Holiday of the Dead

by David Dunwoody

  Sturdy and strong, tried and true.

  Proof again that the old fashioned ways of doing things were still the best ways of doing things.

  The light breeze was heavy with the scent of pine needles and the promise of rain—maybe even snow, depending upon how cold it got. It wasn’t that unusual to have snow on Thanksgiving in this part of Pennsylvania. Hell, it wasn’t unusual to have snow on Easter either. The cold made the birds sluggish, so it certainly wasn’t a bad thing, but the dampness made his hips ache, which slowed him down almost as much as it did the birds. This time of night, the turkeys were half asleep anyway, which made the whole process easier as well. Another trick he’d learned from his father. Still, despite the late hour, when he unlatched the door brace, tugged open the heavy barn door, and turned on the overhead light, the turkeys immediately began their incessant gobbling, as if sensing that there was something different about tonight.

  Over the years, he’d grown accustomed to the racket they made, but as the holidays drew closer, and the flock was more mature, their voices were loud enough to grate the nerves. It was always a relief on Thanksgiving morning, and even more so on Christmas, when raucous gobbling of these birds was silenced.

  “Good evening, you poor bastards.”

  At the sound of his croaky voice, the flock quietened a bit. They knew his voice. He’d raised each and every one of them. They trusted him, as much as a turkey could trust anybody.

  Emil patted the knife at his side. “Tonight’s your night boys. More than half of you are going to that great turkey pen in the sky.”

  A row of twenty leg shackles hung against the side wall over several blood basins. The wall was indelibly stained with dried gore. Four rows of twenty inverted draining cones were lined up alongside the wall, each cone tucked securely, narrow side down, inside the wooden rack that his great grandfather father had built. The rack was on wheels, and resembled an oversized checkerboard, with plastic cones in place of red and black checkers. The cones had been replaced a few times over the years, but the wooden rack was as stable as ever. Good workmanship; another testament to doing things the old fashioned way.

  The toms were bunched together in a large pen opposite the shackles and wooden checkerboard, a bobbling sea of white feathers. Tonight one hundred birds would be slaughtered for Thanksgiving, and the remaining seventy five would stay in the pen until Christmas week. Emil went to the pen and opened the gate, careful to block the exit so that he didn’t waste energy chasing any birds around the barn. The turkeys gobbled louder as they surrounded him, expecting a handout of grain or some other goody. He grabbed the nearest turkey, a nice plump tom that squawked in protest. Emil tucked the bird under his arm, holding the wings tightly. The wing muscles flexed as the bird struggled against his grip, and knew that by the end of the night, his arms would surely be aching. Hopefully, there’d be enough hot water for a nice bath to soothe his sore bones.

  He carried the bird to the shackles and, with an ease that comes with years of practice, hoisted the bird upside down, clamping each leg firmly into the first set of shackles. The bird squawked and screeched, wings flailing, feathers flying. The other birds looked on, warbling softly, seemingly unaffected by the plight of their fellow pen-mate, oblivious to the fact that they would soon be in the same precarious position.

  “Settle down, you damn stupid turkey. You’re only hurting yourself.”

  Emil shook his head. These dumb birds didn’t even realize that the more they struggled the more painful the shackles would be. They were so heavy that the repeated struggling usually dislocated their hips and wings. And people wondered why it was so easy to get the leg sections off some turkeys but not others.

  One by one, Emil grabbed a bird and hoisted it into the same position as the first, shackled firmly by its feet, hanging upside down. Each bird in turn squawked and complained until their wings tired from flailing and their tiny brains were about to burst from the blood rush. When each of the shackles held a plump turkey, Emil proceeded to the second step. He slipped his great grandfather’s knife out of its sheath. Starting with the first bird, with one quick swipe, he slit its throat.

