The Deeps - Volume 1, Issue 2

Dead Horse

Brandon Barrows

The other men seated around the breakfast table were all of a type: neat, but vaguely shabby, skin burned dark by the sun. Most of them needed haircuts. It was their eyes, though, that made them most alike and set them apart from anyone else I’d ever met. Each of the four of them carried something inside them that only showed in snatches, as if it was sneaking peeks at the world. It wasn’t always there, but I’d seen it in all of them and it made me uneasy.

None of them ever spoke to me and only rarely spoke to each other. I didn’t mind that so much. I was the newbie, the low man on the totem pole, and I was only here temporarily after all. I didn’t know how long any of these men had worked for Steinway, but when I responded to his ad on Gregslist, I was told right up front that he could only use me for a couple weeks at most. After that, I’d be on my way to the next place, wherever that might be. A migrant farm-worker’s life in the twenty-first century was as uncertain as in any other time in history. Food and a place to sleep were more important than conversation or camaraderie, so I was fine if the other men ignored me.

I’d been at Steinway’s just under a week. I didn’t mind the work and I could deal with being the odd man out. It just meant that I wouldn’t miss this place as I did some of the other farms and ranches I’d worked on over the last few years.

What I didn’t like at all, though, was Steinway himself. The man was moody, secretive—none of us were allowed within fifty yards of the big house he and his family lived in, and I wasn’t allowed inside any of the buildings other than the bunkhouse. He was likely to explode into tantrums for any reason at all. And he was just plain hard to please. I always did my best, no matter what I put my hand to, and only rarely did I have any complaints from other employers. Steinway made me re-do everything at least twice before he would grudgingly admit he was satisfied. No, I wouldn’t miss Steinway at all when it was time to go.

Steinway’s oldest daughter, Emma, came through the door from the bunkhouse kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee. “More, anyone?” she asked, then poured for the two men who lifted their cups.

She came around the table, smiled just enough so you’d notice, and set the pot down in front of me. She was about seventeen or eighteen, blonde, and pretty. I liked the way she smiled and she knew I liked to pour my own coffee. Across the table, the man named Peters grunted, but I ignored him. Emma was the only decent thing about this place, so I tried to enjoy moments like these.

There was a whistle from outside the screen-door, and all heads turned. It was early, not quite five, and still pretty dark out, but we all knew what we’d see if we could. Jim Steinway was out there somewhere, ready to start his day and anxious for us to begin ours, begrudging us even the chance for a peaceful meal beforehand.

The whistle sounded again, sharper and closer this time. Emma looked around the table and said, “Someone better go see what dad wants before he loses his temper.”

The other men continued eating, spooning oatmeal, munching toast, sipping coffee, making as if it didn’t concern them a bit. I looked at my own meal with resignation and stood. “I’ll go.”

Emma favored me with another small smile and disappeared back into the kitchen.

The screen door hadn’t yet slammed behind me when I spotted Steinway, standing on the dirt path that led from the bunkhouse to the barn, hidden beyond a stand of trees. In the gray, pre-dawn light, he was a solid mass cut from the deeper darkness of the shadows all around us.

When I was close enough that I didn’t have to raise my voice, I asked, “Yes, Mr. Steinway?”

“One of the horses is dead,” Steinway announced, matter-of-factly.

I nodded but said nothing. I’d learned by now that Steinway was never done talking until he went on his way or sent you on yours.

“She’ll have to be buried right off with this heat,” he continued.

He was right about that; even this early, the late-July heat already lay over the day like a thick, suffocating blanket. It hadn’t rained in seven weeks, and just about every other day the paper said a new record high was hit. Just thinking about it brought the sweat springing from my forehead, but I resisted the urge to wipe it, afraid Steinway would somehow take it the wrong way.

“Tell the rest of the hands that the west field needs tending. You’ll come with me, Ruster,” the farmer finished. He turned on his heel and disappeared down the path.

I went back to the bunkhouse. The other men were finished with their breakfast and Emma had cleared my dishes away, so I guessed I was done with mine, too. The hands were sipping last cups of coffee or having a first cigarette of the day. I passed along Steinway’s instructions, then made to go outside again. Emma’s voice stopped me. “One of the horses is dead, you said?”

I turned, stepping back to let the others pass by me. The girl was in the doorway to the kitchen, a dish towel in her hands. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Did dad say which one?”

I shook my head. “No, ma’am.”

She was quiet for a minute, her expression thoughtful. “I guess it doesn’t matter which. Digging a hole to bury it’ll take all day, though, and out there in the hot sun.”

