“Coop” by Jacob Orlando

Huey had never been home alone so late before. His parents had gone to the city for a Johnny Cash tribute concert, and decided that he was old enough to go without a sitter. He was halfway through fifth grade after all. There was leftover pulled pork and potato salad in the fridge. He could have a soda, and even help himself to a bowl of ice cream. He shouldn’t open the door for anybody, and could call the Davidsons down the road if there was an emergency. And he had Gnash, even if the poor guy was eleven in dog years and getting all gray in the muzzle.

On her way out, his mom reminded him to check for eggs and close the coop. And take care to latch the door firm, his dad warned, or coyotes would get at the hens. When Huey balked, his parents wouldn’t hear a lick. If Skinny or Fat Boy came at him, all he had to do was kick ’em.

With that, they were gone. Huey watched the pickup trundle down the driveway and disappear into the trees.

Fat Boy and Skinny were the two roosters. Fat Boy was a solid bird, thick as a turkey, with a crow as loud as anything. Skinny was small and sneaky, his cry even louder and more shrill. Both were vicious, and neither liked Huey much. They kept watch over the flock of almost forty hens, and would fly at him with their talons up if he came too close, aiming for his face, his hands, anywhere they could tear off a chunk. Huey preferred Fat Boy, who sometimes let him be, too tired or lazy or unbothered to give him any trouble. Skinny would lie in wait for Huey as he came up the driveway from the school bus, or spot him climbing a tree and come cluck around the base, doing a little dance, scratching the dirt and puffing his neck with a warning caw.

They paralyzed Huey, but he’d given up on getting any sympathy from either of his parents. His dad would sniff, spit a wad of chaw and tell him to man up. His mom would tell him that they were just chickens, that a swift kick would do the trick, and after he laid down the law they’d leave him be. Easy for his parents to say. Fat Boy and Skinny barely reached their knees, but in one flap the birds were eye-level with Huey. If he had Gnash they might leave him alone, but Gnash had lately been lacking his usual ferocity.

Huey put the chore off at first. After a minute or two watching the driveway to be sure his parents were really gone, he sauntered into the kitchen, grabbed a bag of chips from the pantry and pulled a soda from the refrigerator. He popped the tab and listened to the fizz like his dad always did with cans of beer. He read for a while, a paperback pick-your-own-adventure about a gunslinging outlaw. He listened to the new Shania Twain tape his mom had gotten for Christmas with the volume way up, singing along to the chorus lines he knew from the radio and dancing on the sofa. Gnash watched, wagging his tail. In the kitchen, he served dinner on a paper plate and stood at the counter eating with a plastic fork.

Through the back window, Huey saw a few hens making their way into the coop as the shadows of the trees went long beneath the setting sun. Fat Boy was pecking along with them, but Skinny was nowhere to be seen. Huey figured he better go before it got too dark, and decided to save the ice cream for when he got back. He let Gnash lick barbecue sauce from his plate.

Huey wrapped himself in a heavy denim jacket against the chilly evening and went out. The coop stood at the edge of the trees, a short walk from the back porch across an open pasture. At dusk, all sorts of hoots and scuffs and skitters arose from the deep forest around the house. The noise lulled Huey to sleep, save when the yowls of coyotes cut through. Then there would be squawks from the coop, Gnash would start growling low and the furor would rise as the pack came closer until his dad tapped the Ruger from the porch and everything went quiet.

Huey wished his dad would put bullets through Fat Boy and Skinny. The guns were locked up in a safe in the hall closet. All he had was Gnash, whimpering and looking up at him with disbelief, his big eyes plainly stating his displeasure with the cold. Huey thwacked his butt and told him to get along.

As they crossed the pasture, Huey kept an eye out for Skinny. The sun had set, and dark was creeping over everything. Huey knew all the dips and scrubs of brush where the crafty little devil could hide to try and catch him by surprise, but each spot turned up empty. The hens had all gone in. Fat Boy and Skinny were probably already nested down with them. Gnash lingered back and didn’t move when Huey whistled for him to come.

Huey approached the coop as quietly as he could. He would try to slip in and out without a fuss. As he pushed the door ever so gently open, he felt a prickle down the back of his neck, like something was watching him from the forest. He peered into the depths between the trees. Then, a flutter from inside the coop sent a jolt through him. He held. Things went still again.

