Third Place: Roadkill

Steven O'Hara
5 hours ago
13 min read

"Contact Day" by Katie Kent in Third Place. Alien Suburbia

Roadkill

by Steven O'Hara

Third Place

In a town, not far enough inland to be considered the sticks, but not close enough to any city or sister settlement to gain any overflowing economy, is a white steepled church, where all the townsfolk, no matter their religious affiliation, or if they’ve any religion at all, seem to gather; a redbricked school that houses all students no matter their age, as there is no other school in this town—nor close to it—but the children don’t seem to mind; a few stores run by the locals; a rusted old garage that takes in new cars to fix even though they don’t have new equipment; and a sheriff station that’s attached to that same garage with a jail attached to them both, but little else. The town is small, as small as a settlement of one hundred people needs it to be—meaning that for its size, certain municipalities work together. For instance, the local stores will provide certain articles of merchandize if one runs out or the other one has any overflow, the garage takes care of the servicing for the sheriff’s car—only one, as there is only one sheriff, and the church’s belfry informs the students when school starts, lunch is in session, and the school day ends. The loud ring of the bell can be heard echoing throughout every corner of the town, in every house, room, and head. And it’s just about that time for the bell to start ringing.

Clang, clang, clang.

The late evening silence was broken—or rather, punctuated—by the singing of the toll bell. After three strong clang’s, the stagnant void took up the town once more, for only a moment, until the school doors opened. The stomping of shoes of every size hammered against the hard wooden floors, and eventually muted themselves against the pact earth of the schoolyard. Voracious laughter and screams of excitement echoed out from the emptying hallways and emerged into the hanging sun as quickly as the students leapt and scampered away. As the noise died down, and all had dispersed to either go home or start their evening jobs, the doors of the school hung limp, but not as empty as it seemed. Voices whispered in the dark.

“Are you sure everyone’s gone?” a voice whispered.

“More than sure. No one ever stays here past four,” another replied.

“I just don’t want anyone to see us.”

“Who cares if people see us, Chris. Scott and Ted are the ones that told me about Roady, and Chiara was the one that told them. Most people already know about him.”

“Yeah, but not everyone does,” Chris, the first voice, said.

Three boys emerged from the shadow of the empty school, walking into the deep orange evening given way by the setting sun. They scanned the empty schoolyard, looking for any sign of movement or disturbance in the shadowed wood. The first to start was Charlie, who stood out as the tallest, and marched east. Landon, who was shorter than Charlie, but the same height as Chris, followed quickly behind him. Only Chris hung back, as if his feet wouldn’t move, until Landon turned, walking backwards, and waved his friend to follow, which tamed his indecision and finally got his feet to move.

As they marched their way forward, on a trail of packed dirt and vegetation that seemed to be no trail at all, if not for the stories that carried them, as it did many other kids, they talked very little. What few words were shared by the three, were lost in the heavy air of anticipation from Charlie and Landon, and doubt from Chris.

“Are you sure this is the right way, Charlie?” Chris asked, trailing his friends. Charlie said nothing, but Landon looked over his shoulder, giving him a smile. Not enough to comfort him, but just enough to calm his nerves to a degree and sail him forward on the winds of his curiosity. The boys marched through the thicket, seemingly stopping at random points to gauge if they were headed in the right direction, looking for local milestones that their classmates and friends told them to look for. Walk towards the big sycamore tree with a bee hive hanging from the branch. Turn right at the great big boulder with moss at the top like snow on a mountain. If your feet start to sink into the ground, then you’ve gone too far. Little hints like these kept the three on course.

They walked on and on and on. And the walking and expectancy of their destination gave way to the vulgar nuances found only in a conversation between three children just released from their academic imprisonment.

“Did either of you see Miss Needlemeiser after lunch?” Landon asked.

“Nope,” Chris said. Charlie was still silent.

