The drive to Isaiah Birch’s house has always been a pain, the miserable son of a bitch lived three miles outside of town. Off a turn with gravel drives with sharp curves. He held most of the land on that road with a house resting on the steepest hill overlooking the countryside. Money wasn’t an issue for Isaiah Birch he had plenty although it puzzled most of the town on how he came into that wealth. He didn’t come from money. Birch Sr. died back in 89, and he didn’t leave Isaiah much. Just a rundown farm with a broken barn along with a handful of underweight cattle.
That did not deter Junior from turning it around for himself. He developed into one of the most affluent men of the county. He attended Sunday service every week and often lent his house for church socials. I believe it was his need to show his wealth instead of generosity. A well-known cheapskate to the common folk, he often turned his nose up at anyone he regarded as poor. The only reason I am driving this patch of road is the word in town is he is offering money for a good shot. Something has been attacking his cattle of late. My hunch is a pack of coyotes maiming his cattle. It’s rare, but it happens.
A roar comes from the narrow road where I view the dust of gravel colliding with wheels kicking up a thick cloud of dirt. The sound of the engine becomes louder as it speeds towards my beat up truck. I lay on my horn to let the driver know someone else is on this tight drive, but it does not deter them. I pull to the side of the road stopping my truck from rolling over into the creek bed. The driver speeds past me in his black vintage Plymouth Belvedere. I honk the horn again while the driver with slicked back hair gives me a condescending wave.
When I turn on the driveway that leads to Isaiah’s house, I notice a new fancy Cadillac truck sitting outside the home.
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When I park behind the truck, I can watch Isaiah staring at me from his upstairs window with a nasty expression on his face. A vanity project is what I think of when looking at the hunting styled lodge he had built for himself. It’s amusing that Isaiah doesn’t know how to hunt, why else did he need a hunter? I close the door to my truck to notice him standing at his porch. He gives a judgmental glance, then eyes my truck. He scoffed at my beat up little pickup; I guess I am too poor to be in his presence I suppose.
Even in his casual outfit of jeans and a white tee shirt, he carries a sense of superiority, funny for a big fish in such a small pond. His unpleasant demeanor fit him and his slender body covered in blemishes. His thinning white hair carried no favors, no matter how he sought to mask it. The comb-overs, hats, and other desperate attempts to cover his lack of hair had become one of my favorite shows around town. I played a game with my buddies guessing what color hat he chose, or how much cheap pomade greased his hair at Sunday service.
“Mind the truck,” Isaiah complained, “it costs more than your house.”
I gritted my teeth, “word around town is you need someone to go hunting for you.”
“That so?” he asked.
“Yea, I heard from Eugene something attacked your cattle,” I say, “thought maybe I could lend a hand.”
He steps off the porch and races over to his truck, surveying around it to detect if any scrapes or dents happened to turn up for him to complain. I felt my teeth grating at the audacity as he examines his bumper. I walked to my truck with no patience for this bastard, nor did I want to waste the day. Isaiah finishes his search and puffs a breath of relief. He strolls over to my pickup and leans back folding his lanky arms shifting his head toward me as I sat inside. “Just had to make sure,” he mumbles.
I place a pouch of dip under my lip, “Do you want help or not?”
“I will give you fifty now,” Isaiah replies, “fifty more if you catch whatever is doing it.”
“Eugene told me you were paying up to two hundred,” I state.
Isaiah scoffs again, “Since when did you listen to a simpleton like Eugene? I won’t pay a dime more than a hundred and twenty-five, so do we got a deal?”
I grab my rifle and step out, “Fine, seeing as I already made the goddamn drive.”
Polishing and cleaning my rifle with an old rag. I went through my truck to grab my old hunting knife, a box of ammo, and a flashlight. Isaiah gives me another glance. The bastard thinks I am taking too long to get ready for his meager hundred and twenty-five dollars, such an asshole. Once I finish this task, I will never listen to Eugene again. Dealing with Isaiah Birch its self should fetch more money than I will make on this trip. I spit to the ground, “Where did you find the last cow?”
