Southern Gothic Story - Blood & Mud: Struck Down in the Feed Trough

The rain was coming down softer now but the mud was still thick under his boots and he could hear the tractor running in the distance even though Tom wasn't anywhere in sight. He opened the gate and ran through the field and saw the body slumped over one of the feed troughs, the upper part laying down inside the now rain-soaked feed and the thick legs dangling over.

"Tom! What's wrong! Tom!"

He grabbed Tom's shirt and pulled him up from the trough and examined his face. The eyes were closed, the light brown feed-dust covered most of his mustache, the mouth was slouching into a morbid death-frown, but no blood anywhere. Lower down however, on Tom's shoulder, he saw the white t-shirt stained a deep red. Next to Tom's limp body were some drilling rods leaning against the feed trough and he guessed Tom had scraped one on his way down.

"Talk to me, Tom. Tell me what happened. Tell me you're all right."

But he could tell Tom was not going to respond anytime soon.

"Don't worry, I'll get you to a hospital. Don't worry about a thing. You'll be fine."

He lifted the body up and hoisted it over his shoulder and his feet started slipping in the mud and he strained and grunted all the way to his pickup. He pulled open the door and pushed Tom into the passenger seat where he slumped over lifeless and he slammed the door and ran around and got in and put his hand on the key to start the engine and he saw his best friend's blood on his hands. He tried to wipe them on his jeans but the blood was already too dry. He hated having his friend's blood on him. He looked over and Tom was still hunched down in the seat, completely lifeless. He started the engine and floored the pickup, roaring off toward the hospital.

He didn't have to wait long in the emergency room. The place was empty and two nurses took Tom right away and after five minutes or so a doctor came out and told him his best friend was dead.

"Massive heart attack. Also a possible stroke. Probably hit him out of nowhere. He never had a chance. I'm sorry, sir."

He stared at the floor, not believing his best friend of over 30 years was really dead. It seemed impossible. "Are you sure?" he asked in complete seriousness.

The doctor stared at him. "Of course I'm sure, sir. I'm a doctor. Perhaps you'd better sit down for awhile."

"No, no. I'm all right." He held his forehead and slowly walked out of the emergency room with the doctor calling out behind him: "Sir? Maybe you shouldn't leave quite so soon. You could give us some information about the man you brought in."

"You have his wallet. I'll send his family up here first thing."

It had stopped raining. He drove home slowly. He realized his frame of mind was bad and that he was still in a daze so he was careful about the street signs and the stop lights. He thought about Tom and tried to evaluate his own position in life, even though his mind wasn't working clearly. He was 43 years old and had never seen anyone die before. Pulling into his driveway, he shut off the engine. Walked slowly up the sidewalk. Opened the door and went in. He sat down on the new black leather couch with his muddy and bloody work clothes still on. He wanted to get a beer from the fridge but couldn't summon the energy. He sat staring at the wall. His mind was almost blank. His best friend was dead. The image of Tom's face kept re-appearing: the lifeless eyes, the closed mouth, the dusty mustache, the bloody t-shirt, the smell of the rain and mud. Nothing made sense now.

A car drove up the driveway. His wife, Stella. She always came up the driveway too fast. He hated the way she drove and constantly corrected her even though she never listened. He heard a door slam and saw her walking up to the house. Stella was two years older than him, still slim, her hair always curly yet perfect, she wore a little too much makeup but was still very attractive. She came in the door and set her purse down on the coffee table and saw him sitting there dazed on the clean couch wearing his dirty clothes. Her face turned angry for an instant but quickly changed to concern when she saw all the blood.

She took a few steps toward him. "Stanley? What's wrong? Why is there blood on your clothes?"

"He's dead," he mumbled.

"Who? Who's dead?"

"Dead and gone..."

"Stanley, who is dead?"

"My best friend."

"Tom?"

"Yeah."

"He's dead? How? What happened!"

"I just found him at his place. Slumped over the feed trough. Took him to the hospital. Said it was a heart attack. Massive heart attack. Maybe a stroke too. Just like that. Out of nowhere."

"Jesus, Stanley. I'm sorry."

"Yeah... I don't get it though. Tom was in excellent shape. He could outwork ten men. How the hell could he have a heart attack?"

