Volume 6: On the Trail of the Road Agents: The Gravestone of J. Allen Ducock, Sr., Beloved, (Catfucker)

On the Trail of the Road Agents: The Gravestone Of J. Allen Ducock, Sr., Beloved, (Catfucker)
by Scott Thurlow

Dead and mutilated bodies were scattered across the field in front of them. Humans, chickens, pigs, a cow or two in their best judgement. It looked like they had all been there a while. Most were dried up; appearing baked. Shriveled in the long days of the sun and other elements they’d been exposed to.

"Think that's a goat there, too," said Agent Toporidel.

"Hrm. Yes. If you say so,” responded Captain Planck.

Ahead, they came to farmhouse. It was a single bedroom that was best ascribed the dimensions of a shanty placed at what they determined to be the northern most edge of the property. It overlooked from the tiny kitchen window a single dirt road that stretched away into the wilderness beyond. A rising hill was visible to the west.

“This isn’t much of a defensible position. Not sure what else is close.”

“Hrm. We could pile the bodies into a wall. It might take a while though.”

It took a while, but not as long as being dead would be. It was an acceptable ratio of work to survivability. When it was done, the shanty-farmhouse was surrounded on three of its sides by a roughly two-body/body- part layer, reinforced with decaying wooden planks. The planks were from a pile they had found in the field and mistook for some of the carcasses at first.

For the door, they had removed its handle, since they decided it wasn’t going to be much use anyway, and no reason to give targets an open invitation. In its place they set two of the most intact planks across with their travel hammer and can of nails.

One knocked on it, and nodded approvingly at the resounding tone. “Seems good enough. Time to eat?” asked Agent Toporidel.

“Hrm. Yes,” replied Captain Planck.

They shared a cold meal of beans and bread.

“What now?”

“Hrm. Now we rest, and watch. As usual.”

“Alright. First guard?”

“Hrm. Yes. After you.”

Nothing came in the night but they had both already decided to leave the farm by afternoon of the next day.

They left the bodies and wood in place as they packed up again, then set fire to it. Some bodies seemed to burn better than others, but most burned more or less at the same rate, after a while. They enjoyed watching the conflagration before finally departing. They followed the dirt road out away from the main plot of land and did not look back.

As they came trudging up the hill they had spied earlier, they stumbled upon a sign lying next to a lump in the withered ground.

Agent Toporidel approached and read aloud the inscription that was on it.

It was thus:

Here lies:
J. Allen Ducock, Sr.
Beloved resident
Who, sadly, succumbed to a disease of insanity in nature,
And was subsequently devoured by his (beloved to all) cats.
And his body, being in a state of recoverability somewhere between therein by:
eaten and half-eaten
by his who are remembered here by the names of: Bella, Samus, Grue, Waldo, Zelda Fitzgerald, Princess Muffykins (mother of) Mewtwocute, King Richard III, Jezebel, and also of course, Lord Whiskers, who was the sire of…
(About a dozen more cat names followed)
Who, upon found having devoured dearly departed Mr. Ducock, Sr.,
were duly and faithfully buried next to their loving owner, in life.

The date underneath was rendered illegible.

They both agreed the obvious humor of the last name lacked the need for an accompanying remark.

Captain Planck said, “Hrm. Shouldn’t it say ‘unrecovered.’ As in, it wasn’t recovered. The other kind of implies…”

Agent Toporidel, retorted, “That is what it implies. Also, uncertain that’s a word. Perhaps they just refused to let a gravestone lie.”

“What, unrecovered? I don’t think this really qualifies as much of a gravestone. Though if it did, you should most definitely, without a doubt, let it lie.”

“Yes, unrecovered. Well, what would you like to call it? What, is it lying about?”

“It’s almost more of a cairn. Nothing.”

“Not really. No rocks involved.”

“Hrm.”

After a few short seconds, Agent Toporidel pronounced, “Such an insipid, unnecessary grave.”

“Hrm. Yes,” agreed Planck. “Let us spit on it.”

They spit upon the grave.

Toporidel continued, “Why so many cats? And why name and title them all, on the grave. Or whatever it may be. Jesus Christ, that is a biblical lineage of cats. Who would have that many cats, and why? Further, why name them all such inane names? To hell with this dead moron and his cats. Rest in peace, you old codger…catfucker.”

“Hrm. Well-said,” Planck offered to his compatriot’s rant.

The setting sun was now going down over the hill where they discovered the sign at the spot that marked the final resting place of one J. Allen. Ducock, Sr. whom, so clearly, was quite the crazed fornicator of cats. And also of all of his great magnitude of litters and royal guard of said cats. The matching body, they agreed, was, if not unrecovered or unrecoverable, (and it could be both, they decided) then definitely not in any kind of state that would warrant itself worthy to being “properly” buried in such a manner. Nor, of course, were all the cats.

They spit upon the grave a second time. Then they discussed the last name before this on the list. The only thing they remembered being recoverable about him, was his head.

Agent Toporidel asked, “Wonder where he was headed? Looks like nowhere now. If it was even the same guy. Catfucker’s head found in burned down shed. We should move on to the next.”

“Hrm. Yes.” Captain Planck agreed again.

They also agreed that “catfucker” was henceforth to be a newly incorporated term of theirs. But, to be used, that is, sparingly, with restraint, and only where most appropriate and/or hilarious.

