Aaron Polson: The Bottom Feeders and Other Stories

“Oh, no problem, really.” She fished into her purse and produced a few bills for the attendant’s waiting hand.

“Thanks.” The man lumbered into the building.

She paced the parking lot while waiting for her change, wincing a little with the effort — her belly had begun to tighten on occasion; the baby would come soon. The sky had cleared, and an icy blue-white now rested above the town. Courtney pulled her jacket collar close about her throat. She felt the weight of the small town, all the eyes, pressing against her. Across the street, a playground sat empty, brightly painted swings and slides next to a brick building the color of dried blood. A school?

“Miss?”

Courtney started. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Your change.” The attendant’s pale hand — too pale for a man whose trade involved greasy, oily work, held a few small bills and some coins.

“What is that building, there,” she said while pointing across the street. “It looks like a school.” She fumbled the change, dropped a quarter, and stooped to pick it up.

“The children are in the hollow fields.”

Courtney stood and handed a dollar to the attendant. “What?”

“I said the school is closed. The children are bused into Springdale.” He shoved his tip into a pocket in his blue coveralls and nodded. “Thanks ma’am.”

The hollow field whispered to Courtney as she guided Zach’s car into the driveway. It was a brief thing, like a soft breeze across her face or the brush of someone walking past, but the call sent a braid of terror writhing up her back — a hollow terror, a pervasive emptiness . She glanced at the house to verify Zach wasn’t home yet and walked slowly toward the road and the scabby earth of the hollow field beyond. The handle of a shovel could be seen poking from the mound in the center.

The fence separating the field from the road was old, loosely fitted barbed wire stretched between rotten posts of wood. Courtney hoisted one foot onto the top wire, careful to maintain her balance, and pressed down. It gave with a dull sproing, and she was able to step over the remaining wires.

The dirt gave beneath her feet, much softer than she’d expected. In her memory, Courtney saw Zach standing in front of the picture window, gazing out at the rise in the field. She worked through the loose soil, stumbling with one arm out for balance the other holding her belly. Waves of pain radiated, contractions , she knew, she should be back at the house, calling the hospital, someone, but she continued to stagger to the middle of the field.

When she made the mound, Courtney dropped to the dirt, scooped a handful, and let the small crumbles and clods trickle through her fingers. It was damp, not wet, but damp, and tickled as it fell to the ground. A pungent earthiness, a wholesome smell — not decay or rot, but a rich, dark odor surrounded her. She looked up and noticed a hole, a pit in the earth that had been freshly dug.

“It’s good soil, Court. Good land.”

She tossed the remaining dirt into the hole, and turned. Zach was walking toward her. “Zach?” Her abdomen tightened.

“It’s hungry land.” Zach held out his hand, helping Courtney to her feet. She doubled again, grimacing with another sharp stab of pain. “I’m staying here, Court. In Broughton’s Hollow. Mr. Olson and Mr. Weedeman helped me understand.” He smiled. “I want to be with you…I want you to stay, too.”

At the next wave of pain, Courtney staggered backward and bumped into the shovel. “Zach…”

“Grandpa didn’t understand, Courtney. He died here.”

Courtney’s hands wrapped around the shovel handle behind her back. “Everybody dies, Zach,” she sobbed, “everybody.”

“We don’t have to, not in the Hollow. All the land asks for is a little something in return…and we can stay here, forever. They explained it to me. The baby, Court. We give our baby to the land, a little sacrifice from both of us, and we live forever. You and me.” One hand extended to her; the other held a knife.

With a sudden gasp of air, she yanked the shovel from the ground, swinging in a wide, awkward arc. The blade caught Zach in the ribcage. He lurched forward with a dull groan, and one foot twisted into the small grave.

She ran, both hands squeezing against her swollen belly, eyes pressed tight as another contraction threatened to throw her to the ground. At the fence, she leaned against a post for a moment, catching her breath. With a glance over her shoulder, she saw him, staggering from the center of the field, clutching his side.

Weedeman and Olson were at the front door, but Courtney ignored them, hopping into the driver’s seat of the Honda. The car started with a groan and sputter. She reversed quickly and sped from the house, the tires throwing clouds of gravel and dust in her wake. Zach tumbled over the fence as the car crested the first hill.

Through town, out the other side, and safety , she thought. She pushed down on the accelerator, but the car responded with a shuddering groan. Something is wrong.

“No, no, no.” Courtney’s hands crushed the steering wheel. The fuel gauge showed full. The steering wheel wobbled back and forth. The knife in Zach’s hand. The tires. She began to coast at the city limit of Broughton’s Hollow.

Cringing with another contraction, Courtney guided the wounded car to the curb and looked in the rearview mirror. A set of headlights began to descend into the town. “No…” She held her breath against the pain and staggered from the car toward the abandoned church. Twenty more yards…ten more yards…the contraction slowed.

The inside of the church was dim with dusty beams of yellow light cutting across the disheveled sanctuary. She stumbled down the stairs into the basement, searching for a dark corner, some place to hide, to wait at least until Zach passed. Would he bring Weedeman and Olson? She pushed her back against a wall, hidden from the front steps behind an open door.

Moments passed. Her heart collided against her ribs. She rubbed both legs, sore with running and the contractions. The front door of the church clicked shut.

“Courtneeeey?” Zach called from above, his voice muted and indistinct.

Another contraction hit, waves of pain swallowing her abdomen. Courtney pressed even harder against the wall, holding her breath.

“There’s nowhere to go. I poked a nice gash in all four tires.” Zach’s steps thundered across the sanctuary above, a line of moaning wood following in his wake. With each uneven footfall, a sprinkle of dust trickled from the basement ceiling. Her eyes followed the trail of dust showers across the basement. He was limping.

“You got me good. I’m bleeding, babe. Probably cracked a rib.” The footfalls stopped. “Downstairs?”

The contraction lessened. She exhaled. He was at the back of the church. Downstairs? A second set of stairs? She glanced behind her, across the near black basement hall. Two dark doorways stood open. A second set of stairs .

Before she could think her feet carried her up the stairway to the front landing. She peered into the empty sanctuary. She looked outside. How far could she go on foot with the contractions?

“Courtneeeey.” His voice rose from the basement.

The choir loft. She scurried up the second flight of stairs. The old wood groaned and protested under her weight. In the loft she found two overturned pews, a broken bench, and remnants of a pipe organ. She needed a weapon, anything. The bench was too heavy. She grasped one of the remaining pipes — it was firmly set.

His steps thudded against the entryway below.

Courtney pressed behind the open door. As she did, her eyes found something she could use as a club leaning against the back of one pew: an old crucifix, the cross snapped with one arm missing. It was at least two feet long.