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"Hey, pretty lady." In slow, gentle strokes Benny ran a hand down the ridge of the Jersey's spine. "Hope you got good manners. You don't know me or nothing, but I think we can be friends." Benny tucked his hands in his armpits to warm them, a definite prerequisite for milking by hand. No use sending ol' Bossy through the skylights. Plastisteel milk bucket clenched between his knees, Benny squatted on a one legged stool older than Uncle Sam.
"Been a while, but if you're patient, I won't be long."
Mistrust darkened the Jersey's brown, doe-like eyes. The cow turned from her ration of molasses-sweetened chopped grain and blew a gusted of breath in his face.
Continuing his chatter, Benny squeezed the teats a few times to clear the line. A pack of begging cats circled Benny. Laughing, he gave each a shot in the face. The udder was cleaned with warm water and dried with soft cotton cloths, then wiped down with oily Bag Balm to keep it fur-soft. Benny rested his head against one warm flank. The sound of milk hissing into the bottom of the bucket filled the stable, lulling Benny into a false sense of security.
She stirred, eyes half closed as if in pleasure, but they sparked with a sly, malignant humor.
A cloven hoof shot up at the bucket. Benny jerked it to safety. With a look of horror, Benny continued to go backwards and the stool tipped out from under him. Tails high in alarm, cats scattered. He landed buttocks first in something cold and wet and soft.
"Baby, I love you too," he said in a gentle, matter-of-fact voice that totally belied the bitter eye and grinding teeth. "Now get the freek out a my face, you walking barf-burger."
The old milker rolled her eyes and shook a respectable set of horns at the Wolf-Spirit in Benny.
He eased out of the mess and straightened the stool. Benny squatted on the stool. Eyes and showing white of fear, she moved away.
"Huh." Benny grinned and she raised a hoof in warning. He began to croon an old, old song, one Uncle Charlie and Grampa Wya, both Nam vets, liked to sing while milking. One that fit the work. Kind of.
"Oh, Mama's got a squeeze box . . . ."
In moments she was dozing on her feet, the whiskered muzzle brushing a well-licked manger. Benny stripped the last of the milk and turned her in a box stall. The milker ignored him as he turned off the lights.
"G'night, lady," Benny softly called. Lugging the bucket of steaming milk up the path to the house, a feeling like Christmas peace came over him.
Benny opened the kitchen door and called for Millie.
At his reason not to come in, Millie laughed.
"Oh, my. I am sorry. Ron has a set of hobbles for that old harlot. You take those pants off and I'll wash them. Again. No going to the pond this time of night, hear?" she scolded, still chuckling.
"Uh, yes, ma'am. Guess I better take care of the mares first, tho'."
Sliding and cursing, he ran back to the stables. Benny opened the main doors for the three mares and their colts.
In moments the odor of sweet feed and the sound of grain being crushed filled the stables. One mare snorted at a second. The old cow belched. Feeling warm and safe despite the storm lashing its way up the coast, Benny chuckled.
Benny tried to open the door. Stuck. Frozen? He felt around the edges and his suspicions were confirmed. The temperature was dropping and the wind drove freezing rain in, sealing the door shut. As if to mock him, the wind picked up, rattling the sheet metal roof.
Stay in here tonight, with wet pants, or find a way out?
Benny rammed his shoulder against the door. Nada. He scowled and backed off a few steps. With a rush Benny hit the door and then hit the floor, the wind knocked out of him. Mares staring over the bottom halves of the stable doors, he staggered up.
"More than one way to skin a cat." Benny glanced over the aisle way. A cat snarled. "Hey," he told the tom cat, "It's just a saying. Lighten up, fiddle-string." Benny ran up the ladder into the loft. He kicked open the hay door and leaped out.
The towrope used to haul up hay was slick and stiff. Holding on for dear life, Benny slid down it to the ground. He returned to the main doors with a grim smile and rammed it. With a loud crack the ice shattered.
Ice pellets stinging into his face, Benny staggered up the path. Millie's car was now in the safety of the old coach-house garage with its roof of slate and red brick floors. A three-wheel
Hawk Runnabout sat gathering ice on the oyster shell driveway. Eye darkening with fear for Millie, Benny paused.
Fed agents. Men in Marine uniforms. Army jokers with rifles.
No. They couldn't have caught up already. He hoped, fingers brushing the faint scars on his neck. Could they?
He slipped into the kitchen, wolf-wary, cautious and afraid he would find Millie's corpse on the floor, men in tight fitting S.W.A.T. uniforms sitting at the scarred old trestle table sipping her coffee and cracking worn jokes about their trade.
Cindy stared at the message.
WARNING !
TOP SECRET FILES
MUST HAVE JAN-TYPE CLEARANCE
BENNY WYA GREYLOV, AGE 16, RACE: AMERICAN INDIAN/EASTERN EUROPEAN
AT ALL COSTS! SUBJECT MUST BE TAKEN ALIVE. AT ALL COSTS!
Slowly, it crumpled on one hand. Cindy lowered her head to hide the anger.
The storm was disrupting transmission. The blue lines of the holographic map were blank, no red dot showing the general area her pet was in. By this time he could be halfway to D.C., laying in some safe house. Lying on top of some filthy Native bitch.
"Bastard," she whispered and relished the feeling of pain as her nails bit through the skin of her soft palms. "You did this, Grey. Only you could have." Checking the weather, she almost hoped Benny was with some woman. If so, in nine months she would have another child to add to their list. One more to watch, to take and train. The Janissary Project was generations old, and Benny was their very best subject. Without him, they were dead.
"Check on the Cuban bitch. Is she carrying a child?"
The hologram opened to show a lean woman crying into her hands.
TESTS VERIFIED. SUBJECT PREGNANT. POSSIBLE MALE CHILD.
She leaned back and stared with undisguised hate at the woman. When the weather cleared, Benny would be pinpointed. Benny would be caught and collared.
Head propped in one hand, the Eagle-Woman grinned and stirred the clouds a little faster with her big toe.
The knife in Benny's hand sagged and nearly fell.
Millie looked up from the jeans she was repairing. She offered her guest a bird-bright smile. Benny gusted a sigh of relief.
"All done?" Her eyes were sympathetic. "It's terrible out, I know." Benny sagged against the doorframe. Millie lay aside her sewing. "My youngest daughter has come home. I shouldn't of, I suppose, but I called her and she wrangled an emergency leave. Get a cup of coffee, Benny, you look chilled to the bone."
Chilled wasn't the word. Try heart failure. He couldn't have come to a worse, more frightening emotions if he tried.
Benny nodded. He went around the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee, and at the sound of a small yawn, turned. A sleep rumpled angelic apparition before him. The cup dropped from fingers gone numb at the sight.
"Sweet-Bottom!?"
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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