“Hey, look over there.” Jimmy pointed out his window to the West.
Zack glanced over. “Yeah, cool sunset.”
“No, in the sky.”
“What, Superman?”
“No, idiot—ducks.”
Zack kept his left hand on the steering wheel and leaned right and low, peering
out the passenger window. “Still can’t see them.”
“Pull over then.”
“Why?”
“They’re circling to land,” Jimmy said.
Zack checked the rearview mirror. A semi-truck followed close behind, too close
to slow properly. He jerked the wheel to the right. The pickup’s tires entered the
shoulder, throwing gravel-chips into the wheel wells, creating a terrible racket
inside the cab.
The semi-truck roared past them, and the driver gave an angry blast from the air
horn.
Zack stomped on the brake pedal.
Jimmy flew forward, smacked his palms flat on the dash, and slammed his feet
against the floorboards. After the pickup stopped, he pushed back and turned to
Zack. “What were you thinking?”
“He was tailgating.” Zack checked his side mirror before opening the door. The
hinges squeaked and popped where the fender and door had been bent
together. He hopped out. The October wind bit the tops of his ears, as he
rounded the front of his faded-green truck. Jimmy leaned out the window pointing
to the sky.
In the distance, a flock of ducks circled as if they were caught in a huge
whirlwind. Zack wearing only a white t-shirt crossed his arms. “They’re going to a
land on the river.”
Jimmy shook his head and said, “Naw, they come off the Snake at night.” He spit
tobacco juice in the dead weeds that lined the empty irrigation ditch.
Zack looked at the side of the door to see if Jimmy dribbled. “Where’s your spit
can?” Jimmy looked annoyed, but Zack didn’t care. Jimmy showed him his Coke
can spittoon.
“This truck is such a piece of crap anyway,” Jimmy said.
Zack took a shadow punch at Jimmy’s head. Jimmy reeled back and his face
turned sour.
“You jackass! You made me swallow my wad.”
He used a dirt-stained finger to scoop out the remaining chew from the trough of
his lower lip. He pulled his finger out and wiped it on his sweatshirt. He said, “Get
in. I’ll bet you ten bucks they’re close to Peterson’s farm.”
* * *
The next day, as Zack and Jimmy left World History class, Zack elbowed Jimmy
and asked, “Did you ask Peterson yet?”
“Me? She’s your girlfriend.” Jimmy complained.
Zack shuffled his books. “You ask her. And I’ll forget about the gas money.”
“Hell. No. We’re even. We bet ten bucks the ducks were over Peterson’s place.
Loser.”
“We didn’t shake on it,” Zack said.
“Just call her dad, Dickweed. He’ll let us hunt there.”
“Him and me,” Zack pulled Jimmy away from the flow of students in the hallway,
“ain’t on such good terms. You know that.”
Jimmy used his tongue to compact the small amount of Skoal, bulging his lower
lip. Then he yelled down the hallway, “Peterson.”
Zack kicked him, solid, on the ankle bone. “What are you doing?”
“Ouch!” Jimmy hopped in pain. “Taking care of business.”
Standing near the Chemistry Lab, Lisa Peterson held her books to her chest with
crossed arms and turned her pretty face towards Zack. “Stop waving. She’s
coming this way.”
“That is the idea, Dork Breath. We only have a couple of hours left.” Jimmy
shoved Zack in Lisa’s direction.
The corners of Jimmy’s lips had dried tobacco juice in them. Zack wondered if
Jimmy’s simple brain suffered from nicotine poisoning. He whispered to Jimmy,
“Come on, you ask her. Please.”
Jimmy ran up to Lisa and pulled her next to Zack. “Zack has something he wants
to ask, but he’s afraid you bite.”
That little jerk! I’ll murder him. “Uh, would your dad mind if we hunted his
cornfield, next to your house?” She moved her books higher, squishing breasts
he had never seen, but had recently touched. Jimmy grinned at him, bits of black
between his teeth.
“Oh, sure, I will. Daddy, do you remember that Zack boy, the one you said you’d
shoot, if you caught him near me again? Well, he wants to kill poor little migratory
birds in your cornfield.”
Jimmy blurts out, “We could have done it without asking, you know.”
Lisa turned to Jimmy. “You’re stupid.”
She spun around on her long legs. The same legs Zack had been lying on top of
when her dad had caught them, making out, stacked together on the seat in Zack’
s truck.
“Now what, Butt Face?” Jimmy asked.
