Episode Notes

On Thanksgiving day something is hungry and loose in a small down and it's not content to be the centerpiece of your dinner anymore. Murderous turkey's are coming, and you pissed them off!

Turkey Shoot by David O'Hanlon

Music by Ray Mattis http://raymattispresents.bandcamp.com

Produced by Daniel Wilder

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Transcription:

The white sheet was a Rorschach test of ruddy blooms across the uneven surface. Sheriff Eldon Hart dabbed VapoRub on his upper lip as he entered the makeshift morgue of Rhoda Baines’ office. It was little more than a meat locker built along the back wall of Country Smiles Dentistry. The tiny township of Fiddler’s Gap rarely needed a morgue—and nestled in the Ozark Mountains, they didn’t call on a dentist much either. Still, between her dental practice and double-duty as county corner, Rhoda’s office stayed busy enough.  Deputy Alex Hargrove was new to area. Despite eight years in law enforcement, this was his first corpse and he slathered the VapoRub on his lip into a greasy mustache. Rhoda waved him off when he offered her the jar and she chuckled softly. The sound was somewhere between melodious playfulness and a braying mule and it brought a smile to the stone face of Sheriff Hart.  Rhoda snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and passed the box to the cops who did the same. Hart flipped on the articulated examination light. He nodded to Rhoda who pulled the sheet back like a lounge-act magician clearing a tablecloth from beneath the guests’ glasses.  “Whoo!” Deputy Hargrove leaned away. “That’s not what I was expecting.”  “Nope,” Hart added, simply.  The body was largely held together by the remains of his clothing. The face consisted of a few patches of flesh too stubborn to come off. The eyes were gone, along with the lips which left the tobacco-and-blood-stained teeth grinning around a maw occupied only by the stumpy remains of the victim’s tongue. The spine was a stretch of ashen desert between ravaged muscles with the soft tissue of the throat completely absent. Hart walked along the length of the steel table as he continued his observations.  Holes, ranging from pencil-width to fist-sized, dotted the torso and the flannel shirt was in tatters around the wounds. The connective tissue of the left arm had been torn away, leaving the appendage in the sleeve, but no longer attached to the body. The gut was hollowed like a jack-o-lantern. The shredded blue jeans held much of the same. Hart poked his finger into a hole in the man’s thigh and then examined the bare tibia below. “Okay, so what are we looking at here?” he finally asked. “Dead Caucasian male in his thirties. No ID, but he does have a tattoo on his forearm… the part that wasn’t ate, that is.” Rhoda used a sponge to clean the torso. “Foxy found our victim about five this morning and brought him to me. I’ve left him alone, but I did a cursory examination.” “Hell, Foxy shakes like a tweaker in an earthquake. How’d the old fart bring…” Hargrove waved his hand at the body, “this, without it falling apart?” “Carefully.” Rhoda shrugged.  “Alright, but what was an old hermit doing out in the woods that early?” the deputy asked. “Foxy hunts turkeys for family’s that can’t afford one for Thanksgiving,” Hart answered. “The Fox family’s done it since the Great Depression. Foxy doesn’t like people, but he cares about them.” He prodded another hole. “What’d you mean by the part that wasn’t ate?” “The soft tissue was destroyed—throat, crook of the arm, belly, eyes. The intestines are missing large portions and some organs are gone in their entirety.” Rhoda took a gauge and measured a puncture wound for their benefit. “These are peck marks.” “Well, shit. I’ll go put out the APB right away.” Hargrove clapped his hands together. “Big ass bird, red thing on his head, answers to Woody.” Hart smirked and then cleared his throat. “Scavengers dig in through the soft spots. Could be vultures found him.” “That was my first thought.” Rhoda rolled the man on his side and raised his shirt. More peck marks and long cuts adorned the flesh. “There’s no lividity, however.”  “Meaning?” Hart scratched at his stubble, suddenly wishing he’d stopped to make himself presentable before coming to see Rhoda. He snapped his fingers best the gloves would allow. “Shit! He bled out.” Rhoda bit her lip and smiled. “Precisely. He was either very recently dead or… nevermind, that’s ridiculous.” “Maybe not,” Hargrove said, catching up with Rhoda’s line of thought. “Maybe he fell and knocked himself out cold. Might’ve been in a coma or something and they thought he was dead.” “Perhaps.” Rhoda watched the young deputy for a moment. “Pretty good theory, regardless.” “We need Foxy to take us where he found him.” Hart leaned in to examine the cuts. “This is a murder until we prove otherwise.” Benoit ‘Foxy’ Foxworth III leaned on the tailgate of Chevy C100 with his pipe clenched between his teeth. The truck was four different colors and two shades of rust, putting it at odds with the palatial home beyond. The Foxworths made their money in copper mining and then reinvested in oil which ensured Foxy could live comfortably for twenty lifetimes. Still, he never liked people enough to bother impressing them, so he only kept the truck running at best. The octogenarian sharpened the thin-bladed knife meticulously while he watched the battered Dodge Durango crunch up the gravel drive. Foxy kept the trees clear so he could welcome any guests with a warning shot should they come up uninvited. Foxy set the whetstone down and sheathed the blade before going to meet the officers. “I ain’t kill him,” Foxy said before the window was down all the way. “I didn’t reckon you did.” Hart put the SUV in park and turned his hands over thoughtfully. “Now if he’d been shot, that would be different.” “Well he weren’t.” Foxy stared at the sheriff before sighing and opening the backdoor of the Durango. “If we’re going back out there, you’re taking me to get some groceries on the way back. I forgot bread.” “I think we can manage that.” The ride along the old highway took them by Caroline Marvell’s Dine Inn motel and eatery, which counted as the area’s fine dining. The girl was barely twenty and inherited the establishment after her parents were murdered. She didn’t know much about business, but Hart made sure she turned a profit—any petty offense would be overlooked if you went straight to the Dine Inn and tipped very generously.  Caroline waved from the front door as she finished setting up the sandwich board advertising the annual community Thanksgiving dinner that evening. The locals started the tradition when the mines dried up in the last days of the nineteenth century and kept it alive ever since. Hart even made a trip to nearby Marshall to pick up rolls and canned cranberry sauce. It didn’t seem like much of a contribution compared to the work others put in, but no one was hungry enough to eat the Sheriff’s cooking—including him. The general store’s freezer section provided the meals he didn’t get at the diner.  “You been to the Dine Inn yet, Alex?” Hart asked. “It’s on my list of things to do, sir.” Hargrove stared out the window at valley just beyond the flimsy guardrail. “You really think it was birds?” “Weird shit happens out here.” Hart slowed for the turn on the old logging road. “Foxy, we going to be able to reach this spot?” “Mostly.” Foxy puffed the sweet, rich smoke between the officers. “Game trail is pretty clear but she’s going to be bumpy. We’ll have to go across the holler on foot though and then it’s about a mile as the crow flies.” “Why’d you go all that way to shoot a turkey?” Hargrove asked. “Ever hunted turkey, boy?” Foxy squinted at the deputy.  Hargrove turned in his seat. “No. I used to hunt deer back home, but we don’t get a lot of turkeys.” “They’re elusive,” Foxy grunted. “The valley we’re going to has natural borders that aren’t worth the effort to most hunters—human and otherwise. When I was a kid, we called the valley Turkey Shoot, because there were so many of them critters about. Then came the ‘quake of ’53. Weren’t no easy way out there after that. No one hunts Turkey Shoot no more.”  “So, what made you take the trip, Foxy?” Hart teeth clacked together as the tire dropped into a pothole. “Been hearing the gobblers out there for a bit. They’re getting loud like there’s too many of them, so I went to check and found a path.” Foxy scratched his chin. “When they opened the dam a few months back, it must have moved some stuff. Left a pass straight to Big Creek.” Hart turned onto the trail. They bounced in their seats until the tires found Foxy’s ruts and settled in for a marginally smoother ride. Hargrove braced himself against the dashboard and shook his head while they banged down the path. “This is more than bumpy.” Hargrove’s head thumped against the window. “Are we there yet?” “’Bout another twenty minutes,” Foxy laughed. Foxy had a great sense of time. Twenty-one minutes later, they got out of the SUV, put on their coats and grab some water bottles. “Is that,” Hart pointed at the metallic backpack, “what I think it is?” “Oh, damn. Umm, I forgot to tell you about that,” Hargrove said. “You sent me to Searcy County to buy their old gear last week. Remember?” “I don’t remember a flamethrower being on the list.” Hart scowled. “They used to burn weed crops with it and I thought it might be useful.” Hargrove shrugged. “Besides, it was only fifty-bucks.”  “A flamethrower is never going to be useful.” Hart shut the hatch and shook his head. “Maybe next time you can find a bazooka.” Hargrove’s smile beamed. “I think they have two over in Pulaski. Want me to call them?” Hart pinched the bridge of his nose and started into the woods. They used the overabundance of rocks as natural stairs down the slope of the holler. Large outcroppings loomed overhead. Foxy crunched through the fallen leaves and detritus, leading the way to a groove left by a long extinct waterfall. It was steep and narrow, but craggy enough to allow the geriatric to shimmy up. Hart and Hargrove followed his lead.  They made it to the edge of Big Creek where they took a breather on top of a large, flat rock. The dam at Lake Pocahontas drained along the formerly dry riverbed that people took to calling Big Creek. At the moment, it wasn’t particularly big. It looked like Foxy was right and the opening of spillway had displaced dozens of boulders, many as large as a car along this path. A series of calls sounded nearby—a rapid, putt-putt-putt that faded down and away from where it began. “Boys, we done been spotted,” Foxy said and pressed himself up, stretching his back before stepping into the creek. “That call means danger’s close.” A single yelp answered the call from a tree top. Then another to the other side. “What’s that mean?” Hargrove asked.  Another half dozen of the short calls came down. Foxy squinted at the tree tops. “That’s the others saying they’re watching us. Come on. We’re almost there.” The leaves just on the other side of the creek were still damp with blood from where the John Doe had been killed making the forest floor a slippery mess. Hart huffed into his hands and rubbed them together. The man’s weapon lay undisturbed next to the largest collection of blood. A turkey feather twisted lazily in the puddle. Hart knelt and collected the shotgun, inspecting scratch-marks across the receiver. He eased the pump back and found a shell still in the chamber. A brown streak darted from the tree tops and disappeared behind a knee-high stone. Hart brought the shotgun up on instinct. “The hell was that?” Hargrove moved his hand to his pistol. “Was that a bobcat?” “No, numb-nuts.” Foxy laughed. “Was a turkey.” “Turkeys can’t fly.” The deputy saw the other men’s expressions and sighed. “Can they?” “Damn city folk,” Foxy grumbled. The bird bobbled out from its cover and Hart lowered the gun. It hissed once and called out in a burst of clucks and yelps. Another turkey answered him and lighted nearer the three men. Two more came down. A third glided past Foxy and settled beside him. The five turkeys, fat, juicy gobblers, started walking slowly. Their dangling snoods swelled and rose erect above their beaks and their wattles flared out. “What’s with the bird boners?” Hargrove asked. “That’s the snood,” Hart answered. “Means they’re excited.” “I know I’m sexy, but you’re really not my type,” Hargrove said to the closest of the flock. Six more turkeys dropped into the gaps between the others—also male, and also engorged. With the extra members, the formation became clear and the birds circled the men. Foxy’s knife hissed as it cleared the leather sheath.  “They’re doing a predator check.” Foxy shook his head. “They want to make sure we’re not a threat, that’s all.” “Then why you getting antsy?” Hart looked at the old man and the blade trembling between his bony fingers. “Sonsofbitches are huge. Not one less than thirty pounds. And look at the snood on that one.” He stepped closer to the sheriff and pointed out one of the birds, then redirected his finger. “And that one.” “What about it?” Hargrove eased his pistol out.  “It’s probably a foreign concept to you,” Hart said with a smirk, “but the ladies like big ones. There’s one dominant male in an area. Why are there two massive toms in this group?” Hargrove bent and squinted at one of the accused as they continued their death march around the trio. “That’s a mighty interesting question, Sheriff. I got a better one?” He shifted to a two-handed grip on his weapon. “Why the fuck has that one got flannel stuck in his chest hair?” Hart glanced at the bird and saw the shred of red shirt dangling from the beard and the slightly too-dark spots on its feathers where blood had caked on. He saw it, but he didn’t understand—not until the bird flapped toward him, gobbling ferociously. The sheriff backpedaled and fell with the bird coming straight for him. He raised the shotgun, barring the creature’s attack. Its claws scratched at the steel along with the older markings and Hart realized just what had happened to the dead man in Rhoda’s orthodontic mortuary. Deputy Hargrove kicked the bird like a game winning field goal and opened up with a barrage of gunfire before it could right itself. He grabbed the sheriff’s collar and hoisted him to his feet. The turkeys were no longer circling. They stood perfectly still looking at their fallen comrade and then at the trespassers. The birds took methodical steps forward, clucking between themselves and the circle began to dilate in on the humans.  