“I can’t believe we are going to
eat here again,” Brooke said as she, Bobbo, Max, and Shala approached Nanny’s
Chicken Shack. “It’s only been a week.”
“I
ate here two days ago. And the day before that. And two days before that,” Max
said, walking quicker than the others, excited to get to the restaurant. “It’s
the best fried chicken in town. And I could eat waffles every day.”
“It
almost sounds like you do,” Bobbo said.
They
arrived at Nanny’s and Max pulled on the door. It didn’t open. “What’s going
on? They are usually open now.”
“There’s
a sign on the door. The health department shut them down,” Shala read.
“What?
No!”
There
was a figure moving inside the building. Max began pounding on the door. The figure,
a large black man who was the Nanny of Nanny’s, nodded his head and walked to
the door. “Hey, there, Max. Good to see you. I’m closed today and until further
notice. Sorry.”
“But
why? I don’t care about a couple of cockroaches or that layer of grease that
seems to be on everything,” Max said.
Nanny
laughed. “No, it wasn’t because of that. I run a mostly clean establishment.
It’s my chicken provider. The health department found some shady stuff on his
farm and shut us down until we can find a new chicken supplier. Darn shame,
too. That was the best chicken I’ve ever cooked.”
“It
really was. Well, I’ll still support you. I’m gonna wait right out here in
protest until you reopen,” Max said.
“You
don’t have to do that. I just have to throw out the chicken from my old
supplier and find a new one. I’ll be back open in a week,” Nanny chuckled.
“I’m
gonna run home and make a sign. ‘Chicken here! Chicken now!’ I’ll be right
back,” Max ran off the way they came, back toward his house.
“Where
did you get your chicken from?” Shala asked Nanny.
“I’ve
been using them for years. Funkhouser Farm. At the end of Old Missile Base Road.”
“I
know where that is. Were you told why you had to stop using their chicken?” she
continued questioning.
“Nope.
Just said I had to stop using it. It’s all I had so I had to close,” Nanny
shrugged. “I have to finish cleaning up. See you, kids.”
“I
wonder what happened,” Shala crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “We should
go check it out.”
“What?
Why?” Brooke asked.
“To
see what happened at the farm. I think the customers of this establishment have
a right to know what’s wrong with the chicken we’ve been eating,” Shala said.
“I’m
sure they would tell us if the chicken was going to make us sick or kill us,”
Brooke said.
“I
still think we could check it out.”
“I’m
game. I’ve always wanted to see a chicken farm,” Bobbo said.
“I don’t know why I came with you,” Brooke huffed as the three of them walked up the road toward the Funkhouser chicken farm.
It was a normal looking farm. There was a small house and a decent-sized chicken coop. Behind the house was a large barn and silo. A large shed was just to the east near the tree line where the property separated between the farm and the old missile base used during the Cold War.
“Is it me or does the grass seem tall?” Bobbo asked.
“It does look that way. Maybe the place went out of business and is abandoned,” Brooke posited.
“That doesn’t require the health department to shut down a restaurant,” Shala said. “Something else is going on here. Let’s check the chicken coops.”
The three of them went over to the chicken coop near the house. The door was open and it was empty. “There are no chickens in here. Where’s that clucking coming from?” Bobbo asked. There had been a light clucking since arriving at the farm but they had yet to see a chicken.
“It’s like we’re hearing the ghosts of the chickens,” Shala whispered.
“Yes. Thank you for that imagery as we wander alone and unprotected on an abandoned farm far from witnesses,” Brooke whispered back.
Back at Nanny’s, Max walked back and forth in front of the restaurant thrusting a sign in the air that read ‘Chicken here! Chicken now!’ on one side and ‘Stand with Nanny!’ on the other. “Health department unfair! Nanny should be in there! Serving us food! He’s a good dude!” Max chanted repeatedly. A few people stopped to watch but most just walked on by after reading the sign.
“What are you protesting? Does this place exploit immigrants?” a man looked at Max’s sign and then through the window of Nanny’s.
“I’m not protesting. I’m standing with Nanny’s after he was shut down by the health department,” Max said.
“Shut down? What was he doing in there?” the man lowered his voice. “Was it abortions?”
“What? No!”
“Then why was he shut down?”
“His chicken supplier had to close so he has to close until he gets a new supplier.”
“Then why hang out here? Just go home and come back in, like, a week.”
“Why don’t you just go home and come back in, like, a week?” Max mocked.
The man shrugged. “Okay,” and walked off.
“Should we go in the barn?” Shala asked.
“It was your idea to come out here and you’re worried about going into the barn?” Brooke asked.
