FOWL PLAY by Jean Hooper 
Published in Classic Pulp Fiction Stories #77 

“This damn rooster is getting more obnoxious every day,” said Fred as he stood in the barnyard. 
“Yeah. I’ve noticed that too. He always was a pistol but I think he’s becoming worse.” Fred’s partner, John, his brown hair, sun streaked, jeans riding low on slender hips, stood looking across the land they owned jointly. Life had been good, he thought. He brushed a whisp of straw off his plaid shirt. 
“But I love the way that crazy bird takes on the hawk when he’s after the hens. One day the hawk is gonna finish him. Well, get to work, buddy,” he said to Fred. 
The other man, more solidly built, 7 years older, said, “ Yeah, can’t stand around all day, chores to do.” 
The two men ambled off. 
In the late afternoon, Fred sat at his desk going over the books. Suddenly he heard screams from the back yard. When he rushed to the window, he saw Marsha, his wife, backing up, waving her hands furiously at Opie, the rooster. With puffed feathers, he advanced, pecked at her leg, jumped to attack her knee. His beak dug in deeply. Fred saw blood course down her leg, rushed out, grabbed a stick, swung it madly as the rooster slowly retreated. 
“My, God, honey. What happened?” 
“Nothing. I went to feed the chickens and he went for me.” 
“Let’s get you inside and check on that.” 
John hurried across the fields. “ I could hear the screams over by the creek. What the Hell.” Marsha leaned on both men as they helped her toward the house. 
Fred surveyed his pasture and watched as the sun bounced off the flock of Rhode Island Red chickens , turning the baby chicks a rusty red color, the mature birds, a mahogany, the entire setting awash in vibrant color. Looking up the road, he saw a cloud of dust. Out of it emerged Charlie and his Jeep. His nearest neighbor hopped out. 
“Boy, the chickens are restless the last couple of days. What’s up? Storm brewing. How are yours?” 
Fred related the incident of the previous day. Charlie listened, hands in pockets, shook his head. “I’ll beat the Hell out of them dumb animals.” 
“Don’t do that. You’re always too hard on them,” Fred said. 
“ I know. You even named that damn rooster, Opie, isn’t it? Well, name or not, if he were mine, I’d fix him good.” 
Fred glanced over, saw Opie perched on the bench. The bird’s dark eyes bored through him, switched to Charlie, a malevolent glint appeared in them. Was he imagining that and some thing else-the bird seemed larger. 
As Marsha underwent antibiotic treatment and suffered the effects of a tetanus shot, reports of animal attacks escalated, even spreading to the neighboring states. John and Fred learned to carry a large stick that seemed to discourage Opie from approaching too closely. One evening John placed it in a far corner of the barn. The next morning it was gone. He called to Fred. “Did you or anyone else move that piece of wood I use to keep Opie from getting too close.” 
“Nope. I saw it there last night. You mean it’s gone.” 
“Yeah. I must be going crazy.” He shook his head, strolled through the grounds, called to Fred.“ Here it is but it’s cut in two.” John bent over, retrieved the pieces, felt as if he were being watched. When he looked up, Opie stood near, then strutted away. 
“ Let’s get another one and make sure where we keep it.” After chores, Fred walked the countryside, found a suitable weapon, returned to the house, carefully stored it in the garage. No one could get in there. My gosh, I’m getting paranoid about this, he thought. The next morning as he fed Opie and the brood of chickens , the rooster ignored the corn, puffed feathers, red comb glinted, a whirling ball of violence , attacked. Fred ran toward the garage. 
“Where is that stick?” 
No sign of it. He tossed hay, moved tools, looked up and the rooster stood next to him. Low guttural sounds came from his throat. Fred prepared to fight, grabbed a hoe but theBird retreated. I’m being used a pawn in a chess game and Opie is the castle, moving Quickly from side to side. 
Steve, white lab coat in hand, entered the office marked Genetically Engineered Food. His brow furrowed as he leafed through the latest reports. His assistant, Mark, entered. “Did you read these?” he asked. “I always knew we were breaking the rules of nature Told you this was coming.” 
“I know you did but I don’t think it’s a problem. This cuts down on insecticide use. Bugs bite, they die. This bioengineered corn, farmers love it.” 
Mark, brown eyes flashing, threw the paper on the desk. “Read some of the reports and then tell me, they love it. We have no idea what long term use of modified corn can do. Remember the rat experiment, ate potatoes, affected their stomachs, so much for bio modified food. No wonder Europe protests. I think we’re about to see a Revolution, a poultry uprising.” 
“Aw, you’re nuts.” 
The swaggering rooster herded the chickens, a potentate caring for his harem. John watched, thought you’ve got to admire the birds tenacity. Any animal approaching was immediately driven away. Marsha, brown hair tousled, leaned out the kitchen entrance, called to him. “ Is it my imagination or not but are those birds growing larger?” 
“Looks that way, doesn’t it.” 
She shivered, closed the door. 
The phone rang. When Fred groped for it, he saw the clock 12:15. “Yes.” 
“Oh, Fred. Get over here quick. Charlie’s been killed.” It was Jane, his neighbor’s wife. He saw the houselights blazing, as he sped down the road. Before he could turn off the motor, Jane ran over to him. “Charlie heard a noise, went to check, never returned. I came out and found him like this.” She grabbed Fred’s hand and led him towards the barn. Charlie’s body, clad in jeans only, lay there, impaled, a stick driven through his heart. A chill ran through Fred’s body. He glanced down, saw fresh imprints of chicken scratches, one larger than the rest. 
“Look at this,” screamed Jane. Atop the stick was a perfect mahogany colored feather. 
It was early morning when Fred returned home after attending to all the multitude of details involved in a suspicious death. He sat in the car, leaned his head against the steering wheel. Tears ran down his cheeks. He pounded the wheel, swore. Sorry to see Charlie like that, although he had never cared for the man. Sorry to see his own dreams vanishing. When he alighted from the car, he stood for a moment, looked up at the moonlit sky, saw hovering above him Opie and his flock, perched on the barn roof, a dead hawk on the rooster’s talons. How did they get up there? And they were still growing. 
THE END 
Copyright 2001 by Jean Hooper