“I wish you would’ve,” Landon turned around, walking backwards, “I was sitting on the bench by the nurse’s office ‘cause I wasn’t feeling very well—I think I ate too quickly and it was giving me stomach pains—waiting for Miss Abigail to call me in—I had to wait since Frank Clemons got another nose bleed at recess and he bled so much that they had to get the janitor to come and mop up the floor—and I saw her porking around in the teachers lounge.” The heel of his shoe caught on a rock and he stumbled backwards, but quickly balanced himself and went on. “I’ve never seen a lady that could eat as much as her, let me tell you.”

“My dad said she was the same way twenty years ago when he had her for Algebra,” Chris said.

“I don’t doubt that,” Landon said, “with how big she is now, she must’ve been working on that slimming figure since even before your dad or my dad went to school. Hell, even my granddad was probably learning addition and subtraction under her.”

“Your grandad was probably doing a lot of things on top of her too, Landy,” Charlie said, breaking his concentration.

“Shut up, Charlie,” Landon said with a smile.

“You’ve got her eyes, Landon,” Chris said.

“I do not,” He said, with an inflection of delight.

“And you’ve got her nose too, now that I look at it,” Charlie added.

“Quit it, guys,” Landon goaded, with his smile growing even bigger.

“And her ears,” Chris said, flapping his ears with his hands.

“And the same pubes that run along your lip that you keep calling a mustache,” Charlie said, cracking up. The two other boys joined, creating a choir of pleasure. What was once a silent party trekking through the woods, turned into a merry group of men erupting with laughter that ricocheted off the trees and into the open air high above their heads. Laughter that no one else could hear, because they were far into the forest now.

After a few more bends, a small creak that they crossed over using a fallen branch or two, and Landon accidentally sinking his white shoe into a mud deposit, they found him. Charlie saw him first, and although he had met Roady a few times before, either by himself or with a few other classmates, every time he was confronted by him it brought the child to silence. Landon followed up quickly, and the big smile that had previously taken up his face shrunk into a thin line. Chris, confused at first, but soon understood the atmospheric change, found his position on the other side of Charlie. The three boys stared at Roady. And Roady stared back. Landon was the first to speak.

“What is it?”

“An old dog,” Charlie said.

“It’s too big to be a dog, Chris,” Landon said.

“Then it’s a deer,” he retorted.

“I don’t think it matters what it is. It’s dead anyways." Chris said, in almost a whisper.

He was right. Roady had been dead a long, long time. Or about as long as it may seem to a child. It was hard to distinguish what it was. But if you looked real closely, past the dried blood that splashed against the thick oak tree he leaned up against, and the shreds of flesh that peeled away from his eviscerated abdomen from the scavengers of the forest, you could make out the animal beneath. From his time out in the woods, he lost most, if not all of his fur, except for a few patches that protruded out from his skull, sticking up like bundles of wheat. Where his tail should’ve been, was gone. His eyes were taken from him, most likely eaten by the local wolves, crows, or ravens that always seem to find the dead when they’re most vulnerable. And once the other woodland creatures discovered that the tasty eyes were gone, they moved on to the other parts of his body. Most of the flesh from his upper torso had been completely removed, leaving bare bones which were seemingly held together by the little muscle and tendons that were left to hold them in their original shape. His antlers, if there were any to begin with, were long gone and had been dragged away. And the same was the case for his legs, for they were gone too. Whether he was dead a long time or a short time, he was completely, and utterly dead.

“Why is he called Roady?” Chris asked.

“‘Cause it's roadkill.” Charlie said.

“Whats roadkill?” Landon asked.

“It’s when an animal ends up getting flattened by a car in the middle of the highway.”

“Oh.”

The smell was putrid. It was worse than rotten eggs. Worse than rotten meat. Its smell was almost indescribable.

“It smells like shit,” Landon said. The boys agreed in silence. They stared at Roady for a long time, taking in the sounds of the quiet forest, the decaying scent of flesh, and what little of him that was left. After a while, Landon broke the silence.

