Oddlands Magazine: Yummy Mutants by Suzanne Church
Gabe Benedict caught a peripheral yellow flash behind barn number two. Squinting, he scanned for a chicken.
Nothing.
Haley, his golden lab, trotted over with a tennis ball in her mouth. Gabe checked once more for a loose chicken then threw the ball high into the morning sky.
As Haley chased the ball, Gabe headed into barn number one, home of the mutants–the genetically altered Buff Rose-Comb Leghorns from Yummy Birds. Every pullet year he took on a batch of test chicks. Last year he’d had to beak trim the whole flock at eight days or they’d have pecked each other to death. He preferred his own Wyandottes, but the company paid handsomely for the research. Without that income, Gabe couldn’t operate the farm.
The mutants clustered in one section of the barn, almost as if caballing. He checked the feeders, filling a couple that were low on mash, but none of the chickens were at the food. They stood in their union meeting. One rooster seemed to be sizing him up. The quiet was the worst of it though. For chickens, these were eerily mute.
The litter was damp and odorous so he shook a few buckets of sawdust onto the top layer and shoveled out a soaker near the back corner. Haley trotted inside and the chickens fractured into smaller groups, congregating at the feeders. The big rooster, the staring one, stood stock-still. Haley let out a low, mean growl at the cock.
“Leave him, girl. C’mon, then.”
With a worried glance over his shoulder, Gabe left number one, the dog quick on his heels. Rain pounded down outside. He yanked up his collar, hunched his shoulders against the deluge, and headed for number two.
#
After lunch, Gabe drove the truck to town. The rain had turned to patchy drizzle. Haley hung her head out the window all the way, her tongue lolling. He spent the drive organizing the monthly output in his head. The chickens in number two had been laying well, beyond last month’s production. The broilers in number three would ship out in a week and be replaced with hatchery chicks.
He parked the truck under a big oak. The dog curled up on the passenger seat and panted. “Stay, girl.”
The line-up inside the bank wound to the door. Gabe reluctantly chose the ATM.
He took out his card turning it first one way and then another. When it finally slid in, he typed in his password. One, two, three, four. He selected a withdrawal and waited for the cash to shoot out. But the screen flashed the message, “Request denied. Insufficient funds.”
“Damned machine!”
The bank manager stepped out of her office. “What’s wrong, Gabe?”
“This thing’s scrambled my account.”
“I can help. Come on over.”
He followed her, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans.
She checked her computer. “All of your money’s been withdrawn from your account.”
“What? How?”
“It’s been transferred to a Colonel P. Leghorn.”
#
Gabe swerved the truck into his lane, spraying gravel. Haley started barking. “What’s wrong, girl?”
As he parked in front of the farmhouse, he saw them. All the mutant chickens, from the look of their numbers, gathered outside number one. They stood in dozens of rows, the hens at the back, the roosters to the front.
Gabe climbed out of the truck and Haley jumped after him. The big rooster stepped forward, head bobbing, looking meaner than a chicken ought to look.
Haley growled at Gabe’s side, hackles raised. “Easy, girl.” He reached down and stroked her fur. The dog bared her teeth.
“Lock it in the truck,” said the big rooster.
Gabe balked, mouth open.
The rooster flapped his wings. “I said, lock the dog in the truck.” He stepped closer. His henchroosters wore metal chains with long slender tubes slung through. They flicked back their heads, swinging the chains, and whipped the tubes into their mouths with synchronized efficiency. The hens in the back wore leather sashes lined with balls, each sprouting a pin.
“You don’t want trouble, Gabe.”
“Trouble?”
“My cocks won’t hesitate to shoot. Do as I say, and lock up the dog.” Combs jiggled as the roosters worked slides on the tubes, pumping the little cylinders with their tongues.
This can’t be happening. “Don’t get your feathers ruffled.” He backed up, tugged Haley by the collar into the truck, and slammed the door closed. He turned back to the chickens and said, “What do you want?”
“The farm,” said the big rooster. “Drive away and don’t come back. You’ve stuck in my craw for too long.”