They cut up the grave sign and used it to start a small but serviceable campfire. They shared another meager meal of canned beans and bread, but this time at least roasted. Captain Planck handed Agent Toporidel his gun. He watched while Planck ate or slept. Then they switched. This was the plan all night.

In the morning, Agent Toporidel went back and took a last look at the spot on the hill. Captain Planck joined shortly thereafter.

Agent Toporidel gave a short eulogy, “Godspeed, Ducock, Sr., Catfucker.” Both agreed it was the most appropriate, and fitting moment to say such.

“Let us now depart the premises of this fucker of cats grave, and leave it at once.

“Hrm. One last thing,” added Captain Planck.

They both spit a third and final time upon the grave and left it at once. Away with the deceased Ducock, and his cat fornicating ways as well. They packed up their supplies and headed away from the hill. Past the spot and over the rise, to another tract of low lying farmland.

Agent Toporidel asked, "Who does the list say?"

Captain Planck pulled out the carefully preserved page from their pack and answered, "Hrm. Seems the winner is Samantha Klostierman. From Rhubarb, Ilinois."

"That's still rather north a ways."

"Hrm. Yes, so it would appear. And a bit east, too. Is there a different way you'd like to go?"

"I suppose not. There's no one closer, right?"

"Hrm. If there was, wouldn't you think I would've said at the outset of this venture?"

“I was just checking that all the facts were in place."

"Hrm. Why wouldn’t they be?"

"Just checking, is all."

Silence stood between them again, but not an antagonistic kind. They let it permeate the walk for a while.

The next place they came to had less of a farm to it and more of a house. It didn't appear too badly dilapidated. Nor were there any dead bodies to inspect, human or otherwise. They performed a systematic check of the interior, as per usual routine. It had more of an acceptably defensible design, requiring few modifications. They ransacked the house for anything left or discarded that could aid them. Most of the leftover food was spoiled but the previous occupants had neglected to take a couple of cans with them into oblivion.

Toporidel contributed, “More beans. Can always use them."

Planck nodded assent. "Hrm. Yes indeed. Breakfast of champions."

They found a few items of note to add to their collection. Mostly kitchen household appliances and utensils that could be used to augment what they had already accrued.

They decided to spend a few days. Samantha Klostierman, from Rhubarb, Illinois, would have her time. And they theirs.

They stayed in the house for four days until such time upon when it was decided and agreed upon to leave once again.

In two more days they were no longer following dirt or local roads, instead having come to a major highway after emerging from the woods and crossing over to it. Cars were abandoned at various spots. The highway had more bodies scattered intermittently along it. They whittled the time by keeping count until they passed a road sign overhead that announced they were 74 miles from Rhubarb.

"Should be there before the week ends."

"Hrm. Yes. So it seems. Then what?"

"Then, we hope things go better there, or I swear by old Mr. Ducock, god rest his crazy cat fucking soul, we, and by extension, Ms. Klostierman herself, are all going to be rather unhappy. Again."

“Hrm. Yes. Excellent use, as well.”

“Agreed.”

There was nothing else to be said about the matter at the moment, so they journeyed some more before selecting a car to use as a hut for the night. They would have driven, but both knew cars could attract attention these days, of the usually unwanted kind.

Days passed as they moved from car to car like silent bees, draining them of anything useful, before methodically moving on to the next.

Fifty miles later, another road sign informed them it was now exactly 14 miles to Rhubarb. Precisely on schedule for their purposes.

Fourteen miles after that, Captain Planck checked that they had the correct address as they entered the town of Rhubarb.

Agent Toporidel declared that here in the town, could be finally what they were looking for.

Planck replied with a standard rejoinder, “Hrm. We’ll see.”

They saw. It wasn’t much. The town had clearly been overrun in a rush and left behind. Now almost nothing remained. No signs of any stragglers left behind to scavenge and pick its bones clean. Great piles of dead leaves blew through the streets constantly, forcing them both to shield their eyes from the drifting debris.

Samantha Klostierman’s house was in the middle of a row of fairly similar ones. She didn’t answer the door, which they took to be an ominous sign. It opened easily and they peered into a darkened hallway that led to a living room. The kitchen was adjacent. A staircase in the foyer led up.

Agent Toporidel inquired, “Upstairs first?”

Captain Planck was firm, “Hrm. No. Ground floor.”

The living room contained nothing special. It had long been plundered of anything useful. The kitchen was mostly the same. In any case, they agreed that they weren’t going to take anything.

“Upstairs it is then.”

“Hrm. Yes. Let us go.”

They guessed they had found Samantha Klostierman’s room because it was the only room upstairs aside from a bathroom that was pathetic in its bareness. An odd design for a house, but the fact was no help to them.

Of little Miss Samantha herself, there were not many signs. They combed through the dressers and closet and uncovered some dregs of dresses with tacky designs and twenty pairs of shoes, but found nothing that could provide any further direction.

Toporidel stated grimly, “Looks like we’re going to be unhappy.”

“Hrm. Didn’t we check everything?”

“Let us check again, just in case.”

They checked again. Upon the second search, they stumbled on a hastily scribbled note half-wedged and hidden under the corner of a dresser. They deciphered its brief message:

Went to West Freemantua!! Meet me please, pLEASE!!
-Sam k.

“That’s helpful. It’s something, anyway.”

“Hrm. Yes. Yes, it is.”

The city mentioned was another hundred or so miles south, but still roughly east.

“Looks like we’re going on the road, again.”

“Hrm. Yes. Here we go. It’s going to be for a while.”

Thus they went. On the road. Again. It was a while.