I shrugged. She wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know. The girl disappeared into the kitchen. I heard water running and a moment later, she came back into the front room carrying a plastic milk-jug full of water. She handed it to me, saying, “Here, I don’t want you to suffer.”

It seemed a strange way to put it, but I was grateful. I’d never met the girl’s mother or sister, only saw them at a distance, but her father was a tyrant and I was glad she didn’t take after him. She didn’t treat me with anything other than basic decency, but even that was in awful short supply around Steinway’s farm.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I told her, really meaning it, then went outside.

The sun was rising and fire streaked the sky. I could practically feel the temperature climbing. The thought of another long, sweltering day made me tired before I’d lifted a finger.

When I reached the barn, Steinway was just coming out of it, a shovel over his shoulder. The other men were piled into the bed of Steinway’s pickup. None of them spoke as I climbed up to join them, but envious eyes were on the water jug Emma had given me. Steinway tossed the shovel into the back of the truck, heedless of the men who jostled each other to avoid being hit. “Ruster, up front,” he commanded, then clambered into the cab.

The other men gave me hard looks, but I ignored them. They should know as well as I that questioning Steinway was pointless. I got into the passenger side of the truck, placing the jug between my feet, and Steinway pointed the vehicle west. Before long, we stopped by a field that should have been lush and green but was suffering in the summer’s heat. The men climbed down and spread out, each attending practiced tasks.

Steinway watched for a few minutes until he was satisfied the work was being done the way he wanted it, and then moved on. We drove north through fallow fields, following a deeply-rutted road. We passed beyond the cultivated areas then turned off into shin-high grass. Steinway stopped the truck by a stand of white oaks huddled together like they were afraid of something. He left the cab and I followed him into the half-hidden grove among the trees.

“Here,” Steinway said, hands on hips. He looked around the place, as if expecting to see something, but there was nothing. Sun splashed the center of the grove, but beneath the trees it was a little cooler and there was still some dew on the grass. It was the nicest part of Steinway’s land I’d seen. It was a good burial spot, though wasted on a horse.

He turned to me. “Shovel?”

I hustled back to the truck, feeling Steinway’s annoyed glare on my back. When I returned with the shovel, he picked up a stick and raked it across the ground, tearing a rectangle in the topsoil. He stepped back, looked at his work and nodded. “Here you go, Ruster.”

I shook my head. The figure he drew wasn’t more than seven feet long by three wide. “Too small, Mr. Steinway. We’ll need a bigger hole for a horse, won’t we?”

“Just you start digging.”

There was no point arguing, but I couldn’t help being frustrated. I already knew Steinway would make me re-do whatever job I was set to; doing it wrong from the get-go was just adding insult to injury. There was no choice, though. Steinway wouldn’t pay me until the end of my employment and I guessed that if I crossed him he’d just fire me and send me off without a dime. He had me beat and we both knew it. I swung the shovel and felt it bite into the ground.

Steinway watched me dig, just as he watched the other men work. He had nothing to say about how I was doing, which was a first. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him look up at the sky. “Going to be another hot one. Another dry one.” He lowered his gaze to me and added, “We’re going to be in trouble unless we get rain.”

I didn’t answer. I was having trouble already. Beneath a thin layer of topsoil, bone-dry earth fought back against the shovel’s blade. Steinway must have noticed because he told me, “It’ll be easier once you get a bit further down.”

I looked up, wiped away the sweat that was already running down my forehead. “You sure this is a one-man job, Mr. Steinway?”

“I know what I’m doing!” he snapped. “All the dead ones are out here.”

Even with the withering rays of the summer sun on my back, a shiver went down my spine as I looked at the farmer. There was nothing out of the ordinary, but I felt like he showed me something—something in his eyes, in the way he said that last part—that I wasn’t meant to know.

“Keep digging.” Steinway turned to climb into the truck. “I’ll be back before long. Maybe give you a hand, if I got the time.”

The truck cranked to life and backed away. Suddenly, I remembered the water, still on the floor of the cab. I dropped the shovel and ran after the truck, calling for Steinway to wait, waving my hands. He met my eyes but didn’t stop. It was like he was trying to look right through me.

•  •  •

Steinway didn’t come back for almost four hours. By then, the hole was half-dug and I was half-dead. Even in the shade beneath the trees, the heat was blistering. My clothing was completely drenched and I must have sweated off four or five pounds. My throat was so parched even breathing was painful. I tossed the shovel down and sat panting at the base of one of the oaks.