He took a deep breath. He was fine. In a few minutes, he’d be in bed eating ice cream. Gnash was already trudging back toward the house. Huey knew there was no sense in whistling for him now. Fat Boy and Skinny were probably asleep already. Just a quick check for eggs, and then he could high-tail it back.

As the hens drifted to sleep, their coos came together in a chorus which breathed through the coop. Huey listened for a moment, and then — there, deep in his periphery, he swore he saw a little dark figure darting toward him. His eyes locked on a scraggly little thistle. Was that a leaf poking out the side there, or a long, slender feather? Huey watched it for a breath. It didn’t move. He slipped into the coop.

The floor was covered in droppings, which he more smelled than saw. The hens were stacked up on stoops in smooth round bundles like bowling balls. If they came at him all at once, they’d topple him, but they were asleep, except for Fat Boy, watching Huey with his beady eyes from the top roost. Skinny wasn’t there. This set Huey’s teeth on edge. He grabbed the pitchfork leaning by the door, thinking it might help him beat the birds back if they attacked.

A handful of the hens peeked at him with soft caws as he passed by, but not one stirred. He edged past Fat Boy, ready for him to make a move at any moment, but the rooster held still. Past the roosts was a row of crates, mostly occupied. He slid his fingers carefully under each hen, gently stroking the soft down of their underbellies to reassure them. Fat Boy seemed to approve, letting his gaze drop. Huey poked and prodded each one just enough so that they’d get up a little. Beneath the first there was nothing, but Huey found two eggs under the second, another beneath the third and two more under the next. He pulled up the bottom of his shirt to make a pouch and slipped each one in with care.

He ended up with nine, so many that he nestled the last one gently in his jacket pocket. He whispered good night to the hens and turned to go. Fat Boy watched but didn’t stir, allowing Huey to slide past. He was almost free and clear.

Then he saw Skinny coming through the open gap in the door.

He swung the pitchfork up and then froze. Sometimes if he stepped very carefully, Skinny would let him back away slowly. There was no proper back door, but a flap he could crawl through which led to an enclosed outdoor pen. There was a gate out that way.

Eyeing the pitchfork, Skinny started up his dance, puffing out his neck and cawing, sparking unrest which spread through the hens slowly at first, but catching like fire. There were rustles and flaps as their caws quickened. Huey looked up at Fat Boy, towering up on his perch. He stepped back. That’s what did it.

Skinny broke for him in a rush, flying at him all claws and feathers. Huey cried out and brought his arms up, letting the eggs in his shirt drop to the floor, and he cried out again as they shattered, splattering bits of shell and yolk all over his shoes. He recoiled to hold back the attack as Skinny latched onto the pitchfork handle and began to tear at his fingers. With a mighty heave, Huey sent Skinny hurling against the wall, then turned to make for the back flap, but Fat Boy was coming right at his face. Huey yelled and tried to push him away with the pitchfork handle, but Fat Boy pushed harder, knocking Huey back. He hit the floor a beat later, and both birds were bearing down on him. The hens were all half-hysterical. Huey was frantic, but ready for the fight of his life. He scrambled to his feet, brandishing the pitchfork with a holler.

Then they heard it — one long howl.

They all stopped, Huey, Skinny, Fat Boy, and all the hens, listening as it hung on the air. And then the real chorus started, the whole pack of coyotes yipping and yowling together, closer than they should have been, and closing in fast.

The hens cried furies. Fat Boy and Skinny advanced on Huey. He held them off with the pitchfork as he moved for the flap, feeling for the wall with his fingers. Just as he was debating diving in head first or trying to squat and step back through it, Fat Boy came at him again, this time staying low. Without thinking, Huey brought his foot up in a fierce kick which sent the bird tumbling. Fat Boy hit a beam and fell to the dirt with a squawk. When he regained his footing, Fat Boy didn’t move, just looked up at Huey with his neck puffed.

The coop door was still open. If Skinny would let him pass, Huey could shut it and make a break for the house. But when he took a step forward, Skinny surged at him. Huey caught him at the end of the pitchfork and jabbed it down into the dirt. In the next breath, he realized he’d driven one tine right through Skinny’s neck. The bird cried and flapped, burbling as his breath caught on the blockage in his throat.

No. Huey hadn’t wanted it like this. He yanked the pitchfork up. Skinny stayed down.

