Penguins

“The penguins are coming.” An old man rocks in his chair and takes a drag of his cigarette.

“What?”

“The penguins are coming,” The old man repeats.

“What penguins? We live in Missouri.” The other gentleman, Gerald, shrugs as he leans against a supporting beam of the porch. “Penguins going to be at the zoo?”

“Not the zoo, you fool.” Fred stops rocking and slowly pushes himself up from his chair. “Ain’t no zoo that can hold these penguins.” He’s pensive as he stares out into the field of tall grass.

“Fred, you need to stop talking in riddles.” Gerald massages his temples. “We’re too old for this shit.”

Fred drops his cigarette and stomps it out. “I’m going to need my gun.” He turns and walks into the house.

“For fuck sakes, Fred. You don’t need your gun.” Gerald takes a long drag on his cigarette and exhales. “I should probably go calm that old coot down.” He drops the butt onto the dirt and steps on it. Then he hears a faint noise in the distance. It gets louder. Gerald turns and looks into the field. He sees rustling in the grass. “What the fuck is that noise?”

Gakking.

Gerald steps towards the tall grass, and then a penguin breaches. It’s just standing there, looking at him.

“Well, how about that, a fucking penguin.” It waddles a few steps towards him, then halts. “Just you making all the noise, little feller? Where in tarnation did’ya come from?”

Gerald turns to the house then back to the penguin. “Don’t know why Fred was so terrified of you.” He reaches his hand out, and the penguin’s beak opens up in four directions, sharp teeth lining the inside.

“Holy father of Christ.” With eyes as wide as saucers, Gerald stumbles backwards and falls on his ass. The penguin ferociously waddles towards him, saliva dripping off the beak. Gerald stammers up the porch steps as Fred kicks open the door, shotgun in hand. He looks down the barrel and fires.

“Light a fire under your ass and get moving! The penguins are here!”

Scores of penguins breach the grass as Fred and Gerald find refuge inside their house. Fred slams the door shut, barricading it with a large plank of wood.

“Help me move this dresser over.” Fred puts down his gun and walks over to a oak dresser.

“What the fuck is going on?!”

“Gerald, it’s the goddamn penguins. Have you not been listening to a word I’ve been saying?”

“You repeating it doesn’t make it make sense! Goddamnit, Fred!”

Fred grunts. “Just help me with this fucking dresser.”

Gerald walks over, and they push the dresser in front of the door.

“What is that noise they’re making?” Gerald takes a seat on the stairs.

“Penguins gak, Gerald, don’t you know anything about penguins?”

Gerald sits there, staring at Fred, who is eagerly awaiting a reply. “Fred, we live in fucking Missouri. Why on God’s green earth would I know anything about fucking penguins?”

“Well, the egg’s on your face now, isn’t it?”

Gerald flips him off as the incessant gakking gets louder. “Got enough bullets for that many penguins?”

Fred grabs his shotgun and pumps it. “Let’s find out.”

—

A penguin crashes through the window and slides along the floor directly towards Fred. He aims the shotgun and fires again. He pumps it. “Cover my ass while I reload this son of a bitch!”

Another penguin slides into the room. Gerald grabs a nearby coat tree and gives it one nasty golf swing. “You wouldn’t have another one of those, would you?” Gerald motions to the shotgun as he holds up the bloodied coat tree in his hands.

“Another what?” Fred yells as he backs his way into the kitchen.

“A gun, Fred. Another fucking gun.” Gerald follows him.

“That coat tree not enough?” Fred looks at him incredulously.

“I feel a gun would be more handy.”

“You ever fire one before?”

“Fuck off, Fred. You know I have.”

Fred rolls his eyes. He walks over to the counter and opens a drawer. He reaches inside and pulls out a pistol that was taped to the top. He tosses it towards Gerald, who frantically drops the coat tree, with a thud, to grab it.

“Jesus, Fred, don’t throw loaded guns.”

“The safety’s on.” Fred pushes a curtain aside and looks outside. “Mother of God.”

“What?” Gerald walks over to the kitchen window. “You have enough bullets for that, right?”

Fred looks at his gun, then back at the scores of penguins surrounding his house, all gakking like maniacs.

Fred holds the shotgun just below his chin. Gerald grabs the barrel and points it away. “Goddamnit, Fred. Now is not the time for your suicide jokes.”

“Who’s joking?” Fred stares at Gerald, with a cold seriousness in his eyes. “You think I have enough bullets for all of that? Fuck no. I’m prepared, but I’m not prepared to fight a goddamn war against this many mother fucking penguins.”

“I always thought you’d go out fighting.” Gerald lets go of the barrel and shakes his head. He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to.”

Fred looks at the shotgun again and scoffs. “Fine. But if those things start shredding through me, you better be putting a bullet in my head.”

The unmistakable pitter patter of waddling penguins fills the house. Gerald turns and starts shooting. Finding his mark, as black, white, and red colour the floors.

“Come and get me your flightless pieces of shit!” Fred yells as he walks forward, blasting at the penguins encroaching on his territory.

Glass shatters again as a penguin soars through the kitchen window. It collides with Fred’s back as the two tumble to the ground. Fred spins around, pumps his shotgun and blows a hole in the penguin’s face. “Nice try, fuckers.”

“Fred,” a hopeless tone accompanies Gerald’s words. “I’m out of bullets.”

“What?” Fred sits up, and as he does, his skin crawls as he can feel an unmistakably ominous presence. He slowly turns around to see a penguin standing right in front of him. Fred pumps the gun, aims it at the penguin and pulls the trigger. “Oh jeez, Gerald. So am I.”

The penguin’s beak opens in four ways. Teeth lining the inside. It gaks one more time, pushes the shotgun away with its flipper and lunges forward, latching onto Fred’s head and slowly encloses until the beak is completely shut.

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh, fuck.” Sweat drips down Gerald’s brow as he roots around the kitchen looking for something. He finds a large chef’s knife and turns around just as two more penguins slide into the kitchen.

“Fuck this.” Gerald slices through his own throat and slides to the kitchen floor. He grasps at his neck as blood pours out of it. The penguins waddle closer. Gerald gurgles something, no doubt realizing the mistake he has made.

The penguins waddle closer.
The penguins open their beaks.
The penguins are here.

Credit: Harlow Thorne

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