Prey: Seven Tales of Beastly Terror

By Tom Conyers, Danielle Tara Evans, John Cassian and 4 more

This horror anthology contains seven stories, each written by different authors: John Cassian, Tom Conyers, D.Z.C., Danielle Tara Evans, L.K. Evans, Chance Maree, and Thaddeus White.

A longhorn rancher gets more than he bargained for...

A mythical bird becomes all too real...

The ghost of a cat enacts a nasty revenge...

And a bear becomes a weapon just as dangerous to its wielder...

These are some of the tales in this anthology of animal mayhem by exciting authors of today. From cats, to dogs, to longhorns, rats and bears, Seven Tales of Beastly Terror explores the frightening ways nature could easily turn on us...if we provoke it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Conyers
• Release date: Nov 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370715565

Tom Conyers

Tom Conyers, an award-winning filmmaker (The Caretaker – 2012), is also a playwright, painter, illustrator and photographer.

Book preview

PREY

Seven Tales

of

Beastly Terror

John Cassian * Tom Conyers

D.Z.C. * Danielle Tara Evans

L.K. Evans * Chance Maree

* Thaddeus White*

PREY

SEVEN TALES OF BEASTLY TERROR

Distributed by Smashwords

Longhorn © Chance Maree 2015

The Rogue Bear © Danielle Tara Evans 2015

A Siamese Cat © D.Z.C. 2015

Sleeping Dog © Tom Conyers 2015

Rat Bastard © John Cassian 2015

Chopin & Slacks © L.K. Evans 2015

Project Phoenix © Thaddeus White 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The authors assert their moral rights.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-1507626801

ISBN-10: 1507626800

Editing, Cover Design, Typesetting & Illustrations by Tom Conyers

Contents

Introduction

Longhorn Chance Maree

The Rogue Bear Danielle Tara Evans

A Siamese Cat D.Z.C.

Sleeping Dog Tom Conyers

Rat Bastard John Cassian

Chopin & Slacks L.K. Evans

Project Phoenix Thaddeus White

Introduction

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

— Richard III

Shakespeare nails it, as he frequently does, in this quip from his remorseless villain. In truth, animals have far more to fear from us than we do from them. The scariest animal pales beside human monsters. And to call ourselves bestial is to slander beasts. But all those with a sympathetic bent towards the creatures we share—that's sadly not the right word—inhabit this planet with, can imagine with some glee the prospect of their asserting themselves in a supernatural capacity.

As in life, not all the animals win out in the fictions contained within these pages, but none go quietly, either. The cat in D.Z.C.'s A Siamese Ghost Story manages to enact a ghastly revenge, in a quietly cool Saki-esque tale. The grizzly in Danielle Tara Evans' The Rogue Bear becomes a tool for shady humans in a story reminiscent of a Stephen King tale. John Cassian provides us with a whole island of rats which hold dominion of their territories, in a Poe-style monologue of madness.

Chance Maree's Longhorn, as well as being a highly effective chiller, also carries a timely message about the dangers of messing with nature, told with a Ray Bradbury touch. Her story incorporates science fiction elements, as does Thaddeus White's Phoenix, and my own Sleeping Dog. Both the steampunk Phoenix and Lovecraftian Sleeping Dog reference a different kind of animal, the cryptid, 'a creature… whose existence has been suggested but has not been discovered or documented by the scientific community'(Wikipedia).

The spirit of a legendary bird is reborn in Phoenix while the totem animal of a neglected god awakens in Sleeping Dog. L. K. Evans also chooses the cat with which to spin her yarn, affirming the popular alignment of the feline species with the dark arts. Hers is the only one told from the animal's perspective, and does so in an irascible and humorous tone.

As can be expected from a collection of yarns penned by authors from around the world, their settings are also global: the outreaches of steamy Thailand, the forbidding forests of Pennsylvania, the myriad islands of the Andaman Sea, the windswept plains of Texas, the wide reaches of Australia, the cold spaces of London, and the dark backwoods of an unnamed location.

Naturally, with far-flung contributors, the tales variously employ American English, Australian English and I suppose one must say English English! The initial temptation to standardize the seven stories as American English was resisted, after deciding that their slight variations in punctuation and spelling were part of their local flavour. Where a term was unfamiliar to a non-native audience, but the sense of it could still be gleaned, it was left. Yet where it was particularly idiomatic, and therefore impossible to reasonably guess by the outsider, it was amended to a broader term. But the tales are, unambiguously, universally relevant and widely accessible.

