SHOOT COWS: THE PULP-HORROR SERIAL

Episode 2: Strangers

The southbound bus roared away from the curb and droned on down the highway. A thunderclap pealed in the distance, lending a bit more credence to the meager rain that had kicked up. Booker embraced himself, collar turned up, raggedy ball cap pulled down to the bridge of his nose. The ramshackle lean-to with the audacity to call itself a bus stop did very little to shield him from the rain. Likewise, his leather coat and tattered clothes afforded him little in the way of warmth. It didn't matter. He was used to the cold, used to the rain. He had been on the drift for over a year now, and the unwelcoming bench of a desolate bus stop felt more like home than not.

He didn't care to look up when a brisk 'clip-clop' joined the dull thrumming of the rain. Nor did he move his feet to make space, even after running his eyes over a pair of red high-heels and up the shapely legs they were strapped to. The woman didn't seem to mind that he was taking up the whole bench. She was protected from the rain by a tan trench coat wrapped tightly around herself, and an umbrella that matched her lips, which incidentally matched her shoes. Booker quickly looked down at his worn-out steel-toes when she smiled in his direction.

"Hi, there," she said curtly.

Booker nodded once.

"My name's Erin," she went on. She gave him ample time to respond, but Booker said nothing. "Where are you headed?"

Realizing that the girl was unlikely to leave him alone unless he acknowledged her presence, Booker sat up and rubbed his bare hands together.

"Holstein City," he coughed.

"Aw, fun!" beamed Erin. "That's where I'm going, too!"

Booker sat and tried to fix his gaze anywhere but on the young, perky brunette.

"I'm going there for work," the girl continued. "I'm with P.A.T.E."

"You always dress like a street-walker on your way to work?" chuckled Booker, meaning, perhaps, to come across as playful. Erin gasped and took a lateral step away.

"Damn," he thought. It had been a long time since someone had forced a conversation on him, and he had forgotten some of the very basic principles of human interaction--chief among them: never insinuate that anybody is a hooker.

"Sorry 'bout that," he corrected. "I haven't... I haven't talked to anyone in a while."

"No kidding," scowled Erin.

"So you're with P.A.T.E.?" he said, trying to change the subject. "Why'n hell are you going to Holstein? You know ain't a damn thing being 'treated ethically' up there, especially the people. Bovinity gets wind, their liable to make you disappear."

"That's a chance I'm willing to take," said Erin. "They're doing stuff up there that isn't right. They need to be exposed, if they're ever going to be stopped."

A pair of headlights coalesced in the distance. The rain kept up, drowning out the awkward silence that would have otherwise elapsed between them. In a minute, an old bus with the Holstein City marquee grumbled and squeaked to a halt. The grim driver threw wide the door with nary a word nor a kind look.

"After you," said Booker, with a wave of his hand. Erin mounted the steps, then fumbled for her ticket in the depths of her oversized and overpriced handbag--wrought of the finest faux leather money could buy. The driver rolled his eyes and finger-drummed impatiently on the door lever. Booker handed off his own ticket unceremoniously, then found a vacant seat midway back.

They rode along in blessed silence for a while. Booker found himself lulled near to sleep by the monotonous road noise and the rhythmic swishing of the windshield wipers. He had nearly crossed over when his calm was jarred by a series of violent sounds.

"Shit!" muttered the bus driver, immediately followed by a jolt as he pulled the steering wheel hard to the left, then a horrible screech as he pounded the break pedal. The bus lurched, and there was a sickening 'thump-whump' that made the front and back of the bus kick in quick succession, like a giant, metal, mechanical bull.

"The hell was that?" cried Booker, on his feet as the bus screamed to a halt. Amid a string of obscenities, Booker thought he heard the bus driver mutter "cow." Booker threw open the door and hopped out into the intensifying rain.

"Did we run somebody over?" came a shrill voice from the rear of the bus.

"Trevor, sit down!" cried another.

"I just want to see!"

Before his mother could protest, a portly child of 8 or 9 years was trotting down the aisle.

"Trevor! Come back here this instant!"

He was down the stairs and out the door before the stunned driver even thought to close it.

"What is it, mister?" cried Trevor, panting as he caught up.