No sooner did I sit than I heard Steinway’s truck approaching. He rolled to a stop and called out, “What’s the matter? You ain’t givin’ up already?”

I shook my head. “No, sir,” I croaked. “Got water?”

“What? Can’t hear you!”

“Water!” I yelled back, gesturing. “In the truck.”

Steinway got the message. He leaned over and came up with the jug. I lurched to my feet, wobbled towards the truck. He handed it to me, I lifted it and drank, then spat in disgust.

“What’s wrong now?” Steinway was getting irritated.

“Water’s hot,” I managed. That wasn’t all, though; there was a strange, heavy, earthy taste that reminded me of close, dark spaces. The water from Steinway’s well was clean and sweet-tasting, but this was like licking moisture from cellar walls. Emma must have had the jug sitting around a while.

“You’ll drink up, you know what’s good for you,” Steinway said. It sounded like a threat, but he was right. No matter what the water tasted like, I needed it or I’d pass out soon. I hefted the jug and choked down as much as I could stand.

Steinway was out of the truck and stood over the hole, inspecting what I’d done. I went up beside him, waiting for the rebuke I knew was coming. He surprised me, though. “Looks pretty good,” he said. He turned and added, “Won’t be long now, Ruster.”

I started to say something about the hole not being big enough, but my head began swimming and my vision went fuzzy. I stumbled and went down to one knee at the edge of the half-dug grave. Through the haze, I saw Steinway turn towards me. There was no surprise or concern on his face. My head was filling up with cotton and darkness, so it took me longer than it should have to place the expression he wore: it was satisfaction, as of a job well done. Just before everything went black, I heard him say, “’Bout time. Almost used the shovel.”

•  •  •

I fought my way up through layer after layer of sleep heavier than I’d ever known, trying to reach the pinpoint of consciousness that would lead me back to the world. Even asleep, I knew I was in danger. Finally, I broke free of the drugged stupor, my eyelids sticky and stubborn as I tried to open them. When I did, I looked through a window into a sky again streaked with fire, but it had to be sunset because purplish darkness was chasing away the light. I must have been out for nine or ten hours, at least.

I tried to sit up and the ground shifted beneath me. My hands roamed around. I felt something gritty. My brain was still foggy, but it finally puzzled out where I was; I wasn’t looking out through a window but up out of the hole. I was lying in the grave.

“He’s awake,” a low-pitched voice said from somewhere above me.

“Hello?” I called. The hole was much deeper than I managed to dig on my own. I was only four or so feet down when I collapsed, but someone else had gotten down to eight or nine feet. If I stretched, I might just barely reach the top edge, but as dry and brittle as the soil was, I didn’t have any hope of climbing out.

A face appeared at the top of the hole, round and pale in the growing darkness. It was framed by a halo of blonde hair that further shadowed the features, but I knew it must be Emma. I called her name, then asked, “What’s going on? Get me out of here!”

“Just sit tight,” the girl answered before disappearing.

“What? Hey!” My voice sounded weird, high and piercing, and my breath was coming hard. Ideas popped into my head, just bits and pieces, but my brain was fitting them together. The taste in the water, Steinway keeping the jug from me until I was too thirsty to care much. Whether Emma put something in the water from the start or her father added it later didn’t matter.

Peters’s face showed for a moment on the far side of the hole, then he looked away and called, “Mr. Steinway, sir!”

“Hold on,” came the reply.

“This isn’t funny!” I shrieked. “Help me up!”

“Quit hollering,” Peters growled. He stood looking at me for a moment, then moved away.

I heard sounds: men grunting with effort, the rattle of chains, the thump of something heavy hitting the earth. There was a moment of relative quiet, then Steinway appeared at the head of the grave.

“What the hell—” I said, but he cut in.

“Ruster.” He cleared his throat. “I just wanna say you were a good worker. Sorry if I was hard on you, that’s just my way.” He turned, waved a hand as he stepped backwards, and said, “All right, boys!”

I heard the men straining again, as if trying to lift something extremely heavy, and then a huge, dark bulk appeared where Steinway had stood. On instinct, I scrambled backwards just as the edge of the hole crumbled and the thing fell forward. It landed with a muted fwump, throwing up little puffs of the dry dirt, making my eyes sting and my nose itch. I started choking and tried to step backwards, away from the thing, but there wasn’t anywhere to go. My back bumped up against the opposite wall of the hole. I was somehow even more trapped now.

