Hug Chickenpenny: The Panegyric of an Anomalous Child: The Panegyric of an Anomalous Child

by S. Craig Zahler

  “Mommy,” rasped the anomalous boy.

  Unshed tears sparkled in the mother’s hazel eyes as she leaned over and kissed her son.

  The instructor cleared his throat and bowed his head in contrition. “I thought it was influenza at first, and I gave him some expensive medicine, but he—”

  Abigail slapped Vladimir.

  “Wait! I was just—”

  The mother cracked her palm across the face of the instructor. His cheeks reddened, and his eyes sparkled.

  Again, Abigail slapped Vladimir.

  The anomalous boy reached out, grabbed his mother’s coat sleeve, and tugged.

  Pausing, Abigail looked at Hug.

  “Don’t . . . ” rasped the anomalous child. “Don’t be mean.”

  XXVI | The Voyager

  The windowless intensive care room was baby blue as were the sheets that covered the lower half of Hug, who currently wheezed into a hose as he slept. Plastic tubing led from his arm and nubbin to four inverted plasma sacs, and eight thin red wires connected suspended apparatuses to his pustule-covered chest and balding head. Arranged about the foot of the bed were twelve monitors that displayed luminous grids and statistics. Machines beeped and whirred.

  Standing nearby and watching Hug was Abigail Westinghouse. The woman was destroyed.

  Doctor Sheila returned to the room.

  The mother cleared her throat. “How long . . . does he have?”

  “I can’t say for certain. We’ve already lost him twice.”

  Numbly, Abigail nodded her head. “I’ve failed him so many times. Can you please make sure that he—” Her voice cracked, and a ponderous moment of silence passed. “Can you please make sure that he survives just a little bit longer?”

  “I will do everything that I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  ———

  Abigail Westinghouse pulled the seatbelt over Hug, who was unconscious, medicated, and swaddled in a clean, baby blue blanket.

  The mother started her maroon sports car and drove out of the hospital parking lot, along freeways, and down a country road. Not once did the vehicle stop abruptly nor transcend the speed limit.

  Abigail saw the desired field, dialed the steering wheel counterclockwise, and accelerated across tall grass toward an uncommonly large warehouse, which was made out of corrugated steel. A circular hole that was thirty feet in diameter had been cut into the angled roof of this building.

  The mother stopped the car, shifted into park, and unbuckled her son. It was essential—though extremely difficult—for her to maintain her composure.

  Cradling Hug, Abigail exited the vehicle, closed the door, and walked toward the entrance of the warehouse, which was wide open.

  From the darkened interior came the buzzing sounds of two power generators.

  “Hug?”

  ———

  A voice called from someplace and awakened Hug Chickenpenny. His activated heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped . . . and reluctantly repeated this sequence.

  “Wake up, Hug. Wake up.”

  The anomalous boy opened his eyes, focused the good one, and saw a familiar face. “Mommy?”

  “Yes. I’ve got a surprise for you. Look over there—”

  Abigail motioned, and Hug turned his heavy head.

  Ahead of him lay a huge, buzzing darkness.

  “Look at what we built,” said the mother, who then tilted her head back and filled her lungs. “Lights!”

  A snapping sound echoed, and six bright lights glared from the ceiling of a big metal place.

  The anomalous boy squinted his good eye.

  “Do you see it?” asked Abigail.

  Concentrating, Hug tried to focus.

  Something very tall and blurry stood in the big metal place.

  The mother carried her son further inside. Footfalls echoed, and the tall object at which the anomalous boy stared came into focus.

  Standing in the middle of the big metal warehouse was a rocket ship.

  Amazed, Hug gaped at the sight of the interstellar craft, which was covered with fins, wings, laser cannons, racing stripes, lightning bolts, and antennae. All of these protrusions were sleekly designed in order to minimize drag, and the sixteen thrusters at the bottom were correctly arrayed for maximum speed.

  Wheezing, the anomalous boy filled his little lung, which was the only one that still functioned. “It’s . . . the rocket . . . that I drew.”

  “Yes.”

  “When you . . . adopted me.”

  “Yes.”

  The mother carried her son toward the spacecraft. In his deteriorated condition, he did not notice that the hull was made out of wooden planks, drywall, and sheet metal.

