Black Rooster

 Black Rooster

by Graham Swanson

Mary Sprague

I- Ghost Chicken

The health inspector did not sit. He stood in the middle of the court room. A small yellow feather was stuck to his shoe. His hands shook. They'd been shaking since he got up. Shaking ever since he left the meat plant. Like the motor of the blood saw. Slowly pumping. Until it snapped.

The judge sighed. He didn't even bother putting his glasses on. 

“Mr. Halvorsen,” he said, tapping a pen against the bench, “you’ve shut down a major employer over what you’ve described as...” he checked the document, frowning, "...a ghost chicken.”

His echo slipped among the rows of trembling clerks. 

"That's correct." The Health Inspector softly spoke into the mic. "I have photos." 

"Fine. Hand them to the bailiff."

He handed the envelope to the officer who tore it open then handed it to the judge. He took the envelope and pulled out two photographs.

  One was of a chicken carcass laying on a steel table. It was unlike anything he ever saw raking the fields. It had two sets of wings, round white eyes, a long tail like a rat, short hair like feathers over skin stretched over bulging joints. Huge joints were the wings joined, no neck, a tiny head rested within the most glorious crest. Vibrant brightness swelled from its crest of flesh. 

The judge took one look and set it down. His face started turning red, then became stiff and white. His frown sunk deeper.

"And what is this supposed to be?"

"Before dissection and post dissection." 

The Judge glanced at the second photo. The familiar silver table. The tray of bones. The tray of sterile tools. Sharp wires and rubber bands. He didn't understand the rest. It appeared in the shadow of a chicken carcass. Muscle tissue wrapped around nothing. Bones grew out of nothing, like they had outgrown the original body. There was a cavity in its skull. Its organs were intact. All of them. Tiny bladders where lungs should be. Layers of ribs twisted like corkscrews. Its brain was squeezed underneath. Under the brain was a large egg connected to the brain by a blue web of vessels. 

At the center was something the judge couldn't identify. A hard round knot. 

He stashed the photographs away. 

"Shut it down."

The meat plant went silent. Chains shackled the machines. Workers took their coats and went home. The gates got locked behind them. However the clouds rose over its walls like perfume. Clouds from the carnage ditch. 

The perfume settled over the fields, the villages, and the streets of town. The pungent honey of decay. It hung over the meat plant like saw dust. It drifted over the wood, flowed over creeks, and sank into people's clothing. No matter how often they washed, it clung to them. 

Inside the meat plant, the killing wheel continued to spin.

Wild chickens flocked in the streets. 

II- Ritual

    Sofia awoke to screaming. Not human screaming. The morning cry. Booster  thrashed in its cage. Feathers brushed the wire. In the distance pops of gunfire speckled the air. 

    She went outside to check on him. The wind blew in warm rain along the eastern ridgeline. In the other direction, it blew the smoke from wildfires. Could be freezing today. Could be 70 degrees. She still wasn't used to it. 

    Her rooster had built a nest overnight with things it found around the forest. It cried when he saw Sofia's face approach the cage. 

    "You better settle down before you hurt yourself." She said to him.

   Booster wasn't a chicken. He was a Red Jungle Fowl. Not bred to win fights, but to improve. His talons clung to the cage door. She raised him since he was an egg. He had long thin scars up and down his chest. A huge white gash under one eye. Patches where he lost his feathers. Staples where Sofia had sutured him shut. 

    It was his wing that made her nervous. Half it was gone. Still the rooster cried out with red feathers tightening around its black eyes. It flung its head out as if to let all the fowl know. It bashed its talons against the door until Sofia had the latch loosened. Then it stood still. It chirped, then stepped out, and gently bounced into her arms. 

    "Good morning, mister." 

    A shrew darted across the lawn. The Rooster spotted it, and bolted out across the weeds. He tried to fly, but its soft bottom feathers only bounced on the grass. Its feathers lifted into the air, its beak tilted down as it stabbed its talons into the dirt and pulled out the shrew. His talons opened, his spur unfurled like shears, it devoured its breakfast with one raw thrust of its beak. 

    After he swallowed his prey, he began pecking around for seeds and worms, then bounced back over to Sofia and floated high enough for her to catch him. 

