CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories

by J. F. Posthumus

  “Trade agreements are important to—”

  “Establish travel routes to gas cloud scuba diving?” Z’layna said, her voice dripping sweetness. “For that we finally want official peace?”

  “Anything that brings our peoples together in lasting unity and—”

  “Save it for the public addresses, your majesty! You know as well as I do that this is merely a pretext to get rid of your sixth daughter in a way that doesn’t look wasteful. And look around! I’ve taken care of your problem for you!”

  “Ahem, yes,” I put in. After all, I was supposed to be in charge of this place. Commander Jones and all. Maybe I could assert a little diplomacy. “Look around. Perhaps a tour around the facility, just to have a look at what we do, get a feel for your daughter’s work…?”

  “Excellent idea!” A broad smile curved Z’layna’s often scornful mouth. “Have a tour around the facility, mother? Maybe get an idea for what this sustenance generator run by the Poultry Corporation does?”

  “Very well,” the queen bent her head in gracious agreement.

  With a clunk and a shumpf, the bay door closed so suddenly that everyone jumped.

  “What’s going on?” Z’layna demanded.

  “The ship is moving away, your highness,” one of the twin servant-guys replied from a position at the controls he had no right to take. “To make way for the Ca’slaphrean vessel.”

  “You invited the Ca’slaphreans here?” Z’layna hissed.

  “Of course,” her mother answered. “Your nuptials are long overdue, and it seemed only right that the betrothed should meet at the first opportunity.”

  The hydraulics whirred and—whoosh—the door opened again.

  “Wait…” Queen Z’chal’s eyes widened. “Did you say poultry?”

  “I was going to show you—” Z’layna stuttered. “I didn’t mean—It was only a joke.”

  “Presenting his excellency, the grand general of Ca’slaphrea,” the twins bellowed.

  In from the airlock walked a large, round, corpulent humanoid. Sheath-like brown and red protuberances covered him from head to foot. His long and expressive arms were folded at his sides. His hair rose in a bright red comb from his head and his nose dropped to a sharp yellow point.

  I have never seen an alien that more resembled a chicken in all my life.

  “Well?” he clucked. “Where is she? Where is my bride?”

  Z’layna backed up into the corridor. “Um… look, really quickly, I didn’t know you were coming, ok? I just wanted to make a point to my mother, and—”

  A sharp whistle followed by a pop rang out. Suddenly, the artificial gravity stopped working and, at the very same moment, loud squawks and clucks echoed through the corridor.

  “What,” squawked the grand general, flapping his arms, “is happening?”

  Chickens, boneless blobs of feathers and feet and beaks, floated down the corridor from whichever segment had breached.

  “You didn’t!” cried Queen Z’chal, swinging wildly with no gravity to anchor the blow at her daughter.

  Z’layna tumbled backward.

  I lunged forward to try to catch her. Together, we somersaulted into the Ca’slaphrean ship.

  The hatch chose that moment to malfunction, shutting the airlock with a vicious clunk that nearly removed my foot. Squawking, clucking, shouts, the hiss of equalizing air—All noise was instantly silenced.

  “What’s going on?” I gasped.

  “The Ca’slaphreans,” Z’layna said in a strange voice. “There’s nothing more offensive to them than a chicken. And the fact that we’re farming them, for meat…”

  And she broke down into seesaws of shrill laughter.

  “Oh!” I thought about it. I had a chance, one final shot at impressing the girl of my dreams, so much more out of my league than I thought. “So, what do we do? Can we make it up to them somehow?”

  “Probably. I don’t think I’ve started another war. But he most definitely will want nothing to do with us now. No wedding-bells for me! So, maybe just dock us again and then we’ll work it out.”

  “Sure!” I said, relieved. I’m good at piloting, so all I’d have to do was figure out how to get the controls back into alignment with the docking bay doors and—

  The ship swerved violently to the right. It scraped and clunked against something before I could course correct.

  “The compressor!” Z’layna shouted.

  Too late.

  Chicken poop compressed into fertilizer sparked as the equipment jarred loose.

  And Segments 1 through 3 exploded in a silent flash of fire and feathers.

  Z’layna and I met each other’s glance.

  “Make for the nearest wormhole portal,” she whispered.

  I nodded.

  “Hey!” crackled Marchant through the communicator. “What’d I miss?”

  And then we were gone.

  So, that is how I became Commander Rigby Jones of a commandeered Ca’slaphrean vessel, ready to take on whatever job needs doing. At my side, my trusty copilot and technician Z’layna. And Steve, the boneless chicken, who happened to drift in along with us.

  The End

  About the Author

  Abigail Falanga may be found in New Mexico, creating magic in many ways—with fabric, food, paper, music, and especially with words! She’s loved fantasy ever since playing out epic adventures of swords, fairies, and monsters with her siblings, and she’s loved sci-fi since her dad’s stories around the dinner table.

  “A Time of Mourning and Dancing,” the first book in her dark fantasy series The Floramancy Archives, is available now.

  Link: https://abigailfalangaauthor.wordpress.com/

  Korion the Unclean

  J. A. Campanile

  Korion the Unclean

  J. A. Campanile

  “You—you’re a monster!”