I sucked a deep, rattling breath into my lungs. Through runny eyes I recognized the shape in front of me as a horse, its head laying on the bottom of the pit and its body twisted at a grotesque angle, half propped up against the side, its rear legs pointed skywards. It was obviously very dead, and it didn’t happen overnight as Steinway had told me. Its belly was so monstrously swollen it seemed ready to burst, and there was a whitish-grey scum covering its staring eyes. It smelled worse than anything I ever knew before. Flies were already finding their way down into the hole to cluster on the body. It must have been dead at least as long as I’d been on the farm. The other hands’ coldness made sense now: this was planned all along.

I threw up. The small amount of breakfast I had, the water I drank earlier, and whatever drugs were left in my system spewed out of my mouth and down my front to drip into the powdery soil. I heaved until there was nothing left and then started choking again, trying to get it all up and out of my body.

Finally, the spasms ended and I looked up, ready to scream, beg, plead, or bargain, whatever it took to get out of that hole. I had no idea why this was happening, but I knew how it would end. Steinway’s apology was awfully final.

When I looked up, the sky was purple-black, almost completely dark, and the rim of the pit was edged in black shapes, standing shoulder to shoulder. There were eight of them: three on each of the long sides and one on each of the short sides. Steinway, his family, and his four hands.

Something inside me broke. I began to scream wordlessly and claw at the walls of the pit, trying to find purchase, trying to force my way back up into the fresh air of the growing night. Those up top didn’t react, just stood there, watching me flail. Before long, my throat was raw and I had no more breath. The tastes of earth and must and vomit mingled in my mouth and my fingernails were torn and bleeding.

I wrestled with my tongue and managed to push out a tortured, “Please . . .”

“You were nice, Mr. Ruster. I liked you and I really didn’t want you to suffer.” I looked towards Emma’s voice, but in the darkness all the shapes looked the same to my tired, bleary eyes and I didn’t know which one was her. “You should have drank more of the water,” she said.

“Quiet now,” Steinway said, standing alone at the head of the hole. “It’s time.”

I wanted to ask, for what, but it would do me no good, even if I could manage.

The Steinways and their employees began murmuring then, softly at first, but growing louder with every word. The noises they made were guttural and alien-sounding and I couldn’t make any of it out, but I somehow knew it was an entreaty, a plea, an offer of some sort of bargain, just as I had intended to do with them. And the feeling it gave me made me realize that in their own way, these people were just as scared as I was. That thought shook me so deeply my heart froze in my chest and my stomach started convulsing again, even though there was nothing for it to bring up.

In my head, I screamed. Only whimpering came out of my mouth. The droning voices came to a crescendo and as if by some signal, eight arms rose all at once. With quick flashes, knives came out and eight palms were sliced with a sickening susurrus of parting flesh. Warm blood rained down from above, splashing me, the dead horse, the bone-dry dirt. In the same instant the first drops hit me, lightning split the sky, followed immediately by the sound of a tremendous thunderclap.

“It’s working,” a girl’s voice said, filled with awe.

“Quiet!” Steinway barked.

She was right, though; something was happening. The lightning struck again, so close this time that the air stank of ozone and there was no delay between the flash and the thunder. All the hair on my body stood on end as another blaze shot to Earth, so close, so bright, and so powerful I felt it against my eyes just as if someone hit me.

Uselessly, I threw my arms up as I fell backward, sliding down the earthen wall into the sticky, copper-smelling mud. There were sounds of horror from above me and when I lowered my arms and opened my eyes, I saw why: the dead horse was struggling to its feet.

The way it moved was agonizing. It unfolded itself slowly and jerkily, like something from a stop-motion movie. Whatever came down from the sky set its hair on fire and its skin began to blacken. I lay shaking, my breath an animal’s panting, my skin prickling with fear and the electricity in the air. Light began to glow from inside whatever the horse had become, struggling to find cracks in its rotten, blackened hide and escape out into the night.

Finally, the thing struggled onto two feet, bracing itself against the side of the hole with a front leg, the way a man would. By the time it found its footing, the light inside was spilling out of its eyes, its mouth, its ears, and splits all over the body where the skin had ruptured. The smell of the rancid, burning flesh, the scorched hair, the blood, and mud was so solid I could almost reach out and grab it. I was dimly aware of someone up above puking.

Somehow, that sound brought me back to my senses. I don’t know why, maybe it was a reminder that Steinway and his family, whatever they had done, were still people and that there’s a lot of power in just being human. As hard as my life sometimes was, I never really thought about dying until that night and, confronted with the idea, I didn’t like it at all.

