Joel Arnold - Fetal Bait Apocalypse - 3 Collections in 1

Duck poop splatted on the hood of the truck. Another big glob landed on the window.

“White gold,” John whistled.

The sound of their honking filled the air seductively.

John lifted the duck call to his mouth and gave it a honk.

Waaahhh!

“Put that away, you moron,” Chuck said. “There’ll be plenty.”

Chuck and John had been hunting together since high school, and Brent turned it into a trio four years ago. Still, he was the new guy. Add that to the fact that he used a homemade bow, and Chuck and John couldn’t help but tease him.

“Hey, Cochise,” Chuck said. “Reach in the glove compartment and pull us each out one of them cigars.”

Actually, Brent was mostly Norwegian; his closely trimmed beard the color of rusting tin. But he had about a toe’s worth of Pembina Sioux in him from some tryst far back in his family tree. “Okay, Kemo Sabe,” Brent said, opening the glove box. They were cheap cigars, the kind that cost less than a dollar each. The kind that reeked and clawed at the throat. But hunting without sucking in at least a couple of them was unthinkable. Brent handed them out.

“And here we are,” Chuck said, slowing to a stop and drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

The road ended, narrowing abruptly into a short walking trail lined by dogwood and gooseberry bushes overseen by aspen and red pine. Blackie jumped out of the pickup, his tail swinging with a mind of its own. The men got out and stretched.

“So where did all the ducks go?” John asked, squinting disappointedly into the sky.

“You scared ’em away with your damn whistle,” Chuck said.

They unloaded their gear from beneath a dark green tarp. Chuck and John put on waders, checked their rifles, and loaded their hunting vests with bullets. Brent strung his bow and gave it a pluck, the sound of the string like a high note on a washtub bass. He kept on the worn out sneakers he came with and slung his father’s old leather quiver over his shoulder.

Chuck nudged John and nodded toward their companion. “He’ll probably bag a few birds just because they feel sorry for the poor son of a bitch.”

Brent laughed. “If they feel sorry for anybody, it’ll be for your wives.”

“Hey!” Chuck said.

They carried their gear down the narrow trail, unlit cigars clenched in their mouths, while the dog raced ahead to the lake.

“Blackie, get back here,” Chuck hollered. “You’ll scare away everything.”

They heard a splash.

“That’s one fine hunting dog,” John said, lighting his cigar. A grimace shimmered across his face, then turned into a smile.

“Blackie, get back here, damn it,” Chuck called.

Blackie swam jerkily among the cattails that lined the edge of the lake. The water surrounding them was covered with green algae, which disappeared about fifteen feet from the shore.

Blackie gave a yelp and turned back, snout pointed in the air. When his feet touched the ground, he leaped up, splashing water, and then took another leap onto the shore. He shook himself frantically and started to whimper.

“What’s the matter with your dog?” John asked.

“Aw, sheesh. He’s just pissed because I switched from canned to dry food.”

Brent leaned over and stroked the dog’s wet chin. “What’s the matter boy? What’s bothering you?”

Blackie licked the back of Brent’s hand, then ran in a circle and stopped at the edge of the lake, giving a quick bark. The dog look backed at Brent.

“Just ignore him,” Chuck said as he helped John set up their blind. “He just wants the attention.”

Brent looked out over the lake. The water was as still as tar. On the other side, which was only fifty yards away, the rocky shore erupted abruptly from the water. The trees shivered like cold old women in the wind. The sky made Brent think of light blue cellophane. He turned his attention to the trees on this side of the lake and spotted a good one to climb and wait in. Everyone settled down, even the dog, and the only sounds for a good while were the sounds of carbon dioxide shishing out of freshly opened beer cans.

Twenty minutes later, Brent’s cigar was near its end, and he mashed the ashes against the tree truck and stuffed the butt in an empty beer can. He allowed himself only one beer on these outings, occasionally a second one when they were finished. He had appointed himself designated driver. If it wasn’t him, it wouldn’t be anybody.

He straddled a big branch about fifteen feet off the ground, his back against the main trunk. So far there had been no ducks since arriving at the lake. But he didn’t mind. He wasn’t here for the ducks.

He breathed in deeply the fresh air and the smell of the fall leaves. Not a better smell in the world, he thought. In the distance, beyond the trees across the lake, the ground sloped upwards a bit, and he could see a large cornfield covered with driven over, withered stalks. The lake in front of him was small, but looked deep, the water in the center black and impenetrable.

Like Sheila’s eyes, Brent thought. It was hard to ever know what she was thinking. They had been married six years, but she was still a mystery in a lot of ways.

When they were first married, he’d go hunting by himself. Not to actually kill anything, but more as a way to get out into the woods, breath in the smells, take in the sight of the fall leaves. Meditate and think. After two years of doing this, he realized it was upsetting Sheila. As if it was his way of saying he wanted to get away from her.

It wasn’t so much that he wanted to get away from her, it was more like he wanted to be alone. He had been alone a long time before he met her, and he still liked the occasional solitude.

He looked down at the duck blind. Could hear laughter coming up softly from below. He didn’t know how they did it, how they could stand each other down there. But they had been doing it forever. And they were a good excuse to get out into the woods. Instead of getting away from Sheila, now he was just going out hunting with some buddies. Buddies who insisted he come along. What was he to do? They insisted, for goodness sake.

Brent thought he heard a plane flying toward them, but quickly realized it was coming from below. It was Blackie. He was growling.

Chuck’s voice came muffled from the duck blind. “Hush, Blackie.”

Brent looked out over the lake, trying to figure out what Blackie was growling at, but the lake was still, and he couldn’t see anything on the other side. But something was definitely bothering the dog. Blackie didn’t get riled too easily.

Chuck and John’s subdued voices rose up to Brent.

“Blackie, hush!”

“What’s the matter, boy?”

In the distance, the unmistakable sound of a flock of ducks could be heard. Brent spotted them first. Three large V’s.

Blackie growled louder, sounding like a car trying to start on a cold winter morning, then slunk out from behind the blind.

“Hey!” Chuck whispered harshly. “Get back here.”

Blackie trotted to the edge of the lake, sniffing the ground. The ducks were almost overhead.

They’re not going to land now, Brent thought, chuckling. He whistled at the dog, but Blackie ignored him.

John started in on the duck call.

Waaahhh! Waaahhh!

“Might as well forget it,” Chuck said, not bothering to whisper any more.

“Blackie. Hey, Black!” Brent called down from the tree.

Blackie stuck a paw in the algae coated water. Then he leaped in and began swimming toward the other side.

“Stupid dog,” John said. Then he laughed. “What the hell’s gotten into him, Chuck?”

“Hell if I know.” Then Chuck called, “Get back here!”

“Just let him be. He’ll be back soon enough.”