"Get back on the bus, kid," grumbled Booker.

"Was it a hobo?"

"No, it wasn't a hobo. Geez, kid. Just some animal."

He walked up to the motionless heap. Whatever it was, it was big.

"Holy crap! It's a cow!" cried Trevor through labored breaths.

Booker knelt down to inspect the carcass. Sure enough, it was a black and white Holstein. The level of carnage it had apparently suffered seemed a bit much, even for being run over by a bus. Half the skull was protruding, and it was missing an eyeball. The skin on its flanks and limbs was shredded, and dried blood and bits of viscera clung to every inch that wasn't, despite the pounding rain.

"Get back on the bus, kid. You don't want to see this."

The driver kicked his way around the front to inspect the damage, one hand on his forehead and the other on his hip; mustache all a-quiver from an unrelenting stream of curses. The boy's mother--whom Booker had arbitrarily dubbed 'Georgiana'--stormed out as fast as her trim, pink skirt-suit and white pumps would allow. Always eager to help, Erin trotted after her, umbrella in hand.

"Trevor, get back here this instant!" screamed Georgiana.

"Go on, everybody back on the bus," said Booker, standing and waving them all away.

"What was it?" asked Erin.

"Just a cow," said Booker.

"Really? Let me see."

She pulled a flashlight out of her comically large purse and shined it over Booker's shoulder.

"Where'd it go?" She said after scanning the stretch of highway.

"Huh?"

Booker wheeled around, but no trace of the cow carcass remained.

"That's weird," he muttered, squinting into the darkness. "Thing was all torn up. Looked like it might've been half-dead before we even hit it."

Erin continued to search with her diminutive beam of light while the others made their way back to the bus. She was herself about to turn and go, when a yellowish glint caught itself in the beam. She took a step or two toward the glowing eye, and the cow's horrific injuries became easier to see.

"Aw, poor thing..." she said. She stretched out her hand, as if the creature was a dog waiting to grow accustomed to her scent. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

The creature stared vacantly at her hand, remaining motionless even as she stepped close enough to touch its nose.

"That's it, girl."

With inches left to go, the cow suddenly bared its teeth and let loose an unholy shriek. With it came an expulsion of cool, slimy ichor that speckled her arm like a Jackson Pollock. Erin screamed in response and stumbled backward, the flashlight tumbling to the road. She backpedaled for a moment, then wheeled around and broke into a run. She could hear heavy footfalls gaining momentum behind her. Her heel caught a pothole, and she had a moment of brief intimacy with the pavement. She kicked out of her useless high-heels and stumbled to her feet, sprinting the last few yards to the safety of the bus.

"Shut the door!" she screamed, mascara tears and rain-drenched hair lending a little gothic flair to her schoolgirl good looks.

"What's going on?" asked Booker, calmly pulling the lever. Not a second later, the heifer's gruesome face collided with the glass.

"Jesus, is that thing still alive?" he said.

"That animal is clearly afflicted by something!" cried Erin.

"Yeah," he grinned, "it's called refusing to stay dead."

He retrieved a switchblade from his pocket and snapped it into lethal position.

"Time to put 'er out of 'er misery."

"She's a ward of P.A.T.E. and must be brought back unharmed for testing!"

The cow fumbled about in front of the bus, the full extent of both its injuries and its unnatural size laid bare for a split second by the headlights.

"Like Hell," said Booker, throwing open the door and bolting down the steps.

"Hey! As an authorized representative of 'Persons for Animals being Treated Ethically,' I must intervene on the cow's behalf!"

Booker squared off with the staggering heifer, trying to draw her attention. He had it soon enough.

"That's it," he said. "Come and get me..."

Suddenly, his eyes were assaulted by a horrible burning sensation. He lost his sense of balance and tripped over his own feet. Erin had maced him.

"What the hell are you doing!" he screamed, stumbling off to double over in agony.

"This animal is a protectorate of P.A.T.E. and must be brought in ali--

An eardrum-blasting sound smote the night air. The cow's head bucked, and she tottered and swayed and then toppled over. Erin looked around in dumbfounded confusion. At the foot of the stairs stood Georgiana, an enormous, smoking revolver clenched firmly in her perfectly manicured fists. Erin stared at her in disbelief. Booker let the rain wash the mace out of his eyes, then seized the opportunity to put his arm around Erin's waist and haul her onto the bus.