  Footfalls echoed throughout the warehouse.

  Gasping, the anomalous boy inflated his little lung. “Does it really work?”

  “You designed it, didn’t you?”

  Smiling, Hug displayed the three fangs that remained in his purple gums. “How did you b—” He coughed. “How did you build it?”

  “I had some help.”

  “Who?”

  “I helped her,” said an unseen man.

  Hug turned his head.

  From out of the blurry shadows strode Sandy, who wore grease-stained, denim overalls and carried a duffel bag. The fellow once again looked healthy and handsome.

  “Dad!”

  This exclamation brought various emotions to Sandy’s face, but through all of them shone his big grin. “Hey there young fella.”

  “Hey there!”

  Sandy walked over and embraced Hug, who weakly reciprocated with his arm and nubbin. An anomalous heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped.

  Hug wheezed. “Are you . . . feeling better now?”

  The handsome man withdrew, wiped his eyes, and nodded his head. “I am. Thanks for asking.”

  Sandy reached into his duffel bag and withdrew the pellet rifle that had once belonged to Rex. “In case you need to do some huntin’ up there in space.”

  Excited, Hug waggled his nubbin. “Put it in the trunk . . . the one . . . with the lightning bolts.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sandy carried the rifle toward the rocket ship.

  Abigail gestured. “Some other people helped too—”

  The anomalous boy turned his head and focused his good eye.

  From the blurry shadows strode Phalanges and Sidney, the two remaining members of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences. The lank mycologist employed a walker and was aided further by the bent arm of the portly phrenologist. Held in the free hand of the latter fellow was a pickle jar that contained formaldehyde and the preserved little left arm of Hug.

  “My arm!”

  Sidney nodded his head. “We believe that Hannersby would’ve wanted you to have it.”

  “Thanks. They may be able . . . to reattach it . . . out in space.”

  The footfalls of the oldsters echoed, and the portly phrenologist eyed the lank mycologist. “Say it, old man. It’s long overdue.”

  “Okay.” Phalanges looked directly at Hug. “It was my fault about the mushrooms that time. I got mixed up and made a mistake and didn’t own up to it. I’m sorry I ever said otherwise.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Hug coughed up two amethysts, which arced through the air and skipped across the concrete floor.

  “Thanks,” said Phalanges, who claimed and pocketed these stones. “We’ll study these.”

  “Okay.”

  Sidney gestured at the rocket ship. “We’ll put your arm in the trunk. The one with the lightning bolts.”

  “Thank you.”

  The oldsters walked toward the spacecraft.

  “Up there—” said Abigail.

  The anomalous boy raised his gaze.

  Standing atop a long ladder that leaned against the rocket was Cinnamon, whom Hug remembered fondly from the orphanage. Held in her right hand was the dripping pain
tbrush with which she applied the final lightning bolt to a lateral fin. “Have yourself a real good trip!” called out the southern girl.

  “Thank you!”

  “Good luck!” said Cocoa, who was holding the bottom ladder.

  “Thank you!”

  Abigail carried Hug toward the ramp that led up into the rocket ship.

  “Hug . . . ?”

  This voice came from inside the spacecraft and belonged to a man. Vanished memories of a crib, an outer space mobile, a golden gorilla, soft hands, warmth, and safety returned to the anomalous boy.

  Hug filled his little lung. “Is it . . . ?”

  A chubby bearded man whose silver hair had once been red appeared in the doorway of the rocket ship. His green eyes shone brightly as did his smile.

  “Georgie . . . ?”

  “Yes, Hug, it’s me.”

  George Dodgett walked down the ramp toward Hug, who soon extended his trembling limbs.

  Footfalls echoed throughout the warehouse as the space between the anomalous boy and his first caretaker diminished.

  George reached Hug and gently took him from the arms of Abigail.

  The caretaker and the anomalous boy hugged.

  “My mommy told me—” Hug wheezed. “My mommy told me . . . that you’re the one who named me.”

  “I am.”

  The anomalous boy buried his face deep into the soft chest of the caretaker. “Thank you.”

  George trembled for a moment and then cleared his throat. “It was the best name that you could ever have.”

  “I agree.”

