Duck

By Marlin Eller

Herman Weil was a butcher. He ran a small shop in downtown Wardburg. Usually he closed his shop right at 7:00 but this Thursday evening some friends had dropped by to chat and one thing led to another and it was nearly 11:00 PM when he finally closed and locked the door. He dropped the key into his pocket and turned to go home. He heard a strange, “whoop, whoop..” sound growing rapidly closer. He looked up to see what it could possibly be when off in the distance he heard a faint cry of, “Duck!” But he didn’t … and he died.

I’m a journalist, a newspaper reporter. I work for the Daily Blurb. Usually, I work the graveyard shift in the dead of night from midnight to 8 A.M. When the police get a strange case in the middle of the night I’m the one that gets to cover it for the morning paper, and believe me, this case was one of the strangest this town had ever seen.

When I got to the crime scene, the police were all over the area, taking pictures, dusting for prints and talking to the few people on the street to see if they had actually seen anything. The body had already been covered up with a sheet. I asked the police chief if I could have a look.

He told me, “OK, but you’d better have a pretty strong stomach.” He walked over to the body with me and lifted up the corner of the sheet so I could peer in. It was so horrifying I thought I’d throw up. Herman’s head had been completely removed from his body. It lay tucked up under his armpit. It had not been cleanly severed off as if with a sword or a knife but looked more as if it had been torn off or ripped off with a blunt instrument like a spoon or a stick.

The chief looked at me as he lowered the cloth back over Herman. “Pretty grizzly,” was all he said. I could tell he was more shaken than he wanted to let on.

“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” I asked removing my pad and pencil from my pocket to take notes for the morning paper.

“ Never in my thirty three years of police work.”

“ Did anybody see anything?” I asked.

“No, the streets were deserted when it happened. John Borst was the one that discovered the body and called us. You’ll probably want to interview him, but he doesn’t know anything, just came across the body on his way home.”

“Do you have any idea who or what could have done that to Herman?” I asked.

The police chief shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t have a clue. I think we can rule out suicide and I don’t think he cut himself shaving. I don’t know whether it was man or beast that did this to him and I’m not sure I want to find out. I’m just afraid that I may have to look at another citizen in this position before we can close this case.”

I shuddered at the thought as I scribbled down the notes.

-

Three days later on Sunday night just after dusk at about 8 o’clock Thomas Kingsly was on his way home from the 6 o’clock mass at St. Wolverton’s. He’d decided for no particular reason that he’d take the path alongside the river. No one knows what he was thinking about when he heard someone yell, “Duck!” He didn’t... and he died.

The second incident did not happen on my shift so I didn’t cover it, but by all accounts it was just as gruesome as the first. Thomas had had his head savagely torn from his shoulders, so violently that it had landed over twenty feet from his body. There were no other marks on the body and just like the first murder there appeared to be no reason for the attack. It was pure random pointless violence.

The whole town of Wardburg shuddered and wondered when and if it would happen again. They did not have long to wait. Only one day later on Monday afternoon just after school had let out, Peter Johnson raced to the park. He liked to be the first one there because he could get his choice of the swings. So intent was he on his running he did not hear the “whoop, whoop..” sound whistling through the air toward him. Someone cried out, “Duck!” But he didn’t… and he died.

Monday night I was on swing shift when a short very black man came in and wanted to talk to a reporter. They sent him to me. He introduced himself to me as William “Iron Bill” Greenants.

“From your accent,” I said, “I’d guess you come from Australia.”

“That’s correct,” he said. “I am of the omo’oloo and I need your help in preventing any more of these attacks on your people.”

My ears perked up at this and I gave him m full attention. “Do you have any idea what has been causing these horrible murders?”

“Oh yes, I most certainly do. It is the coming of the Owajeecumka. It has been predicted by my people for over a hundred years.”

“I see,” I said, thought of course you only say that when in fact you don’t see a thing and are beginning to think that you’re dealing with a nut case. “Let me get the spelling correct. Is that ‘Owajeekumka’ with a ‘K’ or ‘Owajeecumca’ with a ‘C’?”

“The first is a ‘C’ and the second is a ‘K’, but that is not important. What is important is that you warn the people in this town that they must listen for the throwing stick, ‘whoop, whoop’ and duck when I cry or they will be hit.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “this throwing stick; do you mean a boomerang?”

He blinked his eyes at me as if I had asked a particularly stupid question. He seemed to be sizing me up, trying to determine if it was worth his time to be talking to me. It is possible that he gave me that look because I must have been giving him the same look of wondering whether it was worth my time to try talking to an obviously crazy person.

After a short silence he seemed to have made up his mind and said, “ I can see that this will take longer than I had thought. I do not have much time, for the Owajeecumka does not wait, but I must warn the people and you will need the story.

