Untitled: A work in progess

Summer 1960

June was a wonderful time for a ten year old boy. Free of the confines of school, the summer seemed eternal. During the last several years Buddy spenta great portion of the respite at his grandparent's farm near Adairsville, Georgia. It was a magical world for a young boy who had countless outlets for his imagination to flourish.

Among his favorite places was the massive barn. Part of the structure was set aside for parking the tractor and other equipment, while most of the space was devoted to the storage of hay, which his grandfather, grew, cut and stored. There was generally more than enough for the farm's cattle and the remainder would be sold to surrounding ranchers, helping to recoup some of the farm's operating costs.

The bales of hay were stored on multiple levels in the fifty foot tal lbuilding. Buddy loved climbing the ladder to the second or third level where he would command his imaginary pirate ship, fighting off rival forces attempting to board his vessel. Other times he would imagine himself atop KennesawMountain alongside General Jackson holding off the Union invaders.

Today he was on the ground level, working rather than playing. He had promised his grandfather he would straighten out the contents of the wooden shelves in the shop portion of the barn, discarding empty oil cans, sweeping the concrete floor and generally tidying up the area. He was counting on the fifty cents he was usually awarded for the job and maybe even a trip to Dairy Queen for a banana split that evening after supper.

Just beyond the shop area the concrete ended and a hard packed dirt floor began, although the actual dirt was not visible. Decades of hay storage had created a fine amber colored powder created by the hay that was crushed underfoot and by the weight of the large bales resting upon each other. He was amazed at how the yellowish powder managed to coat everything in the vicinity,seemingly without the aid of a breeze.

Buddy heard a rustling sound near the wall where the ground level stacks of bales began. Loose hay that covered the powder beneath seemed to ripple like a wave, belying movement underneath.

Buddy grabbed his stick from the nearby shelf. He was rarely farther than arms length from his trusty stick, although his grandmother fussed whenever she caught him bringing it into the house. It was merely an oak branchjust over an inch in diameter and three feet in length, worn smooth from handling. But to little Buddy it was a sabre to ward off enemies on the deck ofhis ship or at times a rifle in some fictional battle or big game huntingexpedition.

But today it was serving the real function of prodding into the darker recesses of the barn in an attempt to expose the intruder lurking there.
The noise stopped when he walked over to where he suspected the intruder to be. He scolded himself for not being stealthier. He knew from his books on pioneers that all the great trackers emphasized silence and patience as essential to their craft.

After standing absolutely still, a task for any ten year old, for over a full minute, he heard the rustle again. It came from an area close to the wall, four feet from where he stood. The loose hay rose into the air and he got a glimpse of something dark, fur perhaps.

 

Deciding the time was right to advance, Buddy took a stride forward and in one smooth motion drove his stick into the fluttering hay. An uneasy feeling came over him as he felt a squishy sensation. He had poked the side of the giant rat's belly, causing the rodent to emit a piercing squeal.

He took a step back as the rat boldly broke out of its hiding spot .Buddy froze more out of surprise than fear. He was amazed at the size of the beast, reminding him more of a small cat than a large mouse. His surprise turned to wariness, and then fear as the oversized rodent bared its fangs and hissed, eyes boring into the intruder.

Giving no warning, the beast leapt forward, covering the distance between them in less than the blink of an eye. Even had he been inclined to do so, Buddy would have had no time to react to the rat's blinding speed.

The pain didn't register immediately when the razor sharp fangs sunk high into the webbing between Buddy's first and second toe. Stunned into action, Buddy took a mostly ineffectual swipe with his trusty stick, grazing the back of his attacker.

The rat only dug in harder, shaking his head like a cat would shake a mouse, as if it thought it could topple a human.

Buddy knew he had to focus like a baseball batter facing a fast ball and get in a solid hit, but that was easier said than done, for the excruciating pain made concentration on anything other than his foot next to impossible.

Vision blurry through tears, he drew his stick back in an awkward pose of a golfer in his backswing. And as with any less than perfect golfer, he missed his mark but managed a strike against the rat's hindquarters. He was encouraged by the miniscule progress of causing the rat to loosen his grip, even for a second and infuriated that the vile critter had caused him to cry like a little baby.

