CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories by J. Posthumus (feel good novels txt) 📗

Her expression did not change, but she dragged another swath of ruined clothing into her lap and studied it from beneath the crevices across her forehead,

“Santiago, you run, boy. Adelmar is sending his goons,” she said, her voice low and rasping. She ripped a strip off of a farmer’s vegetable sack and dropped it into her basket. “They see you.”

He didn’t bother looking back. The glance over the shoulder always slowed progress, and, if those thugs caught him, the result would hurt like hell. Instead, he tossed a coin onto her table—which she spirited away into the folds of her dress before anyone noticed—and then he dashed the opposite way Frango had run. If Santi managed to live past the mess, it wouldn’t do him any good to expose his secret menagerie. They’d already worn out their welcome, and it was time to move on.

He bolted down the stone street, weaving in and out between carts, avoiding oxen dung and other scat, his leathered feet barely making noise. He cut right through an alleyway, hoping to be lost in a blink, but shouts echoed off the stone walls and footfalls came closer still. He burst into the narrow stone corridor between houses and slammed against a wall. Pain exploded in his shoulder, and Santi cried out.

“This way!” More answering shouts. They were still coming. If he could cut through enough, he might lose them. He took another right, already panting, but he kept running. He couldn’t lead them home. They’d take all his friends. Two turns later, he was behind the basket weaver’s, two large bins heralding her supplies as they dried. He jumped into the first and clamped his mouth closed to cover the sound of his gasping.

The crowd ran by. Then again. He waited until his heart calmed and he breathed easy.

Hours passed since his last glimpse of the goon horde. He climbed out, still listening, but he heard nothing. He made his way toward Main Street, already planning to pick up an apple or two along the way.

He made it. Another chase, but he’d beaten the odds yet again. With a little skip, he stepped out onto the main thoroughfare.

Bam!

Straight into a wide chest and beefy arms.

“Well, boy, the chicken got away.” Fat fingers grasped the back of his coat shirt and yanked backward and triggered a coughing fit in Santi. “The birdbrain must be smarter than you.”

They were in an abandoned five-way intersection. No animals. No people. Nobody to help, and then thugs appeared from all directions. Circling them until they were surrounded on all sides by faces that wavered between adoration for Adelmar and revulsion for Santi.

He squirmed, his head swiveling all around as he scanned.

There was no getting out, and no animals to help him.

“He’s my boss,” Santi joked. Frango had better have gotten something good.

“I’m your boss now.”

A blow from behind turned everything dark.

Santi crumbled to the ground.

Santi woke on the ground, his throat dried, his head spinning. Dust filled his nose. The smell of animals came from nearby. He could be home, but he hurt almost as bad as the time he’d been caught by the police chief and lashed from head to toe. The pain was the same, but without the extra stinging. A shadow passed over him, and he opened his eyes to find Adelmar peering into his face with two goons behind him.

“Hello, sweetie, lovely to see you survived the trip.” Santi flashed his most beguiling smile.

Adelmar spit in his face and then aimed a kick to Santi’s ribs.

The crack of bone vibrated thought Santi’s chest cavity, and he curled around himself. He couldn’t take another one of those. He sucked at the air, trying to take a breath, but his body refused. When he finally got one, it was like a blade stabbed him in the side where the bones had broken.

Overhead, Adelmar asked, “Do you know who I am?”

Santi squinted up at the giant. “A chicken tax collector?”

Adelmar shook a meaty fist beneath Santi’s nose. “You’re on thin ice, boy.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Santi studied his surroundings. They were in an empty barnyard. Behind Adelmar’s mansion, by the looks of things. A young woman with long black hair—probably Adelmar’s daughter—stood nearby.

The sound of trickling water came from the corner, and Santi twisted toward it. A windmill ran a piston pump which pulled water up from the ground and then fed it continuously into the water trough. He nearly smiled. If he stalled long enough, animals would come to the trough.

“Where do you live?” Adelmar kicked his legs, and Santi twisted back around.

“Near Cocky Gate,” he said. “Where else would a chicken mob boss live?”

The big man made a fist and raised it over Santi’s head.

Santi braced for the blow.

“Papa, don’t hurt him. Maybe he’s hungry. Maybe he can be reasoned with,” she said.

“Rusha, I told you.”

“But, Papa, free him.”

“Daughter…” His tone held a warning.

The young woman started toward the house, but she jumped behind a column. No one except Santi noticed.

“If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone you hit me,” Santi interjected. “No harm. No fowl.”

Adelmar scowled and slapped him.

Santi blinked rapidly to clear the spots from his vision. “It’s funny because it’s a joke.”

Goats bleated in the distance. The shepherd must be bringing them in from the fields for the night. They’d be his way out.

“I own this town.” Adelmar grasped Santi’s chin and yanked up. “Nobody will miss a thieving urchin.” He released Santi’s chin. “Tie him.”

Two goons rushed forward, yanking and tugging Santi back toward the tie posts.

“What’re you doing?” Santi whispered.

They both laughed. One said, “He likes to leave the trash to bake in the sun a while before throwing it out.”

The scraggly herd burst into the barnyard and, as one, they bolted toward the filled water trough. Santi searched for the lead female. A long-haired white and gray rammed the goat next to it.

That was the one.