Episode 84: Hardball

Well, hey there, family. If you love old gods of Appalachia, I want to help us keep the home fires burning, but maybe aren't comfortable with the monthly commitment, well, you can still support us. Be it the ACAST supporter feature. No gift to large, no gift to small. Just click on the link in the show description and you too can toss your tie in the collection plate. Feel free to go ahead and do that. Not about now. Hey, it's Anna and Mandy from our podcast Sisters in the City and we're currently sponsored by the department for work and pensions. Life's busy and admin gets forgotten, but if you're claiming benefits, listen up. If something changes, you need to tell DWP otherwise you could face a penalty. That could be a partner moving in, even if they keep their own place. Or if your car doubles up as a taxi and a family car, you must only report work related costs. Or forgot and savings like premium bonds. To find out if you need to report a change, search tell DWP. Your life's already digital. From banking and shopping to streaming and learning. So why do sorting government stuff still feel like such hard work? The government is introducing a new digital ID to make access to services quicker and more secure for everyone, but we need to hear from you. Your voice matters. Which digital ID consultation to have your say? Digital ID. Making public services work for you. Starting making tax digital is seamless, with zero's HMRC recognised software. If you're a sold trader or landlord whose income tax is going digital, not only is zero MTD ready. It also gives you better control of your finances, like capturing your receipts with a snap. So all your records are accurate, sorted and ready for tax time. Which changes the way you see MTD. Search MTD ready with zero. Old Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast. And therefore, may contain material not suitable for all audiences. So listener discretion is advised. The incursions on the Chip Collins' property began the day following Vincent Albright's late night visit. That was how Chip thought of them. No doubt engineered by the man from the CVA. Though it took him a while to recognise that the strange things he was seeing in the woods and around the house and the figures lurking at the edge of the trees were all connected, improbable as it seemed. It began with the garlic mustard, a pretty and innocuous looking plant with this delicate white flyers and heart-shaped leaves, and one that could be easily overlooked by folks who didn't know better. But Chip had spent enough time working on his Aunt Betty's farm and his youth to understand the battle farmers faced if the stuff was allowed to get a foothold. An invasive species that had been introduced to the US to help control erosion, those who planted it soon discovered that garlic grew fast and spread faster, choking out native species, and of course, crops. It was even known to some other young oaks and other trees. And Betty had talked Chip to keep a wary eye out for the stuff. It was difficult to detect in the first year, growing in small clusters at ground level, at this early stage it was easier to get rid of, but harder to spot. If it reached its second year's growth before discovery, its long, tall stalks made it easy for the wind to spread its spore far and wide, and woe to the farmer who had to contend with it then. The morning after events in Albright had knocked on his door, Chip rose early as was his habit. Pulled on some sweats and laced up his sneakers for a quick run. He tucked his cult 1911 pistol into a holster he'd strapped underneath the sweats, and while coyotes were largely nocturnal, and the mating season when they were the most aggressive was thankfully passed, it wasn't impossible that he and Mack could run into some in an early hour, and he didn't like to take chances. Chip hated the thought of shooting one, they were just too much like dogs, but he had to be mindful of the safety of his animals first and foremost. He whistled the Mack and the rangel dog rose from his blanket at the foot of Chip's bed, and followed him downstairs, not onto the porch. He locked the door behind him, and then turned a step into the yard. He instead stopped dead in his tracks. In the edge of Chip's neat and orderly front yard, rose of tall, emerald plants, fluttered in the morning breeze. The long delicate stalks peppered with heart-shaped leaves, and white blossom. His brow furrowed in confusion. He cared for this land since he was a boy, and he'd be god damned if you told him there'd be three foot high, garlic mustard growing in the yard, and overnight, garlic mustard didn't get this high until it had been left to take root and spread for at least a year, and there'd been no sign of the weed even last week. Chip's heart sank as he took in the swaths of it, crowding around the edges of the yard proper from the woods. So much for today's run, he'd get plenty of exercise rooting out this infestation, more waiting on him in the future he thought grimly as