I am often left to wonder why a zombie, walking around in the sun, smells better than a pooping dinosaur. The fecal smell always reminded me of an industrial strength cleaner mixed with expired milk, then put into a wood chipper. Perhaps I am a purist, but poop should smell like poop.
Such are my thoughts as I watch the half ton green stegosaurus pull my steel plow across the meadow while also using the bathroom. The plow churned up the earth and jumped when it hit a rock. Even though this was a secure area, I hated the extra noise when I hit a rock. Additional noise was the most common way to attract blue brains. This area was farm classified land, and as such, protected by one of the best containment fences. Still, I had known many other farmers that died from a blue that had been hiding. I paid little attention to how thorough of a job I did, as it made more sense to watch the tree lines.
This crop was simply a test harvest. All the food I produced would be thrown to the dinosaurs. It was “unfit for human consumption”. Once the land was reclaimed from those zombie blues, the soil was considered a bio-hazard for at least a year. Spilled blood could carry the virus for up to 2-3 weeks. People were always paranoid that blue brains would start their harvest in our fields. That is why I took the job, because I didn’t have to do much but keep watch. I knew that the professional farmers viewed what I did like their “canary in a coal mine”. If I died, then only risk hardy fools would work this land. If I survived a season, I would have a chance at selling this sun filled plot to a professional farmer. What they grew would be sold for a premium.
It was a good life, so long as one wasn’t complacent. Relaxing or taking naps had undone many unprofessional farmers. Other new farmers didn’t have the stomach to extract any lingering blues. Sometimes fishing out a rotting blue from a well or a half collapsed wall was hard work. After the heavy work was done, followed by the gruesome work of killing, came the tedious work of purification. Scrubbing blood in a full hazmat suit three times, followed by spreading dirt and salt over the spot. I am not sure if the salt had any effect, beyond a psychological one. Throughout humanity, there was the idea that salt made the perfect purifier.
I had spent yesterday rationing my salts on a blue that decided to hide in an outhouse of sorts. It was the last structure I needed to check, and I had been dreading the task for weeks. The blue was firmly trapped, but you don’t half complete a job. After I had scrubbed for several hours, I made sure to add two coats of dirt and salt, just in case. The next few months would be smooth sailing on this job. With all the outlining buildings being cleaned up, the only tasks left to do were to till the land and keep an eye on the tree-line. The land was nearly finished being reclaimed. By this time next year, a professional would be pulling vegetables and fruits from the ground. It was hard work, but it was almost complete.
As I neared finishing turning up a section of ground, I heard deep thunder claps that did not originate from the cloudless sky. The solid rhythm of thuds announced a dino rider. These guys were worse than the tax collectors, always causing so much damn noise. It would serve this brash bastard if he were the first to be eaten on my farm, so long as I wasn’t the second. The triceratops pulled up a bit away from where I was working, then halted. This practice was only polite. If those shambling monsters wanted a day-time snack, they would walk to this man. That might give me a chance to retreat and live another day. After 20-30 minutes of everyone standing still I made my way over to the rider.
“What is it?” I hissed at the rider.
The man was dressed in a red pea-coat, minus the sleeves. The color was a simple statement to those around him. Blood, the single most lethal thing in this world, was nothing to him. Death and life were both to be mocked openly. Below his pencil thin blond mustache, his lips flexed into a practiced smile.
“Are you the farmer of this land?” He swept his hand across the horizon as if that simple gesture set the land and containment markers.
“I am” was my quick reply. I don’t waste precious sound on frivolous people. His red coat seemed a waste, but the sun glistened on a simple armor underneath. I knew that was not a fashion statement.
“My name is Jean. I am a rider as you can see.” A few loving pats on the dinosaur’s neck helped illustrate the bond he felt for his ride. “Are you Paul, the lower farmer?”
I hated when people said that phrase ‘ lower farmer ‘. The proper terminology was ‘ unprofessional farmer ‘. I didn’t farm lowland like a pure idiot. Blues with high ground were always a problem.