Zack stomped on Jimmy’s foot.
“Ouch, what the—”
Zack clamped his hand across Jimmy’s sticky mouth. Mister Ortmeyer walked by.
Jimmy’s eyes were wide open. Zack said, “Top of the morning, Mister. O.” It was
early afternoon and soon the ducks would be leaving the river and heading for
Peterson’s farm.
* * *
Zack parked his truck deep in Mister Peterson’s apple orchard that was next to
the harvested cornfield. “I don’t have a good feeling about this. Mister P. already
wants to make jerky out of me.”
“We’ve got guns. What can he do?” Jimmy reached back and removed his 12-
gauge from the gun rack.
“Wipe your mouth.”
Jimmy wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his brown, hooded sweatshirt. “Show
time!” He opened the cab door. He pumped the breach open and began to shove
red-cased shells with a dirt crusted index finger.
“All right, but at the first sign of Mister P., I’m hauling ass out of here.”
Jimmy finished loading and looked up. “Hey, this is a free country. Besides, old
man Peter-up-his-ass-son leases this property from Widow Olsen, so he don’t
own it.”
“Christ, it’s the same as owning it,” Zack said.
“What the hell do you know? You live in town.”
Zack wondered if Jimmy could be right, for once. He grabbed his Levi jacket and
said, “Alright, let’s go.”
The armed pair walked side by side traversing the rows of apple trees that were
in the process of being pruned. Neatly stacked piles of cut branches sat near the
bases of the trees.
Besides his gun, Zack carried a collapsible shovel. Jimmy carried his gun and a
knapsack that contained four cans of Coors, two packages of coconut-covered
snowball cupcakes, and two king-sized Snickers, dinner. They’d have to wait until
almost dark for the ducks to land.
They stopped at the edge of the orchard and corn field. Zack wished that the
field was on the other side of the Peterson house. The setting sun will front light
them.
Hunkered down, they ran to the middle of the field, leaped over taller rows of
stalks and stomped down shorter remains that came under foot. In the middle of
the field, they laid on their bellies, side by side, in separate rows. They both
watched for movement from the Peterson house and barnyard, which was about
one-quarter of a mile away.
Jimmy started to laugh. “This is more fun than stealing watermelons.” He spit a
glob of brown.
“We’re trespassing.” Zack rolled on his side and began to scrape away the
parchment like corn leaves. He uncovered yellow and orange kernels of corn, like
the ducks will for their dinner. Once past several inches of crust, the earth gave
way to a sandy texture. Zack doubted Jimmy could smell the soil and dried corn
leaves, which were inches from his nose.
Zack tossed the shovel to Jimmy. The shovel landed and the spade flung dirt and
sprinkled it on the white coconut and marshmallow topping of Jimmy’s Snowball
cupcakes.
“You, Toad.” Jimmy turned his cupcake upside down. The dirt didn’t come off. He
took the shovel, reached over, and smacked Zack’s snowballs, causing the
mounds to flatten inside the clear wrapper.
“Mine was an accident. You did that on purpose.” Zack pointed to his damaged
Snowballs.
“No I didn’t.”
Zack looked at his friend, shook his head, and rolled on his back into the
coolness of his shallow grave, beer in hand, gun at the ready beside him. He
framed Peterson’s farm house between his cowboy boots.
The sky was clear and blue, and, in the distance, just above the reddish horizon,
triangular waves of flying birds headed their direction like several air wings of
bombers.
“Dig faster they’re coming.”
Jimmy, digging on his knees, looked up. The sun painted an orange glow on
Jimmy’s face, magnifying the porcupine stubble on his chin. His brown eyes
seemed to glint with excitement. “Jeeeesus, look at ‘em. What’s the limit? Five?”
“Probably. Hurry, will you?”
Jimmy began to dig like a hungry dog, uncovering a bone, flinging dirt in all
directions. He threw the shovel to the side, grabbed his gun, and lay on his back
six feet away from Zack, pulling his head up as if waiting for a pillow.
He rolled to his side facing Zack, popped a can of Coors, spit to the side, and
drank. “I told my mom we’re having duck for dinner.”
“Lay flat!”
“What’s wrong?” Jimmy asked.
“I saw something out in front of the Peterson place.” Zack raised his head. “Crap,
it’s their dogs, mean as hell.”
“We have guns, so bring ‘m on.”
“Lay flat, will you?