he watched the petals swaying in the breeze. It would take hard work to root out the existing plants, but that was just the start of it. Garlic mustard was a nightmare if it got out of hand. Even now the seeds would be spreading on the wind, he'd be digging at the young clusters that grew a ground level for months. He'd fetched his heavy duty work gloves from the garage along with the prunin' shears and a box of thick contractor grade trash bags and set to gank him up as much of the demonic weed as possible. As he waited into the trees and beheld the full scope of the infestation, he had to fight the sense of overwhelm that Grypt is chest. There was so much of it, winding through the underbrush and ringing the trees. How'd he eat an elephant? Chip thought, taking a slow calming breath. The way the counselor at the VA had taught him, when byte at a time, he said his jaw and got busy, beginning with the plants and croaching on the perimeter of his yard. He worked through the days, stopping for only a quick peanut butter sandwich and a glass iced tea from the fridge around lunchtime. As the lead afternoon sun painted long shadows across the grass, he stopped to grab a can of Coca-Cola from the fridge. He'd made some headway clear in the encroaching flora back from the edge of the yard, but there was no way to get all of it in one day. A eradicating it from the surrounding woods was going to take time. He could hear Max skittering around beyond the tree line, racing through the pretty new flowers to make sure nothing was hiding in them. Ever now and then the dog would race by where he was working and report in, getting quality head-scripts for his dedicated patrol work. Chip grinned at the sound of his dopey dog having the time of his life, despite his misery. His face fell when he heard Max yell, been surprised. Max, boy, you okay? What'd you get into, dummy? The sounds of light-hearted plays ceased, and the air filled with a low threatening growl. Chip set down his coat and jogged into the trees, following the sound of his dog's voice. He found him circling a thick patch of garlic mustard that had rained his way around an old oak tree, snarling at something of the dense growth. You okay boy? Come here. We'll check you out. Max did not budge. He remained fixated on a spot deep in the invasive weeds, growling with that low thunder that promised an ass whooping to whatever might be hiding there. Chip moved to take the dogbines collar and haul him in for inspection, but paused as he got a good look at the plants surrounding them deep in the woods. Now what the hell are you supposed to be? What grew here was different from the plants closer to the house. Their stems grew taller and thicker. Where normal garlic mustard grew pale, green stalks was serrated in the leaves. The stalks of these monstrosities were an unhealthy looking dark brown, and their leaves exploded outward, in poisonous looking clusters of a green that verged on black, edged in almost neon orange. In lieu of white blossoms, their stalks bore shiny clusters of thorns, ringed in oily looking black seed ponds. The air around them was a fetted bouquet of fermented garlic mixed with rotted meat and fertilizer. It was enough to make Chip's eyes water. The leaves that held Max's attention quivered, and something darted away through the brush. Max was off like a shot after it. Chip cursed and let out the short sharp whistle that Max understood meant to return to his side. Now the wolf dog drew up short and blind, looking back and forth from his dad to whatever it was he'd chased into the weeds. Here boy, Max, here. To Chip's relief, the dog's loyalty and training overcame his instinct, and he patted back to his side. Chip knelt down and ran his hands carefully over Max's coat, checking to see if he'd been bitten or otherwise injured. Max bore this indignity patiently until Chip was satisfied he was unharmed. After giving Max the command to sit and stay by his side, he turned his attention back to the strange weeds. Structurally, they seemed the same as the garlic mustard he'd yanked from the edge of his woods, deviation in color and presentation aside. Chip tried to tear one out by the root, a simple, if tedious task he'd performed hundreds of times that day. But the stem wouldn't give. He narrowed his eyes and tugged harder. The stalked been over parallel with the ground as he pulled, but the root would not yield with a grimace he hunkered down and really put his back into it, digging his heels into the dirt for traction. He thought he felt his shift and began to pull free when, inexplicably, it retracted back into the earth, slamming him face first into the forest floor. Max led out of wine and nosed at him, licking his face and giving his dad a once over of his own. Before Chip could even process what had just happened. Something slithered through the underbrush, and Max darted off again. Chip didn't even try to call him back this time, instead he shoved himself to his feet and took off after his best friend, delving deeper into