Sheila, from behind them all, contemplated the order of kills. Obviously the militia man would be last, given the satisfaction she’d gain from shutting him up. He had good spirit and had given up his stupid cowboy hat but he’d still blown up her trees and threatened her way of life. The breadth between where she had been that morning and where she was now was…thin, to say the least.
Keeping it there, balanced on that razor’s edge, was Steve’s surprising command of the situation. The trader, too, intrigued her if she was being honest. The explosion that morning had not been quiet, and yet here was a man more or less on a mule and unruffled by any of it. She had some questions for him she suspected she might not get to ask- because she wasn’t going to ask him in front of the militia asshat. Things like “Who are you?” and “Why do you have military canteens but ride around in a mulecart?” And “Is that an actual mule? How old is it?”. She shook her head, attempting to focus, mostly failed, and sucked herself back into the contemplation of murder sequences. It wasn’t going to be easy, that was for sure.
Shocking her, none of the militia leader’s cohort had followed them forward and up the drive. He was alone now, which she imagined he was aware of because she sure as shit hadn’t missed it. She could tie him up in the goat shed, truss him and bleed him like she’d done their dinner. Probably have to keep Steve away from it: he shied away from doing what needed to be done when it was just a tree or the garbage, how would he react to that? Not well, she mused. Another musing: today was much more interesting than yesterday had been.
They approached the house now, and she could almost see back down the hill. Steve was going on to Muleman about their livestock operation, which almost made Sheila snort. The egg beast hadn’t been pruned in a year and ‘their’ goats more or less ran free and had to be hunted and trapped. But sure: operation, Steve. Makes it sound more respectable. In his defense the mule man did seem most interested in the prospect of a cow, and that they did have and maintain. That was on the conceptual fringes of an operation. The Militia man glanced at her, a sneer across his pudgy, unprotected face. She grinned back at him and wondered how, being basically gaunt from the neck down, he’d maintained babyface cheeks. He looked like a scarecrow with a chipmunk’s head. She widened her grin and then looked away.
The cart stopped and the two men swung down. She was surprised at how short the trader was. Roller coasters had definitely been an issue for him. It also, to a certain extent, explained the mulecart conveyance, with its necessarily high front seat and distracting uniqueness. He followed Steve towards the cow barn while the militia leader and Sheila followed, in step, behind them. The dog, Sheila noted, had placed itself directly in front of the mule and appeared to be attempting to maintain direct eye contact, though the mule was having none of it and instead nosed around for grass with a stubbornness befitting its species.
“Nice house,” the militia man said, “Shame it’s gotta come down.” Sheila ignored him but saw, with satisfaction, as he stumbled on the den of some burrowing animal. He caught himself quickly but she’d seen it happen, and that was the important thing. Maybe they’d leave some food out after all this. Then again, that might encourage them to burrow under the house and then she’d have to kill them. Maybe it was best to just thank them and move on. The cow barn was coming into focus anyway, and an acoustically resonant ‘moo’ signaled that it knew they were there too. She’d watched it before, from a safe distance, and the damn thing didn’t make a sound unless it thought there were people around. Then you couldn’t shut it up.
Much like Steve. He was jabbering on to Muleman, who- judging solely by body language- wasn’t upset about any of this and- judging solely by audible gasps and squeaks- was actively excited about the mooing in ways that Sheila declined to think about. Some things were dignified and those things weren’t this. She was glad she could only see the back of him. The barn loomed and she noticed with some satisfaction that the militia leader was also somewhat awestruck at the notion of a cow in there. She thought about feeding him to the egg beast. It would eat meat, given the opportunity. The fox, with a transversal millennia in the coming, had learned that shit the hard way.
The joy of livestock, we think, is probably normal for many. Something of a loose, deep-seated pleasure given that most livestock is domesticated and therefore the definition of safe. And they’ve had thousands and thousands of years to conform themselves into shapes and manners that appeal to humanity, being the ones committing these acts of mastery. And we believe it is a good thing to not fear your food. But what, we wonder, would happen if- as with Sheila’s fox- things became somewhat inverted, and rapidly? What would normal look like then?
Granted we are not possessed of any evidence that the cow could eat meat. We and you have already seen, in this specific instance, that the cow ate something other than human and that close by it was manageable for even Sheila’s particular nature. But what of those who had not seen a cow in some time? What of those who had, say, a relatively unscathed mule and drove around in a cart whose name he shared and traded things of unknown provenance? What of a militia leader whose people below were in some kind of thrall to him or each other and to whom he must now make a show of competence and dominance over these people who had killed his cousin and lived outside his sway? What of them, and their confrontations with a thing which was not as they were used to?
Well. Normal is as it surrounds itself with and the militia leader, as we have seen, lived in a fort surrounded by wolves that could fight bear-sized dogs to a standstill and many-headed deer. Consider what, to him, a single-headed cow might seem. We suspect boring. Useful, placid, delicious- perhaps the way you think of them- but not, necessarily, any kind of representation of life and the way of things. As for Muleman, we contend you know fuck all about what he’s been through.
Steve grabbed the barn gate and slid it further open.
“Is it-“ she head Muleman ask.
“About to calve,” Steve said, far too much pride in his voice. He hadn’t done anything. Truthfully nobody had done anything. No bull had done anything. This was just about to be two cows in a way that made sense for bacteria but for nothing out of a See-and-Say that Sheila could remember, and she was just about to say so when Muleman’s eruption of glee lit the inside of her skull like a particularly expensive firework. The militia man staggered too and it occurred to Sheila that maybe it wasn’t normal glee.
The dog was behind her. She didn’t know if that had been a gradual development or something more purposeful. Either way her head hurt and her vision swam. Something had happened here, she knew that much. The cow bellowed a moo like it planned on splitting its seams right there and then and the descendent squelch that followed suggested that maybe it actually had. That’s what it had sounded like the other times it had done this, although maybe not with that kind of moo, that kind of distressed reaction.
She glanced up, through her new headache and saw Steve on the ground. Seems like he’s been hit too, she thought. Can’t be just me then. That’s good at least. She tried to stand and saw the shadow of Muleman leering at her before realizing that in a typical shadow scenario the shadow doesn’t leer, because it has no eyes or mouth. His shadow did. His shadow had a whole face that erupted from the back of his head and from underneath his hair.
Sheila had thoughts. She had questions and concerns. There were many things about what was happening that didn’t quite make sense, given the way the day had gone. Steve nearly got eaten. That didn’t happen every day. There was a militia on her property line and their hickfuck leader standing in her barn. She didn’t like that at all. She’d killed a man earlier, which she felt neither here not there about but wasn’t a typical marker in a typical day. The damn dog was back there, skulking around and probably not cleaning a damn thing. Also true. But as she stood there watching the smiling head start to turn and the other head, the one she’d been dealing with before, reciprocate- leading to a jarring moment in which she could see, in profile, two noses with identical flares- all of them were overridden with a single, powerful concern:
Maybe Muleman was a problem.