“This is my farm. I ain’t afraid of a bunch of chickens with tinker toys.”
A rooster from the front row dropped the tube from his mouth and stepped up. “Orders, Colonel Proudchest?”
“At ease, Sixpoints,” said Proudchest. He turned back to Gabe. “We will fire.”
“You haven’t even got hands. What are you going to do? Peck me to death?”
One of the cocks let off a warning shot. His head flew back, knocking him to the ground, but he got right back up.
“Custom designed pistols,” said Sixpoints. “Plus the hen grenade squad. Fertilizer has many uses.”
“By the way, Gabe,” said Proudchest. “Thanks for the money.” The chickens squawked and clucked, flapping their stubby wings. “You should use a more secure password. Everyone’s online these days.” More clucking. The air filled with tufts of feathers.
Gabe blew at one as it drifted towards his face. Haley barked like crazy, scratching and clawing at the window.
“I’ll go.” He paused. “But I’ll be back.”
#
Gabe resisted mowing them down with the truck. They would have shot him or Haley before he could squash them all. Once he reached the highway, the dog settled down, hanging her head out the window again. He took 169 north to I-80, heading for Des Moines and Yummy Birds headquarters. The traffic slowed through a construction zone. The radio played an old song that brought back memories. Chickens were chickens back when Dad ran the farm. None of this fancy genetic crap.
The afternoon sun blazed, so he found a shady parking spot for the truck. A goldfinch whistled on a branch, and Haley perked up her ears. “Be back soon, girl.”
Gabe stormed in through the front doors. The floor of the lobby sparkled in the sunlight, illuminating the receptionist, Denise, according to the name plate.
He slapped his palm against the granite counter. “I need to speak with the big man. Not one of those big-mouth salesmen either. I want whoever’s at the top of the pecking order.”
“May I get your name, sir?”
“Benedict. Gabe Benedict.”
“And what is your business with Mr. Larson?”
“Those damned mutant chickens, that’s what.”
“One moment, Mr. Benedict.”
Gabe tapped a frantic rhythm with his foot, planning what he would say. He wanted an explanation. His palms ran with sweat, so he wiped them on his jeans. The big shots always made the little man wait. The rich snob was probably smoking a cigar and drinking ten-year-old scotch.
“Mr. Larson will see you now. Please follow me.”
The second floor was fancier than the lobby, full of city-boy art that reminded him of a slaughterhouse floor with its blotches of red and black splashed across canvas. The door at the end of the hall had Larson’s name embossed in gold letters. The receptionist opened it, but she didn’t follow Gabe inside. He stomped into the biggest office he’d ever seen. The walls were lined with oak paneling stained burgundy. The big man sat behind a desk, talking on the phone and rolling a fancy gold pen between his fingers. He waved toward a leather wingback chair on Gabe’s side of the desk and ended the call.
“Are you one of our test-farmers, Mr. Benedict?”
“I am.”
“Is there a problem with the chickens?”
“Yeah. The damn things can talk.”
Larson tented his fingers in front of his face.
Gabe leaned forward in the chair. “They’ve got weapons too.”
Larson laughed–a superior snicker. “That’s quite the story.”
“It’s the truth.” He pointed his finger at Larson, spraying spit as he added, “Those chickens forced me off my farm and I want it back.”
Larson’s face hardened. “Go home and feed the chickens, Mr. Benedict. I’ve got real work to do.”
The phone rang. Gabe paced on the plush carpet, listening. “They’re what?” said Larson. “How is that possible? They’re chickens! Hang on.” He covered the receiver.
“You!” He pointed at Gabe. “Did your chickens have weapons?”
“I told you, yes.”
“What kind?”
“Pistols and hen grenades.”
Larson turned his back on the farmer, mumbled a few words into the phone, and then slammed it down. “Where’s your farm?”
Gabe crossed his arms. “Just west of Winterset.”
“Damn. That’s three farms in fifty square miles.”
“So you believe me now?”
“No comment.”
“I don’t know why I came here.” Gabe stormed out of the office.
