Another Day In The Corn

The fly-car roared down low over Trevor Collins' head, too low, the stench of adolescent male body odour and beer assaulting his nose as the jeering laughter of the vehicle's occupants and the grumbling of its engines hammered at his eardrums. His trench-coat billowed out behind him from the exhaust fumes ? nothing more than hot water vapour ? as he struggled to bring the two severely spooked, purebred hunting beagles, Hunter and Tracks, under control, alternating between shaking his fist at the receding contraption and tugging harshly on the leashes. In the confusion, he fumbled the shotgun tucked into the crook of his arm, but grabbed it by the barrel before it could hit the ground.

"Idiots!" He growled under his breath, his unshaven face bristling with anger. He raised the sights of the shotgun to his eye in a single motion, moving with the fluidity that came from so many years of practise. He had no intention of shooting them, of course, and he kept his finger well clear of the trigger, but it made him feel much better just to know that he could. They were halfway to the horizon by now, but Trevor's eyes were just as sharp and as blue as the day he was born, and he clearly saw the empty beer can fall from the open window of the vehicle. Adjusting the aim of the gun slightly, he followed its descent with the crosshairs and blasted it out of the air with a single clean shot, by the looks of it scratching the fly-car's paintjob in the process. The vehicle swerved violently to one side, then jerked to a stop in mid ? air. The indecipherable strains of an argument drifted towards Trevor on the wind; they seemed to be deciding whether or not to go back for him. Leisurely, he reloaded the gun. They could just try him.

Fortunately (or unfortunately; he couldn't decide which) the occupants of the fly-car decided to keep going, and it lurched forward with an unnecessary burst of speed.

Slowly, he lowered the shotgun, returning it to the crook of his arm, and absently patted his coat pocket. Yes, the document was still there, undisturbed by the momentary gust.

Hunter and Tracks had calmed down by now and, if he knew his beagles, had completely forgotten that anything had happened in the first place. The incident with the hooligans was probably the most excitement they would have for weeks, months even, but he was damned if a dog could remember anything for more than five minutes besides where its food was and what a rolled-up newspaper felt like.

Trevor stared out over the cornfields on his left and sighed, running his fingers through his iron-grey hair. For twenty years he had done this work, twenty years that had given his stocky but muscular build the slightest of stoops and set his striking good looks on the road towards cragginess.

There was a rustling in the corn off to the right, as a fat, white bird rose up into the air, flapping furiously to gain momentum and height. He picked it off easily without even bothering to look at the crosshairs and sent Hunter off to fetch the body. Tracks, meanwhile, whined about having to wait his turn and twisted the leash around his legs with his fretting. Trevor sighed again and scratched his slightly wind-burned nose with a grubby fingernail.