Tom Conyers, Melbourne, Australia

LONGHORN

Chance Maree

Jesse Wyant hotfooted down the creaky wooden stairs of his back porch and headed towards the barn. The rumble of a car engine and crunch of wheels on gravel stopped him, reluctantly, in his tracks. Peering around the corner of the house, his sharp blue eyes squinted into the morning sun. The sight brought a deeply wrinkled scowl to his face and the corners of his gray handlebar mustache drooped.

A tall man unfolded himself from out of the car, and waved. Hello, Mr. Wyant.

Jesse whispered strong words of annoyance, but finished muttering them before he arrived at the car. Good morning, sir, he said, with a smile.

As he shook the tall man's hand, Jesse tried to remember whether he'd met the fellow before. The guy must have been six and a half feet tall, but was so skinny that Jesse, who was at least a foot shorter, probably outweighed the stranger by 50 pounds, or more. One look at the man's pale and hairless jowls made Jesse wonder, Who is this kid?

I'm Dr. Green. Dr. Berger introduced us, last year, right before he retired. I've taken over his veterinarian practice and have been working with Ray on your bull's semen samples. Results from the lab came back, and I wanted to talk to you about them—in person.

Jesse wiped his hands on his jeans. Pleasure to see you again. I just got off the phone with Ray. He called me to come out to the barn. You see, Dafney is calving and I don't want to miss it.

Mind if I join you?

Sure, Doc. Jesse motioned for Dr. Green to follow him. Don't expect she'll need you, though. These longhorns calf easy.

They took the path at the rear of the house past rolling acres of alfalfa. About a dozen men in white Hazmat suits were stooped over, or walking between rows of tender seedlings.

Dr. Green stopped and shielded his eyes from the sun. What's going on in your field?

Not wanting to be rude, Jesse slowed his pace but was determined not to stop. He loved watching the birth of his longhorns, and Dafney was never one for long labors. They're weed scouting. That salesman from the seed company is likely fixing to sell Cecilia more sprays. He continued a couple steps before he noticed Dr. Green wasn't following.

Isn't it unusual to wear Hazmat suits just to walk in a field?

Jesse turned to speak over his shoulder, but the arthritis in his neck gave him a stab of pain. You'll have to ask Cecilia. I don't know anything about the farming business these days. He doubled his speed, which forced Dr. Green to stop bothering him with questions. Once the vet caught up, Jesse added, Since they started growing alfalfa, I'm lucky she left me a few acres for my cattle.

They arrived at the barn. Jesse inhaled the sweet mix of feed, straw, and sweat. He led Dr. Green through the long, dark corridor, straight out the back doors to a calving pen where Ray, a seasoned Mexican cowhand, and his teenage son stood by the gate. The boy was nearly matured; excluding the few streaks of gray hairs and a black mustache, he was a replica of his father. After a quick exchange of greetings, the four men lined up along the fence to watch the birth.

In the pen, a one-ton, red-and-white mottled longhorn cow lay calmly on her side. Her horns curved up and outward with a span of about six feet. Protruding beneath her curled tail were the tips of the calf's feet, obscured by a white, mucus sack.

Should be anytime now, Ray said to his son. The boy nodded and raised a video camera to his eye. To Jesse, the cowhand explained, I moved Dafney inside the pen so Sam could record the birth.

After a sudden contraction, the calf's shrouded head emerged. Dafney rested for several moments before a series of abdominal pushes expelled the rest of the calf's body onto the straw bedding.

I was just a bit younger than your boy when I saw my first longhorn born. Jesse's watery eyes remained locked on his prized cow. I've seen hundreds since then; each and every one is as miraculous as the first.

The teenager screwed up his face and telescoped the camera lens. That calf looks weird.

Jesse, Dr. Green, and Ray moved to get a closer look at the newborn calf. It lay, unmoving. Nothing unusual about that. Dafney rested several minutes before lifting her huge bulk to a standing position. She licked the white membrane from the calf's back, and worked her way towards its head. Jesse climbed up on the first rail of the fence to get a better look.

The calf did look peculiar. Its front hooves were large and misshapen. What Jesse thought were its back legs was actually a tail, large, segmented, and tapered to a point, like an alligator. The calf finally stirred, lifting its head, before dropping it again. Suddenly, its long tail curled upward in a high arch over its back. Dafney snorted. Her tail swished nervously as the calf writhed toward her. Wide-eyed, Dafney allowed her calf to approach, but gave a high- pitched cry of alarm when it seized her front leg between its two front appendages.

What the hell? Ray sprung over the fence and ran towards the distressed cow. Dafney, frightened by the grotesque calf that was trying to climb her leg, whipped her head in defense towards the oncoming man, using her great horn to skewer his forearm between the ulna and the radius bones. Ray screamed as Dafney swung her head, tossing him to the ground. Blood sprayed onto the straw. Stunned, he stared at the bone projecting from bloody gore above his scarlet fingers. With the uninjured hand, Ray clasped his forearm, above the wound, and staggered toward the gate.

