When Pigs Fly
By Erin Hartshorn
Category: Fantasy |
Release:Anguirus (5.5)
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He flipped the “open” sign to read “back at,” then set the clock hands to half an hour. It shouldn’t take more than that. Pig squeals filled the street. He shaded his eyes with his right hand and looked up. Must be at least half a dozen of them circling the town, and they didn’t look any too happy. And what was that one doing to the steeple at the Baptist Church?
More pigs were arriving. They streamed in from the east, out Old Man Beacham’s way. Jim straightened the magnetic fish on his bumper before he got into his car. It was past time to deal with this.
At least the cows weren’t flying. Falling cow patties would ruin a car faster than anything. And Beacham didn’t have dogs; they would chew their own legs off rather than stay on his property. No sheep, of course. Still, Jim slowed as he approached the gravel turn-off. No telling what other damn foolishness was going on.
The water tower was free of livestock, but then, it usually was. The horses’ heads hung out of their stalls in the barn. They seemed to be okay, at least. Not even slightly discomfited by the blazing chickens perched on the edges of the corral. At least Beacham had the sense to get that artificial stuff this time. Not that he had much choice; the fire department flat-out refused to come back after the third time.
The porch didn’t creak. Nor did the door hinges when Jim opened the screen door. Why should they? Beacham tried to keep things in good repair.
Beacham answered Jim’s knock immediately, as if he’d been standing there waiting for it. Maybe he had.
“Beacham, they’re out again. You promised to take care of it.”
The old man’s eyes flared red. “Please, I’ve asked you, call me Nick.”
Jim just stared at him. Beacham sighed and said, “I can’t control them any more. The flies come, and the pigs go.”
“And the crosses around the sty didn’t help?”
Beacham looked as though he wanted to be contrite. “They were bothering me a mite bit when I was doing my chores, so I used the horses to pull them down and haul them away.”
Jim crossed his arms and looked away toward the corral. “You know what we said, Beacham. This was your last chance. I’m going to have to send you back to hell.”
The old man shook his head and stepped backward into his house. The door swung closed quietly. Jim pulled his crucifix over his head and looped it over the door handle. It wouldn’t keep Beacham inside, but it would seal this exit to him.
The town had been preparing for this day for years. Jim walked back to his car, flipped open his cellphone, and hit the speed dial. The city engineer had set up a cellphone-activated explosive on the water tower. Another set of charges blew the roof off, leaving the house exposed to the sky; holy water cascaded down.
The smell of roasting flesh filled the air. Jim watched the house disappear into the ground, leaving only a large sinkhole behind. They’d have to cordon that off. Send someone out to deal with the livestock, too. He’d call the mayor when he got back to his shop.
It wasn’t until he got into town that he realized the pigs were still in the air. Jim shrugged. The vets could figure that one out. He had a business to run.
Erin M. Hartshorn is a desert rat transplanted to a humid climate. Her ideal home has bookcases in every room. She is a moderator at Forward Motion for Writers, an online writers community. Each year, she also indulges in NaNoWriMo, acting as regional Municipal Liaison. Her fiction has appeared in anthologies from Carnifex Press and Hadley Rille Books; online at Spacesuits and Sixguns, and at Aurora Wolf; and has placed in the PARSEC short story contest.
“Rise of Kencha” at Spacesuits and Sixguns:
http://www.spacesuitsandsixguns.com/kencha.html
“Being Green” at Aurora Wolf: aurorawolf.com/2009/09/being-green/