the woods he had known all his life. The further he pressed into the trees, the more alien those familiar surroundings became. The strange, flame-tipped garlic mustard grew taller and denser. Till Chip knew he wasn't going to be able to make much more progress without a machete or a agit. He could hear Mack barking in the near distance, pushed on towards the sound, muscling inside stalks and stems until the strange greenery gave way, and he found himself in a clearing. He found the dog furiously sniffing the ground, his prey having apparently eluded it. Grateful to have a break from struggling through choking weeds, Chip slumped over, hands on his knees stretching out his back while he caught his breath. Gaze in a round him as he straightened. He realized he recognized the spot where Mack had led him. A narrow path led from its west end passed the edge of the trees under what had once been Aunt Betty's cornfield. The strange plants grew up along the edges of that trail, leaving it mysteriously untouched. Chip followed the path out of the trees to find they'd bordered the cornfield in the same fashion, leaving a ghostly impression of the old farm. For a moment he just stared at it, dumbfounded. The hateful plants were overrun in his land, but they seemed to be unable to find purchase in the rich soil that his aunt and her family had worked long and diligently for so many decades, according to the old ways. On the other side of the field, against the far edge of the woods where they circled back around, stood the old barn where Betty Collins had housed her plow until her. The structure had been built by his grandfather and his half-brother Kevin, and while it wasn't used for much more than storing a few shovels and bucket these days, Chip had kept it clean and tidy out of respect for the folks who came before. It was a solemn reminder of a time when the only work to be had was on the land under your feet. At the dam Garley mustard spread all the way around to the back woods he wondered as he walked slowly across the field, his dog at his heels, a shadow flickered in the corner of the barn, and Mac barked, going to tent set aside. Chip squinted. Something seemed to wriggle, almost slithering alongside of the structure. The dog let out another bark and charged ahead, Mac, no, leave it! Chip thundered after the dog, grateful for all the time he put in running over the past few years on the advice of his doctor. Up ahead he could see his dog snapping and snarling at something around the corner of the barn. Mac, leave it! The gray and black dog let out a surprised yelp and Chip felt his heart leap into his chest, afraid that he might have been bitten by some critter. Mac was up to date on all his shots so he didn't really fear rabies, but infection could easily set up in a bot. He was not prepared, however, for the side that greeted him as he rounded the corner of the old structure. His dog, stiff-legged and growling deep low in his chest, the fur rippling up his spine and faced off with a thick, writhing tentacle. He could be nothing other than cutsoon. Though it was like no other example of its kind, Chip had ever seen. His vines were three fingers thick and of a green so deep it bordered on black and the hairs that sprouted along its length with the same poisonous orange color he had noticed on the clusters of garlic mustard. Its heart-shaped leaves were unnaturally large and edged in that same orange, as if the invasive plant had some sort of infection. And it was moving. He could see this stuff growing. Its vines spreading over the outer wall of the barn, anytime Mac approached it, a thick tendril would whip away from the main body of its growth, lashing at the dog as if it knew it had to defend itself from an attacker. The dog let out a vicious snog, prepared to lunge again, a chip not hold of its collar, pulled him away from the spreading contagion, and none too soon, cutsoon is known. Known for the speed with which it spreads. Nick named Myle Minute and the vine that ate the south by frustrated farmers for generations. Chip had watched Aunt Betty fight the stuff at time or two in his youth, but this was beyond anything he had ever seen or imagined in his worst nightmares. As he watched in dumb struck horror, the impossible grow spread up the walls and over the roof, the structure beneath disappearing in a heavy curtain of green and toxic horror. It seemed almost as if the kudzu took a deep breath. Its leaves trembling in the breeze as it consumed the old barn and began to squeeze. Woodrow and metal screamed and Chip Collins pulled the leash he always tucked into his pocket as a precaution on his morning runs and clipped it to his dog's collar as the entire structure collapsed. Born to the ground under the writhing power of those unnatural lies. Without a second thought, Chip tugged on the leash and started running. The dog followed him with a question, rapidly pulling ahead until he was all but dragging his dad through the woods as they raced for the dubious safety of the house. When