"We've got to get out of here!" he yelled, slamming the bus door. As the echoes of his words died out, the others looked around in silent confusion.

"Where's the bus driver?" asked Trevor in a small, quiet voice. They moved to the windshield and peered into the dim cone of light outside. For a few moments, only the pounding rain and the idling engine made any sound. Then a horrifying bang brought a scream to everyone's lips, as the terrified eyes of the bus driver met theirs at point-blank range.

He clawed impotently at the windshield, but some unseen terror was pulling him down, away into the darkness. Giant shapes coalesced around him, and he disappeared from their sight. Georgiana was the first to react. She stepped off the bus, gun loudly proclaiming her intentions.

"This is no time to be a hero!" cried Booker over the screams, roars and gunshots.

"Mommy!" yelled Trevor. He tried to follow her down, but Erin held him fast. Booker flew down the stairs and grabbed the woman by her shoulders, but she slipped away.

"Hands off, delinquent!" she snarled. About that time, she touched off her last round. The revolver clicked dispassionately once or twice more.

"I may be a delinquent," said Booker, "but at least I can count to six."

"Come on!" cried Erin from the driver's seat. There were dozens of cows now, and a few of them had lost interest in their departed prey and were staggering towards the live ones instead. Booker pushed Georgiana up the stairs, nearly getting his leg bitten off in the process. Erin slammed the door and hit the gas, bowling over half a dozen head of cattle.

"I thought you were here to save the cows?" grinned Booker as they laid a long stretch of road out behind them.

"I have a feeling they'll walk away from it," said Erin, gripping the wheel with white knuckles.

"You may want to slow down a little," said Booker. "City limit's up ahead. Sheriff likes to sit behind the Ubi-Quick-Co sign."

"What about the Driver?" asked Trevor, staring into the night behind them.

"He's with daddy, now," said Georgiana, shakily emptying her pistol onto the floor.

SHOOT COWS, THE PULP-HORROR SERIAL

Episode 1: Good Company

"Holy Cow," quipped Severs, noisily shifting his cigar stub from one down-turned corner of his mouth to the other.

"I'm not sure what got into her," said Laura. With trembling hands she cracked open the breach of her shotgun. A pair of red shells popped over her shoulder, forgotten even before they vanished in the dewy hay. "She's been acting kind of strange ever since that big ol' bastard jumped the fence from company stockyard last week."

'Company' was a polite way of cussing Bovinity, the ubiquitous cattle ranching outfit that was poised to put Laura and all the other small-time ranchers out of business. They had brought over some selectively-bred monstrosities from Europe, promising "Twice the beef in half the time!" over the traditional Holsteins that gave the city its name.

The potbellied Sheriff got slowly to his feet and snuffled. "Hell of a shot, though. Put her eye right out."

Laura nodded grimly. "Bessie was the finest ol' heifer I ever had," she said, pulling her hat down over her eyes. She wasn't about to let the sheriff see her cry. Severs nodded, put a hairy forearm around her shoulder. Laura found it strangely discomforting.

"Tell us again, ma'am, what was wrong with her," said Deputy Forrest, striding up with pen and paper in hand. Laura ducked away from the Sheriff and propped herself up on the fence.

"Sure," she said. "Bout a week now, she ain't been herself. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't come when I called her. This evenin' I noticed she was actin' all mean toward the others. Even took a big ol' bite right out o' Jezebel's haunches. That's when I had to put her down."

An agonized moo rose up from the barn.

"Jezi in there?" nodded Severs.

"Yup," said Laura. "Careful with her. She's angrier'n a hornet."

Severs sauntered off, one hand resting on the pistol he had only ever fired at intimidating sheets of paper.

"That it, ma'am?" asked Forrest.

"Far as I know," said Laura. "I ain't about to accuse anyone, but all's I know is that ever since that company bull broke loose and mounted up a few o' my best heifers, strange things have been goin' on."

Jezebel's pained moos could be heard coming louder and faster now. Forrest gazed over at the massive stockyard next door, separated from Laura's little ranch only by a wire fence and a knee-deep mud creek.