“How am I supposed to drink my beer on my back?” Jimmy sipped his beer
sideways. “Ah, it’s Lisa you’re afraid of not the dogs. Newsflash here, she ain’t
that hot. She probably don’t give out. Does she?”
Zack threw a handful of dirt at Jimmy; some of it sprinkled the top of his beer can,
his second one.
“Christ, knock off the dirt throwing?”
“Listen.” Quacks, barely audible. Zack reached to his side and began to cover
his body with crunchy corn leaves and short sections of balsa-like corn stalks.
“Cover up.”
“I got a piss.” Jimmy held his crotch with both hands.
“Piss to the side. Just hurry. Ducks have good eyesight for little worms.”
“Screw you, Weed Brains.” Jimmy rolled to his side, away from Zack. “It’s all
shriveled up. It’ll run back in my grave.”
“Pull on it.” A chilled wind swept across the field. The tinny sound of Jimmy
pissing in is empty beer can made Zack smile. “I hope that’s short of a twelve-
ounce piss.”
“Ouch, the edges are sharp.”
Judging from the sound, the can was nearly full.
“Damn, I don’t know if I can stop.”
The quacking of ducks was a full voice now. Jimmy reached for his other beer
can. A shallow filling began but soon stopped.
“Haaa.”
“Now, get down and cover yourself.”
The quacking from scores of ducks rose to a roar as they flew over the Peterson
place. There were six V shaped squadrons that formed one massive V. The
leading V broke formation and began to circle high above the cornfield. They flew
counterclockwise, creating a large ring that seem to possess its own gravity,
pulling subsequent Vs apart, sucking individual birds in.
“Jeeeesus K Rist, this is fun,” Jimmy said. He slowly drew his gun close to his side.
The ring changed into a funnel-shaped cloud of ducks. A single duck, a mallard,
broke from the tip of the funnel, spread his wings, dropping like a dive bomber,
holding steady, gliding in a circular sweep, gaining speed he then used to
ascend back to the safety of the flock. Next, other mallards made similar solo
passes, each coming closer to the ground, then back up to the safety of the
group.
Whispering, Jimmy said, “There’re thousands.”
Zack had estimated their numbers when they had been in the V formations. “No,
more like four hundred.”
“When do we start shooting?” Jimmy’s shotgun rested on his chest.
“We’ll wait until they all land.” Zack thought that he should have gotten on the
other side of Jimmy. The muzzle of his 12-gauge pointed in his direction. “Is your
safety on?”
Jimmy shook his head.
“Then take your frigging finger off the trigger. I like my head attached.” Jimmy
moved his finger to the edge of the trigger guard.
The sun was setting. Zack wonder if legal to hunt after sunset. “They’re landing.”
“Shhhhh.”
The tornado of ducks began to collapse on the field. Some landed just a few feet
away. The thunderous quacking diminished as more waddled and gleaned for
corn.
Jimmy had his finger back on the trigger again, pointing his gun at Zack’s feet.
Someone stood outside the Peterson Place with jumping black spots, the
Labradors. He whispered, “Don’t shoot towards the house.”
“Stop worrying, relax. Let’s kill some ducks.” Jimmy’s face had a wild look of
excitement plastered on it. “Time for killing.”
They were surrounded by ducks, thick as locusts.
Jimmy was right. They had plenty to shoot at. He glanced at Lisa’s house. It was
probably Lisa and her Labradors, Junior and Molly. When visiting Lisa, Zack had
stayed in his truck until Lisa had come from the house to call them off.
“On three,” Jimmy said as he adjusted his gun, making ready. “One.” Zack
checked the Peterson house. Junior and Molly were gone and Lisa was waving
her hands in the air. “Two.” The dogs were in the field, running at a dead run,
coming straight for them. “Three!” Jimmy sat up and opened fire.
Zack sat up and yelled, “Watch out for the dogs.”
But the blasts from Jimmy’s shotgun were too loud to be heard, as Jimmy pumped
and shot, pumped and shot, pumped and shot, hitting duck after duck while they
were still on the ground, colorful feathers scattered as their bodies rolled in the
dust.
“Whee, doggies.” Jimmy yelled.
Frightened ducks, crapping themselves, filled the air in a swarm of confusion—
they had no organized escape plan.
“Shoot, Zack!”
Zack raised his gun and chopped at the barrel of Jimmy’s gun just has he pulled
the trigger. Blamb! He looked at the dogs. They were okay, but getting closer.