the walls close in and the light gets swallowed in there ain't no place that feels like home. The ones you love concern and the strangers and you cast your eyes through the winding road. Take your foot on the gas, your eyes straight forward clear hard in mind. Bessily them goes behind when the hearth grows cold. There's no where, then your mind is where, when dogs cause run like hell. Behind four walls and a sturdy door secured with a deadbolt, Chip took a moment to regroup. He ran his hands carefully over Max Ferd checking for injuries but the dog was unscathed. The Yelpied let out must have been more from surprise than any actual harm done. He topped his boy's water bowl off and down to glass himself a four heading upstairs to clean up. In the shower he went over the day's events in his head, his mind struggling to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Whatever was happening was outside of his understanding of how the natural world worked. Garlic mustard and even kudzu simply couldn't not spread so fast, let alone perceptively grow as he watched it and lash out at his dog. And yet he had seen it. He had spent the better part of the day ripping out the garlic mustard but had made little progress and that the kudzu was any example, he doubted he would be able to eradicate it by simply rooting it out. As much as he hated the idea, the situation warranted a more drastic approach. After his shower, Chip dressed again and headed out to the tool shed in his backyard where he stored items best kept away from the garage or any structure attached to the house. Such as the industrial grade flame thrower, he occasionally used to clear particularly dense and difficult brush. He pulled on safety goggles and a pair of heavy flame retardant gloves and headed back out into the woods. He attacked the kudzu first, considering it the greater threat given what he'd witnessed earlier. He blasted the vine, blanked it remains of the old barn with a jet of flame, following the hateful vine across the property and back to its source, at least as far as he was able. He was not surprised to find that the mutant weed originated on the opposite side of the fence that bordered his land. What lay beyond, of course, belonged to the Cumberland Valley of Thorne. Chip leaned over the fence and burned as much of it as he could without actually setting foot on CVA property, then set about scouring the rest of the acreage for other signs of it or the garlic mustard. It was strange, she thought, how both seemed to skirt the edges of the fields where he had once helped any petty plant crops, following the signs according to the old ways that her mama taught her. Who would have been Chip's memo June, though she had died before he was born? It would take some time for the land to rebound from the devastation he was currently unleashing on the invasive flora, but perhaps he could plant a new in those old fields and help speed its recovery. As the sun dipped below the horizon, and shadows stretched long across the grass growing thick beneath the canopy of trees, Chip turned back toward the house. It was growing too dark to know for certain what he was unleashing the flamethrower on, so common sense and safety demanded he pack it in for the night. He hoped whatever sprouts he might have missed didn't gain too strong a foothold while he and Max slipped. He took another shower, washing off the sweat and grime that accompanied wield in the powerful torch and fed Max from the big plastic minnowl pole that he kept secured in the pantry, safe from the wiles of clever dogs who might enjoy an extra unsanctioned snack. He pulled a cannon atty lot from the fridge and popped a TV dinner in the oven for himself, he aided appropriately while watching the news and his favorite chair in the din. He had cracked open another beer and was just settling in to wash the dukes of hazard when the sound first came to it. An odd buzzing noise. At first he thought some sort of insect must have gotten in the house a beer, a fly, and he stood up and flipped on the overhead light searching for the source of the insistent droning but could find no sign of anything. The noise grew louder and Chip realized it was coming not from within the house but from outside. Mac rose for his position on the rug by Chip's recliner and began to grow. Chip turned the overheads back off into the front door, peering for the darkened window on its right side as his hand reached for the switch to control the porch line. Illumination flooded the porch and he stumbled back in shock as much from what he could not see as what he could. Flies covered the glass. An oil slick black curtain of writhing bodies so thick he couldn't see beyond them to determine what if anything else might be outside. Their buzzing field is ears and he almost imagined he could hear their tiny limbs tapping on the surface of the windows as they crawled over its surface. Chip shuddered in revulsion, his hand slapping at the light switch as he backed away from the door, disgusted as he was and