  The woman’s voice shook as Korion turned to face her, flexing his fist and adjusting the flow of his magic. He never tired of that word. “Monster,” “abomination,” “filth,” the names were music to his ears. Monster was Korion’s personal favorite, though. It was the very first time he’d horrified someone. His mother. She’d called him a monster, bestowed the title upon him. First times always held a special place in your heart.

  Korion let his fist open, spreading his fingers out and releasing the man—or what was left of him—from his telekinetic grip. His personal technique, exploding heads, had worked its wonders, leaving a fine mist of brain and blood in the air. This plant worker was good and dead. Now, to end the woman.

  He unholstered a gun from his hip, raised the muzzle to her height, and then fired. The fun was over, and he had more important things to spend his magic on.

  Korion stepped forward, his black coat billowing around his calves. Once he reached the woman, he raised his heel and brought it swiftly down on her head. The brain had to be destroyed, otherwise this whole thing could blow up in his face. He wasn’t here for the workers. He came for what lay beyond the double doors into the plant’s production floor.

  The humans were trivial, not worth his time. Sure, they might have been stronger, faster, smarter, but they were also far more volatile, even as undead. They clung to this pesky notion of “free will” or something.

  As Korion flung the doors open and strode inside, he turned over his shoulder and raised his fingers to his lips, letting out a shrill whistle. Flutters of motion followed his call. He turned back to the conveyor belts, now halted, and smiled.

  A harsh, throaty chant bubbled up from Korion’s lips, raking the air and screeching up his spine. The chant’s thick, suffocating energy seeped into the air around him, filled his eyes and ears and nose like tar.

  Dark magic wasn’t a toy. Archmagi like Korion, they knew this, and took painstaking care to cast with exactness. If you gave your spell even a millimeter of room, if you let your grip up for just a second, you’d lose all control. The raw, formless evil killed anything in its path. Amateur sorc
erers, though? They often died in their own stupidity, playing with magic they didn’t understand.

  One by one, in the midst of the black energy, bodies raised from the conveyor belt. Confusion garbled from their open throats, and they stumbled blindly on their newly reanimated legs. A few tipped right off the edge and smacked their headless necks on the ground. Korion shook his head. New animations were always idiots.

  Although he’d studied his magic religiously, pored over years of unholy texts and made pact after pact with demon after demon, he didn’t fully understand why he could do what he was doing. He was raising bodies, reanimating these things, without their brains. No necromancer could do that, and that was their ultimate downfall—their constructs would think for themselves, and inevitably turn against their master.

  These bodies, though? No brain. No free will. Maybe they had the correct number of organs, and maybe that made all the difference. They were stuffed with the livers, kidneys, and hearts of their kind. No brains, though. He didn’t raise a single body with a brain.

  “Buck-gawk!”

  Well, that wasn’t quite true. As Korion turned to face his trusted lieutenant, Cluck, he was reminded of the half-brain that Cluck possessed. His killers hadn’t butchered him properly, cutting off his head barely at the beak. Cluck, as a result, was smarter than the average construct. He had proven his loyalty over and over, though, so Korion felt no unease about placing Cluck in charge of his army when Korion couldn’t personally command them. Korion might speak the language of the undead, but Cluck spoke the language of the chickens.

  Yes, chickens. He raised chickens as minions.

  And they were excellent servants. No brain to speak of, so no volition of their own. Undeath looked good on these creatures, too. Their relative strength to weight was something Korion had seen in no other creature before. Really, what madman wouldn’t use chickens in their undead army?

  They were nearly invincible, too, with no brain to destroy. With a little more magic, Korion could complete their protection. Fire was their single weakness, and he only needed a couple reagents for a good Protection from Elements spell. In a matter of hours, these chickens would be unstoppable.

  Someone screamed from behind Korion, and a frown curved the Overlord’s lips. Hmmm. He must have missed one of the plant workers.

  Turning a millimeter at a time, he locked eyes with the man for just a second, drinking in the horror that warped his face. Then, looking down on Cluck, he said,

  “Kill him.”

  Cluck uttered a shrieking cry, and the chickens swarmed as one hivemind onto the doomed man. Their wings turned razor sharp, slicing into their poor victim, talons meeting flesh with vicious fervor.

  Korion didn’t let them relish the kill, ordering them away from the body just barely after they had dispatched it. He had a world to conquer, after all.

  The End

  About the Author

  J. A. Campanile was raised with a healthy love of classic literature and dreams of being “an author!” when she grew up. She primarily writes romance, which doesn't have anything to do with zombie chickens… except when it does.

  She lives in the Rocky Mountains with her three trusty companion parrots, Blue, Woodstock, and Pepper. When she’s not writing, she can be found at her day job buried under stacks of data, in the library, or binging Netflix and driving everyone else in the room crazy by analyzing the plot and story arcs out loud.

  The Great Chicken Escapade

  David Millican

  The Great Chicken Escapade

  David Millican

  It was Christmas time in the year of… some year that had a Christmas.

  Listen, I can't remember what year it is now, so don’t expect me to remember what year it was twelve years ago?

