Fistful of Reefer: A Pulpy Action Series from Schism 8

Zombie Goats

Chancho grew increasingly aware of the activity around him until he snapped out of his meditation. For miles around, rugged, scrub-covered hills and valleys wove a maze of time’s creation, crafted by nature’s elements. Their precious cáñamo grew in the field below him, the tops of the stalks bristling in the morning breeze. He loved their little farm, but something this morning unsettled him.

He yawned and stretched. A handful of goats groused around the brush at the base of the rock outcropping. Further down in the valley he noticed the problem; the herd had found a way to reach the m*******a buds.

“Ah crap.” He snapped his Bible shut and jumped off the rock. A startled goat began to bleat then belched before puking a green sludge onto Chancho’s bare feet. “Ah crap,” Chancho repeated.

The goat’s eyes rolled back into its head. It staggered and wheezed, a green froth forming around its mouth.

“Hold on little fella.”

It gargled in response and dragged itself blindly in the direction of Chancho’s voice.

Chancho dashed gingerly toward the camp while calling for the others, “Muddy. Nena. Wake up, the goats have got into the field again.” As he passed the fire pit, Nena poked her head out of the opening of their wagon, her long, dark hair spilling forward. “We’re awake. And for God’s sake, at least put on a loin cloth, crazy Mexican.”

Chancho covered himself with his Bible. “You should talk.” He rolled his eyes. “Tell Muddy some already have colic.”

The three friends mounted and rode down the hill toward the field of cáñamo, whooping and hollering as they went. The field was thick with the ghastly moaning of goats. The whites of their eyes flickered in the morning light as they swiveled blind heads on stiff necks protruding from bloated bodies. Goats belched and puked, wafting a gas that reeked of a stagnant salt-water marsh. Chancho gagged, grateful he’d not yet eaten breakfast.

Some, too sick to stagger away from the horses, fell over prone. Unable to relieve their bloated stomachs, they exhaled a ragged bleating. The riders continued to lunge at the goats, either herding them forward or knocking them over. If the goat could puke, it would live. Only when the pressure in their rumen, their largest stomach, grew too great would they die.

A chaotic stampede ensued. Belching, frothy-mouthed goats, uncertain of which direction they were being herded, tumbled out of the field. The sickest ones groaned and dragged themselves away from the horses’ hooves. Chancho rode down the furrows waving his floppy sombrero over his head while Nena and Muddy did their best to keep the goats from scattering too far toward the southern end of their property and heading for water. The springs also happened to be the direction of their closest neighbors.