    She'd seen him kill squirrels, fight off foxes, and hawks, but now he was retired. 

Beyond the treeline, small gunshot tickled the country roads. A rifle. They weren't just using .22s anymore. The tickle became rough. A rack of gunfire scraped against the sky. One by one the rifles stopped firing. Then the emergency sirens flared as yellow and red lights raced down the country roads heavy with gunpowder.

The responders to the scene couldn't see very far through the fog, but where they saw dead bodies, they also saw the wild chickens watching from high perches. When paramedics tried to reach the bodies of the wounded, the chickens swooped down and slashed at them. Like they had been waiting in the brush, a second wave of chickens struck from the ground. 

By noon, nothing in town worked. The traffic lights were down. Radios hissed with static. The one station that worked was silent, except for the periodical burst of clucks that interrupted it. One moment it could be one chicken. The next, a wall of chickens, like the cages of the meat plant. 

The wild chickens swarmed the radio tower. The bridges. The grocery store. The hospital. the playgrounds. When emergency crews returned, they found their buildings infested with chickens. Inside they found one wounded man who the fowl had dragged from the fields. What was left of his skin peeled from his muscle. He was covered with filth, deep tears, bones with deep claw marks, damage to his lips, cheek, throat, nostrils, eyes, and eye drums. Eventually surgeons found chicken feathers stuffed inside of his organs. 

With his time short, he made this statement to the police.

III- The Hunt

"Morphine...morphine..." 

"He can't talk with how much pain he is under." 

"Morphine... Morphine..."

"Are you with us?"

"Give him the stimulant first. Then the morphine."

"Tape recorder rolling." 

They had to change the wrappings around his face and body. Not much of his original skin remained. A new suit had to be grafted for him. In the meantime, he lay in a net of cables and beeping machines. applesauce for dinner. Water from a drip line. 

From his shroud of goz wrappings, he told his story to officers working for the Department of Health. 

-Recording Begins-

"I thought they'd be easy prey. Just dumb chickens. Out the window of my truck I saw a field of them. Wild and feral. I took the .22 from the back, began shooting at them from the window. The first time they didn't know where to go or what to do. I fired ten times, killed six. Took them home, butchered them. The next day I put my gun out the bedroom window. A whole flock of them are tearing up the earth under where I planted my apple trees. I don't want them shitting all over anyway, so I shot at them. This time they scattered in different directions. In the air, to the west, over the hedgerow. I fired eleven times, killed one bird. 

I pretended like I didn't think it was weird. Someone is probably feeding them.  Maybe the chickens are just getting used to us. But it was more like they had accepted our presence. We've been killing them our whole lives. They on the other hand have tiny brains, they defecate in their own water and drown in the rain. So like a chore, I took my .22 and stepped out alone. 

I knew there were others. They'd been talking about it. I could hear their trucks and their shotguns. Then nothing. The chickens were gone. 

I searched everywhere, high and low. Dry and wet. No sign of them. Not even a claw print. The fields were quiet. The roads were quiet. Everyone just figured they had gotten spooked. The next day though they started appearing again. Small flocks that moved in lines, like a team shifting positions. When we shot at them, they didn't run or fly away. They dove to the ground, and pressed themselves into the dirt. Some even used their talons to dig small trenches. Once the gunfire stopped, they swarmed the air. They landed on trees, rooftops, and cars. The chickens that took over the streets got up on top of the buildings. Then they moved in these small, tight squads. They followed us. Whenever I looked at them, and they looked at me, saw my face, they made the same hiss. I never heard a chicken hiss before, let alone a group all at the same time while looking at me. 

I carefully reached under my seat. That's where I kept the pistol. I never fired it unless I had to, and though I had no reason to fear these fowl, I hadn't been more scared for my life. I fired one shot, hit one flat in the chest. I ran over to him. The body flopped around on the ground. I take him by the legs, step on his head, pull it off. There he went, just running around like they do. But he didn't stop. It kept running and running and running. So It stopped it again, pulled out a machete, and took its wings off. The creature still didn't die. He wasn't just running around, he was fighting. 

That's when I saw him. The Black one. 

He wasn't like the others. 

I told them... I tried to say... "

(inaudible)

...... 

"Black Rooster!" 