“What is wrong with you?” Jimmy yelled above the din of the ducks and pulled his
gun back.
“Look!” Zack pointed to Junior and Molly. They were two hundred yards away,
coming towards them.
Jimmy stood. “Shit.”
It was actually urine. He had a large wet spot on his butt. He had knocked over
the beer cans he had pissed in. They drained into Jimmy’s pit.
“This is your fault.” Jimmy spit but most of the brown juice dribbled down his chin.
Gun shots reported behind them. Zack cringed as he turned. It was Lisa’s dad.
He had a gun and stood at the edge of the orchard. They were trapped between
the dogs and her dad.
“Is that old man Peterson?”
“Who else?”
“Are those dogs friendly?”
“Do they look it?”
Jimmy shook his head. “What the..., we can’t outrun ‘em. We’ll have to shoot
‘em.” Jimmy dug into his front pocket, pulled out three shells, and turned his gun
upside down and loaded them.
Zack said, “Lay your gun down and raise your hands.” Zack bent down and
dropped his gun.
“Hell with that.” Jimmy continued to load.
“Do it,” Zack commanded.
Jimmy flipped his gun right-side up, pumped a round into the chamber, and took
aim on one of the dogs, probably Junior, the largest. He pressed his cheek
against the blue metal, made slight adjustments in sighting, and breathed in,
holding his breath.
“Don’t do it.” Zack pulled his hands down and took a step towards Jimmy. He
glanced at Mister Peterson.
Mister Peterson took aim on them.
“Come on, Jimmy. Put the gun down.”
“I have the right to defend myself.” Jimmy kept adjusting his gun as the dogs
came closer.
Zack took off on a run, putting his body between the muzzle of Jimmy’s gun and
the snarled teeth of the dogs. He yelled as he ran. “Junior. Molly.” No reaction.
“Heel.” They still ran. The ducks had fled. In the quiet, he thought he heard Lisa’s
voice carry across the field. She began to run towards them.
“Junior! Molly!” It was no use and they were getting closer. Zack stopped. Lisa
ran as she cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled the names of the
dogs. Zack looked behind. Jimmy ran towards him too, holding his gun in his left
hand.
Lisa’s dad was on his trail bike bouncing over the fallen corn rows; his gun was in
the scabbard that was mounted on the side of the red motorcycle.
The dogs would get to Zack first or Jimmy might shoot him, trying to stop the
dogs from attacking him. Mister Peterson would arrive next. He’d probably shoot
Jimmy for killing his dogs, and Lisa would get here in time to witness the bloody
mess. Would she run to her dead dogs or dead me? Probably the dogs.
Junior and Molly had their heads low, tongues flopping from their open mouths.
Their streamlined bodies leaped over the occasional corn rows, like hurdlers.
He’d heard that gross, traumatic pain didn’t hurt until later, like it took the brain
time to figure out what was happening. He wondered if they’d go for his throat or
arms. He looked at Jimmy again. “Don’t shoot!”
Jimmy, in a shooter’s stance waited, no doubt, for the dogs to enter his gun sites.
Lisa’s voice was clear now, “Junior. Molly. Heel.” She sounded frightened.
The sound of the trail bike was close. Mister Peterson bounced over the rows. He
held his legs out to the side, kicking up dust and debris, as he used his feet to
stabilize the wobbling bike.
Zack closed his eyes. He wanted his mother. His dad would be pissed off.
Everyone was yelling now. He heard a quack. It was a Mallard to his left, an easy
target for the dogs. It sat content, as if it were hatching an egg. He crawled over
to it. It seemed dazed. It flapped its left wing and dragged the other when he
reached and grabbed its puffy body.
He stood and held the duck against his chest as it struggled. He placed a hand
under his yellow feet, holding its colorful body with his arm. Jimmy maintained his
trance-like focus on the dogs.
Zack ran into the line of sight of Jimmy’s gun. “Put the gun down.”
Jimmy shook his head, maintaining his aim on one of the dogs.
He saw Jimmy cringe. The dog bit and yanked on his right calf. There was no
pain only scorching heat. The second dog knocked him forward. Zack protected
the squirming duck as he landed, hard. He heard a dog yelp. Jimmy had hit
Junior with the barrel of his gun. Junior let go of his leg, but Molly attacked the
duck, biting the sleeves of his Levi jacket.
The duck, crazy with fear, thrashed around so much that Zack was afraid that he’
d crush it to keep it safe from Molly’s gnashing teeth.
