The Kentucky Meat Shower

Olympia Springs, Kentucky

March 1896

Rowena Crouch stirs her pot of soap, jumping when a loud boom sounds nearby.

“Thunder? Is it supposed to rain today?” her grandson, Tad, asks.

Rowena scans the blue, cloudless sky.

“Clear as a bell. Not a drop of rain in sight,” she replies.

Tad yips, running for the porch as a heavy downpour begins.

Rowena hears a wet THWACK as chunks of sky hit the porch and burrow into the grass.

She’s startled when a chunk of sky lands at her feet. She bends down to get a closer look.

“Meat! It’s meat!”

Tad holds out his hand. “Ew! The rain’s red, Grandma!”

“…Blood rain…,” Rowena mutters.

***

Orion Kirk, the editor for the Olympia Springs Omnibus, exchanges disbelieving glances with his writer, Hudson Pyle, as Gordon Proudfoot, a farmer who lives two miles from Rowena Crouch, finishes his tale.

Orion has the loquacious personality associated with a stout man. Slight, with tiny features, Hudson likes to say he has a big personality to go along with his equally considerable talent.

Orion hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his vest. “Have you been drinking, Gordon?”

“You know I don’t touch the stuff, Orion.”

“Then what have you been putting in your corn cob pipe?” Hudson asks.

Gordon removes the pipe from his mouth. “It’s gospel. I seen it myself.”

“An acre of meat that fell from the sky,” Orion scoffs. “Well, Hud, are you ready to sink your teeth into a real story?”

“I think this is a miss-steak,” Hudson says pointedly.

Orion chuckles. “It’s fry-day. It’s a rare opportunity to ‘meet’ some of the hill folk. Wurst-case scenario? It’s bull, or there’s some juicy secret behind all of this.”

“Maybe it was a meat-e-or,” Hudson adds.

***

Strands of meat hang from Rowena’s trees and fences. Chunks of meat sit in the grass like easter eggs waiting to be gathered up.

Sheriff Wolf Braun squints grimly at the growing, inquisitive crowd, his bulky, six-foot-four-inch frame made all the more imposing by the two long-barreled Colt revolvers hanging from his holster.

“Look at ‘em. You think they never seen meat before.”

“Not free meat,” Hudson replies.

“Reverend Hope sure don’t get this kinda turnout for services on Sunday.”

“Maybe he should offer a brisket per sermon,” Hudson says. “Maybe a rack of ribs for each confession.”

“Speakin’ of which…,” Wolf says as the jubilant Reverend approaches them.

The gangly minister claps his hands. “I hope you’re going to write that this is a sign from our Lord! He’s seen fit to feed the poor people in these hills!”

Aghast, Hudson says, “They’re going to eat this stuff? We don’t know if it’s safe.”

“It’s been in our Lord’s kitchen, that’s good enough for me,” Reverend Hope replies.

He steps away, helping people collect the meat.

“Remind me to convert to Judaism,” Hudson comments. “Say, has any livestock gone missing?”

“I’m glad you’re takin’ this so seriously, Hud.”

“Maybe some kid fed a few cows a couple sticks of dynamite…”

Wolf’s already grim mood darkens.

“…It’s not what’s missin’. It’s who’s missin’. The Dunkels… I should have gone to see them today instead of presidin’ over this circus.”

“Who are they?”

“They’ve been here a few weeks. They’re from Prussia, the old country. They’re scared to death, just like me and my folks were when we came here thirty years ago. They barely know the language and live off beets and potatoes. Fritz has a rifle with no shells, and Maria has one dress, which has holes in it. The only thing they have of value is their diamond wedding rings.”

“Well, I’m certainly writing this down,” Hudson says. “It’s taken twelve years for somebody to finally get to you… Where’s Rowena Crouch?”

“Inside. I’d better get movin’ to the Dunkels.”

“Can you save me a piece of this stuff? Maybe we can get it tested.”

Wolf picks up a hunk of meat, tossing it at Hudson. It hits his new suit with a wet splat.

“There you go.”

Hudson holds the piece of meat at arm’s length as he heads inside the house.

Seeing Hudson is in distress, Rowena says to Tad, “Get the man a burlap sack for his dinner.”

Hudson studies Rowena, noticing her glasses.

“How long have you been wearing specs?” he asks.

“About a month. They make everythin’ much clearer if that’s what you're worried about.”

“Can you tell me what happened, Mrs. Couch?”

After talking with Rowena, Hudson isn’t sure if he’s got a shocking front page exclusive or something to line his parrot’s bird cage with.

Rowena politely escorts him out.

Hudson steps into the middle of an argument.

Wilber Force and his best friend, Melvin Macomber, two big men with loud voices, are arguing over the meat.