Jesse grabbed Sam's shoulder and yelled, Go get the rifle from the barn, son. The boy dropped his camera and ran. Dr. Green opened the gate and rushed to help Ray outside. As soon as Sam returned with the rifle, Dr. Green chucked car keys at the boy and commanded him to retrieve the first aid kit from his Volvo, parked outside the house.

With the boy scurrying away, and Ray's wound under the care of Dr. Green, Jesse took the rifle and walked around the pen, to the opposite side. He opened the gate to the outside pasture. Dafney bolted from the birthing pen. The writhing calf tried to follow its mother. Jesse verified for himself that its legs were useless; the animal's form was a monstrosity. He lifted his rifle and shot it between the eyes.

The old rancher turned and trudged back. He wiped the sweat from his brow and watched Dr. Green pour antiseptic on Ray's forearm. The vet applied a pressure bandage. Ray's usually stoic face was pale.

Dr. Green repacked his first-aid kit and snapped it closed. Now, let's get you to the hospital.

Don't you bother, Doc, Ray replied. My son can take me.

You okay to drive your pa? Jesse studied Sam's face. The boy was clearly shaken.

Sam squared his shoulders. When he stood straight, he was nearly as tall as his father. I been driving since I was twelve.

Sorry that happened to you, Ray. Jesse took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

Now, boss, Ray said, shaking his head, you and me both know it was my own stupid damn fault.

Jesse nodded. Don't think Dafney meant anything by it, anyways. You go and get that arm mended. Take the time you need. I'll keep wages coming to your family, so don't you worry about that.

Ray managed a weak smile. I heal right fast. Sam will work the barn for you till I'm able.

After Ray and Sam drove away, Jesse and Dr. Green returned to the birthing pen. They stood like funeral mourners over the dead calf. The bullet that killed it was a .22 cal long-rifle mushroom shell, which had left the skull intact. Jesse frowned as he stared at the normal longhorn calf head. Dr. Green drew his attention to four pairs of small appendages protruding from the calf's sides. What Jesse had thought were the calf's front legs, looked more like grasping pedipalps.

I've been around longhorns all my life, Jesse said. Thought I'd seen everything by now.

Dr. Green squatted beside the calf's body. There's a group of Texas vets who discuss cases online. A colleague of mine, in Amarillo, posted pictures of a Brangus. Looked something like this. He moved the long, thin tail. Instead of ending in a tuft of hair, the tail tapered to a point, curved and sharp as a stinger.

Dafney's been bred to Clem before. All the calves were normal. Jesse pointed to a bull standing in a corral next to the barn. I have buyers waiting for his next semen collection.

Dr. Green stood. He towered over Jesse, which seemed to bother the vet. Moving to the other side of the carcass, he dusted the dirt off his pants. Mr. Wyant, we need to discuss Clem's test results.

Jesse's throat convulsed, but his mouth was too dry to swallow. Those tests have always come out good. Dr. Berger never needed to talk to me about them, just said everything was fine.

You should hold off on breeding Clem.

Nothing's wrong with that bull. Quite a few cows carrying his calves right now.

I understand. And, you're right: the results might be off. Let's test him again in a few weeks.

Jesse's eyes narrowed. Clem's genes couldn't just suddenly go bad.

Dr. Green stooped a little. He paused a bit too long, causing Jesse to huff with impatience. Just say it straight, Doc. Is something wrong with my bull?

Clem's results were… odd. Just hold off on breeding him. Dr. Green looked down at the dead calf. I'm sure you don't want to see more of these.

Jesse's face flushed from weathered tan to dangerous red. What do you mean the results were odd?

The problem isn't low sperm count, or poor mobility. When we tested DNA integrity, the results were… just bizarre. Seeing the old rancher's confusion, Dr. Green added, But the samples might have been corrupted. That's why we need to test him again.

Jesse fixed his eyes on Clem. The bull was magnificent, with a bright brindle hide, and an elegant forward curve of horns that spanned seven feet. Clem had the muscular build and calm disposition that Jesse's family had always treasured in longhorns. Those tests are wrong, Jesse muttered.

That could very well be true. That's why I'll run them again, at no charge. Dr. Green looked relieved. He turned back to the calf. Do you mind if I take the body?

Jesse headed towards the barn. Let me know what you find.

