trunks, branches and a few boulders.

Ida was wide awake and charged with adrenaline, euphoric actually, not having had this much fun since she and old Ern went turkey hunting way back when.

Ida was grinning, the cheroot still clamped in her teeth, a little smoke in her eyes, until she looked round and realized she had misjudged the curve in the gravel drive, the one that rounds the slope and heads toward the pond down the mountain, and saw the trees big as day right in front of her face.

To be continued...