Ben Key

EIGHTEEN THOUSAND COWS

Dimmitt Texas, 2023

Emmett Albright was many things: a businessman, a husband, a father, a liar, a gambler, a cheater, a fraud, and a convicted felon. However, one thing he was not was bright. As he sat in his room in the Wagon Wheel Motel on Route 385 out of Dimmitt, Texas, and stared down the barrel of a rusty snub-nosed .38 special, trying and failing to turn off the safety catch, he was becoming enlightened to that fact. It didn’t matter now; he’d be leaving soon.

He found the safety and flicked it to unsafe. He was about to put the barrel in his mouth but thought better of it; he didn’t know where it had been. He looked out of the window into the abyss of rolling Texan farmland that sucked in light as though the very building were edging slowly toward a black hole. He thought of his scorned wife, Betty, her pretty face caked in self-inflicted rouge and her ears weighed down by an abundance of beads and other crafty, homemade gubbins. He saw his spoiled teens squawking at their poor mother, pleading for cash for their next vape juice fix. He saw his father-in-law, the Popcorn King of Amarillo, his face plump and scowling. Curling his finger around the trigger, Emmett prepared for the squeeze.

BOOM!

An explosion ignited before him, ringing through his ears, shaking his brain, rattling the windows, but not from within, but outside. He opened his eyes to find his head intact and the pitch black room in the pitch black night now illuminated in scorching white hot light. This was not the guiding light of angels nor an apocalypse of a nuclear persuasion. Emmett watched as a ball of flames followed by a mushroom cloud rose and tumbled over itself in the night sky above Chubbuck’s Dairy in the not so distant distance. A lightbulb illuminating the abyss. It seemed his guardian angel had arrived and not a moment too soon.

Chubbuck’s was no ordinary dairy farm. Not because it was the second largest in Texas and not because it was the home to over eighteen thousand cattle, but because of what Emmett knew, a secret lying deep behind the barbed wire fences, cattle grids and barnyards. One that he had learnt just a week before, in the minimum security wing of Fort Matthew State Penitentiary.

Emmett had not belonged in a prison. He had however been proven guilty by a jury of his peers on all the counts brought against him; money laundering, embezzlement, financial fraud - public indecency. He was not a man capable of violence, the very idea of it upset his stomach. Unless it came to blowing his own head off, for he’d bear no witness. 

Once considered a consummate professional, Emmett’s stature came crumbling down on one fateful Tuesday. As Emmett rose through the ranks of his father-in-law's popcorn empire to become himself the Crown Prince of Popcorn, his debts rose also. Now able to enjoy the spoils that once only his dear wife Betty could afford, the luxuries of their popcorn kingdom were now his to squander, and squander he did. Poker, roulette, pin the tail on the donkey. Any game that one could lose money on, Emmett had done so. He once bet his little finger on a sheep race. He lost. He always lost. 

Running out of his wife’s lovingly home-made jewellery to pilfer and pawn, Emmett embezzled money from his Pop’s corn business. It was said that when the police raided the factory they came in guns blazing, mistaking the popping for preemptive gunfire. They not only found Emmett’s hand in the cookie jar, but his johnson in Miss Garcia, the secretary. Not one to bow out gracefully, Emmett leapt from the second story window and took to the wind, his johnson flapping with it. 

One hears many tall tales within prison walls. Most of which Emmett believed, but none more so than that told by Herbert Labont. Herb was a farmhand of dishonourable repute, which was only flamed by his own silver tongue. Legends floated around Herb like a bad stench. Theories and hypotheses of how he’d landed himself behind bars shifted like the wind. Rumour had it that Herb had killed his own uncle in a land dispute. When his uncle claimed Herb was systematically moving his hedge row onto his property inch by inch, night by night, Herb decided to push his trimmer a little too far through said shrubbery and nicked the old sods neck at the jugular. Another inmate claimed Herb had shot and killed a store clerk for short changing him, only to realise he himself had miscounted. 

When Herb began to tell the “true” tale of his conviction, he couldn’t help but prick the ear of Emmett in the neighbouring cell. Herb had taken a job at Chubbuck Dairy Farm and a disliking to its “Native Indian” owners, Mr and Mrs Chubbuck. He hated how they flashed their wealth gaudily yet allowed for no rest on their time, nor a healthy wage. He hated their success, their “holier-than-thou” demeanour and the broad toothy grins they shot at each worker as they monitored their productivity. But mostly he hated Mrs Chubbuck. “A cow running a cow farm, fancy that!” he cried, making himself laugh so much he choked on his own spit. 

Herb decided to make up for his losses by stealing the closest thing to Mrs Chubbuck’s heart, her prized necklace. A bombastic, shiny stone hanging from an obnoxious gold chain, adorned with all manner of Native American jewels, feathers and sparkling rocks. It was an “Ancient Navahoo” relic of some sort, Herb said, sure to be worth a hundred grand, if not more. 