“It’s lamb!” Wilbur shouts.

“Fiddle-dee-dee! It’s deer meat!” Melvin insists.

Doffing his top hat, Ferd Hatfield, a well-known instigator, says to the crowd, “Well, there’s only one way to settle this barney, isn’t there? Put your money up for Wilber or Mel!”

The men in the crowd make bets, passing around Hatfield’s hat.

“Lamb!” Wilbur says, taking a bite out of a hunk of meat.

Melvin takes a bite from his glob of meat. It makes a squishing sound. A milky, watery ooze dribbles down the sides of his mouth. He gags, forcing the meat down.

“Always knew I was stronger than old cast iron gut Melvin, but I gotta admit it ain’t lamb,” Wilber says.

“Ain’t deer neither,” Melvin adds. “It’s greasy, like bear meat.”

Ferd jingles the money in his hat. “C’mon, boys, which is it?”

A voice from the betting crowd shouts out, “You’re holdin’ the money, Hatfield. You decide!”

Ferd holds up a piece of meat, sniffing it. He retches, doubling over.

“Needs to be cooked for me to decide.”

“I’m feelin’ a might pekid. Don’t believe I care no more one way or the other,” Melvin says.

“Me too. Maybe we oughta go home,” Wilber says.

The two men throw their arms around each other for support, climbing into Wilber’s wagon.

The bettors grumble amongst themselves as the wagon pulls away.

“Wanna taste it and settle the argument?” Ferd asks Hudson.

Rowena’s dog, Snowy, bites at a chunk of meat on the ground.

Snowy howls, keeling over.

“I’d say all bets are off,” Hudson comments.

Hudson looks over Ferd’s shoulder.

“Whose shack is that beyond the tree line?”

“That’s old man Layborn’s. Swears he was a Colonel during the war. He ain’t right, so you gotta take what he says with a grain of salt.”

“Was he home earlier today?”

“Probably startin’ his second jug by time the meat fell.”

***

Hudson gently taps Clayton Layborn on his cheek, rousing him.

“Dang… My mouth tastes like the bottom of Robert E. Lee’s boot. What you want, fancy suit?” he asks.

Wobbling to his feet, Clayton staggers to a nearby table. He tips back a jug, lapping at the remaining drops inside.

“I’m Hudson Pyle. I’m with the Olympia Springs Omnibus.”

“You here about them men?”

“No, the meat shower at Mrs. Couch’s farm.”

Clayton scratches his long, grey beard. “I didn’t see no meat, just heard a big boom, then these flakes came down. Almost like snow, ‘cept they was silver. I thought they was interestin’, so I collected some of ‘em, but then three men dressed in grey come ridin’ up on white horses. One of ‘em snatched the silver pieces right outta my hand.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. They didn’t say nothin’. They walked around with some machines, suckin’ up them silver pieces. Got every last one of ‘em.”

“What did these men look like?”

“They was wearin’ sacks on their heads, but you could see through ‘em. They had dead eyes. They all looked the same, like they was brothers, and they was all dressed in the same grey outfits. They collected a couple of bodies along with the silver, big ones, ‘bout their size.”

“Bodies? Are you sure?”

“Could’ve been deer. They was all burnt up. I told them boys that if them pieces they was gatherin’ was real silver, that I deserved a share. You know what one of ‘em did? He waved his hand over the ground, and three jugs appeared.”

Hudson rolls his eyes. “Sounds like you’ve been hitting them pretty hard.”

Clayton moves to the cupboard. Opening it, he pulls out a jug.

“Go on, take a swig. Bet it’s the best moonshine you ever had.”

Hudson cautiously takes a sip. The liquid burns a path to his stomach, and his mind spins.

Closing his eyes, he sees two grey-skinned figures standing in front of a window near a desk with rows of lights. People in see-through coffins line both sides of the room’s walls. Tubes run out of their bodies into the walls.

A large red light in the center flashes frantically. The desk catches fire. Trees and branches hit the window, and the room is engulfed in flames…

***

Gail Force carries a lantern out to the stump where her husband, Wilber, has been sitting since that afternoon.

He continues to look up at the stars, muttering to himself.

“Wilbur, honey, c’mon inside. You’ll catch your death.”

“…Perditi restituimus…”

“I don’t understand you, hon.”

“…Perditi restituimus…”

***

Hudson lists in his saddle, barely able to steady his horse.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Wolf asks. “Spendin’ the night listenin’ to Colonel Layborn’s tall tales couldn’t have been easy. No wonder you lost the battle with his jug.”

“I sure did. Can’t remember what I dreamt about either, if I dreamt at all.”

“That’s called a coma, Hud.”