as little as he wanted to see this he walked around the house. Carefully checking every window both to determine whether this strange phenomenon affected only his porch. It didn't. And to ensure that all his doors and windows were shut tight, which they were. Mac followed close at his heels during this inspection. The rough affair on the back of his neck rippling. Every now and then he let it a low menacing growl and Chip could see the tension in his posture but he didn't bark. The inspection complete, Chip returned to his recliner. The dog settling back down in his customary spot on the rug watchful and alert. Reaching for the remote control, he turned the volume up on bow and loops antics to drown out the unceasing buzz. Though he found it hard to concentrate on the show, his eyes drank constantly to the curtain window to his left. Though his nerves were thrumming, raw with anxiety, nevertheless at some point Chip must have dosed off, exhausted by the work and stress of what had turned into a very long day. When he startled awake, the local television news anchors were signing off and advising him to stay tuned for the CBS late movie. At last the clock mounted on the wall behind the TV told him it was 1130. At his feet, Mac let out a growl. Chip used the remote to turn down the volume, his ears straining for that droning hum that had filled the air earlier. It was either gone or he had grown so accustomed to it that he was having trouble identifying it now. Reluctantly he turned to the window by the door and drew back the curtain. The flies were gone. Through the now blessedly clear glass, he could see the vague outline of a pair of tulip poplars in the front yard, silhouetted in the moonlight. Chip slumped in relief. He wasn't a particularly squeamish man, but flies had creeped him out ever since he saw the exorcist and whatever was going on out there tonight had been pure, not mere fuel. He gave an involuntary shutter at the thawed and drew the sheer privacy curtains back into place. He double-checked the locks on the door and proceeded into the kitchen for a glass of water. He wouldn't share what had awakened him, but it was time for bed. He had another long day ahead of him. There was little doubt of that. He poured his usual glass of water to take to bed and went to double-check that this door too was locked. As his hand touched the knob, something slammed him from the outside, rattling in its frame. Mac raised to his side, barking furiously. What the fuck? Heavy footsteps clattered on the back steps, and a high pitched cattling noise rose on the night air beyond the door. It sounded bizarrely similar to footage he had seen in nature documentaries of high images. But it wasn't quite like that. There was a certain piercing register too at that even those strange critters didn't quite reach, but it was the closest comparison that came to mind at Chip's side, Mac snore. Above them the upstairs floorboards rattled as something, something big from the sound of it landed on the roof. His heart and his throat chip ran upstairs to verify its structural integrity. What even was that? But everything appeared intact. At his side, Mac barked furiously at what were clearly a series of scuttling steps that thundered across the roof above their heads. He came to the windows to either side of the front door. Would they hold to get such a non-slot? Chip raced downstairs to the gun safe tucked in the corner of the hall closet. Chip pulled an M1 Grand. A weapon he had become proficient with during his time in the army from the safe, double checking that it was loaded in the safety arm. Something slandered the front door. Glass rattled but it didn't break. Not yet anyway. Heavy footsteps scuttled across the porch claws, skittering. It's a something like a raccoon or a possum. The size of a St. Bernard were racing across the wooden planks and whatever it was hurled itself at the door again. The frame groaned. From the kitchen he heard the phone began to ring. Keep it as high on the front door for as long as possible. He backed towards it. His hand reaching blindly for the spot where it hung on the wall. The long cord dragging over the floor as he pulled it back with him into the din where he could watch the door. Side, whatever was out there continued its assault. Hey there Rod. Chip was not surprised to hear Vincent Albright's oily, gradingly chipper voice when he raised the phone to his ear. How's your night going? I suspect you already know. What do you want Mr. Albright? Oh I just thought you might be able to make time for that little chat I mentioned. Say first thing tomorrow morning. Chip's thoughts raised. Tomorrow morning would be too soon. He needed time to prepare. Gritting his teeth he forced his voice to a steady polite register. An necessity he had perfected both over his years in the military and his time working with the public for the Department of Social Services. I have to work in the morning Mr. Albright. Would tomorrow even work for you? Why that would be fine. I'll even pick