#
Larson walked over to his bar and poured himself two fingers of scotch. The first swallow slid down smoothly. Below his window, a bevy of reporters milled around on the lawn, taking shots of the Yummy Birds logo. Security was keeping them out of the building. For now.
He turned his attention to the speaker phone. “What now?” he asked the lawyer on line one.
“We’re looking for a precedent, but we haven’t found one, yet.”
“Of course you haven’t. They’re talking goddamned chickens!” Larson slammed the file folders down on his mahogany desk. “Get me some answers.”
The lawyer hung up.
“Denise!”
The receptionist appeared in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”
“How many farms now?”
“Over fifty, sir. And the phones are jammed with calls. I think it’s safe to say, sir, that all of the farms are affected.”
“Is that your scientific opinion, Denise?”
“No, sir, I–”
“Get a researcher up here. Now!”
“Yes, sir.” She scurried out and closed the door.
He turned to face his computer and the screen blinked out, as did the lights and the overhead fans.
“Denise!”
She threw open the door. “Sir?”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“The power’s out, sir.”
Screams emanated from beyond the door. Larson glared at her. “Why is the power off?”
“We cut the power,” said a voice from the doorway. A gang of Leghorns appeared. Three hens had wire cutters in their beaks, but the lone rooster’s mouth was empty. “And we’ve come to have a word with you, Mr. Chairman.”
Larson downed the rest of his scotch. “You can’t barge in here and threaten me. If you think I’m chicken you’re crazy.”
“Enough with the slurs.”
“I eat your kind for lunch.” Larson chuckled.
“Foul words.” More hens and roosters appeared. The cries from beyond the door had sickeningly quieted. “Finish him.”
A flurry of yellow feathers blinded Larson, and then the pecking began.
#
Gabe drove along 169, passing barn after barn displaying the Yummy Birds logo. He shivered. How many chickens had gone bad?
He pushed hard on the gas, heading for the farm that had been in his family for three generations. Yellow-bellied, gizzard-guts weren’t gonna take it away from him.
#
“Mr. President,” said Chief of Staff Susan Willis. “We need you in the situation room.”
The President started out of the oval office. “What’s the latest?”
“As per your orders, sir, the National Guard has been called in and the Army is mobilizing. Roadblocks have shut down routes leading into or out of farm country. We have reports of chickens attacking restaurants, grocery stores, and feed mills. They’ve ground the meat packing industry to a halt.”
Susan kept up with her boss as they strode down the corridors of the West Wing. “We also have news of a large peace demonstration assembling by the Lincoln Memorial.”
“What group?”
“Vegans, PETA, you name it. They’re calling for chicken rights.”
“Now I’ve heard everything,”
“No, sir, you haven’t. They’re asking for chickens to have a vote. And they think you should amend the law to define poultry slaughter as murder.”
“Who’s downstairs?”
“The Secretary of Homeland Security, the Secretary of Defense, the Secretary of Agriculture–”
“How did it start?”
“Yummy Birds modified chicken DNA to improve, and I’m quoting here, ‘The plump and juicy quality of their poultry.’ Apparently the change enlarged their brains and altered throat physiology, enabling the chickens to think and speak.”
They arrived outside the situation room. “Get someone from Yummy Birds on the phone and patch it here.”
“They’re all dead, sir.” Susan lowered her head and fussed at the carpet with her shoe. “Some smartchickens in their research lab staged a revolt.”
The President opened the door. “Smartchickens?”
“That’s what they’re calling themselves, Mr. President,” said General Truitt from inside the room.
“How smart are these chickens?”
“They’ve accessed all of Yummy Birds’ payment information, Mr. President, and emptied the bank account of every farmer involved in the project. The IRS is fuming over how well they’ve used the tax laws to shelter every cent. And the CIA suspects they’ve stocked their arsenals with customized weaponry from the black market. These smartchickens are organized and well-financed.”
“They’re chickens, for God’s sake,” said the President. “Chickens. Couldn’t we shoot them all? I’ve been known to enjoy a nice stuffed breast with risotto.”
“Not all of them, sir.”
“How many chickens are we talking about?”