He was caught, red-handed too, slashing his palm on the broken glass of the Chubbuck’s rear window as he clambered out of it. A wail of pain alerted the farmhands who gave chase as he dashed into the thick black night. He squeezed himself in amongst the eighteen thousand strong herd, stirring the heifers as they shifted and constricted around him. With growling hounds circling, Herb sent the necklace flying into the air and in amongst the mooing cows before crying out for help lest he be crushed. It took ten men and a strong rope to pull him out. “Nearly lost a leg or two” he said. As for the necklace, it’s yet to be found. “It’s either knee deep in dung or in the belly of one of those beasts” Herb snarled through gappy, gritted teeth, “Only way to find it would be to slice ‘em all open, one by one.”

Of course now, that would not be necessary.

 As the sun rose over Dimmitt, smoke followed with it. Hundreds gathered at the chainmail fence guarding the site that was once Chubbuck’s Dairy, now a steaming pile of smouldering flesh and debris. A stench unlike anything anyone had smelt before permeated the atmosphere. A million steaks cooked in raw sewage. Chinese whispers travelled through the masses; “A methane explosion”, “The poo-sucker blew”, “Lost all eighteen thousand”, “Who the hell is gonna clean up this mess?” But Emmett knew exactly who.

Police Chief Alvarez, a moustachioed gentleman of a rotund disposition called upon the spectators to settle down. “What had happened here was a terrible accident and nothing more, the prayers of the Dimmitt Police Department and indeed the whole county are with Mr and Mrs Chubbuck for the loss of their herd.” The rumours were true, the mechanism used to suck up the thousands of tons of steaming cow pat had failed. A single spark igniting eighteen thousand cow farts in one foul swoop and sending the main barn of Chubbuck’s sky high in an explosion akin to the blast force of ten tons of TNT. The chief continued “What the Chubbuck’s need now is more than prayers, they need volunteers for the clean up operation!”

What hard-working, honest souls would take up this grotesque endeavour out of the kindness of their hearts? Eyes scoured the crowd of mystified onlookers. Emmett’s hand was the first to rise. 

Only a dozen volunteers were up for the task. Mostly retirees and local do-gooders with nothing better to do-good. The fence screeched open and the sorry bunch shuffled in, the stench growing in viscosity with each step. Emmett eyed each of his cohorts, rooting out any signs of competition. He found none. Each volunteer was assigned a white hazmat suit, a blue mask, red gloves and yellow rubber boots. In their pack they each had a spade and a sack of biohazard bags for scooping up the hunks of crisp flesh and depositing them in pickup trucks which would circle back and forth to the dumping pit. 

At the eye of the explosion it was as though Emmett had dipped his toe in the river of blood that led into Hades itself. The ground where the main barn once stood was now scorched and cratered, surrounded by a debris field of twisted metal. The torn earth was so completely drenched in boiled blood and sizzling meat that it resembled the crust of some alien planet, a living organism, pulsating, breathing. Shards of skull and bone mixed with the fleshy remains and knotted carcasses, once living, mooing beasts, now entangled together like balls of yarn. Emmett mustered every fibre of his being not to faint where he stood. He saw every vein, every eyeball and brain, every germ and microscopic bacteria staring back at him. All that he feared, condensed into one singular landmark. Though he knew the answer to his woes lay within this casserole of death and so he began to dig. 

While others scooped and shovelled, Emmett poked and prodded. Inspecting each cadaver carefully for glimmers of metal or precious stones. His spade action was measured and precise, assessing the clang of each and every heaving swing for its likeness to bone or gold. He scooped and stared and swung and scooped and shovelled and bagged and poked and gauged and tore his way through flesh and muck for hours upon hours upon hours. Sweat poured from every pore within his white hazmat suit, now dyed every shade of red. After six hours of hard labour they’d shifted twenty bodies, though it was hard to tell the exact number as they were all mixed together. It became clear to all that this would be an enduring endeavour.  

Volunteers came and went yet Emmet remained. First to arrive, last to leave. He was sure to check every belly before it was shipped off, his thoroughness being noted by his fellow helpers, some who recognised him as Albright, the disgraced Prince of Popcorn. Emmett’s care for appearances was far behind him, days spent ripping through cow flesh had seen to that. Fewer volunteers showed up each day, before long there were only five members of the posse. Many of them now brought their cow stomachs to Emmett for inspection before shipping them off; for what reason they did not know, all they knew was if they didn’t Emmett would find a way to check anyway. In every mangled hide and decapitated calf head he saw the face of Betty, adoring him once again. In every dangling jaw bone he saw the brace-clad smiles of his spoilt brats, brimming with joy as he reopens the old Popcorn Factory. He saw the Popcorn King himself, walking Betty down the aisle for the renewing of their vows.  He saw a family gathered around a dinner table.  

Then the day came when Emmett arrived at Chubbuck’s to find himself a posse of one. The last of the do-gooders had broken and moved on to less meaty pastures. Whether the task had become too great or Emmett’s behaviour too unhinged was a mystery to him. He was glad to have the remaining corpses to himself. He was faster than the others, able to inspect a cow stomach in around fourteen seconds from slice to bagging. That morning he donned his blood-soaked bodysuit with a good feeling in his gut. That was until the bus arrived. One that Emmett was all too familiar with. 