***

Dr. Green drove away with the calf's corpse bagged in the back of his Volvo station wagon, leaving Jesse with a deep ache in his chest. The old rancher trudged up the porch stairs. Maybe Cecilia saved him a cup of coffee. Years ago, when his first wife, Sophia, was alive, Jesse would be drawn to the kitchen by the smell of cinnamon bread or fresh baked biscuits. But those days were long gone; Jesse's new wife sat at the kitchen table. The air in the whole house was thick with cigarette smoke. As usual, Cecilia was staring into her phablet. As usual, she looked mad enough to spit railroad spikes.

Can you believe this? Another county in Colorado passed a ban on GMO crops.

Jesse stooped eye-level to the coffee maker. The carafe was burned dry, so he set about making another pot. Cecilia kept talking. She licked the last bit of powdered sugar from her fingers, and then closed the empty box of Krispy Kreme donuts. No wonder she was getting fat. Jesse's first wife had been middle-aged, yet she never put on that much weight, even before cancer took her; Sophia had kept herself trim and fit. Of course, she was often out in the garden, or busy keeping the house clean, or tending her goats. He smiled, recollecting images of Sophia and their son, Jacob, who seemed to always be hanging onto her skirt.

All Cecilia did was tap on that Internet device all day.

If a ban happens in Texas, she continued, I know farmers who said they'll have to sell out.

Ain't nothing like that ever gonna pass in Texas. Jesse rinsed out a coffee cup while he waited for the water to heat.

Those people have some nerve. Not allowing farmers to make decisions on our own land; it's a violation of our civil rights.

Jesse was tired of hearing Cecilia gripe about how difficult life was for farmers, but he didn't know how to bring up the deformed calf. I was talking to Dr. Green this morning. He immediately regretted interrupting her.

Who? Cecilia's glance at her husband only lasted a second before she turned her attention back to the screen.

The new vet. Jesse's voice softened. He pitied his wife. She wasn't a bad sort—she'd simply gotten a bad break, having to leave college to help her father when her brother was killed. She managed her family's farm for ten years, just long enough for her younger brother to come of age, after which, Cecilia's father was happy to have Jesse take her off his hands.

What did the vet want?

Jesse stammered, groping for a way to dodge the question. He said Dr. Berger finally retired and he was taking over the vet business. He poured himself and Cecilia cups of coffee and carried them to the table. He asked me why the fellows walking in the alfalfa fields have to wear those spaceman suits.

Company policy. Cecilia added too much cream and sugar to her coffee. They dress like that all the time, whether they're handling seeds or sprays. Probably an OSHA requirement. She snorted in disapproval.

What's in that stuff, anyway?

I don't know, Jesse. Cecilia's eyes were slits and her words were darts she threw at him. She kept looking at the door, an invitation for her husband to leave.

Jesse held up his full cup of coffee. Let me finish this first. He took a sip. Never had to protect myself from the land when I grew hay.

We're growing alfalfa. It brings the best price right now. If we didn't use GMO seeds and sprays, alfalfa would never grow here.

I'd feel better about that stuff if we knew what was in it. How do they know it's safe, anyway?

Cecilia's eyes flashed a warning for Jesse to back off. Do you want me to pull up their web site and read you a bunch of chemical names? And of course they test it. The government makes sure of that.

She returned to typing at the tiny keys. After a moment, she shoved the phablet at Jesse. See! Since our soil is rocky and acidic, they spliced the seeds with some sort of insect DNA. Anyway, thank God for GMOs.

Insect DNA? But we eat the animals that eat that alfalfa. Jesse couldn't help but think of the stinger on the calf he had to shoot. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to mention the mutation to Cecilia. It's worrisome to see those people suited up in our fields. We and our livestock are supposed to eat plants too dangerous to touch? It just ain't natural.

Cecilia kept her eyes on the tiny screen. Stop bitching. I've made my choice. We farmers don't need to answer to you, or anybody. Go buy organic hay if you're so worried.

Jesse used to plant his own hay. Buying organic bales these days would be expensive. The profit from Jesse's cattle business was already considerably less than what Cecilia generated from crops. In her drive to outperform her father's farm, she resented the land Jesse needed for pasture. She pushed every square inch of tillable earth to its limit and ignored traditional practices, such as field rotation. Whereas her father chose his own crops and stuck to the old ways, Cecilia followed the guidance of a seed salesman. Jesse was convinced she had a crush on the fellow. The thought pained him.

He poured the rest of his coffee into the sink, rinsed out his cup, and put it in the drainer. At least she hadn't asked about Dafney's calf. I got work to do in the barn.

I meant to tell you earlier, but I forgot. Cecilia rose from her chair and put her cup in the sink. I had to order a new herbicide, or the entire crop could be ruined.

Uh, uh. Jesse clenched his jaw.

Thing is, I've run out of storage, and some of the chemicals aren't supposed be stored together.