With renewed vigor he drew back again in his best imitation of Arnold Palmer, bringing his weapon down and across with all his might. There was a satisfying thump as he connected with a solid torso strike bringing another squeal from the rat, this one of pain rather than aggression. The jaws slackened enough for Buddy to snatch his foot back, tearing flesh in theprocess. Not taking time to admire the results of his counterstrike, he turned and ran blindly away, tripping across the door sill in his understandable haste, skinning knees and elbows in the process.

He stopped himself as he started up the steps to the back porch, remembering his grandmother's warning about tracking dirty feet into the house. Dirt and hay particles had clung to his bloody foot and he could only imagine the tracks he would leave.

He also reflected on her routine admonition of his tendency to run around barefoot like a wild animal. You'll cut your feet on rusty nails. Right now, a rusty nail didn't sound like such a bad thing considering his current situation.

And she always told him that should be wounded by the infamous rusty nail, painful tetanus shots would be required. What the heck was tetanus and could it be contracted from rat bites? Like he needed something else to worry about now.

Fortunately, she was away visiting a friend at the hospital, a trip Buddy begged to be excused from. He could think of no worse torture than being in a waiting room for hours among old people and old magazines. Now the prospect didn't sound so bad at all.

His grandfather was plowing a faraway field that he planned on devoting to soy beans. Buddy had learned to gauge the distance to where his grandfather was working by the sound of the tractor. He couldn't hear the tractor at all now, meaning it was on the outer periphery of the farm, hopefully giving himself time to get squared away somewhat.

 

Seeing the garden hose loosely coiled against the side of the house gave him an idea. The water was warm and sour smelling as it left the hose that had been exposed to the summer sun. He flinched when the water flowed around and into his wound, giving him the first glimpse of the severity of his injury. He felt slightly nauseated at the sight of the loose flap of skin incurred when he jerked his foot away from the tenacious rodent.

Relief finally came as the water cooled, offering a slight numbingeffect. It seemed to staunch the flow of blood somewhat as well, but not enough to avoid tracking it through the house. Looking around for a solution, he realized the answer was on his back. He removed his T-shirt and wrapped it around his leaking foot, giving the impression of some bizarre ######. After wiping his other foot clean on the damp grass, he limped into the house, heading for the bathroom for some impromptu first aid.

Sitting on the edge of the bath tub, Buddy hesitated and almost chickened out before pouring the mercurochrome onto the affected area causing him to cry out when the red liquid poured into the open flesh. He had no idea how beneficial this was or if it was even worth the additional pain. But he knew adults loved to pour this stuff on kids at the slightest opportunity, so maybe it would hold off the tetanus.

After folding some sterile pads he found in the first aid kit under thesink, he inserted them between his toes to soak up the blood that was still coming, albeit at a much slower rate. He then wrapped his toes with the white medical tape in the kit, insuring the pads stayed in place, hoping his foot would now fit into his tennis shoe which would be required to hide his damaged foot from his grandparents.

His foot fit comfortable enough in the worn and stretched sneakers. Now he would have to concentrate on walking normally as to not invite suspicion from the adults. After finding a spare shirt in the bag his mother packed for him he shoved the bloody T-shirt into his hip pocket for future disposal.

On his way out of the house Buddy paused at the entrance of his grandfather’s bedroom. The old Remington double barreled shotgun seemed to be calling out to him. He was allowed to fire it for the first time on his tenth birthday the previous fall. Small, even for a ten year old, Gramps held his shoulders from behind to prevent him from being knocked over from the recoil.

Buddy had developed no interest in hunting, as had many of his peers in the rural area, but he nonetheless felt firearm knowledge was a handy thing to possess, although he had yet to understand why. But now he had discovered a practical use for his newfound skill.

A wave of guilt passed through him as real as a blast from a hot furnace. He tried to rationalize the transgression he was contemplating by telling himself he had already violated the barefoot rule today, so what was one more little violation?

Not the same and you know it. Not even close the voice inside him told him, speaking louder than it ever had.

“Shut up, I gotta do this,” Buddy answered in a whisper.

