Demon Coyotes

By Lincoln Reed

Something was killing the chickens. Outside the window, in the coop, their squawks broke the silent Kentucky night beyond the homestead’s walls—chaotic bursts of fear and agony.

A boy of fifteen, Roland Chadwick sprang out of bed while his younger brother and sister gazed at him wide-eyed from the mattress the three of them shared. Roland motioned for them to stay put as he strapped his suspenders around his shoulders.

While the chickens continued their banshee screeches, he snatched a hunting rifle hanging above the cabin’s fireplace and loaded the weapon. Roland struck a match into a lantern while Ma hugged a shawl around her shoulders, face weary in the light’s faint glow. “Be careful, Ro.”

He thudded against the porch as he sprang into the yard, weapon in one hand, lantern aloft in the other. Once his toes dug into the grass, a tangible eeriness crept into his bones. The chickens had quieted. In the sheet of black beyond the lamp’s glow, nothing stirred.

Brisk air prickled his bare arms as he snuck into the barnyard. He fought the inner voice telling him to retreat into the cabin, gripping the rifle tighter in his right hand, thinking of what his father would do in such a situation. But Pa wasn’t here. He was away that night, and whenever Pa was away, Roland was in charge of defending the homestead. And that’s exactly what he was about to do.

The lamp’s orange light outlined the coop’s splintered frame, torn open by something sharp, perhaps teeth or nails. Outside the pen, brown chicken feathers littered the—

A guttural growl emanated from the darkness ahead where luminous eyes reflected the lamplight. When Roland aimed the rifle, they disappeared.

In the morning, Roland examined the coop once more. Canine tracks as large as his palm surrounded the structure. “Can’t be,” he muttered to himself. They’re supposed to be dead.

He knelt in the dirt and inspected the carnage, estimating the beast’s weight and size. He’d learned the technique from Pa. He’d learned everything from Pa—the master huntsman. The unwavering protector. That is, except when their coop had been raided a year earlier, chickens left uneaten. “Animals that kill for sport are cursed,” Pa had said. “Evil spirit’s got them coyotes. We’ll hunt them till the spirit’s dead. No choice.”

And they had. Pa and Roland had executed the raiding predators one musket shot at a time. Since then, the chickens had remained unmolested. But now, had more demon coyotes returned?

Or, as the tracks indicated, just one?

It’ll be back. Roland traced a paw print with his index finger. Can’t wait for that. And can’t wait for Pa. Got to find where it lives. Got to end to this.

Roland tracked the coyote through the dense Kentucky forest, descending rocky ravines and crossing deep creek beds as he followed the prints. Homemade pants and a thick winter shirt tore against sharp branches as he trudged through thick undergrowth, not stopping until a keen sensation scuttled across his neck—the feeling of being watched.

Roland’s breath plumed the chilly air. He pressed the rifle stock against his right shoulder, his left hand guiding the barrel as he scanned the forest. With silent steps, he slunk down a shallow hill into a cave basin where he crossed a rivulet into—

An angry yap resonated to his left. Roland spun to see the demon coyote snarling at him from behind a bush. Roland squinted toward his target. The predator’s back paw was caught in a bear trap. Metal teeth had torn through her skin and clamped against her leg bone. The coyote tried to stand as Roland approached, but it collapsed, continuing its growl as he inspected the injury from a safe distance.

“Serves you right.” Roland readied his gun. “Killing our chickens. Scaring my kin.”

As he prepared the rifle, Roland followed the coyote’s gaze toward the mouth of a small grotto where a pair of marble eyes, a small snout, and pointed ears emerged from the shadows. When the coyote pup whimpered for its mother, a twig snapped from behind.

Roland spun just as the mountain lion’s yowl slashed the air. It pounced; sharp claws digging into Roland’s chest. He blocked the lion’s jaws with his rifle while the mother coyote bit the cat’s tail. The lion hissed. Roland raised his weapon. The lion’s teeth sank into the coyote’s neck.

A deafening gunshot clacked as winter wind carried the report into a landscape of stoic trees and noiseless hills.

Crows cawed.

Bleeding and stunned, Roland crawled to his feet and studied the two predators. Both were dead. His eyes locked with the mountain lion’s barren stare.

The whine of the pup broke his trance; its pitiful sobs drawing him toward the cave. Roland reloaded the musket and pointed the barrel into the hollow.

As Roland’s thumb edged toward the gun’s hammer, his shoulders quivered. Killing the tiny coyote was what Pa would want him to do, but something within Roland’s bones refused. His chest burned like a sizzling prong. A rising nausea slithered into his throat.

Roland lowered the rifle and strapped it across his back.

Next, he scooped the pup into his arms and carried it up the hill.

Sitting on the porch with Pa, Roland squeezed the pup against his bandaged chest.

“Should’ve left it.” Pa drew on his pipe. “Can’t keep a demon coyote.”

Roland petted behind the pup’s ears. “His momma’s dead.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

“Preacher says don’t punish children for sins of the—”

“It’s wild, Ro. If its kin is evil, so it’ll be.”

Roland straightened. “Give me this winter. If he’s not reformed by spring, I’ll get rid of him myself.”

The elder Chadwick grunted, cursed, and shook his head, eyes glinting as he fought to hide a smile. “Reckon we’ve been needing a guard dog ’round here. Haven’t we?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a professor, writer, and freelance editor. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Miami University (OH). More than 30 of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies.

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