“I am Paul,” I said with a cautiously, slow manner.
The man dug into his side satchel and picked out a small handful of papers. He then began to read them … out loud, like a moron.
“Paul, the pale rider, please sell me the land under your feet right now. I will pay you half of the professional rate and will include unclaimed land adjacent to this area. It is twice as large as what you have now. If you agree, please sign these papers. Jake Fruilton”
Jean handed the documents to me and I read them to verify. Part of me wondered if this pompous rider was surprised I could read. I then signed and passed the papers over.
“Just like that?” Jean said in a shocked manner as he fumbled to grab the papers back. “You're not going to send a counter, or tear up the offer, or think on the matter overnight?”
I nodded and looked away. I was hoping the brief gesture would shove him off my now former property.
Unfazed by a lack of manners, he had the stones to ask me why. I didn’t say anything back to this man, keeping my silence. I don’t waste words on the frivolous. I didn’t reply that I knew Jake Fruilton had a family now. He needed something stable to start on, but was too proud to beg. This trouble was all he had to offer.
Jake was an extra cautious unprofessional farmer. He had taken few risks, including over-manning his land to help prevent any surprise visits. That extra man power always came at a cost. Jake’s sense of worry only appeared to grow as he got married. He spent extra money on safety precautions for his wife, including iron doors and window frames. He never went outside at night, evening, or morning. I was going to call him a recluse and invite him to beer when he told me that his wife was pregnant. He expected me to be happy, overjoyed. That night was rough between us. I told him that family men don’t farm; we farmers die. He resented how much that scared his wife and a shouting match began.
I was left pondering what insanity drives a man to farm with kids, when the messenger started to ride away. His mounts loud footprints kicking up dust and twigs with every thud. The excess of noise snapped me out of my daydream. I had a field to finish, and then I would plan to go into town for the local bar. In addition to being a way to relax, men often went looking for work there. I would need to complete a lot of planning for this new land and gather a crew.
A dank bar in the sun somehow looks worse than at night. Maybe the cracks in the plaster walls show better. Perhaps the floating dust vibrating off cobwebs makes the place feel extra dirty.
So far I found a crew of containers. The containers never worked in groups less than three. While each set of men had a different method, the manner was still the same. Containers put up the fence quickly, followed by putting a more permanent fence behind that one. Some would put up a third fence while others would reinforce both fence lines. The first containers learned how important temporary fencing could be in a life and death struggle. A few seconds could be the difference between staying clean or becoming infected. After the agreement, I ordered the men a round. We drank, making polite conversation and discussing minor details.
Across the bar a man was laughing loudly and slapping the table. The other patrons looked frustrated they were not having as much fun. I had come to this bar for this man. He was a rider, and wild man, named Avant. Like myself, he was an unprofessional farmer. He farmed for all the right reasons. After losing his family to blue brains, he became reckless. He was known for charging in and crushing blues repeatadly when clearing land. I was worried that he would lose
his head in the heat of things, but I knew he had done some work for Jake. I knew Jake to be cautious, so I was willing to take the chance on the upstart. I excused myself and began walking over.
“…the poor sod told me I was on the wrong land!” Avant quipped to his tipsy conversation partner. The conversation partner looked away and appeared to be having trouble paying attention. It was only after Avant slapped the table and laughed loudly that the man began laughing.
“Anyone sitting here?” I asked Avant.
“Go ahead! Perhaps you’d care to exchange a glass of beer for a tale? I’ll supply the tale.” Avant turned up the corner of his mouth and pushed a near empty glass toward me.
“I have a different job for you.” I ignored his offer since I didn’t have time to waste chatting all night. “You up for some rough farming? Got a lot of yards to cover, and I can’t cover them myself.”
“You need more than just me,” Avant leaned back and started counting on his fingers, “A crier, a crew of containers, and as many riders as you can find.”
I squinted at his hand and noticed he had reached his fourth finger. Perhaps his drinking pal wasn’t the only one drunk. “I have the containers, you are the other rider, and I still need a crier."
