All Along the Zap Fence

Phillis

Too many folks wanting to see them whistling cows is why the credit union has been down one teller every morning. That gravel road past my house wasn’t meant for cars coming and going from before I make coffee until long after I get home from work with a rotisserie chicken stone-cold in the passenger seat. Same day my manager put me on probation for being late to work again, my PT Cruiser bottomed out in a pothole and made my dipping sauces spill. I was snacking. Tired of sitting in traffic on a road so country it’s got no name. Next day, I called in sick. Filled up the trunk-space of my Cruiser with gravel and filled in the potholes one by one with a garden trowel. Morning after that, the cars were near kissing bumpers, there were so many. Guess the potholes were keeping some of them away.

Next morning, I called Seymore, a realtor from church, while I was throwing out yesterday’s coffee grounds. I said if he could get me a deal, I’d sell cheap. Brought my coffee outside to watch the river of cars crawl by and the phone rang before I was ready for my second cup. It was Seymore. He told me we were in the middle of a bidding war. The price was already pushing a million, thanks to all the Lookie-Lous and Loises going to watch those heathen cows whistle. His words. He told me he was getting another beep and had to go, but I might as well quit the credit union because I’d be set for life.

After brewing up another pot, I filled my TV dinner tray with steaming mugs and headed out to offer them cow-watchers a morning cup as they cruised by. On the house.

Seymore

I like to call the preacher on my morning drive to work. Nothing like the voice of God coming through the speakers of my F-150. When I told him maybe whistling cows are a sign of the end times, he thought they might be part of God’s plan. I told him these are horned beasts. All that whistling could be them cows summoning Beelzebub. Like he’s stuck in a corn maze, and they’re calling him in for dinner. The preacher, he thought we were witnessing a miracle. Then he went on for a bit, which I missed because I got out of my truck and passed through the lobby on my way to my office. Jenna at the front desk was bobbing her head to something on the radio with the cow whistling in the background. They’d infiltrated the airwaves. When I put my cell back against my ear, the preacher was still going on about being open-minded, but I got a beep and told him to wait. On the other line was Phillis, saying she wanted to sell her house since she couldn’t stand living so close to those abominations. My words. When I clicked back to the preacher, I told him if those cows aren’t stopped, we might all be praying to a cow God. Told him I don’t care if the Hin-do, I don’t. He didn’t know what to say to that. Or so I thought, but the preacher had hung up. So, I got to selling houses… and humming that tune. It’s a real devil’s earworm.

Miles

Yeah, our sadboi lofi track, “Pasture Prime”, just hit a million streams and the Apple+ people called to option it for the opening credits of some new reality farm show. Problem is, it’s our only song people listen to. We’re trying to get signed to a major label and they’re all: no deal without the cows. Which means the cows have to be like… band members. I tried calling Duke’s farm, but I can’t seem to get Duke on the phone. And his voicemail is full as fuck. I can’t imagine a contract with a hoofprint would hold up in court, even if we could get past that new electric fence. Maybe that half-naked guy in a cow suit could sign…

Cooper

Na-moo-ste. You could say I’m an honorary part of the herd. It’s not that hard to make a cow suit, but I’ve been living off milk like a baby-calf since Duke had that electric fence put in. Those volts are no joke. Overheard him saying to run the ground wires as deep as they can go. The first night it went up, we were sleeping, when I say we I mean the herd, and these trucks drove quiet up the road, pulling trailers. We, again the herd, were all sleeping until the trucks stopped and a man in the headlights threw a rug over the fence wires and swung a leg across. Then the rug started smoking. Followed by flames. He shouted fire, just before falling off the rug sideways, right onto the wires. When he touched the wires, there was a flash and it was like they punted him with light.

He landed in the dirt. The only sound was the engine running behind him and his friends running up to him. One put their head to his chest, then gave a nod to the others. Then Coda, one of us cows, let a single whistle rip and I laughed, and the cattle rustlers started shouting.

Coda had a great sense of humor. I named her that since she was usually the last whistle of every tune. Which means she kind of named herself. Then we all woke up, and the rest of us started whistling, and then a shotgun fired from the house. The cattle rustlers carried their friend into a trailer and their trucks peeled out and took off.  Maybe one of the people camping next-door got their license plate number.