Isaiah points west, “about half a mile down in the holler.”
“Is that where the other one happened?”
He nods, “Whatever it is it is somewhere between there and the pond.”
“I will head that way,” I reply, “and let you know what I find.”
“It’s somewhere around there,” Isaiah says, “but don’t pass the black gate if you find yourself that way.”
“What’s that way?”
He frowns, “A bunch of none of your goddamn business what is there, so if you see a black gate do not cross it. Do you understand?”
I nod and head west as I wave goodbye to the miserable son of a bitch.
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I notice it’s closing in on 5:00, and the sun will set soon. I’ve been exploring Birch’s land for the better part of three and a half hours. I find another carcass of a cow, close to where Isaiah stated. The jugular bit cleanly and torn out. The poor heifer didn’t stand a chance. Blood stains the cold damp grass below it, this kill was fresh. A small streak of the cow’s blood leaves a trail heading toward a wooded area. I have thirty minutes to find this thing before I have to use my flashlight.
Even in winter, the bare hickory and oak trees conceal the little light I still have. The sounds of the wind brushing the trees together are distracting, making it harder for me to detect my predator. I listen as a few twigs snap and the crunching sound of dead leaves, it’s somewhere in these woods and close. I lay my rifle into my palms and draw back the bolt to not alert the cow mangler. It’s further up as I tend to my footsteps as I rest my finger on the trigger. Judging by the sound, I assume that I was correct in the coyote theory. I can overhear it moving around a row of trees while I place my finger on the trigger of my rifle ready to shoot.
It’s surprising to observe what has been maiming Birch’s cattle, it is not a pack of coyotes, but a common dog. The shape of its head and the wide muzzle tells me it is a pit bull, someone’s household pet that is now exterminating the cows. It rolls around on the dead leaves and bloody pieces the cow while chewing the rest of the cow’s throat. The dog is dirty with blood and growls playfully as it shakes the torn skin around. I pull my gun up and look down the sight, my finger gently pulls down the trigger, “I’m sorry buddy.”
The cracking sound below my foot alerts the dog as his head shifts toward my direction. The sight of a man bearing a rifle alarm the dog as he flees heading deeper into the woods. It was an amateur move not to know my surroundings. I bet if that greedy bastard Isaiah saw it he’d scoff again, then threaten to deduct twenty dollars. Now though, it’s time for me to capture this cow killing mutt. I have spent way too much of my afternoon in the goddamn woods to walk away empty-handed, nor do I want to listen to that bastard calling me a failure.
A glimpse of light appears before me, and the dog is dashing towards the end of the woods. I pull up my rifle again and line my shot. I like dogs, but this one has made it personal. I draw a heavy breath as I squeeze the trigger before he makes it out of the woods. I hesitate as I can see the dog is running to someone, a small figure dressed in white. I close my eyes and release my finger from the trigger as the dog is now sitting next to the person. Who else is in these fucking woods with me?
The closer I walk to the opening the clearer it becomes, a small girl is standing with the dog.
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The tail wags as I watch the dog lick the small girl’s hand. She could be no older than six, with blonde hair, pale skin, and a small white gown covering her body. The little girl crouches down as the cow killer licks her face warmly. The feeling dawns on me that this adorable little girl could have died had I taken my shot, and I pull my rifle down as I rush to her. She laughs as the dog licks her face as I approach. The dog stops and walks over sniffing my hand before wagging his tail and rubbing his face in my palm.
I spit the rest of my dip, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Mister,” The girl replies, “I was looking for him. Thank you for finding him for me.”
“What’s your name?” I ask curiously.
“I don’t have a name.”
I smile at her, “Every little girl has a name.”
“This little girl doesn’t.”
The dog barks and prances around jumping on his hind legs in excitement. The girl stands up and pats her leg as the dog responds. He trots in the open field heading west. She grabs my hand leading me to walk with her which I follow. I can not just leave her alone, especially this close to nightfall. We walk through the open field as I pull out my flashlight clicking as it gets darker by the minute. I give her glance as she smiles pulling a stranger in the fields. I am curious where she is taking me as I point the light in front of us.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“You will see,” she answers, “it is only a little further.”