"That fence ain't holdin' 'em for very long," he said. Laura shook her head in agreement. The mooing all-of-a-sudden morphed into more of a cry or a scream; the kind of sound a goat makes when it's being eaten alive by a cougar.

"Ain't no sound I ever heard a heifer make," said Forrest.

"Me neither," said Laura, clearly distressed. She fumbled in her pocket for another pair of shells, then hurried toward the barn. Forrest, revolver in hand, hastened to catch up. Sheriff Sever's alarmed voice echoed out.

"Now, just settle down there, little--

There was an awful, blood-curdling cry--almost a roar--followed by the shocking, percussive sound of gunshots.

"No!" cried Laura. The Sheriff backed out into the pale, dawn light, dumping his revolver's final two shots from the hip in true cowboy fashion.

"Get clear!" he cried, fumbling to close the door and reload at the same time. Before anyone could react, Jezebel--or whatever was left of her--smashed headlong through the planks. She had been perforated with bullet-holes all about the head and neck, but she didn't seem at all phased. She had grown bigger since Laura had seen her last, and the whites of her eyes were showing, giving her a very disturbing, almost... human look. She was on top of Severs in no time, gnawing on his forearm with an unnaturally unhinged jaw. The old sheriff whipped her ineffectually with the butt of his pistol.

Laura took aim with the shotgun, closed her eyes and touched off both barrels at once. The kick just about separated her shoulder, and the impact shredded Jezebel's flank from hip to neck. The old heifer went quiet for a moment, then turned toward Laura with rage in her eyes.

"Go!" cried Severs, scrambling away, extra bullets falling everywhere but into his gun. Laura stood in abject terror, her hand absently retrieving the final shot from her pocket. Jezebel snapped her wild eyes back and forth between the wounded sheriff and the terrified rancher, finally lunging at Laura. With lighting reflexes, Forrest shoved her out of the rampaging heifer's path, then coolly took aim and put a bullet through the apple-sized patch of skull that housed the bovine's brain.

Jezebel's front legs buckled, and she went over in a bloody, muddy somersault, then came to rest some distance away. By now all the other heifers in the barn were mooing and tramping in fear. Severs got up, shakily slamming half a dozen hollow-points into what he feared was little more than a pea-shooter at this point.

"The hell's goin' on?" he said, eying up his arm with a grimace. Laura shook her head, put the last round in her gun and trained it on Jezebel's fallen carcass.

"We should go," said Forrest, ejecting the single spent casing from his own weapon and replacing it with a fresh one.

"Just a minute," said Laura, inching ever closer to her second slain heifer.

"No, we should go now," insisted Forrest, looking around nervously. The mooing was getting louder and more frantic.

"Hang on. I just want to see--

Jezebel snapped up and turned on Laura with a vicious roar. Severs, Forrest and Laura let loose, and the heifer's head practically exploded under all the incoming firepower. Thirteen shots later, Jezebel's pulpy remnants hit the ground, and there they lay very, very still. When the ringing in his ears had died down, Severs spat out his cigar and chuckled nervously.

"That was close," he said. Forrest and Laura shot him nervous glances. Before they had even lowered their weapons, the barn wall gave way under the weight of a dozen mooing, stomping, salivating heifers. They bowled right over Severs, who disappeared beneath their rampaging bulk with nary even a scream.

"Run!" cried Forrest, grabbing Laura by the forearm. The petite rancher threw down her weapon and took flight. They sprinted toward the squad car, parked near the gate where Bessie lay. Forrest got there first, sliding over the hood and manning the wheel. Laura went feet-first through the open window, landing more-or-less in Forrest's lap as he turned the engine, slammed the old Crown Vic into gear, gave the busty rancher a quick wink and showered their bovine pursuers in three-hundred-and-fifty horsepower worth of dust and pebbles.

As they carreened down the driveway, Laura got into her seat, her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face. She chanced a look behind them, noticing that the cows had abandoned their pursuit and had instead engaged in a feeding frenzy around Jezebel and poor sheriff Severs. She glanced at the ditch where Bessie's corpse lay, squinting in the morning light.

"What the..." she muttered.

"What is it?" asked Forrest.

"It's Bessie," said Laura. "She's gone."