“Hold on… I haven’t agreed to anything yet” Avant tilted his head in a slumped position. “We haven’t even discussed pay.”
“Percentage deal” I replied “You get an equal portion of what the land sells for when it goes pro.”
He looked back at his hand and saw four fingers sticking up. While I wondered if he was estimating a quarter, I didn’t push the point.
“And I’ll buy you a round,” I said to sweeten the conversation.
“You got a deal. And I’ll introduce you to our crier too…” He seemed to suddenly sober. “First drinks first!” he announced shaking his nearly empty glass “Then you can go over some topography details.”
Two beers later, the last crew member to aquire was the crier. There might only be one in the whole settlement and I needed him for this to work. Why would someone yell for blue brains? It was so backwards to cause intentional sound to stir the blue brains up and to their feet. Often these young men dreaming of adventure found themselves hip deep in a nightmare. I didn’t understand them, but understanding was not required. All I had to do was hire one. Right now, I had a “resume” that the crier sitting across from me was good. Item number one on his resume was that he was still breathing. Resume item number two was Avant’s word.
The crier looked straight at me. “Don’t doubt me. I will set off three noisemakers then hide. Each noise maker is scheduled to run for ten minutes. I then leave those and set three more noise makers in a new area. I repeat this cycle for as long as it takes. After that, it is up to you to clean up.”
The man opposite to me had a darker shade of skin that wrapped around bulges of muscle. His arms reminded me of large soft balls stuffed in a sock. I was pretty sure that the muscles were not just to impress women. A crier’s ability to pull themselves up and away from danger was how they stayed alive. That required fast thinking and strong arms.
“Solomon, I think I can use you. I assume the typical deal of a percentage works? Do you have a wife or girlfriend to give your share… just in case?”
Solomon snarled a little at me. It was just a lip twitch and squint of the eyes, but those signs showed a storm underneath. I was reminded that I didn’t understand town criers. If I lost this one, my whole plan would blow up.
“I’ll collect. I haven’t died yet, pale rider” Solomon hissed. “Plus, I always pack a plan D.”
I nodded, unsure if I heard B or D but not wanting to ask. Everything I asked him appeared to somehow offend. I could not lose this man from my crew. I began to tell him about my plan. He would start by drawing all those shambling monsters towards the center. Avant and I would then mow down these creatures. When we felt comfortable, I would hop up on the T-Rex and finish the surrounding area. While I mopped up, the containers would build the permanent fence. After fencing and cleansing the whole property, everyone got paid in beer. In a year, we all got paid in cash.
“So you need a signal when I’ve started crying” Solomon asked me with a stern face. That was such an odd phrase to hear from this huge man. I needed to be careful to control my urge to smile, as I did not want to insult this man.
“I have a flare gun. Once we see the signal, we erupt toward the center. Your nerves are critical here.” I leaned toward him and lowered my voice, the small smile dissipating on my face. “Too soon and we lose momentum. Too late and they fade into the background again.”
“I’ll make sure it is timed right” Solomon said as he took the flare gun from my hand. His grip tightened quickly and I thought he might break the gun right there. “You better not be as dumb as you look, Pale Rider. Do not hesitate when I launch this. If you wait too long, the blues won’t be the only ones out for blood.”
I frowned, nodded and leaned back. I kept my eyes locked on his to show him I understood his words. Tomorrow afternoon we would start. With my crew assembled, I finished my drink. Lucky for me, as it was last call.
The night slipped into the morning and the morning into day. Everyone sat on their dinosaur mounts, tense with the task at hand. I had a triceratops while Avant had a stegosaurus. No words were exchanged, which I felt was the correct way to do things. Once we saw that flare bloom fire petals in the sky, we would charge towards the center. The plan was to just sweep through several times and then the t-rex would clean the surrounding area. Quick, easy, and then beer all around.
CHAPTER TWO
Too Easy
Pale Rider: Zombies versus Dinosaurs Page 2