Huge and growling, its windows barred, the words “FORT MATTHEW STATE PENITENTIARY” written in a thick black font down the side. Each enthused inmate, convinced they’d been let out on a fool's errand and happy to soak up any fresh air they could suck in their lungs, soon turned sour-puss as the hot scent of rotting flesh hit their nostrils. All but one man, hidden amongst their number, the one snarling face that haunted Emmett’s thoughts and dreams since he first arrived at Chubbuck’s, the very reason he was there at all. One Herbert Labont. 

Herb’s chains rattled as he joined the line-up, grinning like a Cheshire cat taking in his old litter box. Across the bloodlands, through a hot mirage of rot, he caught sight of a lanky soul, shovel in grip, staring straight back at him. Herb immediately recognised the cut of this pathetic figure as his ex-cell neighbour and any hope of an easy ride to glory faded fast for the two of them. 

The inmates were unshackled, geared up and set loose to dance around the fallout like squawking crows. Emmett, more determined than ever, commenced jabbing and scooping and slicing at the final corpses. One eye on the ground, one eye on Labont. Herb had Emmett in his sights too, as they scoured the earth side by side, making sure to inspect each other's pounds of flesh as they went. 

“You’re a dirty rat Albright, you know that, tryin’ to take what ain’t yours.” Herb would mutter at Emmett without pause, trying anything to break his will. Emmett remained silent. Each scoop was essential now, there was no room for error. Each strike of Emmett’s shovel was a matter of life or death. 

A day passed, then another, still nothing. Emmett, now a month into his search, had lost almost half his body weight and grew weaker by the hour. His dissecting skills were outdone at every turn by Herb’s manic drive. Herb was rested, fresh, and hungry for second chances. “It’s alright now Albright, no shame in bowing out! We can all see you ain’t got the grit for it no more!” 

With only a dozen cows remaining, a gasp echoed on the dusty wind, then a yelp, then a squawk. Two hundred feet away another inmate, a boy of a man, was hollering, clutching something large, shiny and gold. Before Emmett could register his words something hit his chest like a small car, sending him flying into the muck. He looked up to see Herb on top of him with fire in his eyes as he sent his elbow into Emmett’s cheek and scrambled to his feet. Spying the boy, dancing in place like a prospector who’d struck oil, Emmett arose in hot pursuit. 

Herb dragged his legs from rotting torsos, cracking ribs and spines as though he was running through paper. With land to gain, Emmett’s long legs sent him soaring above the corpses, catching Herb and passing him by. Reaching the boy, Emmett snatched the necklace from his hands. Though he turned to find not just his hand on the prize, but Herb’s, a devious grin across his lips. With a mighty yank Herb pulled it away. Emmett held on tight, yanking it back with a strength he had not known before. They continued in this way, equally matched, pulling the chain back and forth in a slippery tug of war. Spinning and stumbling in the puddles of blood below them. 

They tousled and turned, gripping at each other's suits and scrapping until they fell, splashing around in gut gravy. The inmates surrounded them, egging them on and blocking the gaze of patrolling authorities. Herb and Emmett thumped and gauged and kicked and rolled and pummelled each other until they were black and blue and red in the face. Herb gripped Emmett like a wild ape, pinning him down and slipping on top of him. With bulging fingers Herb pushed Emmett’s face deeper and deeper into a puddle of claret and filth below. Bubbles spraying out as Emmett gasped for air. He was drowning and Herb was enjoying every second of it. 

Though Emmett would not release his grip on the chain. He let out one final cry as the earth seeped into his mouth and his breath seeped out. Herb only pushed harder as Emmett’s body eased slowly into the mud below, his grip on the chain slackening. 

A broad smile stretched across Herb’s peeling lips followed by a gasping, guttural laugh. The crowd stepped back, the horror of what they witnessed only now dawning on them. Herb noted their cowardice, sticking out his tongue, taunting any soul who might think to challenge him next. 

As he snarled and provoked, the ground beneath Herb bubbled, until his swinging tongue was met with a spray of jellied blood. Emmett rose from the earth, releasing a volcanic blast of matter from his mouth into Herb’s. With his first breath Emmett screamed out, whimpering like an injured animal “Help! Help! This mad man’s trying to kill me!” 

Herb fell away, scooping the toxic sludge from his eyes, “You filthy rat bastard!” A dozen police gloves landed on Herb, pulling him from Emmett’s squirming body, beating him with clubs and fists, dragging him back towards the prison bus, kicking and barking like a rabid dog. “That’s mine Emmett, you dirty rat bastard! You know it’s mine! ”. 

Emmett admired the treasure in his hands. Seeing it now materialised, there was something eerily familiar about this object he had only imagined until now. He felt it carefully between his fingers, assessing each bump and crevice, wiping away the blood to reveal the details beneath. It was adorned with jewels of every colour, hanging clunkily from a thick gold chain, meshed with matted feathers and plastic beads. None of it seemed to fit, odd mismatched gems fixed to it with blotchy glue, the links of the chain barely holding together. It was nothing more than tacky costume jewelry cobbled together from the hobby lobby. He’d recognise the handiwork anywhere and it was worth more than he could ever have imagined.