up dinner. And please Rod, do call me Vincent. Sure. I'll see you then. Vince, I look forward to it. There was a soft click as Albright hung up the phone. The house felt silent. Though Mac continued to growl, his fur was standing up down the length of his back. Chip walked quietly to the front door in his sock feet, avoiding the spots in the floor he knew were prone to creak and peered around the edge of the curtain. Seeing nothing from that vantage, he flipped on the porch slide and drew the curtain aside. The porch was empty. Mac let out a wine and Chip shushed him, listening intently. Nothing. Shoulder in his rifle, he turned off the light, drew the dead bolt, and turned the lock on the door knob, easing the door open to step cautiously under the darkened porch. The grand was equipped with a flashlight mounted on its barrel, should he need it. But for the moment, he preferred not to make himself such an easy target. He peered into the shadows surrounding the house, seeing nothing. With careful steps, he made a circuit of the house, searching for any sign of whatever the hell had attacked it and surveying the doors for any damage. He saw no one, and nothing. The house appeared secure. Finally, he retreated inside, locking the door behind him. Come on, Mac. The range he dug followed him upstairs to his bedroom, settling onto the comfortable cushion at the foot of the bed where he spent his nights. Still grumbling anxiously, Chip leaned the rifle against the wall by his nightstand, where it would be close at hand should the need arise. Though he didn't think it would. That wouldn't satisfy a man like Vincent Albright. No. He wanted the pleasure of wearing Chip down, of turning the screws until he agreed to sell. He was a closer, as he said. He prided himself on closing the sale, on getting his way. Well then, Pride go with before a fall, as his Aunt Betty used to say. Chip was up before the sun the next morning. He was not on shift today as he had told the CVA lawyer, but he did have a few errands to run. He first paid a visit to an old friend whom he knew to be an especially early riser. I haven't, like so many of Chip's own, that he had picked up on during his time in the military. Joseph Archibald Pierce was the proprietor of Joe Sir Plus and Sondries, the Army Sir Plus store on Route 16 near the county line. While its shelves were stocked with the usual ray of goods, one came to an expect from such an establishment, field jackets and duffel bags, combat boots and hunting knives, not to mention all manner of quality camping equipment. Chip knew that for a prize, Joe could provide certain other items that were a trifle harder to acquire. Joe had what Chip needed and then some. He'd anticipated swinging by Mavistell Hardware in town once the store opened, but as it turned out, that would be unnecessary. And what an attestroke to look. He was home before the first rays of morning sunshine kissed the mountains with shades of pink and gold. Chip unloaded his supplies in the garage and went into the kitchen to feed Mack and Clementine their breakfast. He let the dog out to do his business and locked both of them in the house. Miss Klim could avail herself of the litter box today. He had worked to do and they would both be safer inside. It was another long, hot day of back breaking outdoor labor, but by the time the sun began to sink below the treeline once again, Chip had showered and dressed in black canvas pants a black long sleeve tee and his trusty old combat boots. From his gun safe, he pulled a 9mm AR-15 with a sling attached. Arrival favored by many veterans as it was based on the same platform as the M16s they'd carried in the combat and was thus both reliable and familiar. He loaded extra magazines into a sturdy tactical backpack he picked up at Joe's that morning and secured his favorite pistol, a browning hop-hower and a holster at his waist. With the backup, he tucked his coat M1911 into his shoulder rig. He pulled on a pair of gloves and a lightweight black balaclava, slung the AR over one shoulder in the backpack over the other and let himself quietly out the kitchen door. Mack climbed and protested at being left behind, but Chip was firm. The dog would be safer inside. He circled around the side of the house, blending into the shadows cast by Aunt Betty's rotted endurance and other shrubs and scaled one of the old two-lifth poplar at the edge of the driveway. From this vantage point, he could see the front porch bathed in warm, welcoming light, as well as the long stretch of the drive, positioning himself so that he was both as secure and as comfortable as possible. He settled into weight. The first explosion came unsurprisingly from the woods at the southern end of the property. The same direction in which the Collins land bordered that which had been acquired over the decades by Hooker by Crook by the CVA. Inside the house, Mack began to bark. Chip held his position, pulling a pair of binoculars equipped with night vision from his backpack. A minute or two later, a second