Foxy snatched the shotgun from Hart and fired, leaving a cloud of drifting feathers where a turkey used to be. “We should be running!” The three men sprinted for Big Creek, blasting away at their attackers. The birds gave chase. The trees rustled with excitement and the hens began swooping to the ground and joined in the pursuit. A fierce, primal gobble filled the valley and snapping branches signaled the coming of more feathery fiends.  Hart looked over his shoulder in time to see the single, titanic beast tearing from the underbrush. The Saint Bernard-sized tom lowered its head and ran for all it was worth to catch up with the rest of his rafter. He quickly passed the others who fell in formation behind him. Hargrove dashed across the creek and took a knee, laying down fire for Hart. Foxy was hobbling along as fast as his eighty-three-year-old legs would carry him, but the birds were closing in. Hart stopped, turned, and lifted the senior over his shoulder. The slide locked back on Hargrove’s pistol and he reached for a fresh magazine only to find the holder empty. Hart crossed the creek and dumped Foxy into the deputy’s arms, wheezing from the effort.  The men made it another hundred feet before Hargrove slowed and tugged Hart’s coat. “Wait!”  “Now’s not the time to wait, kid.” Hart turned and stopped cold. Foxy limped ahead and rested against a tree to see what the hold-up was. He watched the birds flapping their wings and calling out in frustration as they paced the near-side of the creek among the array of scattered boulders. He raised the shotgun to his shoulder and lined the bead-sight up with the large, dominant male.  “Don’t shoot,” Hargrove said, patting the air. “It’s turkey load. You get past the feathers on that thing.” “Kid’s right,” Hart concurred. “Why’d they stop?” “Because they’re dumb,” Foxy grumbled. “Them rocks used to be one big heap. They don’t realize the wall is gone.” “And they never needed to fly over it.” Hart backed away slowly. “Let’s get back to town and call Game and Fish. Man-eating turkeys is their jurisdiction.” “Why?” Hargrove asked. “Why are they eating meat?” “They always ate meat, numb-nuts.” Foxy lowered the shotgun. “Turkeys eat lizards and snakes. They get big enough, I reckon they start on squirrels and groundhogs too. That monster, probably takes down anything he comes across though.” “And the bird with the biggest face-dick gets all the turkey pussy,” Hargrove muttered. “Shit. These others are his babies. They got their daddy’s taste buds.” “What is he doing?” Hart pointed at the father of the flock. The big tom took a hesitant step forward, prodding the ground with long, slender toes before curling his claws into it. The snood dangling over the side of his face twitched and swelled. He clucked twice. Some of the hens answered with yelps and putts. Two males mounted the boulders, their heads jerking side-to-side quizzically before one of them hopped down and landed on the other side. The leader threw his head back and gobbled, causing a chain of jovial calls from his brood. “I think they just figured out they can leave,” Hart whispered. “They got everything they need here,” Hargrove replied. The smaller birds squatted and wiggled in place before launching themselves into the air, soaring just over the heads of the men.  “Like you said, kid—they got their daddy’s taste buds.” Hart started jogging toward the car. “It’s Thanksgiving, they’re going to want to have supper with the family just like everyone else.” “The diner,” Foxy said grimly. “They can’t fly for very long, but they can go where we can’t. We can still beat them there if we hurry,” Hart said on the run.  