The motorcycle was near, and then it crashed with the engine running wildly.
“Molly! Junior! Heel!”
Mister Peterson turned off the motor. Both dogs sat, panting heavily. The duck
was screeching wildly, as if it were being strangled. Zack let go of it. It squawked
and quacked, as it limped and tried to fly away with one wing. Molly and Junior
looked at the duck.
Mister Peterson stood over Zack and said to the dogs. “Lay down!” The dogs lay,
still panting. “Put down that gun—boy. You kids are trespassing.”
Jimmy, reluctantly, lowered his gun and spit in the direction of the dogs.
Searing pain filled Zack’s body, radiating from his right leg. He imagined that it
had been torn in half. Didn’t he care that I’m dying! He rolled onto his back
looking up at the red-faced farmer. He rolled back and forth, holding his leg in
the air, bent at the knee. It was some consolation to see that his foot and leg
were still attached.
“Daddy. He’s hurt, bad.” Lisa knelt beside Zack. “I’m sorry…the dogs ran off.
They wouldn’t obey me.” She placed her left hand under his right knee. With her
right hand she put it under his heel, lowering his leg, straight, and to the ground.
She pulled gently to remove his boot.
She was beautiful, as her black hair fell around her face. Jimmy plopped to his
knees beside her. He was ugly as a toad, but he was his best friend. It was dusk
now and the wind kicked up and made him colder.
Jimmy removed his hooded sweat shirt, leaned over, grabbed Zack’s sandy curls,
lifted his head up, and placed it under Zack’s head. Then he pushed on Zack’s
forehead and forced his head onto the softness.
“Daddy. Your knife please.” She held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. “He’
s,” she looked at Zack with those dark eyes, “we need to see his leg.”
“He was trespassing,” her father mumbled. He withdrew his multi-tool from its
holder.
Zack watched her eyes for her reactions, for some clue, as to how bad it was and
how she felt. The knife was sharp and easily cut through his jeans that would now
be cutoffs this summer. His teeth began to chatter.
“Daddy, your jacket. He’s cold.”
Zack wanted to say that it was okay, he didn’t need it, he was a trespasser, but
he didn’t want to cross Lisa.
Mister Peterson knelt opposite Lisa and Jimmy who kept spitting nervously, Zack
thought. What was he nervous about?
“Let’s roll him over.” Lisa was still giving the orders.
Mister Peterson’s face was kinder. He stared at Lisa and took glances at Zack’s
leg. He and Jimmy rolled Zack over. His head was turned so he could still see
Mister Peterson’s face.
He felt someone peel up his pant leg.
Jimmy seemed to lose his balance and pushed on Zack’s back with his hand.
“Jeeeesus, That’s not good.”
It was probably Lisa that pulled up on his cut pant leg and twisted it and laid it
over his leg. It was her small hands that pressed the fabric against his wounds.
He wanted to yell out. He gritted his teeth and groaned.
“You, what’s your name?”
“Jimmy.”
“Take the trail bike and get this boy’s—“
“It’s Zackary, Daddy.”
“Get his truck, drive it to the road, and come up the rows, fast.”
Shit, Mister P. was worried. I’m really hurt. Zack wanted to cry but not in front of
her dad.
Mister P.’s hand went into his shirt pocket. Zack was surprised Mister P. pulled
out and handed Jimmy the keys to Zack’s truck. Zack had left them in the
ashtray.
Jimmy started the trail bike and zipped off.
Mister Peterson had that look in his eyes again, not for him or Jimmy, Zack
thought, but for Lisa. He looked human now, not like the crazy man who had
yanked Zack off his daughter and pulled him out of his truck, onto the ground. He
placed his monster hands on Zack’s leg, outside of Lisa’s hands.
“Honey, move your hands. I’ll hold…Zachary’s leg.”
Their hands shifted places. He pressed really hard, reaping his revenge, no
doubt. Lisa leaned over Zack and put her arms around her father’s neck. Her
hands were bloody.
“I’m sorry, daddy.”
For a moment, Zack forgot about his pain. He didn’t know what she was sorry
about, but then Mister Peterson pressed even harder causing more pain than
before, Zack wondered if it had to do with that night.
The duck quacked and flopped on the ground, attempting to fly.
Mister Peterson gripped still harder.
The End
Ducks
(2007) (Unpublished)
A Short Story by Russell Traughber
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