Devolution by Zoey Knowlton

Devolution by Zoey Knowlton

Dan woke to the sound of screaming hens. Glanced at the clock. Shit, it’s 2:47 in the morning. Must be foxes or raccoons. Dan pulled up his sweats, then threw on his rain boots and grabbed his .22 rifle, the one he always kept by the door in case of nighttime visitors. The screaming reached a fever pitch, then cut off suddenly.

Gun in hand, Dan flicked on the back porch light and threw open the screen door. He leveled the gun and looked toward the chicken run. The bastards always try to run when the lights turn on. Dan was ready, though. 

As light flooded out from the house, the yard fell completely silent. There was a stillness in the air that ran chills down Dan’s spine. He traced a line across the chicken run with the barrel of his rifle, looking for movement. In the corner, between the coop and surrounding fence, a tuft of orange fur poked out. Gotcha, you sonuvabitch. 

Dan fired. His bullet must have hit the fox squarely, at least by Dan’s calculation. The fur jolted as the bullet ripped into the fox, but that was it. No real movement. No sudden shriek. Not even a whimper. Dan lowered the rifle in bewilderment. Cautiously, he stepped forward, his gun lowered, but hands tight on the firearm. 

The fox was dead alright, but not because Dan had shot it. Its fur was soaked with fresh blood, skin torn. Near its stomach, Dan saw some intestines spilling out onto the ground. Steam rose from the fox’s mangled corpse, the body still hot, meeting the cold night air. What the Hell happened to you? Now, more unsettled than before, Dan looked for the chickens. Oddly, they were nowhere to be seen. A fox attack should have resulted in feathers all over the ground, and at least a few birds should be milling about after the scare. But it appeared that they were all still in the coop, and far from panicked now. Dan heard some rustling and soft cooing, but nothing like the screams from before. Maybe a raccoon had met the fox as they had both approached the chicken coop. Maybe the predators fought and one ran off to leave the fox to die. Shit, maybe it was a bobcat.

Dan glanced at the chicken coop. He had always been proud of it, a large walk-in coop that was the aesthetic twin of his own house. It even had a front door identical to his, save for the small doggy door that he used as the main entry for the chickens themselves. Shit, I forgot to lock that last night. Yes, the small door on the front was open, but he couldn’t see any signs of a scuffle. No signs of a fox, raccoon, or cat trying to drag one of the flock out. Dan didn’t trust it, though. He imagined a large bobcat waiting for him inside, muscles taut and ready to pounce. Dan walked cautiously toward the door to the coop, reaching for the latch on the large oak door that would let him see the entire interior. His other hand gripped the rifle tight, ready to draw it up. The sliding bolt clicked open, and Dan slowly turned the door handle down. He took a step back as the door cracked open. Dan raised the rifle up again. Using the barrel, he nudged the door to the coop fully open. The inside remained cloaked in shadow.

& & &

Alejandra sighed as she turned down the long dirt driveway. She had been about to draw a bath and light some candles, but of course Richards had called. So much for the start of a relaxing weekend. 

Alejandra wasn’t strictly required to answer the phone for Richards, but in a town as small as theirs, word would get around if she started ignoring the Sheriff. And, as the town’s only veterinarian, she got called in whenever law enforcement needed help with some animal or another. Mostly raccoons squatting in a house after the resident had passed away. Still, in some ways, Alejandra was grateful. At least she got to re-home the animals humanely, instead of letting the deputies handle all of their problems with their service weapons. The extra cash the Sheriff slipped her wasn’t so bad, either.

As Alejandra pulled her dented Camry around the corner, three cars, lights flashing, sat parked in front of the house. Too many for a raccoon. Alejandra was glad she had recently cleaned the tranquilizer rifle she kept in her trunk. She had a feeling she would be dealing with something bigger. A cougar, or a bear. As she slowed her car to a stop, Sheriff Richards stepped out into the driveway to greet her.

“Evenin’ Dr. Lopez.”

“Hey, Ben, how are you?” 

Ben Richards rarely let anyone address him by his first name, but Alejandra Lopez and he went all the way back to elementary. He was about two years her junior, but had always found her to be likeable and kind, if not a little blunt.

“Well, I’ve been better. We’re dealin’ with something strange here. I”ll be honest, I don’t know what to make of it. We got a body back there that’s been mauled somethin’ fierce. But I can’t tell-”

“Did you say a body? As in a human body?” 

Sheriff Richards nodded. 

“Ben, I don’t do bodies. I do animals.” 

“I get that, Dr. Lopez. Truly. But I called you because you may be the only person to help us with this. Poor man has wounds all over his body. Top, bottom, front, back. And chunks missing. Looks like something may have been eating him. As deep as those gashes are, there doesn’t seem to be any, uh, pieces of him left lying around.”