  The knife sliced through the thick skin efficiently and smoothly, and Emil could swear a pleasant tingle emanated from the handle as it slid effortlessly across the turkey’s gullet. It was as if the knife itself were expressing its gratitude for being used again after having laid dormant for so long. The noisy squawking of the bird abruptly ceased, while its beak opened and closed futilely. Its head waggled obscenely, still attached to the neck by a thick flap of skin and muscle, as blood poured into the basin. The turkey flapped its wings with renewed vigour, but couldn’t escape the inevitability of death.

  Emil twisted the knife in his hand, admiring once again the way the blade caught the light on its edge, and then continued down the line, slitting the throat of each bird so that the blood could run out, marvelling all the while at the proficiency of his great grandfather’s knife. How fluently it cut through the necks of the birds, and with each use, the pleasant tingle became more electrifying, until the knife itself seemed to glow with invigorating energy, humming with the thrill of being valuable once again.

  When Emil reached the end of the row, he slipped the knife back into its sheath for the time being and returned to the first bird, now limp and flaccid. He unshackled it and placed it head down inside the first cone, so that the rest of the blood could run out. He did the same with the other nineteen shackled birds, until twenty birds were arranged securely in the cones, head down, tail feathers up, feet still twitching. Satisfied with the first group, he returned to the pen, and one by one, started loading the shackles again. He’d have to repeat the process four more times, so that when he was done, he’d have eighty birds draining in the cones, and the remaining twenty draining in the shackles. Then he’d take a short break – maybe catch a twenty minute nap – allowing some time for all the blood to drain out, before carting them off to the cooler and dumping the blood in the stream out back. In the morning, he’d finish the job – gutting, plucking, trimming the wings and legs – so when his customers picked up their birds, they’d be perfect, no blood, no gore, not even a feather.

  Emil’s arms burned more fitfully with each bird he hauled into and out of the shackles. Slitting their throats was actually the easiest part as it gave his aching muscles a rest. The strange, electric feel of the knife made it even better – enjoyable, even. When Emil finally sliced the gullet of the last turkey, he heaved a sigh of relief and squinted at his watch. 2:03am Not bad. Years ago, he’d been able to do this part of the job in three hours, tops. But age carried a price.

  His bones throbbed and his arthritic hips were on fire. Still, the wonderful knife had made the job easier. He idly watched as the flailing of the last bird slowed and gradually stopped.

  That was it. Break time.

  He wiped the blade of his great grandfather’s knife on his slaughter jacket, placed it back in the sheath, and washed up in the basin. The rest of the birds watched him warily, their jabber quieting as the night’s excitement ebbed away. They’d been spared until the Christmas kill.

  “Sleep tight, you lucky birds. You got a few weeks to go before it’s your turn.”

  Emil glanced around the barn one more time, turned off the light, and latched the door. He’d be back in less than an hour, but it didn’t take long for predators in these mountains to catch the scent of fresh blood, and he’d worked too hard for some fox or bear to come along and enjoy the free fruit of his labours. He stopped at the tool shed, shrugged off the blood stained jacket, placed it back on the hook, and laid the knife next to the grinder. The chilly night air nipped at his flannel shirt as he dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He relished the silence as he made his way back to the house. The hens and mating toms were fast asleep in the back barn, and more than half the kill birds were done. For a while, the incessant racket the birds made would be dimmed considerably – a welcome respite.
Without even turning on the lights, Emil sunk into the comfort of the well-worn arm chair across from the sofa and sighed. His great grandfather’s note was still tucked securely under the lamp, and he wondered what words of wisdom it might impart.

  “Whatever you got to say in that note, Great Grandpop, I sure do appreciate your gift. It’s a superb knife. Real quality. Thank you.” His voice sounded groggy even to his own ears. Normally, he’d grab a snack in the kitchen, but tonight food took second seat to exhaustion. He shut his eyes and hoped a twenty minute nap would give him enough energy to lug the turkeys out to the cooler and empty the blood basins. Maybe he was just getting too old to keep this up anymore.

  At 4:23am Emil’s eyes popped open.