Hudson sighs. “I barely remember riding back to town last night.”

“While you were takin’ your beauty nap, another chapter in the odd life of the hill people took place last night. Wilber Force disappeared.”

***

Wringing her hands, Gail Force approaches Hudson and Wolf in her yard.

“They took him! Three men in grey on horses!”

Hudson glances at Wolf, who looks away.

“Did they say anything?” Hudson asks.

Gail wipes her tears away. “No, but Wilbur did. He said the same thing over and over while he was lookin’ at the stars. Perditi restituimus. Don’t know what it means.”

“It’s a form of Latin,” Hudson says.

“Ain’t that one’a them fancy languages perfessors speak? Wilbur never got past the third grade. He had problems with regular English, let alone some fancy talk.”

“What’s it mean?” Wolf asks.

“We replace the lost.”

***

The pair rides through the thick forest to Melvin Macomber’s house.

Wolf bangs on the door, pushing it open.

“He’s not here. How much do you want to bet he’s wandering around spouting Latin like Wilbur?’ Hudson asks.

“Could be just a coincidence they’re both missin’.”

“You know it’s not, Wolf… I’ve been meaning to ask you. What was that look you gave me when Gail described the men in grey? You know who they are, don’t you?”

“They’re spooks. People call ‘em The Grey Men of Midnight. I’m surprised you ain’t heard of ‘em.”

“I deal in facts, not fairy tales.”

“Anytime my Mother wanted to scare me, she’d tell me that the Grey Men would kidnap me and make me their slave. They were supposed to have this big ship, and they used people who misbehaved to row it across the land. It’s all crazy talk… Two men ate the meat that fell from the sky, went mad, and wandered off. That’s all. You write anythin’ else, and you’ll start a panic. If you’re gonna print somethin’, tell folks the meat ain’t safe and they shouldn’t eat it.”

“You know the hill folk don’t and can’t read the paper. Do you plan to ride from house to house to tell them?”

“Shouldn’t take but a day between me and my deputy.”

The pair searches the grounds near the house, stopping when they come across a large, charred patch of land.

“Looks like a lightning strike,” Wolf concludes.

“I don’t think so. It’s a perfect circle. Maybe this is where your friends, the Grey Men, docked their sailing ship.”

“Funny. I’ve got doors to knock on.”

“And I’ve got another story to file. When I’m done, I’m heading to Ashland. You should come with me.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m going to have that chunk of meat you threw at me tested.”

***

Wolf gives the three chemists a skeptical look.

Clearing his throat, Sommerville Sagan adjusts his spectacles. “We have each formulated a theory regarding your meat shower. The Crouch farm is located in a region of Bath County that is virtually surrounded by the Daniel Boone National Forest. It’s home to hundreds of vultures. I believe the meat came from a flock of vultures flying over Mrs. Crouch’s farm. Vultures are known to vomit when they feel threatened, and when a vulture sees another vomiting, they often vomit as well.”

“But Mrs. Couch didn’t see any birds flying by, just clear sky,” Hudson points out.

“Black vultures fly higher than the human eye can see.”

Horst Bosch steps forward. Impish in size, Bosch sports a waxed handlebar mustache that dominates his childlike features.

He twists his mustache as he speaks. “I believe it was blood rain. Tiny rust-colored particles suspended in the air, either sand or spores, mixed with rain, and fell on the farm.”

“Doesn’t explain why clumps of meat fell with it,” Wolf counters. “So, big man, what do you think it is?”

Lamar Tesla’s massive size and dark features make him look solemn without his having to frown. He pulls a rag out of his rumpled, too-small lab coat, placing it on the table in front of them.

“It’s human flesh.”

Sagan and Bosch prattle in protest.

“Impossible!” Sagan insists. “How did you come up with such a preposterous conclusion?”

Tesla unravels the rag.

“I found these two diamond wedding rings inside the sample.”

***

Hudson and Wolf exit Rowena Crouch’s house.

“Empty. Just like all the rest,” Wolf declares.

Clayton Layborn stumbles out of his shack.

“Well, at least the Colonel’s still around,” Hudson notes.

The pair rides over to Clayton’s place.

“Where is everybody, Colonel?” Hudson asks.

“The hill folk had themselves a roast last night while you two was in Ashland. They cooked up all the meat that fell from the sky. They offered me some, but I stuck with my jug. There was lots of singin’, lots of dancin’. Next thing I know, they’re all mutterin’ to themselves…”

“…Perditi restituimus…,” Hudson says.

“Yeah, that’s it. Then they all walked off into the woods and disappeared. Not long after I hear a clap’a thunder and saw smoke streak across the night sky. Don’t know what caused it, but it weren’t no flock of vultures, that’s for sure.”