-recording ends-

Sofia made it home. Covered in cruises, her grill stuffed with chicken feathers. Her palms and neck were raw with open wounds. She entered through the back door, and collapsed on the kitchen floor. She heard the flock outside ripping the foam out of the seats of her car. Pecking at the air nozzle of her tires. Scrapping her windshield with their talons. 

She could hear Booster's crow. It cried for her like it did when he was just a chick. Like he did when his guts spilled on the area floor. She dragged herself across the floor to the bathroom. She cleaned her wounds out and sutured them like she had done on her fowl so many times. 

They were on the move. A swarm of them marched along the highway. Dozens floated in the sky, flying low and slow. Some began encroaching from the trees. Her Rooster shook the cage. When she unlatched it, he stepped out. His crest in the wind, his good wing swift, and his talons strong enough to crush a pomegranate. 

    The Rooster was bred to be a fighter, to be guardian. But that breeding made the Rooster aggressive, territorial, and robust in combat. Ancient and ongoing. The fowl provides meat and ritual, and the human offers them seeds and safety. She knew this day would come again. 

Sofia massaged the bird. Fed him the best grass, and held him up so he could flap his wing. She trimmed the feathers around his legs. She cleaned him in a tub of warm water, and oiled his feathers. She slid a gaff with spikes over his spikes. She filed his beak. She tightened the laces of a leather harness across his chest. A helmet hammered out of a satellite dish placed over his brow. A ridge of steel went across the top to simulate the crest.

IV- Black Rooster

Word spread across the frightened people. The shut-ins locked their doors. Work trucks raced to keep up with the damage caused by the fowl. 

One particular scene caused immense damage. Deep in the forest. The trees had once grown upright. Now they grew sideways along the ground. A barn touched the sunlight and burned down. The soybean plants turned ripe, but when they sprouted, their leaves were black. 

The Great Black Rooster had arisen. Drafts in black robes appeared like a crash of thunder. The county leadership assembled to address the wild chicken problem but the meeting was crashed by the sudden appearance of cloaked outlines. They had been seen wandering the back side of the fields, roaming the interior of the inner treeline. Along the border of things that belonged to men and things that belonged to nature.

They raised their arms before the assembled folk, and warned them not to interfere with the ritual. 

That night all kinds of strangers arrived. In the middle of town. In the riddle of the main drag. Hooded men, shrouded masks, hats that covered their faces in shade. Other men were soggy eyed, their faces bright with exuberance. They reveled in the energy of the moon, donning hides and bones flutes. They chanted for the ceremony to commence. 

In the center stood a platform. The Goth Chicken sat in the middle. 

From the other end, the Judge, the Health Inspector, and Sofia.

Revellers formed a circle. The Black Rooster hissed from a platform.

Sofia stepped forward carrying her Rooster in a cage. 

His wing was sore. He didn't get to eat breakfast. Stitches fresh. He stepped out from his cage.

The Black Rooster stood and watched. The feathers of his face looked black at first glance. Up close, they shimmered with oil-slick greens and purples. Closer still, each barb split into finer threads, some bent, some frayed—one strand hooked at the end like a broken fingernail. At the base, not quite blood, something clung between fibers. Thick and glossy, reflecting a warped version of evolution

The spur wasn’t just sharp. It had been filed unevenly. Jagged like glass. When it dragged across the ground, it didn’t scratch, it caught, stuttered, like a saw testing where to bite. 

The eye looked wet, but the surface didn’t move. A thin film stretched across it, trembling, like plastic wrap pulled too tight over something still alive underneath.

 Beneath the feathers, the skin didn’t sit right. It shifted. Not like muscle, but like something sliding under it, adjusting. 

The dust settled. 

No wind. No sound. The stars stopped moving. 

The Black Rooster pointed his wing feathers to the floor as he watched his opponent limp to the platform. He saw the scars under his missing hobbled wing. Not scars from defeat, but from unpredictability. He will make corrections.

Booster did the opposite. He raised his hackles at his opponent. Postured. His coat unblemished. Controlled movement. He will not react to sudden changes.

A star twinkled.. In that micro second, a ray of light travelled across the universe, bent around the sun, and flickered in the night sky. In that moment when the star light broke through the atmosphere, both fowl lunged. 