  Even before he saw the display on the cable box, he knew he had overslept.

  Dread churned in his stomach. The birds had been left hanging in the barn too long. They should have been in the cooler by now. Not only would the stench attract unwelcome visitors, but one time his father had left a batch out too long, and a good number of folks got sick. Poultry was a fickle meat.

  “Damn it! Don’t need no spoiled birds after all that work!” He pushed himself out of the armchair as quickly as his tight muscles would allow, and tried to stretch the soreness out of his back and hips.

  That’s when he noticed the sound.

  Something he had been so used to hearing, but was completely out of place.

  Turkeys warbling, loud and boisterous in the stillness of the pre-dawn air.

  He stuck his index finger in his ear and wiggled it around. Was he hearing things? He’d been around these birds all his life, and knew every nuance, every intricacy of the noises they made. This was not the sound of seventy-five tired turkeys waking up at an unnatural hour. This sound was louder, more raucous, and more distressed.

  Was there a predator in the barn?

  He scurried to the door as quickly as his hips would allow and headed outside. The noise was definitely coming from the slaughter barn, where about $4,000 worth of fresh meat hung. The sun had not yet broken over the horizon and darkness still shrouded everything in heavy shadows. Emil didn’t have time to hunt for a flashlight. If there was an animal in the barn, time was crucial. His heart pounded loudly in his ears, not only from the effort of hustling outside, but from the thought that some crafty beast was helping himself to a free meal at his expense. His great grandfather used to keep a shotgun perched outside the barn door, but ever since the unfortunate shooting, the shotgun had been banned. His father had secured the barn doors and windows so well that they’d never had a problem with animals getting in – not even a squirrel. The shotgun had been replaced by a baseball bat, more of a security blanket than as a functional weapon. Nonetheless, Emil grabbed hold of the bat.

  He eyed the barn warily. The latch on the door was still securely in place, but the darkness prevented him from seeing the windows clearly. It was possible that some ravenous beast had chewed through the mesh, although he didn’t think it probable. But as he stood outside the door, the gobbling from within reached a frenzied pitch – a sure sign that something was wrong.

  With a shaky hand, he unlatched the door. He gripped the bat securely, holding it at the ready over his shoulder, and edged the door open with his foot.

  The gobbling stopped suddenly, leaving an eerie silence.

  Thick velvety blackness swallowed up the inside of the barn, stunting his vision. He listened intently for the sound of movement, the scuffling of a wild animal caught red handed.

  Nothing.

  Something wasn’t right. Not right at all.

  He hesitated at the edge of the door, his forehead slick with sweat despite the chilly air. He licked his dry lips, and, while keeping hold of the bat with one hand, slowly snaked his free hand around the corner of the door, groping for the light switch. Heart thudding loudly, he flicked the switch, and the overhead fluorescents sputtered to life.

  Nothing jumped, nothing moved, nothing uttered a sound. From where he stood, in the glare of the bluish light, the checkerboard cones were in clear view.

  They were empty.

  Eighty dead turkeys had been propped in those cones, feet sticking up awkwardly. Now they were empty.

  As his mind grappled with the implications, a caustic bubble of angst rose in his chest.

  They’d been stolen. Eighty of his best turkeys stolen right from under his nose.

  And the perpetrator had to still be in the barn.

  Rejuvenated by a sudden surge of anger, he brandished the baseball bat with both hands and kicked the door open the rest of the way.

  A sea of one hundred and seventy five mutilated turkeys stared back at him, silent and menacing.

  At least half of the turkeys had their heads hanging, dangling from severed throats, waddles red not from anxiety, but from the stain of their own blood. Their white feathers were mottled with brownish-red gore, and many of them listed to one side or the other, standing awkwardly on legs that had been broken or dislocated. Others, with heads still intact, had bloody tufts of flesh and feathers hanging from them where they had been gouged and scratched by their counterparts. The beak of one hung down from its face; the eyes of another had been plucked out, leaving nothing but gaping dark holes, empty yet filled with malice; and still another had entrails spilling from a gaping hole in its side.