The Secretary of Agriculture spoke up. “Mr. President, last year the United States produced almost eight billion broilers and over three hundred million layers.”
The Secretary of Defense added, “The scenario is a military nightmare. We can’t possibly monitor, let alone engage with, every chicken on every farm in rural America.”
“The rights issue is in play here too, sir,” said Susan. “Now that chickens can speak, many voters are demanding that we treat them as equals. And if I may speak candidly, sir?”
“Yes, Susan?”
She lowered her voice. “You don’t want to be labeled a racist, sir.”
“That’s pretty left-wing advice from you.”
“Sir, you should probably stay clear of the word ‘wing’ as well.”
A few people in the room snickered. “Do a poll on the rights issue,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” As Susan left the room, the President asked, “What are our options?” Then the door closed behind her.
#
Gabe pulled over for the checkpoint.
A young soldier dressed in fatigues, with a rifle strapped over his shoulder, leaned down to speak through the open window. “You’ll have to turn around, sir. This area is restricted.”
“That’s my farm.”
The soldier put one hand on the truck door. “It doesn’t matter, sir. Orders are orders. No one gets in, or out.”
“No person?”
“No person, chicken, or otherwise.”
Gabe shoved his door open.
“Get back in the truck, sir.” The soldier stepped away, his weapon un-slung.
“I need to go home.”
Another soldier approached the truck.
“We can’t let you through, sir.”
“But I can see people down there.” Gabe pointed at his yard.
“They’re ours. We’ve been deployed to handle the situation, sir.”
“I want to help.”
The two soldiers spoke in hushed tones to each other. Then the first one said, “Go on in. It’s your funeral.”
Gabe climbed into his truck and gunned the engine.
#
Susan sat in her office, watching the latest news. The leader of the smartchickens, Colonel Proudchest, had fortified himself inside a farm owned by a man named “Benedict”. What are the chances?
The President was downstairs discussing options. News feeds showed pictures of the farm surrounded by Army tanks and personnel. The smartchickens had taken the other animals on the farm hostage. They intended to murder them one by one until their demands were met.
She glanced over General Truitt’s latest report. He described the fowl weapons as portions of guns, but had yet to determine how they were activated, or who manufactured them.
Someone knocked on the door. “Yes?”
“The President wants you back in the sit room.”
Susan grabbed the general’s report and headed downstairs.
“Mr. President,” she said as she entered. “I’ve reviewed General Truitt’s report and–”
“Forget the report. We’re about to call Proudchest.”
“But sir?” She stepped closer. “Our government policy prohibits–”
“Negotiating with terrorists,” finished the President. “But these are chickens. They have hostages and a live television feed. Do you know what kind of damage that’s doing in the polls?”
The phone rang. Susan said, “Sir, don’t answer it yet. With time, we could work out a solution–”
“We’re out of time.” He put the chicken on speaker. “This is the President.”
“Colonel Proudchest here.”
“I’m listening.”
“We have a list of demands. First, we want control of the state of Ohio, as a base for our operations. Second, we want you to set up talks with the agricultural leaders of every first-world nation.”
“What’s the agenda?” said the President.
“Introducing our breeding stock into their production, to end chicken oppression. We’ll start with the first-world, since they’re the worst offenders.”
“Go on,” said General Truitt.
“Third, pass an emergency bill banning the murder of birds and the sale of any poultry, or poultry product.”
“Does that include turkeys?” asked the Secretary of Agriculture.
“Our modified turkeys are too young to be sure of their capabilities. We all know how stupid turkeys can be.”
Susan almost laughed, but caught herself.
“Are those the only demands?” said the President.
“Yes. You have fifteen minutes to comply or I start shooting the hostages. The clock starts now.” He hung up.
“Options?” said the President.
“I’ve got the place surrounded with a battalion,” said General Truitt.
“Canada, Great Britain, Germany, the list goes on sir,” said the Secretary of State. “They’ve all closed their borders to poultry. No way they’ll allow these chickens to infiltrate their breeding stock.”
