Chapter 1: The Last Laugh
The thing about dying on your own farm is that at least you know the equipment maintenance history.
Name's Scott Kain Morrison, though most folks just called me Kain. Which, yeah, biblical reference, thanks Mom. She had a sense of humor about naming her preacher-bound son after the first murderer. Guess it turned out fitting in ways she never expected. Cain killed his brother and got cast out to wander. I just killed myself with a tractor and... well, we'll see where I get cast.
I was lying under my 1947 Deutz tractor, Grandpa's old beast, built when German engineering meant “indestructible even when neglected”, trying to fix a hydraulic leak that had been annoying me for weeks. Same tractor that had run over Grandpa back in '78, though he'd been tougher than me and walked away with just broken ribs. The goats were watching from their pen about twenty feet away, making that judgmental bleating noise they do when they think humans are being particularly stupid.
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered at them, wrestling with a stubborn fitting. “Easy for you to criticize when you don't have opposable thumbs.”
Gertrude, the lead goat and self-appointed farm supervisor, gave me a look that clearly said, “Maybe if you'd fixed this properly the first time instead of rigging it with zip ties and prayer...”
“It wasn't prayer,” I told her. “Haven't done that since Iraq. This is careful application of engineering principles and creative materials usage.”
She snorted. Gertrude had opinions about my engineering principles. And probably my theological crisis too, if goats cared about such things.
That's when I heard the hydraulic cylinder give that particular metallic ping that every mechanic knows means “something important just broke in an expensive way.” I had maybe half a second to think, “Well, that's biblical,” before three thousand pounds of tractor decided to demonstrate gravity.
The weird part, and I had time to appreciate this because head trauma does funny things to time perception, was that I could hear the goats. Not just bleating. They were definitely laughing.
Bah-ah-ah-ah! in perfect synchronization, like a barnyard comedy chorus.
“Oh, come on,” I wheezed, feeling ribs that were definitely not supposed to be touching each other. “This is hilarious to you?”
Gertrude trotted over and looked down at me with what I swear was a smug expression. If goats could shrug, she would have.
I tried to move, did a quick mental inventory of what was working (not much) and what wasn't (most everything), and came to the professional engineering conclusion that I was fucked.
“You know what the funny part is?” I said to Gertrude, who was now joined by the rest of the herd in staring down at me. “I spent three tours in Iraq dodging IEDs and mortars, came home without a scratch, and I'm gonna die because I was too cheap to buy a proper hydraulic jack.”
More goat laughter. They were enjoying this way too much.
I could feel things shutting down in the orderly way that major trauma brings, not painful exactly, more like systems powering down in sequence. My engineering brain was actually fascinated by the process. “Huh,” I said out loud. “So that's what that feels like.”
The sky was that perfect North Carolina blue you get in early spring, with just a few white clouds drifting by. I'd helped design the irrigation system that was probably going to keep watering my vegetable garden long after I couldn't. The solar array I'd installed last year would keep powering the barn for decades. Good engineering outlasts the engineer.
Shame consciousness doesn't run on twelve-volt DC. Would've been nice to keep running on the solar array.
“Hey Gertie,” I said, my voice getting quieter. “You think whoever finds me is gonna appreciate the irony? Seminary-trained engineer named Kain, killed by his own equipment. That's some Old Testament-level poetic justice right there.”
She bleated once, but there was something different about it now, not sympathetic exactly, more like she was acknowledging something I couldn't quite grasp. Like she'd seen this before. Like she knew something about where engineers named after wanderers go when their warranty expires.
“Yeah, me too.” I was getting sleepy now, which probably wasn't a good sign. “You know what though? If there's any kind of afterlife, and if there's any kind of cosmic justice, I'm gonna come back and haunt every piece of equipment that ever gave me trouble.”
The goats had gone quiet now, just watching with that patient attention they usually reserved for watching me make questionable repair decisions. Gertrude had moved closer, standing right next to my head now, and I swear there was something almost ceremonial about the way the other goats had arranged themselves in a circle.
“Take care of the farm, okay?” I told her. “Try not to let the new owners install any stupid technology. Keep it simple. Keep it working.”
She nuzzled my forehead once, gently, like a benediction. Or maybe a mark.
The last thing I heard before everything went quiet was the distant sound of my automated sprinkler system kicking on right on schedule, just like I'd programmed it to.
Figures. The sprinkler gets to run forever. I just get the one warranty cycle.