  Abigail reclaimed Hug and cradled him within her arms.

  “Have an incredible journey,” said the caretaker.

  “I will.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye, Georgie.”

  The mother carried her son onward. Boots clanked upon the metal ramp that rose to the open doorway.

  “It’s very nice . . . that all of them helped,” remarked the anomalous boy.

  “Yes. Very nice.”

  Abigail carried Hug through the threshold, up the spiral staircase, and into the nosecone, which was filled with blinking lights and colorful displays. The mother set her son in the plush pilot’s chair, which felt very soft and comfortable, almost like a bed. She then pulled a seatbelt across his chest and slotted the buckle, which snapped in place.

  Amazed, the anomalous boy surveyed the cockpit.

  Colors flashed upon the console, and a stuffed golden gorilla sat in the copilot’s seat.

  Hug looked up at Abigail. “Back in the hospital . . . for a little bit . . . I was starting to lose hope.”

  “But you never did.”

  “Nope.” The anomalous boy wheezed. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Abigail kissed Hug on the forehead and stood upright. It seemed like she was trying very, very, very hard to keep a smile on her face.

  For some reason, things were getting dark.

  “Is the power going out?” asked the anomalous boy.

  “No . . . but you should take off now. You’ll come back, won’t you?”

  “I will.”

  A four-fingered right hand and a nubbin thumb gripped the steering wheel.

  “Have a safe trip,” said Abigail.

  “I will. Bye, Mommy.”

  “Bye.”

  Footfalls echoed as the mother descended the stairs and left the ship. A door clanked shut.

  Wheezing, Hug looked up.

  Beyond the windshield and the hole that had been cut into the warehouse ceiling loomed the vastness of outer space, which was filled with stars, meteors, comets, planets, and galactic swirls.

  Infinite wonderful possibilities awaited the young voyager.

  Hug filled his little lung to capacity and looked at the golden gorilla. “Let’s get off this godforsaken planet, pronto.”

  No objections came from the copilot.

  The anomalous boy stomped the gas pedal. His heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped.

  The rocket began to shake. Stars blurred.

  Hug leaned back in his plush pilot’s seat.

  An anomalous heart thudded and gurgled but did not thump.

  Hug closed his eyes.

  An anomalous heart thudded one final time.

  Gravity released the rocket ship, and the voyager who was named Hug Chickenpenny flew away from Earth into the limitless unknown.

  ABOUT S. CRAIG ZAHLER

  S. Craig Zahler is an award-winning screenwriter, director, novelist, cinematographer and musician. He wrote, directed, and co-composed the score for the 2015 film Bone Tomahawk, an Independent Spirit Award-nominated picture (Best Screenplay; Best Supporting Actor) starring Kurt Russell, Patrick Wilson, Matthew Fox, Lili Simmons, David Arquette, and Richard Jenkins. The film garnered praise from critics and fans alike, including the New York Times, which called Bone Tomahawk, “[a] witty fusion of western, horror and comedy that gallops to its own beat”.

  Zahler also wrote and directed Brawl in Cell Block 99 which stars Vince Vaughn, Jennifer Carpenter, Don Johnson, Udo Kier and Marc Blucas and had its World Premiere at the 2017 Venice Fim Festival.

  Mel Gibson, Vince Vaughn and Tory Kittles star in Zahler’s latest film, the gritty cop thriller Dragged Across Concrete, in post-production as of Spring 2018.

  Zahler has sold more than twenty-five of his screenplays and continues to maintain a grueling writing pace.

  Zahler’s debut western novel, A Congregation of Jackals was nominated for both the Peacemaker and the Spur awards, and his novels Mean Business on North Ganson Street and Corpus Chrome, Inc. both received starred reviews for excellence in Booklist.

  In addition to writing and directing, Zahler has founded and played in several bands, including the epic metal Realmbuilder, whose albums have been released by I Hate Records of Sweden. With his longtime friend and songwriting partner Jeff Herriott, Zahler co-composed the score for Bone Tomahawk and the original soul songs for Brawl in Cell Block 99, which were performed by the O’Jays and Butch Tavares. Recently the duo formed Binary Reptile, a synthesizer project that provided the music for the ear movie, The Narrow Caves.