by Mark Tufo
The cows had exploded. Michael Zaun retched for the second time and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He counted thirteen corpses littering the fenced-in area. He remembered reading in a horror book once, some book about zombies taking over the world, where the cows had burst. Michael seemed to recall the cows not being milked as the culprit in death by eruption. He made a mental note to research it when he went to the library. He also wondered where cows came from. He didn’t remember seeing cows on the National Geographic Channel, roaming the plains of Africa or the Sahara.
Despite the ungodly reek, he laughed. He also wondered how much it would cost to have someone come out to the farm and dispose of the bodies. “I guess we won’t be drinking milk anytime soon,” he mumbled. Michael doubted anyone would be crazy enough to remove the offending cadavers.
He approached the pen, kicking up dust as he moved. A glance at the sky told him the sun would not be going away anytime soon, so this heat would sap him until he went back inside. Already his undergarments were soaked, and his face a puddle of sweat.
The gate hung ajar and Michael entered the grounds slowly, one hand on the rail. He gagged again as the stench grew worse this close to them, but the buzzing of flies was absent. In fact, complete silence surrounded him as he stood there, trying to figure out what to do. He didn’t want to touch the body. He was afraid he would contract some sort of cow disease, anthrax perhaps.
It was as if time stood still, as cliché as Michael thought that to be. Nothing moved and even the breeze had disappeared, leaving Michael and the dead cows alone in the world.
The cow’s eye remained intact and seemed to be watching Michael. He stared back, unable to look away. By now rats or birds or other vermin should have picked them clean. They’d probably been lying here for weeks. His grandfather had been dead for almost three, so he figured the cows had just been idling their days away, eating grass and drinking water and doing cow things. Right up until they began to explode, he thought. Michael wondered if they popped like a squeezed grape, udders shooting milk and blood in random directions, or if they simply died and keeled over.
“I’ll clean this up later,” he said and turned away. The chicken coop sat at the far end of the barn and he didn’t want to see what had happened on that end just yet. Another day or three wouldn’t hurt anything.
A rumbling growl reminded Michael his stomach was empty, but he decided to steer clear of hamburgers. He supposed a glass of milk was out of the question as well.
Glancing in the direction of the chicken coop, he decided to stick with canned peaches.
Since he was already outside, he trudged around to the front and started pulling items from the car, the important things first: his computer tower and monitor, his IPod and clothes. An hour later, thoroughly soaked and cramping, he put the last item on the living room floor and dropped on the couch in a wet heap. His heart pounded and he wondered how long he might lie here on the uncomfortable couch, dead of a heart attack, before being found. He supposed he would rot like the cows outside, the smell unbearable.
He imagined the team from CSI walking the room, Gil Grissom clucking his tongue and making a witty retort about how a man’s weight and sweat ratio can soak into a couch and destroy it, while Catherine and Warrick measured out the distance between the dead cows in the yard, and Nick took his shirt off for no reason and inventoried the canned peaches. Michael didn't know if the show still aired.
“I wonder if I can even get a damn signal for the TV,” he thought and forced himself off the couch. When the springs creaked, he froze. No sense in destroying the furniture on the first night.
Yesterday he had called en route and had the cable, internet, and electric turned on in his name and the house phone turned off. No sense in having one because his cell phone should work anywhere, and he didn’t want any bill collectors getting hold of the number and harassing him in his tranquil island haven, filled with dead cows as it was.
He’d parked the TV on one of the dining room chairs for now. He made another mental note to look for an entertainment center on his trip tomorrow as well. He hooked up the myriad wires to the TV, to the surround sound system, as well as his stereo, and into his computer tower. The iPod was placed in its radio cradle, which was attached to the stereo via a USB cable.
Within twenty minutes Michael had everything technologically wired and ready to go. He turned on the TV and … nothing but white noise.
“Damn, I need a cable box.” He went back outside to the porch and glanced around for a missed package. Maybe the cable guy had been here, but forgot to wire it or didn’t get in the house and left a note. No such luck.
He flipped his cell phone from his pocket and scanned his latest calls for the number. When he found it, he hit redial but nothing happened. “No bars. Shit.”
Yet another thing to do when he got into town. He hoped the phone would work in the center of Cove Springs. He decided to go back inside and make an actual list, on a piece of paper, of all the errands he had to run so he didn’t forget anything.
But first he was going to crank out some tunes and listen to some Guns N Roses.
A chill shivered up his spine and he attributed the sensation to the wind, but the trees on the property weren’t moving. Nothing moved. He stopped and stared at what might have passed for an idyllic painting of trees, bushes, and a dirt road snaking on the horizon with the dirt path leading up to the Civic. The sun had begun a slow descent over the tree line, but the air temperature remained warm.
Michael decided to finish opening the windows and hoped it would cool down a bit and make sleeping pleasurable. The only thing he’d hated as a kid coming to the Zaun Farm was the lack of central air conditioning and fans. He made a mental note to add “fan” to the growing shopping list he was compiling in his head. Didn’t matter if he bought a cheap window one, or a mounted one; a fan was a necessity.
He opened the screen door and took a step inside when the loose board on the porch creaked. Michael jumped, slamming his back against the doorframe as he turned.
