out with the livestock. His nose wrinkled the minute he walked in the room, and his eyes were glued to the ground as he took ginger steps around any dirt I might have missed when I cleaned up, even though he wore knee-high muck boots.
Dad wasn’t sure what to make of the cows’ behavior. “They probably have to adjust to this place, too. They’ll be back to normal in a day or so.”
Later, I went back to check. The cows stood there, panting and drooling. The calves lay on their sides, still.
I rested my hand on one.
The fur was still soft. But the body was stiff and cold. The calves were dead. All of them.
And it was quiet in there. Too quiet.
I realized what was missing. Cackling. Inside the henhouse, I found all the chickens, unmoving and lifeless.
I ran to get Dad, and then struggled to keep up as we raced back. By then a cow was on her side. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he hissed.
My mouth opened to defend myself, to tell him I’d done everything the way I was supposed to. I was afraid to speak.
Dad held a hand to the cow’s heaving flank. I realized his words were directed at her, not me.
He grabbed a couple of stainless steel buckets from the stack. He put some water in one and a few handfuls ofgrain in the other and took them to his lab. I followed to watch him.
He readied the microscope and his other equipment, then set to work. Inspected first, the water ended up being fine; it was the same we all drank.
I went to check on the cows and decided to stay with them. One by one they dropped to their forelegs, then fell onto their sides. I was with them through the afternoon. One by one, they died.
Back in the lab, I found Dad deep in concentration. He didn’t seem to notice me as he studied the information that compiled on his computer screen. At last his analysis was complete. “No, no, no. No, No, NO.” Dad leaned on the counter, holding his head in his hands. “Traces of rat poison.” His exact next words escape me. I do know he shouted something about the cows and swore. A lot.
I took all the dead chickens to the incinerator with the orange wheelbarrow, which I christened The Hearse. Dad sliced up the large animals with equipment from the meat processing room. The grinding whine stayed in my head for days.
I COULDN’T GO BACK TO SLEEP . M Y ALARM HADN’T GONE OFF yet, so I stayed in bed and daydreamed, as I often did, about things I used to take for granted. The smell of Cocoa after her bath, and the way she tore around the house, rolling on every carpet in sight, grunting. I felt her then, her body on top of my feet, her warmth seeping through the covers. She was my phantom limb.
For six years I’d tried not to dwell on thoughts of her or anyone else too long. It was better to separate the old world from the new. It was better to stay cold and detached.
Actually, I was getting good at cold and detached. Too good.
I shivered, and pulled the covers up tight.
I often wondered about the cows and how it all could have happened. Could one of the workers have sabotaged the food supply? And the grow bulbs in hydroponics. Could someone have put fluorescent ones in their place on purpose? A disgruntled worker who knew the job was coming to an end? An envious working stiff who hated the thought of his own family dying while the Yanakakis clan lived out nuclear winter in luxury?
I hid my face in my hands, rubbing away at the sleepiness.
Dad had planned well, of course. But even he had made mistakes. I crunched my last tortilla chip when I was eleven. Swallowed my last Mountain Dew when I was thirteen. Peanut butter ran out when I was fourteen, the jelly soon after. We each learned to hoard. Underneath my bed, a dozen Snickers called to me. True, the one I ate on my birthday was white around the edges and tasted rather off. Still, I saved the rest. I liked knowing they were there.
Dad had stockpiled tons, literally, of food. But even he couldn’t extend the shelf life. Most canned
Dad wasn’t sure what to make of the cows’ behavior. “They probably have to adjust to this place, too. They’ll be back to normal in a day or so.”
Later, I went back to check. The cows stood there, panting and drooling. The calves lay on their sides, still.
I rested my hand on one.
The fur was still soft. But the body was stiff and cold. The calves were dead. All of them.
And it was quiet in there. Too quiet.
I realized what was missing. Cackling. Inside the henhouse, I found all the chickens, unmoving and lifeless.
I ran to get Dad, and then struggled to keep up as we raced back. By then a cow was on her side. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he hissed.
My mouth opened to defend myself, to tell him I’d done everything the way I was supposed to. I was afraid to speak.
Dad held a hand to the cow’s heaving flank. I realized his words were directed at her, not me.
He grabbed a couple of stainless steel buckets from the stack. He put some water in one and a few handfuls ofgrain in the other and took them to his lab. I followed to watch him.
He readied the microscope and his other equipment, then set to work. Inspected first, the water ended up being fine; it was the same we all drank.
I went to check on the cows and decided to stay with them. One by one they dropped to their forelegs, then fell onto their sides. I was with them through the afternoon. One by one, they died.
Back in the lab, I found Dad deep in concentration. He didn’t seem to notice me as he studied the information that compiled on his computer screen. At last his analysis was complete. “No, no, no. No, No, NO.” Dad leaned on the counter, holding his head in his hands. “Traces of rat poison.” His exact next words escape me. I do know he shouted something about the cows and swore. A lot.
I took all the dead chickens to the incinerator with the orange wheelbarrow, which I christened The Hearse. Dad sliced up the large animals with equipment from the meat processing room. The grinding whine stayed in my head for days.
I COULDN’T GO BACK TO SLEEP . M Y ALARM HADN’T GONE OFF yet, so I stayed in bed and daydreamed, as I often did, about things I used to take for granted. The smell of Cocoa after her bath, and the way she tore around the house, rolling on every carpet in sight, grunting. I felt her then, her body on top of my feet, her warmth seeping through the covers. She was my phantom limb.
For six years I’d tried not to dwell on thoughts of her or anyone else too long. It was better to separate the old world from the new. It was better to stay cold and detached.
Actually, I was getting good at cold and detached. Too good.
I shivered, and pulled the covers up tight.
I often wondered about the cows and how it all could have happened. Could one of the workers have sabotaged the food supply? And the grow bulbs in hydroponics. Could someone have put fluorescent ones in their place on purpose? A disgruntled worker who knew the job was coming to an end? An envious working stiff who hated the thought of his own family dying while the Yanakakis clan lived out nuclear winter in luxury?
I hid my face in my hands, rubbing away at the sleepiness.
Dad had planned well, of course. But even he had made mistakes. I crunched my last tortilla chip when I was eleven. Swallowed my last Mountain Dew when I was thirteen. Peanut butter ran out when I was fourteen, the jelly soon after. We each learned to hoard. Underneath my bed, a dozen Snickers called to me. True, the one I ate on my birthday was white around the edges and tasted rather off. Still, I saved the rest. I liked knowing they were there.
Dad had stockpiled tons, literally, of food. But even he couldn’t extend the shelf life. Most canned
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