  Emil blinked hard, unable to fathom what he saw.

  The floor swayed under his feet and he almost lost his balance. For a moment it was as if he was floating outside of himself, watching what was happening, but not really part of it. He was barely aware of the bat falling from his grip as he stared, mesmerized, at the implausible sight.

  It was impossible.

  He must have lost his mind, like his great grandfather before him.

  Vaguely, it registered that twenty birds still hung in the shackles, clamouring noisily, heads waggling violently from severed necks. The pen was empty, the bedding stained with blood and gore. The birds that had been in the pen, now mangled and disfigured, stood with the birds that had been in the cones, the lifeless birds he had left upside down to insure all the blood had been drained from their carcasses.

  But here they were. Dead, but alive.

  His insides roiled and their fetid odour filled his nostrils, nearly overwhelming him. A wave of dizziness challenged his balance, and he almost toppled into the silent horde. One of the grotesque birds stepped forward, its head hanging by a thin strand of bloody sinew, and gazed at him sideways through a bulging, glassy eyes. Its beak hung open at an unnatural angle and a string of mottled drool slid from its mouth. With sudden clarity, Emil realized that, whether he had lost his mind or not, each repulsive creature now stared at him with greedy hunger.

  His stomach sunk through the floor as one thought finally burst through his shock:

  Run. Get the hell out of there.

  Still, he didn’t dare make any sudden moves, and he didn’t dare turn his back on the maimed flock. Slowly, legs trembling, he stepped back from the putrid mass, hoping to back through the door, retreat to the safety and sanity of his little house.

  As soon as he moved, the grotesque horde raised its collective voice in a deafening roar of guttural, unnatural garble. The sound pierced his head like a javelin and he threw his hands over his ears.

  As if the movement was some sort of sign, the turkeys lurched forward.

  Some crawled along on distended bellies, legs dragging from dislocated hip sockets, others tripped and stumbled over their own heads which swayed precariously from severed necks. Others, though, with legs intact, were swift and determined. They charged him, some with wings outstretched, all with malevolence reflected in their black eyes.

  Emil stumbled backward and tripped on the baseball bat he had dropped. He landed with a sickening crack and screamed as incredible pain shot though his left hip. In a flurry of disjointed feathers and twisted gore the turkeys descended upon him. It was all too much and Emil could no longer suppress the
gorge rising in his throat. The meagre meal of soup and crackers that he had had for dinner came surging up, burning his throat and nose. As he gasped to catch his breath, the zombie turkeys took full advantage of his vulnerability. Heavy wings beat against him and sharp claws dug into his skin as they drilled their beaks into his limbs and torso. The pain was excruciating, yet he was overpowered by their numbers and their frenzied hunger. He could not get away.

  “No! Please no! Leave me be!”

  His desperate pleas only increased their fervour and his cries were muffled by the fetid horde that covered his face, his nose, his mouth; suffocating him as they tore into his flesh. Agony burned through him and tears of anguish filled his eyes. As if attracted to the saltiness of those tears, several of the birds clawed and pecked at his face and eyes. Completely at their mercy, Emil surrendered to the anguish as his body twitched and spasmed and his life seeped from him. At last, he gave into his tormentors, melding with them, feeling their greedy lust for flesh as if it were his own, letting his pain melt into their satisfaction, feeling nothing more – nothing but desire, nothing but a thirst, nothing but an insatiable, driving hunger for more …

  Sheriff Gary Turnbull was always the first to arrive at Emil’s place on Wednesday morning. His shift started at 6:00am and even though Emil didn’t start handing out the birds until 7:00, the old man had always made a special exception for him. After all, he would say, if you can’t bend the rules a little for the law, who can you bend them for?

  He always got his pick of the turkeys; one of the few fringe benefits of his position in this dull little town. He swung his cruiser into the long drive and rolled up the gravel to the front lawn.