I scrabbled up, clutching the wall with both bleeding hands, levering myself up the way the horse-thing did. Even on my feet, it towered above me. Its height alone was daunting, but I couldn’t let that stop me. I wasn’t going to die cowering, covered in vomit and blood and mud. If I had to die, I was going to do it on my feet, at least. As long as I had any strength at all left in my body, I’d do everything I could to keep living.

The thing took trembling steps towards me. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed. I backed as far into the corner as I could, gathering one leg up underneath me, foot pressed against the wall. I took a deep breath and launched myself forward. My hands were ruined and swinging a fist would get me nowhere against such a huge enemy, so I didn’t try. Instead, I grappled the thing around the body and hurled myself against it with my full weight. I’m not a big man, and the thing was easily five or six times my weight, but off-balance as it was, tipping it backwards was not only possible, it was easier than I ever hoped.

The horse-creature toppled backwards and I was glad now that the pit wasn’t nearly as long as it should have been when I first started digging. The thing went over, its back and neck and head wedged tight against a corner. It made a high, keening noise that came from somewhere in its belly instead of its throat, and began thrashing.

Dodging flailing hooves, I untangled myself from the body and scrambled on top of it on all fours, like a monkey going up a tree, and popped out of the hole. The lightning strikes were frequent now and the thunder a nearly continuous sound that drowned out everything else, but I saw Steinway and his family and his hands scramble away from the hole, waving their arms, probably shouting at me, at each other. There was an instant’s lull in the cacophony and in it, Steinway roared, “Get after him!”

I didn’t look to see if anyone complied. All I did was run.

I was exhausted, weak from hunger and dehydration and whatever drug they slipped me, but I ran for all I was worth. There were red and gold and green lights hovering around the edge of my vision and my head was getting clouded, making everything muzzy, but I held on tight to one thought: run. It was all I could do.

I ran for hours, for days, or maybe just minutes. I didn’t know where I was going. In the strobing flashes of lightning, I passed over uneven ground and through fallow fields. Suddenly, I thought of Steinway’s truck. If I could make it to the truck, I could escape. I began to think maybe I had a chance.

My foot hit something in the darkness and I fell, sprawled flat out on my face in dry, stubby grass that rasped my skin. I realized then that the thunder and lightning had stopped and it was dark. In the silence left behind, I could hear something new. The sound was familiar, but I paid it no mind. All that mattered was getting up, running, putting distance between me and that thing.

I managed to get a leg under me. The sound was louder and closer now and lightning raced across the sky again. Thunder followed and then I knew what I was hearing: the clip-clop of racing hooves.

I got to my feet and tried to run, but it was more of a shamble. Something in my knee throbbed.

Then the sound was all around me and light from behind made my shadow shift and dance on the ground ahead. Whatever else the horse-thing had become, it started as an animal I could never hope to outrun. That much, at least, hadn’t changed.

It smashed into me, hurling me through the air to collapse in a pile a few feet away. I rolled onto my side, every part of my punished body screaming to just let go, to close my eyes and give in.

Lightning blazed, limning the horse-thing as it reared up on two legs and made that terrible noise in its belly. It held that pose as long as the lightning lasted, then came crashing down, its hooves slamming into me, sending new fire through my nerves, crushing what wasn’t already battered or broken.

I tried to scream; nothing came from my mouth. My tear-ducts tingled, but I had no more moisture in my body for tears, not of pain or fear or frustration. Thunder roared and lightning burst into explosive life directly overhead. The horse-thing’s mouth gaped wide, showing huge, square teeth that glowed pearly-white in the harsh glare of the lightning and the more subdued light from its body.

My eyes were open, but my vision was getting dim. I was only vaguely aware of shapes creeping out of the night around me, forming a circle as they had around the hole. The horse-creature made a low, grating noise I hadn’t heard before, and then its jaws closed around my throat, mashing and grinding with teeth never meant for eating flesh.

I heard crying and I thought it was mine, that my body somehow found enough fluids in these last moments to grieve for itself, but then Steinway’s voice said, almost gently, “Watch, Emma. You got to watch. It’s part of how it’s done.”

A fresh burst of light and sound overhead drowned out whatever she might have said, but I imagined she might really have felt those tears. I knew she wasn’t like the others around Steinway’s place, not like her father or the cold-eyed hands who must have known all along that this was coming.

There was moisture on my face then, but it was rain, not tears. Big, fat drops came down hard and splattered against dry soil that eagerly sucked the water up.

The rain became a deluge. The creature Steinway bargained with tore at my flesh. The world faded away. I couldn’t feel the pain now, only the rain on my face and the relief from the heat it brought.

Crops can use it, was the last thing that went through my mind, and the thought almost made me happy.