The Caretaker of Lorne Field

The final pass took most of the night, and the last few hours had to be done under the light of the full moon. When he was finished, Jack Durkin stood motionless for a good twenty minutes before he was able to move. Slowly, he massaged the cramping in his arms and legs, then heaved the canvas sack over his shoulder and dumped the Aukowie remains with all the others. He put a match to the pile. The fire shooting out came close to singeing him and he fell backwards onto the ground barely escaping being burned, the flames exploded a good fifty feet up into the air. The only thing he could think of to explain the intensity of the fire was that most of the Aukowie carcasses in the pile were twice their usual size.

He sat quietly and watched the flames light up the night’s sky. The stench from the burning Aukowies was worse than any time he could remember. Over the years he had gotten used to that smell, but this time he found himself pinching his nose. After the fire extinguished itself, he dusted himself off and buried the ashes. Then he headed home.

It had been so quiet at the field that it was a shock when he was a half mile or so away from it and heard crickets chirping and other critters scurrying about. If he listened, he could hear an owl off in the distance. Also coyotes. The only sounds he had heard for all those hours at Lorne Field was the blood rushing through his head.

It was after four in the morning when he reached his front door, which gave him less than two hours before he had to head out to the field again. He stopped inside the doorway and tried to get his work boots off, but it was a struggle with the way his feet had swollen up and how sore his back felt. When he was finally able to pull them off, he hobbled to the kitchen and tapped half a dozen aspirin into his open palm. He chewed the aspirin slowly. They reminded him how sour and empty his stomach felt. There was still leftover pot roast in the refrigerator, but Lydia’s threat about what she’d do if she thought he intentionally cut off Lester’s thumb stood out in his mind, her words flashing brightly as if they were on a neon sign. He dumped the leftover pot roast down the disposal, and instead poured himself a bowl of cornflakes and ate it at the kitchen table. Afterwards he filled up a bucket of hot water, shook in some Epsom salts and sat in the living room where he soaked his feet and dozed off and on.

The morning sunlight woke him. He shivered as he took his feet out of the bucket of now cold water and pushed himself out of his worn imitation-leather recliner and onto his aching feet. He made his way to the kitchen and chewed on another half dozen aspirins then, without much enthusiasm, poured himself another bowl of cornflakes. When he was done eating, he hobbled out to the front door and struggled to get his work boots on.

While he’d never admit it to her, it hurt him that Lydia didn’t show up at the courthouse. It also made him feel funny inside knowing that she believed Lester’s statement to Wolcott-or at least believed it enough for her not to call Hank Thompson. He thought that had to be why she didn’t call Hank, that Wolcott must’ve spoken to her before she got around to it. The idea of facing Lydia’s wrath was more than he wanted to deal with after spending a night fighting back a field of five-inch Aukowies, but he decided he needed to let her know that he was still alive and kicking. He let his work boot drop to the floor and made his way upstairs to their bedroom.

When he saw the empty bed and the open dresser drawers he realized what had happened. He didn’t bother checking whether the drawers were empty. Instead, he walked back downstairs, forced his work boots onto his grossly swollen feet and set off to Lorne Field as required by his contract.

Chapter 8

The Aukowies seemed aware of the schism that had occurred the previous day in their death struggles with Jack Durkin and all the Caretakers before him. It wasn’t anything Durkin could put his finger on, just a vague sense of dread. Maybe it was the way they stared at him, as though they were expecting something. They still mostly played possum, not putting up much more of a fight than usual when he ripped them from the ground. But all day he had trouble shaking an uneasiness deep in his gut that things had changed. He felt himself dragging, his bones feeling like they’d been filled with lead and his muscles with rubber.

When he got home that evening he realized for the first time that his car was gone. He tried to remember whether he had seen it that morning and decided he hadn’t. Lydia must’ve taken it when she left the other day. He didn’t bother pulling his work boots off at the door. Without Lydia there to harp on him, why bother?