“That could be anything. Look where we are. Could have been coyotes, foxes. Hell, even just scavenging birds. We’re in the fucking woods.”

“Dr. Lopez, please. I need you to stay calm. Look, we thought of all that, but the one thing we can tell you is that all of the wounds, all of them, are fresh. Whatever got him may still be around. There isn’t any blood trail leading away from the scene. Just a big puddle.”

“I mean, fuck. And you called me? What the Hell am I supposed to do about this?”

“We just need your thoughts, that’s all.” 

“Fine. Show me.”

& & &

“Watch your step, Dr. Lopez.”

Blood was pooled all over the ground. Even in the muck that was the chicken yard, Alejandra could see the blood spreading around the body of the farmer, sectioned off by crime scene tape. Alejandra looked at the nearby chicken coop. Coop may have been underselling it – it was more akin to a chicken palace. The exterior matched the farmhouse in style and trim, even boasting the scalloped eaves of the farmhouse itself. Alejandra approached the walk-in coop apprehensively. 

“Did your men make sure there were no large animals inside?”

“We shined a flashlight around and didn’t see anything, miss.” An awkward deputy shuffled forward. “But I can go with you, if you’d like.”

“Yes, thank you. Hand me a spare light?”

Alejandra and the deputy stepped inside the coop. Feathers ruffled as the scraping of avian feet shuffled around. Some of the flock let out soft trills, cocking their heads to get a good look at the intruders. Alejandra looked all around, for some clue of a bigger predator. Claw marks, dead chickens, maybe a hole in the bottom of the coop that it had escaped through as the deputies approached. But there was nothing so noticeable. Alejandra was about to turn around and exit the coop when she saw them.

Two of the chickens, tucked in the corner, had blood on their talons and dark red smudges in the feathers under their beak. Their heads twisted and turned, trying to preen the blood from their necks and chests. The blood was fresh. Alejandra motioned toward the corner, and the deputy (she never had learned his name), turned his attention to it. As he squinted toward the birds, they stopped preening and cocked their heads at the pair of intruding humans.

“Hey, is that bl-”

The chickens lunged toward the deputy, fluttering up and shrieking. The deputy fell sideways into the surrounding hens, causing an explosion of feathers and squawking as birds panicked. Some ran outside, while others fluttered into each other, shrieking over the sound of the screaming deputy. Alejandra threw her own hands in front of her face and bolted out the door, but she could hear the deputy’s screams over the agitated birds. Sheriff Richards and his men charged in. Kicking wildly, they tried to get the hens off of the terrified deputy.

“The bloody ones.” The deputy managed to yell out as another deputy dragged him from the frenzied birds and into the coop’s corner.

Sheriff Richards and the remaining deputies opened fire on the remaining birds. Gunfire echoed around the farm and chicken feathers flew.

& & &

“So, Dr. Lopez, what can you tell us?”

“Well, Ben, you didn’t give me much to work with. Less than half a chicken’s worth of parts. But there is something pretty strange about the beak I have here. It’s got… teeth. Like, sharp, pointy teeth. It’s strange, for sure. How’s deputy, uhhh….”

“His name’s Petey, Dr. Lopez. And he’ll be fine. A bit embarrassed to be scared of a couple hens, but I’m sure he’ll get over that too. So why’d the birds try to come after him like that?”

“I don’t know. But I’m going to try and find out. I’ll call you if I get anything. Tell Petey… well, tell him about the teeth and that maybe it was some form of rabies or something. Let him get some dignity back.” 

Ben Richards chuckled as Alejandra hung up the phone. She turned back to the chicken fragments, looking for other clues. Aside from the teeth, nothing seemed out of place. She decided to call an old friend. One of her old professors from veterinary school, Dr. Adrian Garcia.

“Hola, Dr. Garcia, it’s me. It’s Alejandra Lopez.”

“Dios mio. Allie? It’s been too long, mija.”

“Good to talk to you, too. Hey, so I have a weird request. I got called into a crime scene the other night and found something really odd.”

“A crime scene? What are you now, some sort of investigadora?”

“No, just a broke-ass vet with a side-hustle.”

“Haha, that is why I always liked you. Okay, so what is this strange thing?”

“It’s chickens. So, this farmer died. He was torn apart. It looked like parts of his were ripped by teeth, like he was being eaten. No evidence of other animals. And then these chickens fucking attacked us, and the cops shot them with a shotgun. Anyway, I have a beak. Or at least something like a beak. There’s teeth, sir. Like canines. Predator teeth.”