  Anyway, my sister offered to care for her boss's animals during his vacation. To my delight, I received my draft notice to serve as senior executive assistant helper and horse pusher away-er.

  With aplomb, I rose to the challenge and reveled in the experience. My job, be it ever so humble, was to push the horses away while my sister deposited the oats into the bin without the overzealous horses tearing the bucket out of her hand.

  Then, with my superior stealth powers, I would slip in and out of the chicken coop to retrieve the day's eggs. Furthermore, my alpha mentality would be employed in staring down the goats as she swapped out the old straw for new. And, for two days, it was smooth sailing on the ship M.S.S. David Helps.

  I should have known it wouldn't last; the signs were there, the omens plain for anyone to read. The sky had cleared, the snow had melted, birds shrilled in the trees, and everything was going well. Yet I had a lapse in judgement. The lack of issues convincing me I was supremely suited to the tasks at hand. Pride cometh before the fall.

  Melissa asked if I would handle the chickens while she managed the goats.

  “I got this!” I snapped.

  (Did anyone else just hear impending doom drums? Weird.)

  I skipped along the barn whistling a bright cheery tune. Okay, okay, I trudged through the mud, but I did whistle “Don't Fear the Reaper” which is cheery in its own way.

  Kinda. Sorta.

  But I digress, I rounded the corner of the barn and made ingress into the horse pen on my way to the chicken coop that lay just beyond. I puzzled over the fact that horses didn't charge at me as usual, but were doing their best to appear utterly uninterested.

  “Finally learned your lesson,” I jeered, pulling open the gate that would give me access to the chicken coop door.

  Pausing, I mentally prepared myself for the process of opening the door and slipping in before a wild hen got it in her head to escape. My process was simple but foolproof. I’d kick the door to scare the chickens back, and then inch it open just a crack so I could slide in.

  (Okay, a little more than a crack, I mean I know I don't fit through cracks, but just go with me on this one.)

  I snatch up the eggs, slide back to the door and execute a patented David backwards fan kick to ensure that no chickens would bolt out after me. Perfected over two days of rigorous testing, this routine excelled at keeping order in the chicken coop. There was no reason it shouldn't excel today. Except for that one little problem called complacency. You see these fowls, devious little creatures they are, had been lulling me into a false sense of superiority.

  The door gave a deep resounding thump as I let fly a furious kick, and, like a ninja, I rocketed into the coop faster than the speed of sound. All was well as the chickens were against the far wall, clucking and ignoring me. I collected the eggs, only two today, a little low, but I'm not a chicken farmer, maybe it's completely normal. The task completed, I swung open the door with the undeserved confidence of a freshman psychology major.

  Like a ball of lead dropping in my stomach, I realized I hadn't executed my patented backward fan kick. The chickens are chillin’ against the wall, my cocky inner voice declared. You’re good to go. This thought, however, conflicted with the golden blur of feathers streaking through my legs and to the great wide open beyond.

  “A breach, a breach,” I screamed as I slammed the door behind me before any others could escape.

  The hen, whom I have to assume was the chicken equivalent of The Flash, had already shot under the gate into the horse pen by the time I spun back around. Giving chase, my feet fought to find purchase in the mud as I looked to the eggs in each hand. Without another thought, I eased them into my pockets. Flinging open the gate, I charged into the pen.

  “Melissa, one of the chickens got loose, I need your help!” I cried.

  “Deal with it,” came the sharp retort striking fear into my very soul. “A goat’s out!”

  What is happening? Two animals escaping at the same time? That’s no coincidence. The goat had nothing to gain by breaking free from his pen. He was still trapped in the barn. The goat’s a distraction!

  The plan was clear: they were isolating the humans. But I only had a chicken to de
al with. It couldn’t hope to match my superior intellect and size. I'm a full-grown man, I could handle this.

  I abandoned Melissa to her fate with the goats—she was lost to me now—and turned to bring this chicken down. Turning back to the pen I came nose to nose with the long, sinister face of a horse. Shoving the obstinate beast out of my way informing it that I had no food, I sidestepped, intending to move around its flank. It mirrored my every move. In all my dealings with horses and I’d never seen this behavior before.

  I shoulder-checked the horse back until I reached the spot I had last seen ‘The Flash.’ The little pain in the neck was nowhere to be seen. It seemed impossible, a Las Vegas level magic trick. I had a 360-degree view of the pen. I mean… except for where the horse stood.

  Where the horse stood! Sure enough, bending down and looking through the horse’s legs I found the evil little chicken. I circled to the left, around the horse, but it circled with me. The nefarious chicken kept pace behind the horse.

  “The horse and the chicken are in cahoots!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, my rage adding a ragged edge to my voice. It was only now the level of conspiracy became clear.

  “I'm almost done,” Melissa called. Reinforcements were on their way.

  I gave the horse a head fake and threw my body to the right, but apparently, he’d been trained well enough to know to watch the hips not the head and matched my move. I backed up to gain an angle on the horse, but he anticipated me like a pro-football safety. I even tried the triple deke head fake (thank you, Mighty Ducks) but to no avail. I stared down my opponent as he gave me a sly grin. Well, as sly as a buck-toothed horse can give.