Kneeling at the base of a feed storage bin, Sam snorted the acrid ammonia scent of hog manure from his nostrils. The day was hot and dry so the pig shit hung on the breeze with the dust. The heavy coveralls he wore trapped the heat and drew a thick sweat from his pores; Sam figured he smelled like a dying rat at this point. To make it worse, somewhere close a skunk had left its mark. His partner, Wallace, loomed over his shoulder, wearing the same coveralls with the addition of a gasmask that hung from his belt. Wallace reacted to every move Sam made with an emphatic scribble on a torn up clipboard he held. He added a tug on his flask whenever he thought no one would notice.
Mr. Roper, the farm’s owner, stood a few steps back, sniggering. “Having troubles, are you?” he said.
The wind picked up just as Sam opened his mouth to answer. Scents combined to form a sharp, bitter mud on the back of his tongue. “Beg your pardon, but how do you stand the goddamn smell?” Sam said. Then he spat.
A farm dog lapped up some pig leavings from a nearby trough then made its way over to Sam to investigate.
“Smells like money to me, son,” said Roper, laughing. “I got chores. Let me know when you’re finished.”
Turning away from them, Wallace had a nip from his flask.
Sam planted a rat bait station and stocked it with a meat-flavored cake.
Wallace stepped closer, examining Sam’s work with a scrawl on his clipboard. “My first day in extermination I had a lot more to worry about than smelling a little shit. Had to crawl through it. Didn’t have these fancy bait boxes to do all the work.” Wallace’s tongue sounded too big for his mouth. “I don’t believe I’ve seen one right thing come out of you today,” he said, nudging Sam out of his way and fiddling with the bait station. “You got to seal these things up right, Greenhorn.”
The farm dog rubbed against Sam’s leg and gave a whimper.
Satisfied, Wallace stood saying, “We’ll finish by spraying the barn. Grab the poison from the truck and meet me there.”
Sam fetched a pump action pressure sprayer from the truck and humped it to the barn. Roper had moved the livestock in anticipation of the spraying. It needed mucking out; the smell made Sam’s eyes water.
Wallace’s cheeks were bright red now. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his nose. “Let’s start in that crawl space. Could be a nest in there.” They approached a square hole in the wall just large enough for a man to crawl into. Wallace tied a handkerchief around his face, detached the gasmask from his belt and handed it to Sam. “You take the nozzle in with you. I’ll pump the poison.”
With another snort, Sam donned the gas mask and crawled inside. The space was so confined that it pinned the spray nozzle against his chest. His eyes adjusted a bit and he could make out the rusted out base of a furnace. As for signs of pests, it was too dark to see. “Alright, Wallace,” he said. No response. Then he heard Wallace holler, “Let’s go, Greenhorn. You ready?” Sam knocked the floor with his heel twice and Wallace gave a couple of pumps, just enough to mist the air above Sam. He heeled the floor again, but got no response from Wallace.
Sam began to ease himself out, when he felt a tap on his helmet, then another and another. Cockroaches in varying stages of death rained down on this facemask, scuttling through his hair, down his sleeves and his collar. His facemask and the wall muted his scream.
As he wriggled out of the crawlspace, the poison started flowing again.
Wallace, hiding his flask, cackled and hooted as Sam stood, shaking roaches from his hair and clothing.
Wallace was still laughing and mumbling to himself as they loaded up the truck.
Fastening his seatbelt as they rolled down the drive, Sam saw the farm dog lying prone beside the feed storage bin.