The tom cried out and leapt onto a boulder. For his height, he was considerably lean thanks to his largely carnivorous diet. Hargrove watched him for a moment. “Something that big can’t fly right?” he asked. “I must’ve missed Animal Planet when they was talking ‘bout giant, flesh-eating turkeys,” Foxy told him. The turkey squatted. “Fuck me!” Hargrove turned and darted after the sheriff with the bird’s wings beating powerfully overhead. ** The Durango slid to a stop in front of the Dine Inn with its lights flashing and siren screaming. Foxy leaned against the window, still panting from exertion. Hargrove sprang out and addressed the line of diners making their plates along the buffet tables. “Everybody get inside the turkeys are coming,” he shouted. Everyone cheered. “No, not the ones to eat,” he corrected. “The ones that are going to eat you.” The residents looked at the young man curiously and exchanged glances. Some eased further from the bedraggled deputy and others burst into laughter. None of them moved inside. “Listen up!” Hart cocked his rifle. “The deputy gave you a lawful order. There’s a flock of rabid turkeys attacking folks and I’m going to need all of you to proceed to shelter immediately.” “Turkeys can’t get rabies, Sheriff,” Barney Allen said. “And they travel in rafters, not flocks,” Willard Bly added. “It’s a new rabies.” Hart pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s from China.” “It doesn’t matter what it is.” Rhoda pushed her way between the folks gathered around her table of assorted pies. “Foxy found a dead man this morning and what the Sheriff’s saying lines up. We need to get you all inside.”  “That’s why you don’t let no dentist be the coroner,” Barney grumbled. “Let alone a woman dentist. It all sounds fake to me. Ain’t no such thing as killer turkeys.” The killer turkey that divebombed Barney did not agree.  The man crashed into the arms of Willard, who screamed highly as the bird thrust its head into Barney’s throat and wriggled deeper into its prey. He dumped Barney to the sidewalk and ran, shouldering smaller diners out of his way. A tom hit him between the shoulders, driving him through a table full of greens. Everyone panicked. Some of the mountain folk drew guns and fired at the birds that were gathering overhead and landing in the streets. The sharp ping of a ricochet was followed by the hollering of the bystander it struck. More of the residents ran for the gun-racks in their vehicles for more formidable weapons. Most just ran.  A shotgun blast removed the car mirror a foot behind Hart.  “Every fucking time,” Hart groaned. “These yahoos are going to kill as many of themselves as the goddamn turkeys do. We need to wrap this up!” “I’m open for suggestions, boss.” Hargrove kicked a hen against the side of the diner. A jake landed on his back and pecked his skull. He shrieked as it tore a strip of flesh from his neck. He swatted at it, only for the foul fowl to roll and slice his hand with its spurs. The bird pushed its head into his flesh and the deputy fell to his knees. There was a boom and the attack finally ceased.  Hargrove reached behind him and pulled the severed head of the juvenile from his collar. Feathers drifted calmly around him and Caroline winked at him from behind the sights of her shotgun. She pivoted and hit another and then a third. Hargrove tried to ignore the swelling of his own snood while he watched the girl pick off murder-turkeys like she was trying to win the big stuffed animal at a carnival duck-shoot. The rafter gathered its numbers. Turkeys swooped from the roofs and tackled anyone still running. A tom circled a pickup, clucking angrily after the prey that cowered beneath it. A pair of smaller jakes had no problem spotting the man and sprang at him, pecking at his legs. The man kicked at them and clutched the undercarriage as the birds tried to drag him out. An artery tore open in his fight, splattering the road and drawing more turkeys to the party.  Gunfire erupted tearing chunks from the road and managing to kill a jake before the turkeys leapt back into the air. Bullets pinged through the body of the truck—and the body beneath it. The Walsh Cousins, all six of them that weren’t currently in jail, walked side-by-side with their automatic rifles bucking wildly between whoops and howls of excitement.  Bobby-Joe Walsh dropped his empty magazine to the ground and spat tobacco juice from the corner of his smirking mouth. “Don’t worry yourself none, Sheriff. Nothing the judicious application of the second amendment can’t handle. Whoo!” The remaining members of the flock gathered on the store front eves. Eddy Walsh dropped one like a beer can off a fence post. The males threw their heads back and gobbled in unison as the rest of the Walshes opened fire on them. “Why aren’t they attacking anymore?” Hart asked while he checked on a clawed-up victim keening in the street. “They’re just letting themselves get shot. It’s like they’re waiting for something.” The alpha turkey plummeted out of the night sky and flattened Eddy beneath its bulk. Its lanky neck stretched in a flash and Bobby-Joe’s belly spilled open. The other Walshes found themselves as quickly dismembered before the behemoth turned its attention to a guttural cry from behind. Willard stood clutching two lifeless turkeys in his massive fists. His clothes were torn asunder and he leaked from hundreds of pecks, but somehow stayed breathing. He threw the carcasses aside. The tom tore open Eddy’s throat and gobbled at his challenger. Willard roared back and they charged one another.  