by Eric Raglin
(1000 words)
Four ghosts don’t cut it anymore. My ancestors swirl foglike and cool the air above our farm, but the world’s gotten too hot for rain again. Adding another ghost should fix that for a while, get us a couple good downpours before the growing season is out. The question is whether it will be me or Dad.
When I volunteer for the job at supper, Dad scowls up at me from his plate of literal roadkill. A forkful of skunk clatters to the table.
“You stupid?” he asks.
“No, I’m brave,” I say, but my voice cracks.
Dad shakes his head. His nose wrinkles when he looks back at his meal. He scoops what’s left onto my plate.
“Eat up,” he says. “You’re a growing boy.” His message is clear: soon only one of our mouths will need feeding.
I steal Dad’s rusty shotgun from his closet. He hasn’t used it since that knife-wielding thief came looking for a meal and became one instead. The barrels taste bitter in my mouth, but better than that man by far. Dad should never have to make that decision again, to hear his gut rumbling and think meat is meat. I want him to enjoy the corn, beans, and tomatoes of years past. Dad claims it used to rain so hard, the tomatoes would swell ‘til they split. Just one would fill you up for the whole day, and there were plenty to go around. Add another ghost and Dad could have that again.
But my trigger finger hesitates. Seconds become minutes and before I know it, Dad is busting into the shed, smashing the shotgun on the floor, and slapping me across the cheek.
“It’s not your responsibility, Aiden!” he says, eyes glassy in the moonlight. “Now go to bed.”
The shotgun barrel is twisted and its stock is cracked in half, so Dad won’t be able to kill himself once I leave. At least not without a little creativity.
In bed, I stare out the open window. Our family ghosts rotate in ceaseless circles. I try talking to Mom, but she just keeps churning. A breeze blows in as if from Hell itself, and I sweat myself to sleep.
Roadkill is sparse nowadays. Fewer trucks barreling down dirt roads with country music blaring and even fewer deer jumping in front of said trucks. Still, Dad and I walk for miles each day, hoping we’ll stumble upon something edible. We hunt with our noses as much as our eyes, sniffing out animal rot and scanning the sky for buzzards.
We haven’t found anything in three days.
“Drink up.” Dad passes me his beat-up metal water bottle.
Even with sweat stinging my eyes and July heat boiling my skin, I take only the smallest sip. The shotgun failed me, but maybe dehydration will do the trick. If I’m lucky, I’ll collapse in our front yard and croak under the willow tree of my childhood, stripped of its shaggy leaves but weeping nonetheless. I picture drifting through the night sky with Mom, Granddad, Uncle Louis, and Aunt Melissa, our collective cold chilling the air enough to bring rain, crops, and a future for Dad. But thinking about rain only makes me thirstier. I cap the water bottle before I can drink what my body needs.
When I pass it back, Dad pauses, weighing it in his hand. He squints as if he knows what I’m trying to do, but he doesn’t press me on it.
We walk past the Hendersons’ ranch, littered with bones both bovine and human. Death claimed that plot years ago, but the stench remains. Dad and I climb over downed electrical poles and cut through a cornfield baked into lifeless tinder. The highway is just beyond. Hopefully somewhere on its scorching, crumbling blacktop, we’ll find a meal.
We see one immediately: an unarmed, emaciated man staggering down the road and moaning. His face is a nest of yellow boils and his tennis shoes look a dozen steps away from disintegrating. Blood-red sunburns cover every inch of his skin. I imagine peeling the boiled layers away and finding nothing but bone underneath.
Before the man can notice us, we slink back into the cornfield. Dad looks at me, unblinking, with that horrible question in his eyes. Last time the choice was easy. When a man kicks in your door and pulls a knife on your son, a father does what he must.
This time is different. I picture Mom observing from above as we choke this defenseless man to death, neck blisters bursting under the force of our grip. The time I stole a cow from the Hendersons, Mom screamed that I was a boy of no honor. I can’t imagine what she’d say about this. But she’s always silent, no matter how many times I beg for her guidance. Maybe she’d abandon Earth for the next world after witnessing our cold-blooded survivalism, the air above our farm a few degrees hotter in her absence.
Dad’s still staring, wanting me to make the call. The man stumbling down the scorching highway lets out an agonized sob. Maybe he’s begging to be put out of his misery, but I can’t let my assumption become a reason to kill. I shake my head “no.” We go home hungry.
A week with nothing to eat. No skunk. No thief. No howling drifter. I can count my ribs now. The ghosts can, too. They’re spinning faster, desperate to bring rain and even the most modest of crops.
Dad’s locked himself in his room to fix his shotgun, but I can’t let him end it for my sake. I could never live with the guilt, especially alone.
I remember the knife the thief pressed to my throat. We kept it after Dad killed him. Dizzy with hunger, I press a hand against the wall and shuffle to the kitchen. I’ll feel that knife against my flesh one final time.
Dad will thank me later.
END
Eric Raglin (he/him) is a Nebraskan speculative fiction writer, horror literature teacher, and podcaster for Cursed Morsels. He frequently writes about queer issues, the terrors of capitalism, and body horror. His debut short story collection is NIGHTMARE YEARNINGS. He is the editor of ANTIFA SPLATTERPUNK. Find him at ericraglin.com or on Twitter @ericraglin1992.