Dead As Dutch

by Rich Docherty

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  “Shhh.”

  Munyon snagged Stan’s vest collar, lifted a forefinger to his lips and pointed to his ear. They remained silent for several seconds and listened.

  “Hear that?” Munyon whispered.

  “No. What?” Stan replied, his voice hushed and more than a little jumpy.

  Munyon perused their immediate perimeter as a periscope on a submarine might scan the expanse of an ocean surface. “They’re close. We gotta move fast. Follow me.”

  He bolted ahead in such a rush that it was a struggle for Stan to keep him in sight before they arrived at the same small clearing and wood-pile Bryce and Irv had been brought to earlier.

  “Start loadin’ up,” Munyon commanded. “I got your backside.”

  Munyon stood guard as Stan set down the ax and aimed the flashlight from atop a nearby stump so that it cast a pool of light onto the area where he began to stack logs into his arms.

  “Hurry!” Munyon urged.

  As he attempted to speed up, Stan started to fumble as many pieces of wood as he collected.

  “Dang it, boy, get with it!” Munyon seethed.

  “I’m trying!” Stan responded, as he sunk to his knees and tried to scoop up whatever was within reach.

  “Wait here,” Munyon ordered, as he marched off and disappeared into the darkness.

  “Hold on, where you going?” By the time Stan looked up, Munyon had vanished. “Mr. Munyon?” he called out, puzzled by the sudden departure.

  Moments later, they began: low-pitched moans at first, expanding into anguished, guttural groans that slashed through the night air and grew louder. Stan eased himself up and had taken a step backward when Munyon bellowed with a primal, frightful scream from somewhere in the near distance. “AAAAAAAAA!!!!!!”

  A shotgun erupted. KAPOW! Then another blast—KAPOW! And another—KAPOW!

  Then it was quiet. Even the crickets fell mute. Nothing moved except the hand on Stan’s watch. His feet were cemented in place, senses heightened and on full alert. The serenity was punctured by the sound of advancing footsteps and jarred Stan into dropping the firewood from the cradle formed by his arms. He raced to pick up the ax and crouched into a defensive posture, his breaths rapid and shallow.

  The approaching footsteps thrashed through the woods in a wild frenzy and charged closer. And closer. Stan’s knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip around the ax handle just as Munyon burst forth from the shadows, his eyes desperate and panicked. He turned and fired his shotgun back into the void from which he came. KAPOW!

  “They’re right behind me! Go! GO!” he shouted.

  Stan scrambled to pick up some loose timber.

  “Never mind that,” Munyon yelled as he backtracked toward him. “Too late!”

  Stan dumped whatever he had retrieved and managed to snatch the flashlight before Munyon yanked him forward, and they began to retreat over a flat, clear, wide trail.

  After a short sprint, Munyon stopped, pivoted, and unloaded another shotgun shell. KAPOW! “Keep movin’ and don’t stop!”

  The alternate route on the return to the shack proved much easier to navigate, but the frantic escape had Stan heaving and clutching his stomach when he arrived in the yard. Munyon was seconds behind as they clambered up onto the porch together. Stan banged on the door.

  “It’s me, Stan, open up!”

  The door was unlocked from the inside and swung open, and as Stan and Munyon lurched across the doorstep and staggered through, the door banged shut behind them, and the clamor of the crickets resumed once again.

  Chapter 18