“Mookie, goddamit, stay!”
Mookie lurched, yanking Sven forward. The shotgun stock caught on the door frame and the gun fell forward. Sven instinctively reached his right hand to catch it, and just like that, Mookie shot off the porch and tore ass for the barn.
“Mookie! Stay!”
Mookie did not stay.
Sven ran after her. As soon as he came off the porch, away from the house’s shelter, the wind cut at him, pulled him. Snow flew so hard it stung his face and hands.
As he ran, Sven pumped a shell into the chamber.
Mookie stood in front of the barn’s big sliding door, barking with such violence that spit flew from her shaking head in gloopy strings that arced across her face and nose.
Sven held the shotgun with his right hand as he planted both feet at an angle and slid across the snow. Mookie was preoccupied with the door and saw her master a second too late. She turned to run, but Sven’s left hand caught a handful of neck fur and lifted the dog high.
“Bad dog! Bad!”
Mookie’s long, fluffy tail tucked between her legs and she started yelping.
“Oh, stop it, you damn baby. When I say you stay, you stay!”
Something smashed into the barn door. Sven’s hands flew to the shotgun. Mookie fell to the ground. Sven leveled the Mossberg at the door. Mookie scooted behind him.
Even over the wind, Sven smelled… burning fur?
Cow screams, heavy slams, breaking wood, and… another noise… a kind of growl? Something was in there with his cows. This wasn’t sickness at all, and there was no way in hell Sven could walk away from some predator feeding on his animals.
Already breathing hard from an adrenaline surge and a strange feeling of desperation, Sven kept his right hand on the shotgun, finger on the trigger, as his left hand grabbed the sliding door’s black handle. He pulled open the heavy door an inch, just enough to peek inside with one eye.
Smells billowed out: shit, animal fear, burnt fur… and the heavy scent of blood. Ninety panicked cows in a space built for fifty calm ones. They ran back and forth, as if they might find some way out, slamming into stalls, walls and one another. Blood streaked the walls, bales of hay, the cows themselves. Redness coated the floor in long slimy streaks and spotted hoofprints. Just in front of Sven’s boot, a long intestine snaked from one side of the barn to the other. Dirt and hay clung to its wet surface.
Sven moved his head side to side so he could look into the barn at different angles, try to locate the danger. He wasn’t going to fully open the door until he knew what he was dealing with. He craned his neck, trying to see past the shuffling mass of cattle. He caught glimpses of mangled cow corpses, so torn up their coats looked bright red with dark-red markings rather than black and white.
BAM
A cow slammed into the door and Sven jumped back. Fear tingling through his chest, he leaned and looked in. The cow crashed forward again: the wood shook as if it had been hit by a lightning bolt.
No ear tag… it was one of his.
Two other cows picked up on the first’s efforts, perhaps sensing a possible way out.
BAM-BAM-BAM
All three hit the door, almost five thousand combined pounds of desperate animal pummeling forward. Sven stood amazed as the first cow struck again, this time with such force that the skin between her eyes split from the middle of her nose up past her ears. Blood poured down her face, but instead of stopping kept hurling herself forward.
BAM
None of these three had ear tags. They were his cows. He had to get his herd out. They’d already seen a way to freedom—even if he shut the door, they’d kill themselves trying to get away from whatever the hell was in the barn. If he let them out, he could shoot the predator, then he and Mookie could round up the herd.
Sven set the shotgun against the door and put both hands on the cold, red-painted wood. The cows kept slamming against it, briefly jamming the roller wheels with each impact. He leaned back hard, digging in his heels, walking the door open with a herky-jerky motion. Each cow impact generated a thundering reverberation of rattling dry wood. The first cow, head bloody, scraps of skin dangling from her nose and face, pushed halfway through the door, shoulders wedging in the narrow opening. She pushed the bottom of the door outward, jamming tight the roller wheels on top. Sven pulled hard, but couldn’t budge it. The cows brayed in pure fight-or-flight panic.
Another cow head appeared above the first, thrusting forward, trying to crawl over, push through the narrow opening, sharp hooves driving down on the head below. Sven desperately leaned back with all his weight, but the door wouldn’t budge.
BAM-BAM, BAM
A rifle-shot sound of splintering wood. Sven looked up; the left roller wheel had almost ripped away from the door.
BAM-BAM, BAM
All the wheels tore free, spinning out into the snow like shrapnel. Ten feet high, eight feet wide and three inches thick, the door dropped like a drawbridge.
Sven almost made it clear.
The thick wood kicked up a huge cloud of swirling snow when it drove on the ground—and onto his left foot, just above the ankle. His fibula and tibia snapped like fresh carrots.
Eyes wide and white, froth covering their muzzles, the cows roared out like some powerful orgasm of terror. Each pounding step drove the door down onto Sven’s broken leg, pinning it, keeping him from pulling free. His screams joined the panicked cries of the stampeding herd.
Some of the cows stumbled and fell. Those behind them plowed forward, sometimes going around, sometimes stepping on the fallen. They spread out like a black and white and red gas, dissipating away from the barn, moving out across the snowdrifted field and into the swelling storm.
Sven lay in the snow, eyes twisted shut, teeth bared and mouth wide open in a silent scream of agony. He tried to pull his foot free, but each tiny motion ripped him with barbed-wire blasts. Swirling black spots clouded his vision. A fierce shake of his head cleared some of them away. Blood poured out of his boots, staining the snow in an expanding red slush.
Pain or no pain, he had to get free, even if he had to tear off his own leg to do so. The thing that butchered the cows was still inside. Fighting through the agony, he sat up and worked his fingers under the door. He only had to lift it a little…
His old, well-worked muscles bunched as he desperately tried to lift the three-hundred-pound door. The wood rose, just a fraction of an inch, but it was enough for him to redouble his efforts. It rose another half inch, then suddenly slammed down as if God himself had willed it.
Sven’s head snapped back in an involuntary scream. Tears streamed down his face, quickly freezing into glistening trails on his cheeks. He looked up.
A cow stood on the door.
It wasn’t braying or panicking, it had just walked a few feet onto the fallen door and stopped. Sven recognized the white head with the black eyepatch—Molly McButter.
“Move, goddamit! You fucking cow, move!”
She didn’t. Mookie rushed in, snapped at her feet, but she didn’t budge. Molly stood there, snow accumulating on her back, her head bent almost to the ground, glazed eyes staring at nothing, her heavy belly round and distended and hanging low.
Hanging low, and moving.
“Get off da door, you motherfucker! Get da fu—”
Sven’s epithet died in midsyllable: a long, thick stream of blood poured out of Molly McButter’s mouth to splash against the fallen barn door. The flow stopped briefly, just a few drops dribbling down, then it poured free again like crimson vomit. She turned her head to the side, weakly, as if it took some great effort, and looked right at Sven.