No one was there.
The sudden sound reverberated in the silence. Still no wind to speak of, no birds called from the trees, no squirrels rustled in the branches, and not a blade of grass waved.
“Hello?” he called and felt utterly foolish. If anyone was there, they would be standing right in front of him. Without looking away he reached inside the house and flipped on the porch light, even though darkness was hours away. He stepped back into the house and closed and locked the screen door.
“You’re losing your shit on day one,” he grumbled. Going to the IPod he hit shuffle and cranked the volume on the stereo. As the first notes of Bad Brain’s “Pay To Cum” blasted from the sound system, Michael went to the nearest window and forced it open. A cool breeze floated in and he frowned. Looking out of the window he noticed the leaves on the trees still unmoving.
He closed and locked the window. The downstairs ones could stay closed for tonight; he planned on sleeping upstairs and would open a couple of those to get a nice cross-breeze going so he’d be able to sleep.
The can opener bit through a can of peaches just as a Sheryl Crow song began. Michael always impressed his few friends with his eclectic choices in music: he could recite every lyric to everything from The Clash to U2 to Run DMC to Toby Keith. He steered clear of most rap – preferring the classics like Whodini, LL Cool J, Public Enemy and Grandmaster Flash – and had a limited amount of country he tolerated. In his youth, hardcore and punk had been a staple, and some of those old ones still lingered in his music collection. While his fellow classmates in junior high had been seduced by Slayer, Metallica, and Cannibal Corpse, Michael had found solace in the lyrics of the Dead Kennedy’s, Agnostic Front, Dag Nasty and Corrosion of Conformity. It was another wall put up between him and the rest of his school. His month long flirtation with purple hair hadn’t helped matters, either. His mother told him it was all a phase he was going through, his rebellion and hi
s musical tastes. While other kids had to sneak their ‘cool’ clothes to school with them and hide their music collection from scolding parents, Michael got to share his preferences with his parents. They might not always approve of songs like “Pussy Whipped” by Storm troopers of Death, but they never denied their son the right to listen to them.
As if on cue, “Ram It Up” by S.O.D. came on and Michael laughed, digging into the peaches with abandon. His goal was to eat one can and wash it down with the one warm soda he found in the car, but before he knew it three empty cans sat on the small kitchen table and he stood over the sink, gulping down another helping of peaches.
He realized the odor from the dead cows had vanished; he hadn’t noticed it at all when he came back into the kitchen. He peeked through the window over the sink but the sky was already growing dark, with long shadows stretching across the yard and covering the cows. He squinted, and barely made out the shapes of them, remembering in his mind where they had lain when he saw them today.
Just as he turned away, movement caught his eye. He thought he’d seen someone or something run across the lower, distant field and into the woods, but he couldn’t be sure.
He kept staring but nothing came back out or went into the spot, and after two more songs had played—Bare-naked Ladies and Beastie Boys—he turned away and decided he would find a movie on his computer and crash on the couch.
Besides all of the music he had pirated off of the internet in his life – some 9,000 songs and counting – he was also addicted to movies. As well as hundreds and hundreds of porn movies, he also downloaded a slew of horror and comedy. He decided on a comedy, the latest from Adam Sandler. Mindless humor was what he needed right now.
Michael switched off “Lunch Box” by Marilyn Manson and found the movie he was looking for on his computer. He settled into a spot on the couch and wished he had some cookies or a box of Ring Dings to snack on.
Tomorrow would be for inventory and exploring the rest of the house. Tonight he would crash on this couch and spend his first night of freedom from bills and worries.
Chapter Two
Michael Zaun had been close to his grandfather, Benjamin Zaun, as a child. Some of the happiest moments in his life–swinging from the tire on the giant oak, feeding his grandfather’s goats and pigs, running through the fields in the eternal Florida sunshine had been spent on the Zaun farm.
He closed his eyes and conjured the early mornings of his childhood summers–breakfast on the back porch, earthy smells drifting in from the fields, Grandfather singing lewd ditties while milking the cows.
His reverie was broken by the realtor’s voice.
“Mister Zaun, are you still with me?”
Ms. Martin stood in the driveway, refusing to take a step closer to the property, wiping the creases away in her dress. She held a manila folder with ZAUN HOUSE stenciled across the top, a bulge of papers threatening to fall at any moment. “These are yours. I see you’ve moved your stuff in already.”
“I guess I’ll come to you,” he quipped and shuffled down the tulip-lined gravel-way, sweating profusely. At over three hundred pounds and only five foot seven, Michael was severely obese. The sun was wicking pounds off of him at an alarming rate. At least, he hoped it was. Any day now he would start that diet.
He took the folder in his hands and the woman tried to smile back at him but failed. They stood and awkwardly stared at one another for a few moments.
Movement on the dirt road caught Michael’s eye and he squinted through the harsh sunlight to observe a group of teenagers, three boys and three girls, strolling by the entrance to the house and cutting through his woods. They stared openly at him, so he waved.
One of the boys gave him the finger and the girls laughed. The teens didn’t break stride but didn’t antagonize him further. He almost wished they would, so he could blow off some steam and forget about this infernal heat wave slamming North Florida.