“That can’t be right.” Dr. Garcia talked more to himself than to Alejandra. “Okay, so chickens. They can’t have teeth because when the beak forms, teeth can’t grow from it, verdad? Some chickens look like they have teeth, but then their beaks would be deformed. Allie, was the beak normal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Huh, looks like you have yourself a regular dinosaur.”

“Dinosaur?”

“Si. The chicken is one of the closest living relatives of the Tyrannosaurus. Maybe you have yourself some sort of evolved lifeform. Or, devolved, if you will.” Adrian Garcia chuckled at his own joke. Alejandra rolled her eyes. Her mentor was a smart man, but she should have known he wouldn’t take this seriously.

“Well, gracias, Dr. Garcia. I’ll let you know if I can confirm the existence of the chickensaurus.” 

& & &

“Hello, is this Dr. Lopez?”

“Yes, that’s me. Who am I talking to?”

“Evenin’ sweetie.” Alejandra groaned internally as the man continued. “My name is Wilson Pritchett. I own the chicken farm down on Route 13. You may have seen us.” 

Alejandra had. It was hard to miss a factory farm that spanned three miles and plastered billboards all around the county. 

“Well, miss. We’ve got ourselves a problem. Our regular vet is from Allen County, but he’s on vacation in the Bahamas and our hens are acting pretty weird. Losing their feathers in strange ways, too. One of them attacked one of the dogs. The hens never go after the dogs. The dogs go after them. Anyway, I was talking to Sheriff Richards, and he said you were the best, and I guess the only, vet he knew. Said you heard about some weird chickens, yourself.”

“Well, as honored as I am to be the only vet that Ben Richards knows, I’m afraid I can’t just drop my regular appointments to-”

“I’ll pay you whatever you want. Please. I’m just hoping you can tell me I don’t have to cull the flock.”

“What’s your address?”

& & &

The driveway to Pritchett Farms seemed to drag on forever. Alejandra looked out to the chicken fields on each side of her. Pritchett claimed that the chickens were free range, at least enough to get a certified label on their packaging. But what people always forgot about was the quality of the place where the chickens were “free” to move about. Dusty fields stretched far and wide, trying to claw water from the soil. Sparse vegetation punctuated the arid ground. Alejandra wished Pritchett would water the fields and give the chickens more than a dirt patch to walk on. Still, at least they could move around more than those poor creatures in factory farm operations.

Alejandra turned down the driveway, music blaring. She always listened to her music loudly when she was stressed. Alejandra was just as worried about a pervasive disease as Wlison Pritchett. The difference was that Pritchett simply thought they had a simple disease on their hands. Alejandra thought something stranger was going on, especially after hearing about the chickens trying to hurt the dogs.

As Alejandra’s Camry made its way to the large chicken barn, she felt the hair on her neck stand on end. The barn, more of a warehouse, actually, was large enough to house hundreds of birds. Alejandra looked around. A work truck was parked nearby. She assumed it was Pritchett’s, but no one was outside to meet her. Alejandra’s unease started spreading through her chest. She felt her heartbeat increase its tempo. 

“Hey, Mr. Pritchett?” Alejandra pushed through her unease and called louder. “It’s Dr. Lopez. Did you all head inside?”

No answer.

Alejandra walked toward the door to the chicken barn. Her hand hesitated on the knob, then turned it and pushed the door inward. The inside was dim. Small shafts of sunlight made their way through small slits in the walls and the occasional window, but the light only just fought the darkness in the large building. She looked ahead, trying to focus her eyes.

Alejandra’s foot hit something abruptly. She looked down and… 

“¡Puta madre!”

Alejandra grabbed her phone to call someone. Emergency services. Someone. Ben.

“This is Sheriff Richards. Who is -”

“Ben, it’s me. You got to get to Pritchett’s place. I went there to check the chickens, and he’s dead. He’s dead, Ben. At least, I think it’s him. They ate half his face.”

“Hey, Dr. Lopez. Slow down for me. Are you trying to tell me that chickens killed Wilson Pritchett? Something else must’ve happened. I’ll be right there. Where on the property are you?”

“I’m on the – OH SHIT.”

Alejandra dropped the phone as the chickens approached. Their feathers were half gone, an oddly scaly skin peeking through. One opened its beak, and in the dim light, Alejandra made out sharp incisors. Another chicken let out a deep humming sound, not anything like how a chicken should sound. Their heads bobbed as they approached in unison. As they stepped into a beam of light, Alejandra saw fresh blood clinging to their breasts and beaks. Like tiny little dinosaurs.

The chickens lunged.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Zoey Knowlton 2025

Image Courtesy: chulmin1700 from Pixabay