blast echoed up the drive from the north. He was not surprised to hear subsequent detonations from the east and west. Chip scanned the shadows with the binoculars, searching for any side of movement for a few moments. See in nothing, he shined down the tree and headed into the woods behind the house. Let's see who's come to dinner. You'd lay the series of traps near Chaplain's Creek where he'd first encountered the strange man from the CVA. They were, in essence, pit traps, rigged with stun grenades, commonly referred to as flashbangs. Situated far enough from the fence line that it was indisputable, anyone unfortunate enough to encounter them was certainly an intruder. Chip had walked the property line early that morning, ensuring that the no trespassing signs posted every few yards on his side of the fence were still present and intact. They weren't intended to kill, though when it confined space, the flashbangs would certainly incapacitate anyone unlucky enough to fall into the traps. Chip's backpack held, among other things, a medical kit containing a proper field turn to kit and other supplies he might need, to patch up some thug brought in by Vince Elbride to coerce him and deciding over his aunt's land. What he found when he reached the side of the first explosion was not that. When he pulled a flashlight from his pack and cast a slide over the sunken pit, maybe 50 yards from the creek, he couldn't quite make sense of what the hell he was seeing at first. There were what appeared to be bones for sure, or pieces of them at any rate, one long section looked to be part of a femur. Here, there was a dome piece that might have been a skull fragment that didn't seem right. The charges he'd used should not have been strong enough to tear a body apart this way. The bones themselves didn't look right either. Chip was no doctor. Hell, he only knew a little first aid he'd learned in the field, but these bones looked old. They were yellow and brittle and pitted in places. There was also no sign of the blood, which frankly should have painted the dirt if one of his traps had managed to blow some poor bastard to smithereen. There was more of that noxious black sludge. He had seen the first time he encountered Vincent Albright. The smell rise and off it was like some unholy combination of tar and the portable toilet you might find at an outdoor festival. And in that tarry substance, something white. Like maggots. The belt is gore-drives and he clicked off the flashlight back in a way. Whatever this was, there was clearly no one here he needed to summon medical aid for. Creeping carefully and quietly through the woods, using his not-vision specs to avoid the other traps he had set out that day, he made his way around to the other areas where they had been triggered. Found nothing but bones and stinking black-eaker. Insects, he noted, watching them struggle helplessly in the dirt attempting to drag themselves south towards CBA land that were clearly dying. Ship was circling back around, skirting the edge of the tree line, following the path of his driveway. When he heard a cacophonus, from the direction of his house, glass shattered and max furious barking rose on the night air. Someone screamed, abandoning his backpack, chipped, gripped his rifle and ran for the driveway, sprinting down the narrow gravel lane toward home. He found the man from the CBA, sprawled across his front porch steps. Two slabs of seemingly ancient stone, onto which had been carved the same sorts of sigils that adorned stones marking the four corners of the family property, placed there long ago by his grandmother. June, Norris, Gilbert Collins, according to Aunt Betty. Curseing furiously, Albright was buried beneath another 300 pounds of rock, dredged up from chaplain's creek that chip had rigged up in a dead fall trap that morning. The front door stood open. The windows to either side blown out by the impact or by something Albright had done himself. Max stood in the doorway blocking the future, teased snapping just shy the man's nose where he lay prone. The folly, black sludge wreaking up decay oozed underneath the rubble. Even in pints. Raj. So, good of you to join me for. A appointment. Bits and Albright spat out a mouthful of stinking black fluid. Something wrined and like larva. He'd eat the surface of his cheek, chip could see something long and thin, like a worm or a synopeic crawling. A moment later, he walked as it rides over the surface of the man's eye, disappearing under his eyelid. Chips swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. I could use a little help here, Raj. I can make it. You're worth your while. Oh yes, I can make you a very, very sweet deal in me. Doesn't look to me like you're in any position to be offering anybody a goddamn thing, Bits. Chip raised his rifle to his shoulder, peering down the side at the struggling thing, bleeding out black on his porch. Raj. What are you doing? You told you don't want to do this. I'm a very important man. I have to see you. You'll only bring