By their howling, the coyotes were close. There was a sharp growl from right outside. Huey saw a flash of matted pelt and gleaming fangs start to push at the door. He glanced around at the hens, at Skinny and Fat Boy, and wanted to save them, but it was too late. He dove through the flap and drove the pitchfork into the ground, using the handle to hold the flap closed.

He heard what happened next — the swirl of growls and whines, the frenzied flaps and panicked gaggles, the tears of flesh and ligament cracks, and the howls, lifting up the eaves. Hens thudded against the walls of the coop and swelled up against the flap, scratching at the sides, desperate to get out. Huey wanted to let them through, but then there was a sharp snap of jaws, and the hens scattered. A coyote ripped at the flap, all spit and muscle, its shoulders and chest thick as a wolf’s, its head almost the size of Gnash’s whole body. Huey cried out, thinking it could easily tear him to shreds, and kicked the side of the flap, yelling for it to back off.

Everything in the coop went still. With its head halfway through the flap, the coyote gazed at him. It was gray around the muzzle just like Gnash, with flecks of blood in the froth on its lips. When Huey kicked again, its big brown eyes looked shocked. It whimpered, turned and scampered away. Huey banged his fist into the wall as hard as he could and watched through the flap as the coyotes cleared out, snuffling around as they went, some picking up to-go meals.

As the sounds of the pack faded into the forest, Huey took a moment just to breathe.

Aftermath was strewn across the floor and splattered up and down the walls of the coop. Huey tried to avoid the chunks of flesh, tufts of feathers and bodies lying limp on the floor as he crawled back in. A few hens were left up in the top roosts — eight, he counted, plus Fat Boy, who was covered in blood and missing some feathers but standing tall. And there was Skinny, still splayed out on the floor where the pitchfork had driven him down.

Huey’s footsteps squelched on guts and grime. Fat Boy watched him but didn’t move. None of the hens made a sound. He examined one hen on the ground, who stood up suddenly when he touched her and fluttered up to a nearby roost.

There was another, flattened, cawing softly, blood oozing from a gash running up her neck and across her head. Huey knew there was nothing for it. Here was his chance at mercy. He’d seen his dad do it plenty, snapping the neck before axing the head. The hen gave a weak flutter at his touch, but he shushed her until she quieted down. He didn’t want to do it, but he couldn’t leave her there in misery to bleed out.

He squeezed his eyes tight, held his jaw firm and twisted as hard as he could. There was a terrible crunch. Her bones shifted beneath his fingers, and then her cawing died.

He looked at Fat Boy, who held his gaze for a moment before turning his head away. Huey left the hen where she lay and looked back at Skinny, blanketed in down. His hands were covered in blood, so Huey used his jacket sleeve to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.

A distant howl told him that the coyotes had moved on. With a last look over the gore, Huey stepped out into the night and latched the door firm behind him.

The walk back across the field was long. It was dark, and the night was still. The forest held silent, the trees standing a vigil. The whole place was mourning. Out of habit, his eyes fell on all the places Skinny might have hidden. Every spot came up empty.

Gnash was waiting for him on the porch and didn’t wag once, like he felt bad for failing to come to the rescue. Not that Gnash could take on a pack of hungry coyotes, Huey told himself. Better to have him here now. He scratched the old dog’s neck and looked back at the coop, which stood dark and silent. Huey felt that they should just board it up, seal it off and start fresh.

He turned and went inside, slid down against the wall beside the door and just sat there. Gnash whined a little and settled at his feet.

His parents found him there when they got back, with mud and blood all over his clothes, shell and yolk on his shoes. He cried, telling them he was sorry, that the coyotes had come before he’d got the door closed, that he’d heard the slaughter, that he’d counted nine hens, and Fat Boy but not Skinny, that he was sorry again, that he’d miss them, even Skinny. He let the coyotes take the blame for Skinny’s death. After everything, the truth was too terrible.

His mom wrapped him in a hug and told him that it was okay, that he’d been so brave. Some ice cream would make him feel better, she said. His dad patted his shoulder and told him that coyotes looked mean, but were scaredy-cats, and if he came at them waving his arms and making as much noise as he could, they’d run like hell. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with Skinny anymore, his dad said. And besides, they already had more eggs than they could eat.

Huey nodded. Then he remembered the last egg, and fished it out from his jacket pocket. It was in perfect shape, clean and unbroken. He ran his fingers over its delicate curve, thinking it was the most precious thing he’d ever seen, and then passed it carefully to his dad, who said, “There now, see? Life goes on.”

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