October 10, 2017

PodCastle 491: Bullets

* Author : Joanne Anderton

* Narrator : A.J. Fitzwater

* Host : Graeme Dunlop

* Audio Producer : Pria Wood

Discuss on Forums

Previously published by In Sunshine Bright and Darkness Deep.

Rated R for adult content

Bullets

by Joanne Anderton

It had once been a sheep, and it wasn’t dead yet. A mangle of smouldering wool, scorched skin, and cooked meat, breathing in puffs of hot ash. Outrun by flames, tangled in underbrush, or crushed beneath a falling tree, who could tell? Everything was charcoal now.

I pull the mask from my nose and mouth and breathe the warm smoke in. Load the rifle, aim between what’s left of the poor thing’s ear and eye, and give it peace with the slow squeeze of the trigger. Try to ignore the shakes, the tears stinging my eyes. I’m soaked in sweat and covered in ash, but supposed to be grateful that I’m still alive. At this point, it’s hard to even give a shit that the house is still standing.

Thank god, mum. We thought you were a gorner this time.

Yeah, real fucking lucky.

This is not the way it was meant to be. Killing stock on my own with the sky still red.

Something rustles in the ash, the distinctive kick of dying feet and the moan of a painful breath. I pull the mask up and head for the sound. It’s hard to breathe through the surgical cloth but it eases the coughing at the end of the day. Winding my way through split, black gumtrees and simmering hubs of still-glowing embers, I dig in my bag for more bullets. It’s difficult with the thick gloves on, my fingers slip and pinch through empty cardboard boxes.

The ground is uneven. I trip on a crumbling stump, clutch at a fragile branch that cracks in my grip, and almost fall on top of them.

A whole bloody herd.

“Shit.”

They’re clustered together, so close in places I can’t tell one corpse from the other. Ten of them, maybe more. Even with their sleek fur all charred and their long manes burned away, there’s a wildness about them that tells me these aren’t my horses. They lie in a way that makes them look like they’re still running. Legs bent and heads tossed back. Free things. Brumbies.

“Shit.” What else is there to say?

Then one of them moves. It kicks at the ash with blackened hooves, it breathes and it whinnies and I’m running over to it, jumping the bodies of its brothers and sisters in my haste. Poor thing can’t be still alive. Its skin is hard and cracked like stone, but still its great barrel of a chest rises and falls in fast, jittery motions. Its lips are shrivelled back to reveal great white teeth that clench and clack.

“I’m so sorry.” I scramble for bullets but all I find are empty boxes. “Shit!” Nothing. My bag is empty, my gun too. I’m standing here watching this beautiful creature die slowly, painfully, and I’ve run out of fucking bullets?

Its breathing is violent now, all four legs spasming, neck shaking. I take a shaking step back, whispering pathetic apologies under my breath.

Then the creature splits in half, cleanly down the middle.

And a naked young man falls out.

His skin is piebald, his eyes are blue, his hair is long and always tangled with burrs no matter how often I brush it out. He is very strong, but eager to please. Sometimes, he is too hot to touch. If he holds a piece of paper too long, it will catch on fire, but he doesn’t get burned. The flames just dance on the white and grey patte...

...more