“I’ll have to put up some fences and keep the riffraff off of my property.”
“I imagine they are some of the local children that live in Zaun, er, Cove Springs Estates near the river,” Ms. Martin said.
“I thought the name was Zaun Estates.”
“Not anymore, Mister Zaun. After the, uh, difficulties on the property the developer decided to rename the condominiums Cove Springs Estates. The renaming doesn’t negate anything in the contracts between your late grandfather and the developers, by the way. There was a clause; I can show you.”
When Ms. Martin didn’t move Michael shrugged. “I’ll find it later,” he said and shook the manila envelope. “What else do I need to know?”
“Everything should be in the folder. You now own the deed to this property, which includes over two hundred acres of farmland, and you will get a monthly stipend from the Cove Springs Estates for the rental agreement on the acres the developer built on. Your grandfather was a savvy businessman, able to live off of his farm, sell his excess crops and get his monthly rent check.”
“Do you know the full story about what happened here?”
Ms. Martin glanced at her car. She wiped her damp forehead and began stretching the creases in her dress again. “I would suggest tearing down the tool shed. I don’t understand why the police didn’t.”
They stood in silence again.
“Our business is ended. Good luck with the property, Mister Zaun.” She backed away slowly, glancing at the house before getting into her BMW.
Michael heard her lock her car doors and she peeled away from the house, kicking up dust in her wake. By then he was in motion toward the main house and his future.
His few friends back in New York had called him crazy: taking over the deed to the Tool Shed Murders house, as the newspapers had dubbed the tragedy. His best friend, Larry, made the obligatory jokes about Michael Meyers and Jason and Freddie Krueger. And a host of other equally lame jokes about serial killers and haunted houses. Of course, Larry had also made sure to get the address so he could come spend a long weekend once Michael got settled. Larry joked about bringing up some women with him, but unless they paid for hookers or he convinced his ugly sister to come, it wasn’t happening. Michael’s friends and co-workers thought his plan foolish and just plain stupid.
A week ago, when he received the call from the probate lawyer in his cubicle, he thought Larry or one of the guys in his office was pulling a practical joke on him. Once he went to the offices of Colburn & Colburn and realized this was on the level and he had inherited the Zaun farm, he experienced mixed emotions.
Even though he hadn’t spoken with–let alone thought too much about–his grandfather in the last two decades, he was still shocked to find not only was he dead but the disturbing way his death had gone down.
By the time he got back to work after lunch a plan had formulated in his mind. He marched into Mister Fortson’s office and quit on the spot.
His only regret was not doing a killer exit like Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire. He simply placed his meager personal items into his cereal bowl and walked out the front door and into sunshine and his new life.
I should have told off Linda Davis. She was the pain in the ass from accounting who liked nothing better than to catch his mistakes when he finished his paperwork. But she also had a great rack and could be counted on to wear a dark-colored thong under her cream mini-skirt on Fridays. He imagined those same thongs wrapped around his headboard come Saturday morning, Linda begging him to do her once more. He missed being able to stare at her at work and sighed. Such is the price you paid for freedom.
“I need to get this place fixed up before Larry gets here.”
Michael knew Larry would be making an appearance sooner rather than later. He gave his impatient friend no more than a week before he made his grand entrance.
As for the rest of the people in his life…
What did they know? he thought. They didn’t have mounting bills, unpaid student loans, a three-year old Honda Civic in danger of being reposse
ssed, and no prospects of the opposite sex in the near-or distant-future. This might be the break Michael had been looking for his entire life, all twenty-seven years of it. Mom and Dad couldn’t help him; his dimwit sister was no use. Only his grandfather had been utterly kind to him all those years ago, the one pleasant memory in a long line of horrible ones.
He stopped on the front step, a smirk crossing his face as he stepped on the third board from the left and listened to the familiar creaking. Twenty years ago his grandfather had sworn he’d fix that warped piece of wood.
Michael wasn’t going to fix it. He thought it was cool for some reason. The rest of the house could get touched up, but that spot would always squeak on cue.
He went back inside to rummage through the knickknacks and adult items he hadn’t been allowed to touch as a seven year old boy. He wanted to itemize everything in the house, make it his own, and live comfortably ever after.
First thing in the morning I’ll drive into town and hit the local library, he thought. He was a quick study and figured a few books on farming and raising animals would do him good. He intended to live off of the land, with chickens for meat and cows for milk. He envisioned rows of corn out back just to the right of the vegetable garden. Self-sufficiency would rule his life from this moment on. He welcomed the challenge of fixing up the house and other buildings, and adding livestock to the farm.
“I could go for some bacon,” he said aloud and paused on the front steps, hand on the doorknob. “I’ll buy a couple of pigs and perhaps a goat this week.”
With visions of barnyard animals, fresh produce, and his newly-acquired two hundred acres of land dancing in his head, Michael Zaun turned the knob and entered the house.
While his neighbors would surely shun the property, he didn’t care. The police had told him all of the bodies had been cleaned up in and around the buildings, the pits filled in, and the blood scrubbed from the tool shed walls. For the first time in twenty years he was home.