Remembering how to work the release lever, he bent the barrels forward to discover empty chambers. Spying the box of 12 gauge shells on the bureau, he slipped one into an empty hole. After a brief hesitation he loaded the other before closing the barrels. Never know, he thought, and he could always bring it back.

Walking back to the barn with the shotgun slung over his shoulder, Buddy was feeling more like a real life Davy Crockett than one of his fictional characters he played with his stick.

He entered the barn cautiously, remembering all too well his previous encounter with the beast that grew larger in his mind each time he recalled it.

 

Allowing his eyes to adjust as the sunlight flooded the interior of the barn, Buddy saw that his assailant turned prey was back in the exact same spot as he left him. Or did he ever leave? And what, exactly, was he doing?

Buddy inched closer, shotgun at the hip, pointed at a downward angle with a finger resting lightly on a trigger. The old double barrel had two and he knew if pulling one was likely to knock him over, pulling both at once would surely send him backwards through the doorway.

The rat hadn’t even looked up from whatever he was engaged in or even acknowledged his presence, the arrogant #######.

Alrighty then. Buddy pulled his weapon up to his shoulder, remembering to snug it up tightly and plant his feet, one ahead of the other.

Waiting patiently for his quarry to show some aggression, giving him an excuse, as if he didn’t already have one, to blast him to smithereens, Buddy decided it was time to be proactive.

Easing his right hand away from the trigger and inserting two fingers in his mouth, he let loose with a shrill whistle, the type normally reserved for the baseball field.

The rat’s initial reaction was to raise its head slowly, looking almost bored and annoyed over the interruption. It was then that Buddy realized what had the varmit’s attention. The creature was contentedly lapping away at the blood spilled from Buddy’s foot, it’s whiskers red from the gory treat. Buddy was enraged. All apprehension vanished as he closed his left eye, focusing his right over the iron sight.

“Lick on this, you son of a #####,” he said in a low growl.

The rat reacted to the statement, as if he fully understood it. Rising up on its back feet, fully extending his height, he hissed vehemently, baring its menacing fangs. As irrational as it sounded in his own mind, Buddy later wondered why the rat didn’t charge as before. Did it possess the cognizance to recognize the futility and accept its fate?

And he thought he saw, just for a split second, the rodent’s eyes transform into an intense, glowing red color. An intensity that somehow belied not only an awareness of its fate but a promise of vengeance.

WHAM! The percussion of the big bore shotgun reverberated in the cavernous structure, amplifying the explosion. Buddy had the immediate sensation of flying as his feet left the floor and he was thrown backwards as if tossed off the back of a moving truck. He hit the floor with a thud, landing squarely on the backs of his shoulders before his butt followed a second later. He was proud to note that he had maintained control of the gun throughout the fall, keeping a tight, two handed grip.

He suddenly felt vulnerable being down on ground level with the very animal that was making a snack out of his blood. Scrambling to his feet, he immediately saw his worry was all for naught, for the blast had sent his foe, or his remains, flying in the opposite direction from which he had flew, and against the base of the wall.

The head, chest and forearms were gone, leaving only a fat stump of a torso, a wasted, bloody mass. It didn’t seem as large now as he had previously imagined it. Surely not the size of a cat, but still pretty #### big, he told himself.

Buddy calmly removed his soiled shirt from his pants pocket, spreading it carefully on the ground. Using his stick, he rolled the ruined, bloody corpse onto the makeshift body bag. He then opened the breech of the gun,dropping the spent shells onto the mess. It was only then that he realized he had unknowingly pulled both triggers.

No words of bereavement were spoken as he filled the dirt back into the makeshift grave, hopefully burying forever any evidence of what happened today, although it would be many years before he could erase the glowing, red eyes from his mind.

The sound of Gramp’s tractor was evident now. It was close enough thatBuddy knew he hadn’t been paying attention, so involved he was in the burial ofevidence, but he knew it had just crossed the old creek bridge and would besoon climbing the long hill. He had almost ten minutes to return the shotgun to its rightful place and begin dreaming of tonight’s banana split.

 

I had planned on flash forwarding eight years to when he became a tunnel rat in Viet-Nam, but haven't got it all worked out yet.