Seventh Sense
Page 17
John, I didn’t know what the hell to think. If these people were on Old Man Black’s side, I was screwed, with rattlers in front of me and unfriendly hill-billies, probably armed, behind me.
At that point I figured I didn’t have much choice but to put my trust in the Gabbers.
About the time I made that decision, all hell broke loose. One of those big boars let out a steamship whistle of rage and charged down the drive, right toward those slithering reptiles. I heard the snap of big jaws and the broken body of a rattler flew up, twisting in its death throes.
Then all the pigs – even more, it seemed, than the ones that had flocked around me when I opened the gate – tore off down the driveway. They burst out of the bushes, ran out from under the house, all of them headed toward the gate where, now, both big boars snapped and grunted, throwing snakes right and left. There was screaming everywhere, just like human screams, when those pigs and snakes met. Soon, the air above the combatants was loud with porcine battle cries and thick with pieces of snake, pigs snapping at them like crocodiles.
I don’t know where the thought came from, but it hit me that if old Dante had seen this, his hell would’ve looked a lot different.
Then, just like that, it was over. The bristled-up boars snuffed a time or two, rooting around in the carnage and occasionally coming up with something chewy. The others nosed around a little bit, too, gulping down pieces of snake. After a couple of minutes, they quietly began to disperse, headed back to wherever they’d come from.
“I... have never seen anything like that,” I said, after a few moments. “Never.” I looked down at the pistol in my hand. The trembling was almost imperceptible, but it was there.
“Yeah, our pigs are pretty good fighters,” said Jeb from behind me.
“Here,” said Mrs. Gabber. She held out a Mason jar, smaller than the one sitting on the railing, with about a finger of liquid at the bottom. I knew what it was, and I gratefully threw it down anyway. Maybe I was just getting used to it, but it didn’t seem to burn quite as much and after it spread through me it sure as hell steadied my nerves.
“Thanks,” I said, handing the jar back. Then, to Jeb, “Will your pigs die because of this? I mean, from eating rattlers?”
“Naw,” he said. “Couple may be off their feed a day er two. That’s all. Might die if they got bit, but likely they won’t.”
“Fat soaks up the poison,” added Jube. “Hell, they love snakes. One of ‘em crawls onto th’ place, it’s gone in a flash. Even rattlers. So all Black did was give our pigs some good eatin’.”
Up until then, I’d never known that pigs ate snakes. Then again, up until then I’d never met the Gabber boys’ porkers.
My nerves were steady now, and I felt that it was time to end the visit. Besides, there was something on the other side of the fence that I wanted to see. So I said my farewells, secured my gun and the ‘shine in the sidecar, and took off down the gravel drive. It was so slick with blood and gore that I almost slid off it a couple of times before I could get to the gate. I passed a couple of straggler pigs, smaller ones, that were staggering around a little, kind of disoriented. I found myself hoping they wouldn’t die.
Right outside the fence was where I found it. Old Man Black’s hat. My heart sang at that. The cigarette butt seemed to be working, but having an article of clothing was even better. Or so the book told me. Plus, he would know I had it, and that would make him worry.
It was an ugly damn hat, I’ll tell you that. Big and black, sweat-stained, dusty, with downturned brim and a snakeskin band that I knew had to be rattler. I stuffed it into the sidecar and headed for home.
I don’t mean to be cryptic about the cigarette butt and the hat, but it requires some explanation. I was going to give it to you in this letter, but I’ve gone on and on and it’ll wait until next time. Just know that if you hadn’t been good enough to send those books to me, it probably wouldn’t have happened and I would be in the soup.
Your pal and faithful comrade,
Oink Oink Brown
DODD GENERAL HOSPITAL
Main and Jackson Harrison, Arkansas
June 27, 1939
Dear Mr. Wooley:
I have been asked by Robert Brown to write you. He is in our hospital in Harrison after having been bitten by a rattlesnake and brought here by Dr. Chavez of Mackaville. I must tell you that his condition is so serious that we fear he may not live.
Robert insisted I contact you. His last words before lapsing into a coma were that I should ask you to help his parents if anything happens to him. I have telephoned them and informed them of all that has happened and what we are doing for him. I advised his father against trying to come out here.
We will know soon if he is going to make it. I cannot be too hopeful, and I advise you to be prepared for the worst. Although optimism is not realistic at this point, prayer may be the best thing you can do for him.
Robert has been comatose for the last 10 hours and has only a small chance of regaining consciousness. I will keep you informed of further developments.
Please contact me if I can be of any further assistance.
Sincerely,
Perry P. Jennings, M.D. Dodd General Hospital
3-4242 telephone
563 office number in Harrison
About the Authors
Robert A. Brown has spent most of his working life in public education, serving as both a reading specialist and a principal, but he has also authored several nonfiction pieces dealing with the Great Depression and its popular culture, including western movies and the so-called "Spicy" magazines of the period. His work includes a piece on the legend of cowboy-movie star Tom Mix commissioned by the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum. An internationally known collector of such nostalgic items such as movie paper, radio premiums, and pulp magazines, Brown supplied the art and wrote the text for Kitchen Sink Press's popular trading card series Spicy: Naughty '30s Pulp Covers and Spicy: More Naughty '30s Pulp Covers, which quickly became sold-out collector's items.
Brown initiated what became The Cleansing, writing letters on authentic period stationery to his old friend Wooley, using his deep knowledge of the 1930s to portray himself as the WPA employee beset by rural horrors who became The Cleansing's protagonist.
John Wooley made his first professional sale in the late 1960s, placing a script with the legendary Eerie magazine. He's now in his sixth decade as a professional writer, having written three mass-market paperback horror novels with co-author Ron Wolfe, including Death's Door, which was one of the first books released under Dell's Abyss imprint and nominated for a Bram Stoker Award. His solo horror and fantasy novels include Awash in the Blood, Ghost Band, and Dark Within, the latter a finalist for the Oklahoma Book Award.
Wooley is also the author of the critically acclaimed biographies Wes Craven: A Man and His Nightmares and Right Down the Middle: The Ralph Terry Story. He has co-written or contributed to several volumes of Michael H. Price's Forgotten Horrors series of movie books and co-hosts the podcast of the same name.
Read more at John Wooley’s site.