 Booster lifted into the air. He thought, Kick first. Too obvious. If he feigns, match his cadence. If he steps around you, step diagonally. 

The Black Rooster shifted his weight as he entered the air. It was almost invisible. Booster cut across the distance between by the time the star light faded. He's faster, but I don't need to be. 

Feathers and talons shifted. The witnesses to the fight leaned in, clapping, chirping, whistling. Dust lifted. The wind carried their voices like a witch's call. 

The Black Rooster already foresaw victory. If he goes for the throat, counter left. He can't protect that side without his wing. He will over balance to compensate, and lean on his right side to attack. My second strike will land. The fight ends. 

Booster launched into the smoke trails. He had been building scenarios all morning. He will let me strike. He takes that first hit. But only to close the distance. To force contact and use my speed against me. 

Black and Red feathers fell to the ground. Both fowl vaulted forward with a kicking thrust. Their spurs unfurled. The razor and spikes on them sparkled. They aligned their bodies to intercept the killing lunge. 

The Black Rooster heeled. He moved so far that not even the revellers saw him. Booster was swift enough to follow. Booster was already flying where his opponent wanted to be. 

A cloud of dust and feathers enveloped them. They hit each other so hard that the crack of their ribs rang out into the night. The tear of fabric, the ripping of a curtain, the clashing of armor and blades, the scratch of nails on the hard ground. 

Talons like spears battered Booster's leather harness. Even with its protection the Black Rooster's claws could penetrate it. It only slowed him down. When the straps got cut, Booster took the harness in his beak and cast it aside. 

The Black Rooster came around the right side with his spur. He could feel the heat from the beating heart of his opponent. His spur was a heat seeking missile. He missed, then repeated his attack. 

Booster countered with his spur thrust. Both blades glided back each other's throats. Only one connected.

Blood. For the first time in months, the towns folk saw blood again. Real blood. Steaming and splattering on the ground. Spilling into a pool. A dark color turned pale in the moonlight. 

Booster stood on the platform. Black feathers in his beak. 

Everyone gasped. Not because of the killing strike, but because they had been waiting for the killing strike. 

Deep beneath the Earth, the Meat Plant groaned. 

A single drop of blood dripped from the processing hatch. It smacked the dry floor of the carnage swamp. It spread, then sank into the ground. 

All around town the ability to bleed came rushing back. All at one. Wounds new and old opened to be cleansed. The outlines in black robes writhed on the platform of their fallen chicken god, their mouths and eyes bulged with pus and blood. Some people walked onto their front porches to show the neighbors. Others sat in the bathtub, or screamed into the mirror. 

Sofia worked in the cool morning air. It reminded her of the mountain back in the village. Where she came from they didn't have butcher shops. People butchered their own animals. They used different size cleavers for certain animals, certain bone structures. She could cut them to pieces, she could sew them back up. 

She pressed the needle into Booster's flesh. He always bit her the first time. His bites didn't hurt anymore, but he wanted to let her know that he felt it penetrate the surface of his skin. The thread slipped through slots in his skin. She made sure to wear soft gloves, and to feel around the sure spots. Especially with the fresh injuries. The light was fixed to shine light on her face. Booster got nervous if he couldn't see how treated him. 

The Meat Plant sank into a smoldering crater. No one knows what happened except for the townsfolk. They saw it, but they won't tell anyone. They claim the wind blew really hard, labor issues happened, contamination outbreaks were reported, and then the factory burned down. Every layer of it. Even the foundation. Even the records. Even the machines. But the truth remains still.

On the acre where the factory once now sits a beach of dust. Wide, dry. Full of the gobbles of wild chickens burying their wings and rolling around. Bathing in the sunlight, basking in the powder. 

The meat plant might be gone, but the wild chickens remain. However despite their aggression, they get along with the locals. It's the outsiders they don't trust. People come in to see the wild chicken town. The locals warn them to stay away. The chicken let them live among them, but they are not friendly to tourists. Most people don't come all the way to a remote location just to site see. When they get close to the wild chickens, they don't run away. They stop and watch. If the outsiders keep encroaching, they hiss and bite at them. That's just the warning. If they proceed to trample on sacrificial grounds, they chickens slash their necks.

Thanks for reading this story. I hope you enjoyed it.