We walk for a few minutes when I lift my light to see a fence with a black gate.
I shine the light to a sign that says ‘No Trespassing’ as the little girl lets my hand go. She walks over to the black gate and pulls it open. The girl motions for me to follow her. Is Isaiah hiding something beyond this gate? I walk behind the girl as she walks through another field. The dog barks from a short distance as the little girl stops looking to her right. I walk over next to her to observe something disturbing, mounds of dirt in an open field. I count at least seven, with one looking new. They look like shallow graves.
“What is this?”
She frowns, “This is where he takes the broken ones.”
“Broken ones?”
“The ones that don’t listen,” she mutters, “the girls that don’t do what the mean man says.”
I listen to a muffled scream come from the darkness. The sound startles me as I shine my light searching the field to find the source of the shriek. I turn to look for the girl, but she is no longer next to me. I shine my light around the area, but I see no sight of her. A howl interrupts my searching as I run toward the sound of the dog. She had to be there, but when I arrived, no sight of her nor the pit bull. The only thing I see is a big red shipping container with muffled cries and banging coming from it. The door locked with a padlock.
I lift my rifle and hit the lock to open it, but it won’t budge. The knocking becomes louder as I hit the lock harder trying to open the door. The cries, the screams, and knocks make me aim my rifle to the lock. I pull the trigger and a shot echoes through the field. I drop my rifle and pull the heavy door open. It rattles as I hear cries of terror and pain. A smell of urine and feces fill the air outside as I shine my flashlight inside the dark container. I am taken back by the haunting image of the eyes that stare at me frightened.
The container is full with women in white gowns soiled in feces, blood, and god knows what else. They are all young, from the little girl’s age to the late teens. They speak and cry in multiple languages I don’t understand. Tears overflow from my eyes as I witness the horror unfolding before me. A young girl who looks Latin clings to my leg begging me in what I think is Spanish. I try to shake her off of me, but she grabs again holding on more tightly.
I hear an engine coming toward me and the women, then the ringing of a gunshot.
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Another shot, as I turn to see Isaiah Birch holding a pistol pointed at me. He stomps over with a frown on his face and points the gun at the Latin girl. All the women scream at the sight of him as he shoots the poor girl. The women cry and rush to the back of the container as I stand helplessly looking at the body still gripping my leg. He closes the container and points the pistol back at me. I look down to see my rifle out of my reach lying on the ground. Even if I made it for my gun, I would have to pull the bolt back and aim, Isaiah only has to pull a trigger.
“I told you not to go past the black gate,” he snarls, “I always keep cameras on my special cattle.”
“Those are young girls, Isaiah,” I protested.
“Those things in there are nothing more than a herd that makes me rich.”
“It’s wrong,” I cried, “they are fucking people you bastard.”
Isaiah snarls, “They are playthings for well-paying customers. I have one question though. How did you get past the guard dog?”
The sound of whistling as I look over Isaiah’s shoulder to see the little girl standing behind him, he turns to see her as well and drops his gun to the ground. It was like he saw a ghost. I hear a growl behind me as the dog rushes past me jumping on Isaiah Birch. A sick crunch as the dog’s jaw wraps around his throat and bites down. I watch as blood pours from his throat and his legs shake violently. After a moment the dog releases him as it walks back to the little girl. She smiles and pats the dog’s head.
I hear the screams from the container as I open it again to the girls huddled in the back still scared. I try to tell them everything is fine as they slowly walk out on this cold night. I look back to notice both the girl and the dog have disappeared. It’s just me and these poor girls standing alone in a field. I look over to Isaiah’s body one last time. I know now the devils of the world don’t always lurk in the shadows, some of them hide in plain sight among us. They share pews with us at Sunday service and live comfortably on hills.
I know one thing though, the town of Cullman has one less devil today.
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