“My people have a legend, that they have told around the campfires for years. They tell of the time when the Owajeecumka, a kind of were-duck will rise out of the outback and try to cleanse the earth of all innocent and good people. The Owajeecumka does this to bring about an evil age when only the evil will be permitted to live. None will seed it rise out of the desert, but the true warrior will know.

“It’s powerful supernatural wings will take it anywhere in the world. It will study humans carefully and one day start to kill. At first, the killing comes slowly as the duck learns to rend flesh with its iron hard bill, and then it goes faster and faster for the duck grows stronger and larger as the evil grows.

“There is only one way to stop the duck. Shortly after it begins it’s killing spree but before it has grown too fast and large it must be knocked from the skies with a throwing stick. Only a young warrior from my clan who has bee trained from birth to battle the Owajeecumka will be able to throw the boomerang fast enough to destroy the duck.

“I have been so trained, as was my father before me and his father before him. It is the reason that I am given the name ‘Iron Bill’ for that is the translation of Owajeecumka. I am here to stop the duck.

“I must catch it just as it is about to strike down a human for it only opens its bill at the last moment to tear the head off and it can only be killed if a sacred throwing stick is thrown right down its throat.

“The last three people that the duck has killed could have lived if they would only have listened to me. I warned them to duck and I made my throw but they kept looking up to see the duck and I could not get a clear shot.

“You must tell my story in your newspaper and tell the people not to worry for ‘Iron Bill’ is here to save them, but they must, they absolutely must duck when I warn them.

“And now I must go. I have taken too long and I am sure that the Owajeecumka is ready to strike again.”

And as he finished his story he rose from the chair near my desk and hurried out into the night. It was such an incredible story I didn’t really believe it, but since it was a good story I figured that it wouldn’t hurt to print it. No one had any better explanation for the murders.

I spent about an hour getting it typed up as an opinion piece for the morning edition when I got a surprise call from the police chief. He called to tell me that there had been another murder, but this one was different. This time they had caught a suspect in the process of committing the crime. I asked him if it was a big duck and he asked me if I was crazy. I told him that I was just joking around and that I’d come right over.

It took me just ten minutes to get to the scene of the crime. Again there was a body lying on the ground with the head torn completely off. This time though it was a lady. Looked like someone’s mother. The chief called my attention to the murder weapon lying near the body on the ground, a boomerang splattered with blood.

Sure enough the suspect that they had handcuffed was “Iron Bill” Greenants. He was arguing with the policeman that had him by the arm but I was too far away to hear what he was saying.

“We caught him this time,” said the police chief. “Some college kids heard him yelling, ‘Duck’ over in the bushes there by the corner of the park. They saw him stand up and throw the boomerang and when they looked over in the direction that he threw it they saw the victim hit in the neck by the boomerang. It tore her head clean off. They immediately jumped on the guy as he was heading off to collect the weapon and once they had him knocked down one of them called us.”

The police chief seemed pretty pleased with himself, and well he should be. He had his suspect. He had good reason to believe that the killings were over, but I wanted to hear what Greenants had to say. I moved closer and heard the policeman holding him say, “Come on now, settle down. You’re not going to get away and you’ll be getting a fair trial.”

“But you don’t understand,” pleaded Greenants. “The Owajeecumka will not stop. He will get stronger. He is ready to grow now. I can feel it. I must stop him now! Later will be too late.”

“Well, you can tell that to the judge,” said the policeman, “but you are going nowhere but into the back of this police car now.”

Greenants started to struggle but he was much smaller than the policeman who had a very firm grip on him. I stepped up and asked the policeman if I could speak with the suspect before he was hauled off.

“He doesn’t have to say anything without a lawyer,” I was told. I assured the cop that I would not violate the suspect’s rights and said, “OK Bill, tell me what happened.”

He looked at me with pleading eyes. “You must help me. There is no time for newspaper story. It is happening now. I almost had him.”

I didn’t know what to believe. I tried to imagine him as a cold-blooded killer and just couldn’t do it.

“When will it happen?” I asked.

“Now. Right now. His is nearby and almost ready again. He is growing so fast now. I need my throwing stick. I almost had him. I know I hit him but he had already snapped his bill shut.”

Even thought they were cuffed behind his back he shook his hands and repeated urgently, “I must be freed now!”

The policeman holding him said in a calm but stern voice, “there is no chance of that. You’re going to be coming down to the station with us.”

“Just a minute,” I said. “Let me talk to the police chief.”

I hailed him over and asked if there was anyway that Greenants could be set free.

“Absolutely not!” exclaimed the police chief. “He’s a suspect for a gruesome series of murders.”

“Just a moment,” I said. “Hear me out. I have a proposal. I just need ten minutes.” I looked over at Greenants and asked, “Will that be enough?” His eyes looked wild and he nodded violently grasping for any method that would set him free. Then I said to the chief, “You set him free and take him back over where the bushes are. You can stand right next to him. Give him back his boomerang.”

“I can’t do that,” explained the chief. “That’s evidence. I can’t have him touch that.”