“Maybe that clucking noise is coming from the barn,” Bobbo began walking to the barn. “What if all the chickens are just in the barn? Maybe Farmer Funkhouser is in there and we can ask him about why Nanny can’t use his chicken anymore.”
The three walked to the barn and Bobbo pulled the door open. “It seems…empty,” Shala said. She walked in and looked around. “The clucking is louder in here so this must be where all the chickens are.”
The three of them went further into the barn. Brooke peered into one of the stalls. “Hey, guys? What does a chicken look like?”
“Are you being serious? You know what a chicken looks like,” Bobbo said.
“Yeah, so this guy is clearly not a chicken,” Brooke backed away from the stall as a human figure stood up.
It was clearly a man wearing jeans and overalls. His skin had peels and boils on it and was a brighter pink. Hair was falling off of his body and he carried a pitchfork. Some teeth were missing and there seemed to be some kind of glow around his body.
“Is…Is that a chicken growing out of his head?” Bobbo asked, pointing to a small chicken head growing out of the left side of the top of his head.
“Farmer Funkhouser?” Shala asked but she got no answer.
The farmer stabbed his pitchfork toward the kids who easily dodged it and began to run away. When they left the barn, dozens of chickens, similar in look to the farmer were outside. The clucking was practically deafening.
“I guess we found out what’s wrong with the chickens,” Bobbo said.
“But what happened to them?” Brooke asked. “What happened here?”
“Two years ago,” Farmer Funkhouser croaked as he stood behind the three kids. “The government began using the missile base next to my farm to dump toxic waste. It has seeped into the ground and water. Over the last two years, we’ve been changing here and soon, we will change everyone. Those people from the health department were able to escape but you won’t.”
Farmer Funkhouser and the chickens lunged at the kids who all dodged as best they could to avoid the attack. “So, the health department saw what was going on and just left? Mutated zombified chickens have taken over this farm and they just went ‘Well, that was terrible’ and stapled a warning to the gate?” Shala yelled.
Bobbo shook his head. “Government, man.”
Farmer Funkhouser and most of the chickens went after Bobbo and Shala while Brooke took off toward the shed. “The shed is closer, maybe I can barricade myself inside. If not,” she panted, talking to herself “maybe I can make it to the house.” She got to the shed and threw open the door. Dozens of chickens were crammed inside. They didn’t look like the chickens that were chasing her. But they looked angrier. She froze in place, her eyes meeting those of the chickens. The chickens all clucked in unison and charged at Brooke.
Bobbo and Shala ran through the barn and out the other side. “What do we have chasing us?” Bobbo shouted.
“Just a few chickens. Most of them and the farmer went after Brooke,” Shala answered. “Where should we go?”
“I say we see if we can get into the house,” Bobbo said. “Maybe we can keep the chickens at bay in there. At least, maybe we can do that thing where keep going through a bunch of doors while the chickens follow us.”
They heard Brooke scream. “We have to go see what happened,” Shala said.
“You go one way; I’ll go the other. Hopefully we can still save her,” Bobbo replied.
As they turned around, they saw the massive hoard of normal chickens chasing and attacking the mutated ones. The farmer was on the ground swarmed by a dozen chickens. Bobbo and Shala ran over to Brooke who had ducked from the chickens and was now running toward Shala. “What in the…?”
“The mutated chickens locked the normal chickens in the shed. I accidentally let them go. I guess the normal chickens didn’t appreciate being locked up for several weeks,” Brooke explained. “I say we get off this farm as soon as possible and try to convince someone to maybe, I don’t know, air lift this entire property somewhere else. Like Florida.”
Bobbo, Shala, and Brooke arrived at Nanny’s Chicken Shack. Max was still in front of the restaurant with his sign but he was now sitting down on the sidewalk. “Hey, man. We found out why Nanny can’t use his normal chicken supplier anymore,” Bobbo said.
“Why?”
“Toxic waste from the abandoned missile silo seeped into the ground water and mutated the farmer and all the chickens.”
“Mm. That’s kind of what I was thinking,” Max said.
“Are you gonna stay here or head home?” Shala asked.
“I guess I’ll go home. There’s not much foot traffic now and my butt kind of hurts from sitting on this sidewalk,” Max looked up at Bobbo. “Can you help me up?”
“Sure, buddy.”
The four of them started walking home. “Mutated chickens?” Max asked.
“Yes, dozens of them,” Brooke said.
“The farmer had a chicken growing out of his head,” Shala revealed.
“Really? I wish I could’ve seen that. I should’ve gone with you guys instead of hanging out here all afternoon.”
“That reminds me,” Bobbo said. “We should call the police. We just kind of left all the chickens to roam the farm. That’s probably dangerous.”
“I regret not going with you,” Max sighed. ▩