Vince

Cows moo and birds whistle, you know? Well, there’s probably a parrot somewhere that moos because it’s heard the sound so much, but that proves my point, doesn’t it? Which is that it makes no sense for people to get all worked up over animals making new sounds that are only new to those animals. Like, you know how people want unicorns to exist? Even though we’ve got elk and moose and longhorn goats and rams with coiled antlers, two each. So why do people swoon over the idea of a horse with just one? Then, if they discovered one tomorrow, wouldn’t people just move the goal post again? They’d be like, well that’s a Clydesdale, it’s only a real unicorn if it’s a pure white stallion. Or if it was, they’d be like, well its coat’s not iridescent like an oil slick and it doesn’t walk on rainbows. So what if a whole herd whistles now? Big whoop, right? There’s nothing special about basic repeated patterns overlapping or even synchronized. I’m a first-year music major, so I’ve heard it all. When my friend Lang told me the cows had added complexity, I was like, but how much though? And Lang, who was renting a camping spot in the yard of a double wide recently converted to a restaurant, he was like, I don’t know, Bach? And I was like, come on, the Sedge Warbler can do a drop harder than Skrillex. But what can I say about zoology majors? Easily impressed.

Then this morning, Lang FaceTimed me from next to the pasture, and those cattle were exploring tunes and weaving melodies like they could read the other’s minds. You know, like, way beyond Bach. Exploring and iterating, all while taking turns chewing cud. I was like, are you kidding me? I got in my car and Lang kept it streaming as I drove. But he had to hang up to call the cops.

Duke

I blame the French. I had just come back from Montreal where my stud and a couple heifers won ribbons. Them French-Canadians got good taste. Except for all the snails and goose guts, but they know their beef. When I got home, I backed the trailer up to the rest of the herd to let them out so they could moo all about Montreal. They got out and while I was closing the trailer, one of them whistled. I remember thinking, isn’t that something. Then it happened again and again, and the new kind of wore off. Next day they were all whistling. When I told D.W., he came over and took a video on his phone and then folks started showing up in my field like my cows were Elvis. Some fella in a cow mask and a white cape with black spots was acting like he was one of the herd. I went to run him off and caught sight of his breeding tools hanging out like a raw chicken neck and giblets. Fella wasn’t wearing a thing under that cape. So, I put in a zap fence instead. Figured he’d get hungry and leave quick enough.

Voicemail filled up with people trying to buy the farm I never was looking to sell. Yesterday, I got an offer on one of the heifers. She won a beef ribbon in Montreal and one of their French restaurant’s said they’d pay top loonie for the meat. So, next morning, while the herd was sleeping, I woke that heifer up and started leading her to the trailer, quiet as I could. Did it early so I wouldn’t have to break up the band. And yeah, so the city folks wouldn’t boo me like they’d paid to see Garth and got Gaines instead. But when I got that cow up and moving, the others all woke up and got in the way. Blocked the trailer like cows sometimes do. Seems they knew she wasn’t coming back. Started whistling too. Soon as they did, the city folks showed up like they were camping next-door. Turned out they were. Soon they were standing a handful deep all along the zap fence. And, maybe it was being so close, but the whistling, well, it got… heavenly. Only way to describe it. Wasn’t like barking or bird calls. It was music. Like a whole town of sounds meant to go together.

Then the near-naked fella started whistling like he was one of them. It stood out as bad as he did next to the actual cows. I guess it broke the spell.

That restaurant had a contract waiting on me.

In the cab was my shotgun. That near-naked fella tried to get in the way. But after I checked the gun was loaded, he ran like I was dangerous. Just doing things the old way. I aimed and fired.

That gunshot echoed over the pasture and took the whistling with it.

I called my farmhands to help me move her. That near-naked fella shouted, Coda! and got down and held her tight like hugging would make her body stop kicking. The rest of the herd got closer. Stood watching them both shake. And for the first time it felt like in ages, one mooed. Then another mooed and that man held her tighter. And the moos, I know it’s weird to say, sounded unnatural. They sounded sad. And made me wonder if cows were meant to whistle but for as long as I had known them, they just, you know… But then the new… it wore off again. Cows go moo. My farmhands showed up and we got that cow in the trailer, drained, butchered, and on the road. But soon I, uh, I was back outside. With the herd. Even let that near-naked man stay with them. With us, I guess. For the first time all week, I wanted them to whistle.

DANIEL DAGRIS is an author from the Pacific Northwest. His fiction has been recommended by Best Horror of the Year, nominated for the Pushcart Prize, received honorable mention from Glimmer Train, and featured in Chuck Palahniuk’s Plot Spoiler. Daniel’s short stories have appeared in Portland Review, Orca Literary Journal, Maudlin House, and elsewhere.

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