“You know, my cousin had a dog once. He loved that dog and that dog loved him.” Landon paused, only to see if his companions would stop him. Their unanimous silence was permission enough. “Its name was Rigby. He would take him everywhere—even tried to take him to school once, but my aunt found Rigby sitting at the bottom of his backpack. Only found out ‘cause the bag started to move across the floor all on its own.” Another pause, followed by more silence—more permission. “I only met Rigby once or twice that I remember ‘cause I was too young. He was cool I guess. I didn’t know him the way Tommy knew him. I don’t think I’ll ever know a dog like Rigby.”

“What’s your point?” Charlie broke. Landon made a sound that was close to a gulp.

“Rigby was run over by a car a few years ago when I accidentally left Tommy’s back gate open. We heard a car screech out in the road and ran to go see what happened. He looked just like this.”

The sun began to tilt downwards to the west, going further and further beyond the tree tops, casting long shadows into the thickness of the forest. Landon turned and headed back the way they came, with Charlie following quickly after him. Chris stayed back, only for another moment, to take in what he could so he could use the gruesome details as parts of his story when he told their classmates the next day that he had met Roady, only to omit that the entire time he stared at Roady, he was looking at him through tears. And the same fact would be omitted from the two boys' recollections as well.

The boys made it back to the schoolyard, just as the orange hue of the evening sky melted into the darkness of the oncoming night. Before they parted ways, they paused long enough to look each other in the eyes, swearing to each other, without ever saying it, that they would give their compatriots a very general idea of what they had seen, only because the nature of it was ineffable. They would share just enough to make others envious, and to inadvertently, as had happened to them, move them to their own pilgrimage to Roady.

Twenty minutes later, Chris arrived at home.

“Hi, my love,” his mother said, as he came in through the back door of their home. He walked in quietly, shutting the door behind him and turned to his mother at the stove. She was tall, broad, and had Chris’s eyes. “Hurry up and wash your hands. Dad’s gonna be home soon.” She gave him a smile and turned her attention back to her cooking.

Chris almost walked by her, but he hesitated, and wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed her tight. His head only just brushed past the apron tied around her waist. She smiled and scratched the top of his head.

“What’s this for?” she asked.

“Just letting you know I love you, Mom.”

She smiled, “I know that, my love. Of course I know that.” He let go and headed towards the bathroom to wash his hands. The front door creaked open, and a soft exhale and the sound of bags dropping signified that the final person of Chris’s family had retired for the night.

“Hi, babe,” she said, calling out from the kitchen into the adjacent living room where the front door stood. Leaving his bags at the door, and sliding both boots off his tired feet, he walked into the kitchen and under the glare of the overhead light, you could tell that he had Chris’s smile.

“Hi, baby,” He said, walking over to his wife, resting a hand on her shoulder, and kissing her cheek. “This smells horrible.” He said, peering into the pot she was stirring.

“Screw,” She said, with a teasing smile and gave him a light push towards the table where three bowls were waiting. Chris walked back into the kitchen, and upon seeing his dad, lit up in an oh-so similar smile and rushed into his open arms.

“School ok?” His dad asked.

“Yup,” Chris said, and untangling himself from his father’s embrace, moved to the seat he's sat in all his life. “Work ok?” His fathers bright smile dimmed to a degree.

“I’ll tell you Chris, it’s not been so copacetic."

“What’s that mean?” Chris asked.

“It means your dad heard someone use a word he’s never heard of before and liked the way it sounded.” His mother chimed in, turning the dials on the oven to off, and turning to face her two boys.

“That’s true,” his original temperament seemed to return, “I heard Eddie use it at work and I did like the way it sounded. I think he just likes to use big words around me so I can ask him about them. It makes him feel intelligent. But to answer your question Chris, it means that I didn’t have a very good day.”

Chris frowned, “Why not, Dad? Saint Agness only rang for school, so I know nothing bad happened. The bell always rings if they need the sheriff fast.”

“Very astute, my son.” He said, “No, nothing urgent today, thankfully. We’ve just been having a hard time with that missing persons case that started a few months ago. Remember that?”

His wife cleared his throat, “Babe, I don’t think we should be talking about something like that in front of Chris.”