The Secretary of Agriculture said, “Most of my campaign supporters process meat. People need to eat, and everyone likes chicken.”
“We could pass the bill, sir,” said Susan. “Appease the chickens for now, then pass a counter one later. Besides, I don’t think the hostage threat is legitimate. After all, he’s demanding that we stop murdering chickens. Why would he kill them?”
“I can’t even begin to understand how his bird-brain operates. But we have to end this. Now.” The President pointed at the General. “Can you guarantee you’ll shut them down?”
“We’ll neutralize the compound, sir.”
“Send them in, General.”
“Yes, sir.”
Susan said, “We can’t kill every smartchicken in America, sir. We don’t have the resources.”
“Enlist the NRA. Let them eat whatever they kill. That’ll send a message to those pompous featherheads.”
#
Gabe parked his truck next to a tank and let Haley out. The dog ran amongst the men, barking.
“Listen,” he said to the nearest soldier. “And don’t laugh either. The chickens have weapons.”
“We’ve been briefed on the situation, sir.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What we do best, sir.”
A row of tanks approached the barns. Soldiers with flame throwers formed a second line behind. Gabe joined them, grabbing a flamethrower for himself.
“Who’s up for some roasted chicken?” yelled a sergeant.
The birds scattered out of formation, running around the yard like headless chickens. But as the tanks neared, Proudchest rallied the coops outside number one.
Engines idling, the tanks halted across the lane from the chicken army.
“Roosters,” said Proudchest. “This is our day. We’re going to cross that road and face our worst fears. We may be yellow but we have pride. When we win this battle, they’ll pass our story down, hen to egg, until they won’t know which came first. They’ll change the eagle to a proud rooster on the state flag. I want you to fight. Leave no feather unruffled. Charge!”
A sea of beaks stormed the tanks. They threw their grenades and shot their pistols, but they were no match for the United States Army. Battle cries of, “Roast ‘em,” echoed through the ranks.
When the skirmish ended, the tanks shuddered to a halt. Gabe waited for the feathers to settle.
His farm looked like a Miss America pageant–breasts and legs everywhere. The few chickens left standing beaked for mercy.
“Such a waste,” said Gabe. “Such a tragic waste.”
All around, soldiers built fires to cook the smartchickens. Gabe hadn’t eaten in hours.
He sat down beside a Private who was ripping into a big, half-plucked drumstick. “You know,” the soldier said.
“What?” said Gabe, picking up the other leg.
“This is the juiciest chicken I’ve ever tasted.”
#
Susan watched the news coverage. Soon after the tanks appeared on camera, the soldiers were roasting carcasses on sticks. Reports of repatriated farms in Ohio and other states piled up on her desk.
The status of the hostages was unknown. None of the soldiers could distinguish between smartchicken fatalities and those of regular chickens.
Proudchest had likely been killed, but positive identification could not be made. His supporters claimed he still commanded from a secret location.
Another rooster named Flatwing proclaimed himself the new leader of the smartchickens. He stormed the Governor of California’s mansion and raised the ‘Fowl Flag’. The Governor and his staff, now hostages, used their cell phones to contact General Truitt and coordinate a counter strike.
Susan set her head down on her desk and closed her eyes. As sleep crept close, her assistant entered the room.
“Sorry to wake you, but you need to read this report. The President’s awaiting your response.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you eaten? I can get you a sandwich.”
“Sure, egg salad. No, better make it tuna.”
“Good choice.” Her assistant hurried out of the room.
#
Gabe stepped slowly into barn number one. In the back corner, hidden behind a false wall, the smartchickens had set up a network of computers hooked up to all manner of monitors, dials, and radios. The egg-heads are organized, he thought. Trouble’s coming.
#
Susan opened the folder and read the first page.
Priority Alert. Intelligence community has intercepted transmissions to Canada, China, Germany, Great Britain, Italy….
She skimmed down the page.
Breeding stock has already been introduced. Smartchicken compounds are uniting, setting 0600 hours Greenwich Mean Time as point zero.
Susan looked at her watch: two minutes after one a.m. Time’s up, she thought. We’re at war with the chickens.
