A Day In The Cornfield

by Glenn Gray

part 3

“I know a turd when I see one.” Karl tilted his head a couple inches toward the field while rolling his eyes in the same direction. “And these ain’t thems.”

A moment passed.

And then they ran.

Karl blasted through the wall of corn first, hands balled up; his contorted running thumping his knees close to his chest.

Stew came out next, sustaining a loud yell, swinging the shovel overhead like a helicopter rotor.

They stopped outside the wall of corn, in the open field, gasping.

“What’s goin’ on, Karl?”

“Darned if I know,” Karl said, eyes darting toward the corn. “It ain’t right, though.”

“How ’bout gettin Sheriff Maynard?” Stew said and turned toward the house.

“Hold it,” Karl said. “Think we should do somethin’ first. Make sure them things don’t get away.”

“How they gonna get away?” Stew shook his head, starting to leave again. “They’s blob things.”

“Don’t know. Hold it, will ya?”

“I’m gettin’ the Sheriff.”

“Wait wait wait,” Karl said. “Got an idea. Git the wheelbarrow. Bring it up.”

“Karl,” Stew waved air, “let’s just git out, huh?”

“Just git it. I gonna watch them things. Gimme the shovel and scoot!”

Stew grunted, pushed the shovel to Karl and stomped off. Karl tiptoed over to the wall of corn, holding the shovel like a bat, peeking in.

A minute later, Stew came up, half-jogging with the wheelbarrow, moving as fast as he could for someone pushing a wheelbarrow with a sack of rat poison.

“Follow me.” Karl motioned with his hand.

They found the blobs just as they had left them. Stew let the wheelbarrow rest on the ground a good distance away. Karl slowly moved toward to the original blob, the one they pulled the clothes from.

He leaned over the blob, lifted the shovel a few feet directly above, took a side glance at Stew with a toothy grin.

“Whatcha doin’, Karl?”

The shovel came down fast like a guillotine, slicing the blob in two. There was a tiny puff of smoke that quickly faded. Karl hurriedly picked up each half with the shovel, twisted toward the wheelbarrow, turned the shovel and let the thing fall in, alongside the sack of rat poison.

“Cuttin’ ’em up,” Karl said. “Whatcha think?”

“I see whatcha doin’,” Stew said, “but how come?”

“Tryin’ to imcompachatate ’em.”

“Huh?” Stew said.

“Just cuttin’ ’em up, okay?”

Karl worked methodically, cutting each blob in two, putting the halves in the wheelbarrow, around the sack, until he was done and had twenty-four half-blobs piled in.

“Let’s git that other one,” Karl said.

“How about them clothes?”

Karl looked at the clothes on the ground, shrugged. “Get ’em later.”

Stew lifted the wheelbarrow, heavier now, followed Karl out into the field, walking carefully so as not to tip. They went about thirty feet and then cut back into the cornstalks. There was the thing on the ground, just like they left it, the one that had replaced the dog-man, only Karl and Stew didn’t know that part. Karl chopped it in two and plopped it into the wheelbarrow.

Stew said, “What now?”

“Go back to the barn. Call the Sheriff.”

“Then what?”

“We wait, dufus.”

Stew had a tough time pushing the wheelbarrow over the bumpy grass, the things jiggling around like a huge jello-cake. Every once in a while Karl would steady the wheelbarrow with his hand, tell Stew to slow it down. Along the way, Karl picked up the stick in the field where the dog-man had dropped it.

As they approached the house, Bongo bolted from around the back of the house, ran up close to Karl and Stew, nipping at their feet. She barked a few times then took off again.

Karl said, “Girl’s crazy.”

Stew rolled the wheelbarrow into the barn and set it down, letting out a long sigh. Karl put the stick against the wall, then swung the big door shut after Stew walked out. Karl secured the door and said, “Let’s get the sheriff,” and they both lumbered to the house nearby.

After the screen door to the house slapped shut, the wheelbarrow started to rumble. It was as if a large pot of jello were on the stove, on high heat, starting to boil. There was a little bit of smoke and then there were popping sounds, like popcorn.

Then there were louder pops and the two half blobs, the original blobs that were the dog-man, snapped and then there were two dog-men standing in the wheelbarrow. Fully dressed. Only they were half the size of the original dog-man. About the size of a two year-old child. Each had a stick in his hand, like Stew’s, only half the size. They climbed over the side of the wheelbarrow, hopping to the ground.

Many more pops followed and when it was done, there were twenty-four miniature Karls standing in and around the wheelbarrow, climbing and jumping.

Each holding a shovel the size of a spatula.

In the house, Karl had just hung up with Sheriff Warren Maynard, telling him about the turd-things and how a strange guy was running around the farm, neckit.

Sheriff Maynard pulled into the farm a few minutes later, raising a big ball of dust behind the cruiser. Karl and Stew were standing in front of the barn, sun in their eyes.

“So you boys got a tub o’ turds, you sayin’?” Sheriff Maynard climbed out of the front seat, basketball gut hanging over his belt. He had a mouthful of chew and he spat on the ground.

“And a joker runnin’ neckit,” Stew said. “Droppin’ his draws and stuff.”

“We gonna get to that,” Sheriff said. “Show me dem turds.”

“They ain’t really turds though,” Karl jumped in. “We just callin’ ’em that.”

“Where they at?”

Karl headed to the barn, grabbed the door. “Here.”

Sheriff Maynard and Stew followed, stood outside the door.

Karl swung the door open, revealing a rusted wheelbarrow, a sack of rat poison inside.

And an empty barn.

Continuation pending...