“But he will testify that it is his, won’t you, Bill?” I said.

“Oh yes, it is mine. I will testify. I will swear.”

The police chief looked skeptical. “Why should we be doing this?”

“Because,” I said, “there is just a chance, just a very small chance, that there is more to this affair than meets the eye, and I am willing to risk the ten minutes to see if it is so. You give him back his stick, take him back to the bushes and leave me standing here by the body. You leave him alone and you let him throw the stick at me if he wants. You give him ten minutes. If he kills me, then you have an airtight case against him and if he doesn’t then you take him down to the station and book him for the murders with the eyewitnesses you currently have.”

The police chief did not look very happy. “You’d be taking a pretty big risk. I can’t let you do that. I can’t just give a murderer his weapon back and offer to let him kill again.”

“I don’t think he is a murderer,” I told the chief. “Remember the ‘innocent till proven guilty’ stuff. I think he deserves the ten minutes to prove he is innocent and if he kills me, it was my choice to take this course of action, not yours. I am pleading with you to let me take this risk.”

The chief looked at me suspiciously and said, “I still don’t get it.”

“Just do it,” I said. “Do it now.”

He looked disgusted as he said to the policeman holding on to Greenants, “Uncuff him and give him his stick.”

We all took our positions, the police watching Greenants closely, Greenants watching me, and me over next to the dead woman watching the sky.

It was a dark night with storm clouds roiling overhead and the taste of static electricity on one’s tongue. The rain was not yet falling but you could tell it would soon be coming in big wet splats announcing a real downpour. The city was eerily silent except for a soft, “whoop, whooping” of a distant helicopter.

I looked over at Bill who was standing in a relaxed crouch with his right arm poised for throwing. He looked like a cat eyeing a bird getting ready to pounce. The police on either side looked very nervous wondering if they were just supposed to stand there and watch him murder me in cold blood.

I wondered if I had made a really big mistake, as the sound of the helicopter grew suddenly louder. Off in the distance I heard of cry of, “Duck,” and I started to look up to see what is was when suddenly I remembered to fall to the ground as fast as I could. The sound overhead was loud and distinct, a “whoop, whoop” coming from one side, a “whoosh” from another direction, a sound like “Quack” except that the “ak” part went on too long, “aahkkkkk..” as if someone was choking on a stick of something and the final sound was a “thud/whack” like a wet sack of feathers hitting the pavement.

“You killed her, you dirty little…” I heard the policeman yell over the sounds of a struggle and it took just a moment for me to realize that they thought Greenants had killed me. They had seen him throw, had seen me fall and seen something that could have been my head hit the pavement.

“Wait,” I called. “Stop. Leave him alone. I’m OK.” I started to stand and the sounds of the struggle ceased.

“You’re OK?” I heard the incredulous voice of the police chief. “I was sure I saw your head knocked off.”

“No, I’m fine, really,” I said and we all hurried over to see what it was that lay on the ground.

We looked down at the wet mass of feathers and the police chief exclaimed, “Why, it’s nothing but a duck! He hit the duck with his boomerang. Looks like he got it jammed right down his throat. Wait a minute.” He looked closer and so did we all.

“That’s not like any duck I ever saw,” he said. “Look at that bill. It’s made completely of iron.”

I told him, “I bet if you’ll send that duck’s bill into the police lab you’ll find traces of blood from all the murder victims. There is your suspect, gentlemen.”

The chief wasn’t sure what to believe anymore but that thing lying before his eyes could not be ignored. “We will still need to keep Mr. Greenants in custody to answer some questions,” he said.

I looked over at Iron Bill and he just said, “That is fine. I have much time now. I can answer all questions. The Owajeecumka will not come back for hundreds of years.”

“What do you mean, ‘come back’?” I asked.

“Oh yes, it will arise again out of the outback as it has many times before, but I will go back home and tell my sons what I have seen, and they will tell their sons, who will tell their sons and when the Owajeecumka is ready there will be another ‘Iron Bill’ waiting for him.”

I thanked him for saving me and he tossed it off. “No,” he said, “the thanks are all to you. If you had not persuaded the chief to release me and if you had not stood in its path the world would have been in a very deep misery. Your are the one that deserves the thanks.”

I blushed and said, “I’m just a reporter doing my job, and that reminds me, I have one hell of a story to write up for the morning edition and I need to get back to work.”

I started to walk back to the office when an idea hit me. I stopped, turned and yelled, “Duck!” Greenants hit the pavement instantly and the policeman next to him looked up at the sky and said, “Where?”

I chuckled to myself and heard Iron Bill start to laugh as the policeman continued to look around saying, “Is there another one? Where? I don’t see it? Are you guys kidding me? What’s going on?”

As I walked back to the newspaper office I thought about how to end the story and could not come up with anything better than he way it all began. I saw someone standing alone when off in the distance he heard someone cry, “Duck,” but he didn’t… and he died.