“Hey, I’m old enough to know,” Chris insisted. “I do remember what happened and, anyway, everyone at school still talks about it. It’s still a pretty big deal.”

“It is a big deal. People around here don’t often go missing, and if they do, it’s pretty easy to find them when everyone knows each other. We’re just still not picking up any ideas of where he could have gone,” his dad said.

“Angie Clemons thinks he probably just up and left town. Maybe accumulated some gambling debts he couldn’t pay off,” his mother interjected.

“Babe, the only gambling debts he could have had would be playing poker in the basement of the Williams—and I don’t think Mayor William would harass anyone enough to leave town.”

“Just a theory,” she turned back to the stove and brought the cooled pot to the table. She dipped the ladle in and started to pour a hefty amount of soup onto each of their bowles, before settling down between her husband and son. The sounds of spoons clicking against glass echoed off the walls.

“It’s sort of scary, if you think about it. Someone disappearing like that and no one knowing where he went off to—not even his wife or daughter.”

“Just horrible,” Chris's mother echoed in sentiment.

“Is the daughter in your class Chris?” His dad asked.

“No, not mine. She’s a year younger than me though. I remember she used to be outside all the time ‘cause her and Chiara from my homeroom used to play outside everyday after lunch. Now she just stays inside all the time. Chiara’s real sad about it,” Chris said.

“I can imagine,” his dad said in between spoonfuls, “You know, it would be really kind of you to go and talk to her once and awhile—just to make sure she knows the town hasn’t given up on her. I bet she’s feeling very isolated.”

“I will,” Chris promised. “I just feel bad for her. I can’t imagine losing you, Dad.” His dad reached across the table and grabbed his son’s hand, squeezing it in reassurance.

“You have nothing to worry about, Chris.” His mother said, “If your dad ever disappears on us, I’ll kill him.” She smiled. “Can you remind me what happened again.”

“You want the long version or the short version?” he asked.

“Let’s stick to something I’m used to and keep it long.” She said, and Chris’s dad winked, letting their vulgar nuance fly above the reach of their son's understanding.

“Well,” he said, pushing his empty bowl forward and leaning back in his chair, “it happened just like this, if I do recall—which I do, because I’ve been playing it over in my mind everyday since April. Logan Johnston left his home at 6:30 A.M., heading to the sawmill about 25 miles from town where he worked as a security guard. He worked 6 days a week, Mrs. Johnston told me, always having Sunday off, which was when they would go to St. Agnes’ for morning prayer and would spend the rest of their evening together. He particularly liked to come home and work outside in his shed. However, Mr. Johnson did not go missing on a Sunday—it was Tuesday when he didn’t show up that night. ‘Always comes home around 7:00,’ Mrs. Johnston said. ‘A creature of habit, that one’. Anyways, we head over to the sawmill, and find his car still there—but nothing else. The gates were locked up tight, and his car was on and idling, the headlights shined bright against the gate, which we think he did so he could have some light to lock up. But there was nothing else. No footprints, no blood on the ground or inside the car, it’s like he just walked into the woods and vanished.”

“That’s scary,” Chris said.

“Sure is,” his dad agreed.

“Do you think you’ll find him?” His mom asked.

“Eventually,” he said, “my only worry is how we’ll find him.”

That was the end of their conversation about Logan Johnston. Chris’s mom and dad went on about the rest of their day, each taking turns to ask Chris a specific question about school, how his classes were going and such. But one thing still lingered on Chris’s mind, and the more he thought about it the more it nagged him. When he was in the woods not so long ago, he saw something that didn’t make much sense to him. Under Roady was a certain piece of metal that was poking out of him. It was rectangular, and would’ve been shiny if the sun was high enough in the sky to shine on it, or if there wasn’t so much blood caked over it. But when he thought back, and pushed through all the noise and goriness that would certainly keep him up this night and other nights after that, he remembered what was so strange to him about that piece of metal. And that was because it wasn’t a piece of metal stuck into Roady. It was a name tag. And the name tag didn’t say Roady, it said Johnston.

Winning pieces are published as received.