more troubles for your self-raud. Please. Nobody calls me Raj, boy. My name is Chip. Chip's finger tightened on the trigger, and he put the thing writhing on his porch. An avatar of the swarm that had hauled out the skin of a young man named Vincent Albright. And made him part of its time out of its misery. The next morning was a Sunday, though there would be no rest for Chip Collins, there was after all more work to do. With Bucket and Shubble and the flame thrower in his tool shed, he erased what remained of Vincent Albright, and the other things sent on to his property by the Cumberland Valley Authority. He searched for more of the garlic mustard in the strange mutant Kutsu Vine that had destroyed the old barn by what had once been the cornfield but could find no trace of it. He had built sure it would take time to root out the last of the invasive species, and he would keep a weather eye out. But for now, it appeared to have been eradicated by the first scorching. On the afternoon, he drove into town to buy a new door and supply wood to board up the windows until he could get the glass replaced. And that even meant his old friend Gary Jesse at Chaco's for a burger and a few beers. Maybe a shot or two or something stronger. You heard any more from that dude in the CBA, Vinny, whatever his name was? No, last time I spoke to him, I made it pretty clear I'm not interested in selling. I don't expect I'll be hearing from him again. Gary Chaco. So what you're saying is you cussed a man out. Who me? When have you ever known me to be anything less than polite? I am a gentleman of manners, sir. Gary Jesse hooded with laughter. He keeps telling yourself that bud. Maybe one day it'll even be true. Chip signaled the bartender for another round of shots and the two of them clink glasses and knocked the tequila back. The liquor burned all the way down. Maybe if he drank enough of it, Chip used. He could burn away the memory of the things he had seen the night before. On Monday a letter appeared in his mailbox mixed in with the light bill and usual stack of ad circulars and catalogues. The return address was a local PO box and the smooth heavyweight stationary within featured the logo of the CVA. Its message was brief and to the point. Many and all previously tendered offers from the Cumberland Valley Authority to purchase the property found at the location to which the letter was addressed were hereby rescinded. No reply was necessary. Well, hey there family. How's that for wrapping up the penultimate arc of season five of old gods of afflacha? Run like hell. You think old swarmy would know better than to keep trying those thresholds protected by the blood of Walker women now wouldn't you? Let's give it up for Cam Collins for taking us back to Mavisdale where the women are strong, the land is corrupted and the children are probably cursed. So don't go buying any of that fundraiser chocolate from them family. This does bring us to the home stretch of season five. Our next episode checks off a brand new story arc in a brand new time but once again, some very familiar places. We hope y'all will join us as we put this season to bed. And this is your y'all had to ask what was worse than evil pumpkins reminder that old gods vaffelaches are production of deep nerd media and is distributed by Rusty Quill. Today's story was written and produced by Cam Collins and Steve Schell. Our theme song is by brother Landon Blood and our outro music Stones Throw is by John Charles Dwyer. We'll talk to you soon family. Make myself worth it that I don't know the difference in hunger and purpose anymore. Some find in myself outside and midnight and throw the same questions that are carrying my whole life. Can I lost how I get here but always know I always know what stones throw to the window for the person I'm trying to be. I'm trying to be. I'm trying to be. I'm trying to be. I'm trying to be. I'm trying to be. I'm trying to be. All that I want is to fade with grace. Looking across teams is tough but Asana helps you handle it. Asana AI can spot roadblocks and assign work to keep everything on track. That's how work is handled. Visit us at Asana.com. Hey, it's Anna and Mandy from our podcast Sisters in the City and we're currently sponsored by the Department for Work and Pensions. Life's busy and admin gets forgotten but if you're claiming benefits, listen up. If something changes you need to tell DWP otherwise you could face a penalty. That could be a partner moving in even if they keep their own place or if your car doubles up as a taxi and a family car, you must only report work related costs or forgotten savings like premium bonds. To find out if you need to report a change, search tell DWP. Dating apps. Easy. Online shopping. Simple. Banking app. Sorted. Life admin. Ugh. That's what a digital ID could change and the government is opening a conversation to make it work for you. Your voice will shape the final product. So search digital ID consultation to have your say. Digital ID. Making public services work for you.