Hart raised his rifle. His leg buckled, sending the shot into the sky. The quartet of hens pecked him until he fell. The tom leapt on the run and took Willard’s head off as it glided toward the last person still standing. “Oh, damn it all to hell.” Hargrove reached for his pistol belt, pulling his baton before the turkey slammed into him. They crashed through the window of the Dine Inn and slid across the stained, linoleum floor. Hargrove swung the baton up to deflect the turkey’s peck. It reared its bald, pink head back for another go and Hargrove grabbed for its two-foot-long beard, tearing the hairs from its chest. The baton thunked off the monster’s skull and the deputy tried to crawl away before the leathery foot pinned his head to the tile.  “Hey! Big Bird!” Hart raised the rifle. “Time for the main course.” He lined the sight up with the beady, saurian eye staring back at him. Then, the rafter swarmed him.  Between the flurry of attacking fiends, the sheriff could see Foxy sauntering across the street from the general store. The geezer puffed his pipe and the bag of Wonder bread swung from his spotted fist like terror-turkeys weren’t murdering the townsfolk. A beak dug into Hart’s cheek, pulling him back to the current crisis. Hart clamped his teeth onto the bird’s throat and kicked another into the air, snapping his rifle up and blasting it like a clay pigeon. He punched another and the group launched away from their victim. Hargrove tried pressing himself up, but the tom dribbled his head off the floor. The deputy wasn’t sure which would crack first, but knew one of them was imminent. Caroline’s shotgun rumbled through the diner. The tom’s tail feathers spread and rustled. It lowered its weight, putting pressure on Hargrove’s skull, preparing to lunge… Then its offspring started screaming. The alpha turned. Turkeys flailed and flopped in the street, some dashed madly with their feathers burning brightly. The octogenarian stepped into the diner with the flamethrower casually slung over one shoulder.  “Don’t you know. I always supply the turkey around these parts,” he grumbled.  A stream of pressurized fuel shot through the pilot light, igniting on its path to the titanic tom. The jellied petroleum clung to its feather, withering them all the way to the skin. The bird shrieked and leapt toward the old man. The flamethrower sputtered, hissed, and then extinguished. Foxy stood his ground. The empty fuel tank clanged as it fell to the ground. Foxy’s weathered hand eased to his belt.  Hart watched in terror as the bird with the funeral pyre plumage charged the senior citizen. His oozing wounds ached as he stretched for his rifle, praying to get off a shot before Foxy was torn to pieces. His fingers found the grip of the rifle and he wrestled it to his shoulder. Hart wasn’t about to lose another citizen of Masco County. He squeezed the trigger and the striker fell on the empty chamber with a sharp, soul-crushing, snap.  Foxy turned away. His arm looped through the air and the tom ran past him, bouncing off a wall before collapsing. Its beak clicked open and closed on the floor.  “Fried was always better than roasted anyhow.” The old man kicked the severed head away from him and shrugged. Hargrove rolled over and shielded his eyes from the glare of the burning bird. He watched Foxy slip the knife back into his belt and walk to the Durango.  “I ain’t never liked these social gatherings.” Foxy climbed into the passenger seat. “I want to get home now.” “I guess we’ll be serving turkey through Valentine’s at this rate,” Caroline said as she helped the deputy to his feet. She braced him against her and helped him outside. “What’d I get myself into?” Hargrove moaned. Caroline scrunched her nose. “Things get a little strange up here.”  Bodies littered the street. Rhoda was treating patients in front of the VFW with the help of other survivors. A siren cried down in the holler as emergency vehicles wound their way up the mountain. That’s what communities did when bad things happened. They came together. And Masco County gave them plenty of opportunity to prove it. Hart made it to the Durango and gripped the doorframe for balance. “What you doing for Christmas, Foxy?” he asked. “Avoiding you. I’m too old for this shit.” The old man jerked the door from Hart’s grip and slammed it shut. “And Happy Thanksgiving!”  “Yeah.” Hart nodded. “Happy Thanksgiving.”  And then he passed out. The End

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