Stella stayed quiet for a while, looking down at the carpet, then she said, "Where is Tom now?"

"Probably at the morgue."

She went over to her purse, took out a cigarette case, lit a cigarette, went over and sat down next to Stanley, put her arm around him. "He's in a better place now, Stanley. You should be happy for him."

He listened to her words.

Then his eyes narrowed and he bolted forward quickly.

"To hell with that, Stella! He's dead! Dead like a dog!"

She leaned back, not understanding why her comment had enraged him so. "Tom was a good man, Stanley. A hard worker, a good husband and father, he's with Our Lord now."

"DON'T FEED ME THAT CRAP, STELLA. HE'S GONE. AND WHEN YOU'RE GONE YOU'RE JUST GONE. HE'S DEAD LIKE A DOG. LIKE A FRICKIN DOG AND THERE'S NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT IT AND I CAN'T STAND IT. BUT HE DIDN'T GO

UP TO SOME MAGIC KINGDOM IN THE SKY, FORGET ABOUT ALL THAT, HE'S JUST DEAD AND GONE."

"You don't believe that, Stanley. You believe in God. Tom is in heaven now. You're just upset because you don't understand how he could die so soon and you already miss him. But you're a believer like me."

"QUIT SAYING THAT! HE'S GONE, HE'LL GET AN AUTOPSY AND THEY'LL CUT HIM OPEN AND LOOK INSIDE HIS BODY AND THEY'LL CLOSE HIM UP AND PUT HIM DEEP IN THE GROUND. FOREVER. IT'S DEATH, IT'S JUST DEATH AND NOTHINGNESS, NO MORE BREATHING, NO MORE SEEING, NO MORE FEELING ANTHING, JUST DEATH AND TURNING INTO WORM FOOD. NOTHINGNESS. THERE'S NOTHING UP IN THE SKY FOR US, STELLA, TOM DIDN'T GO UP TO HEAVEN, THERE'S NOTHING UP THERE. WHEN YOU'RE GONE YOU'RE JUST DEAD LIKE A FRICKIN DOG, LIKE A LOUSY DAMN DOG, AND THERE'S NOTHING WE CAN DO ABOUT IT."

She sat back and stared at him.

She shook her head.

"All this time, Stanley. I thought you were a believer. A man of God. Eighteen years now, we've been married for eighteen years and I just now find this out. What has happened to you, Stanley. You used to be a good God-fearing man. Now look at you. You're nothing but a heathen. What's wrong with you, Stanley. I don't even know you anymore."

"NOTHING HAS HAPPENED TO ME. I'M JUST A REALIST, THAT'S ALL."

He stood up and stared at the blood on his hands. He tried to wipe them again on his pants. Nothing came off. Because he was still in shock, it didn't occur to him to go into the kitchen and use soap and water.

He walked slowly to the front door.

Stella watched him the entire time. He opened the door carefully without looking back at his wife. He went out and shut the door firmly behind him.

She stared at the slight blood mark he'd made on the door beside the knob, then she whispered under her breath, "I won't be here when you get back, Stanley."

-end-

(If you liked this story, you may enjoy my Southern Gothic novel Heartless Bast*rd In Ecstasy. Google the title for more information.)

Bio: Jason Earls is the author of the books, Cocoon of Terror (Afterbirth Books), Red Zen, How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell, Heartless Bast*rd In Ecstasy, If(Sid_Vicious == TRUE && Alan_Turing == TRUE) {ERROR_Cyberpunk(); } and 0.136101521283655... all available at Amazon.com and other online book stores. His fiction and mathematical work have been published in Red Scream, Scientia Magna, three of Clifford Pickover's books, Neometropolis, Wretched & Violent, Mathworld, Chiaroscuro, Switchblade, Dogmatika, Prime Curios, the Online Encyclopedia of Integer Sequences, OG's Speculative Fiction, AlienSkin, Escaping Elsewhere, Werewolf, Recreational and Educational Computing, Thirteen, Theatre of Decay, Nocturnal Ooze, Prime Curios, Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens, Swallow's Tail, and other publications. He currently resides in Texas with his wife, Christine.