Open Season on Jackalopes
Flash fiction, 700 words. For IAM's Jan. 1 prompt. Happy New Year!
“Did ya get it, boy?”
Grandpa peeked from behind Benji and peered out into the dawn-bloodied prairie.
“You get that chupa .. chupamacabre … goat-sucker?”
“I got somethin’.” Benji shied from Grandpa, who smelled of sweaty excitement and tobacco. He wished Pa’d let him bring the rifle. All he had was Grandpa’s old service revolver. He’d practiced with it enough to know why Grandpa had given it to him and gotten himself a Walker.
“Well, let’s see.”
“What if it’s still alive?”
Grandpa had come prepared for that eventuality. He hefted the shovel he’d brought with a satisfied grunt. “Won’t be for long, I reckon.”
Benji followed Grandpa as the old man unlocked the paddock gate and shuffled forward. A few sheep and the family mule huddled nearby, disquieted by the interloper and the gunshot.
“You don’t think it was a sheep, do ya?”
“Too small. I didn’t hit a sheep, Grandpa.” Benji hoped not. He didn’t like to think what Pa would say – or do – to him.
They reached the site of an unmoving body and looked down. Benji’s prize wasn’t the creeping, lizard-skinned predator of the ranch hands’ stories. Its small body was covered in fluff that moved gently in the wind. Its large, dark eyes were opened to see the place where animal souls go after death. Its furry head was crowned in tines small and thin as a fork and pointed as Ma’s jokes.
“Aw,” murmured Benji, stashing the piece in the holster that sat overlarge at his hip. He knelt down and stroked the fluff gently. “Aw, Grandpa.”
“I’m surprised you managed to hit that in this light, with that old pistol,” said Grandpa, ever practical.
Benji picked it up and cradled it, careful to avoid the mess that death leaves. The creature’s body was still warm and limp. He’d always wanted a pet rabbit, so it was hard to look. It wasn’t a rabbit, of course. This was something Old Ernst had warned them about, when they’d joined Uncle John at the ranch. They were secretive little things, but easy to spook, and if one got underfoot of a horse or cow, well, those little tiddlywink horns weren’t just for show.
“I reckon your Ma’s been wanting a stole.”
“Yeah,” said Benji unsteadily. He knew he should be manly about it. Anything wild and living was fair game out in Four Springs, from anyone and anything’s perspective. “It’s just … Lily Beth says there ain’t many of these left, on account of them not knowing a gun when they see it.”
“Well, John says they’re nothin’ but pests.” But Grandpa patted Benji’s shoulder gently. “It was probably for the best, boy. I don’t like the idea of having to rassle down an ewe to see whether her bloody leg’s savable or not. Did enough of that for wounded men in the war.”
Benji glanced to where the sheep watched them in a wary, dust-dirtied mass.
“Whadya think it was even doing in here? What’d want?”
Grandpa knelt beside Benji and opened the creature’s little mouth, revealing blood, fangs, and a thick tongue.
“Ain’t nothin’ in this dry prairie stays alive by bein’ cute. See now, they slice open a leg and lick up their lunch, is what I reckon. Yup, I’d bet this is our chupacabbie and those boys in the bunks just like talking up a big game about giant lizards like a bunch of old women.”
He stood up and slapped his dusty hands against his equally dusty jeans. “Yup, we got our goat-sucker. Your pa and John will be pleased as punch. Best not show Lily Beth, might make her cry.”
He led Benji gently toward the direction of the ranch house. Benji, absorbed by the weight of the gentle, sleep-seeming creature, didn’t parse Grandpa’s words right away.
“We’ll put him in the stew and your Ma’ll get the fur,” Grandpa decided. “You want the horns for a trophy?”
“Some trophy.”
“Well, it was a fair shot, boy. Nothin’ to be ashamed about. Though ...” the wind kicked up the dust, making him cough. “I can’t blame a fellow for wanting a drink.”