The Hunters (a short story by Jeff Feezle) “Lord Almighty! Mike, would you please set that wood over there!”, she pointed to the empty wood carrying box in the dingy corner. Mike begrudgingly trundled over to the old milk crate box, and without a bit of grace, dropped the whole load from 2 feet. The gas lamp on the table jumped a full inch before settling back down. Mike was never blessed with a brain, never made it to Oz, but never met a person he didn’t like. Simpletons are given a gift of self-humor that allow themselves that inner smile, that can only be Divine. Oh, he could chop wood, throw hay bundles, and even get the milking done on occasion, but no-one in Marestown really noticed his deficiencies. They relished his talent to bring out thankful prayers for just being part of his life; for all he wasn’t- he was charismatic in his own way. If truth be told, Mike, according to local legend, had been a train- traveler, pro grata , and had attempted to jump off at Marestown one fated day, and lost the battle with luck. He was never the man he once was, but since he was a stranger, no one had anything to compare it with. Julie reached over and took his hand, led him to the table, and poured him a steaming glass of green tea, as she shucked off his winter parka. Outside the window, a rope creaked, and a stiff deer swung, waiting for skinning, hung by its ballerina-thin ankles. “Mike, what do ya make of Mr. Hoffmeister’s stud bull bein’ kilt, the othuh day?” Julie asked of him. “Uh…darn sportsmen, they’ll shoot anythin’ that moves. Darn near got my butt shot off last week, fetchin’ wood for Mrs. Davenport!”, then his face paled at his lack of restraint in his choice of words, and he hung his head silently. Patting his hand, Julie reassured him with her eyes, that it was no matter. With a grace befitting a 30 year old, her old frame lifted from her strong-wicker chair and walked to the heavy wooded door. Lifting the iron bar across it, she said: “Speakin’ of that, let me get your kindling bundle you brought me, Mike’, as she opened the wheezing door, and reached outside to pull up a bundle of wood bound in twine, no more than two pounds heavy. A sharp CRACK filled the air, almost instantly, and Julie slumped against the frame. A second CRACK slammed into her torso, pushing her back into the house with undeniable force. Like a modern art slap, her chest and arms were painted a crimson red, and her head lolled uneasily from side to side. Before her body could hit the ground, Mike had lept up from his chair and caught her. He growled an intense painful mourn, and took the stove cloth from the handle, and wrapped it carefully around her armpit where the wound seemed to be coming from. “You wait here, Julie, for just a second…..damn oh damn!” he wailed, as he spun in place looking for inspiration to tell him what to do. He heard a whoop and a bottle crashing, as a 4-wheeler’s engine raced outside. The night was dimmed by lack of moon or stars, but the snow glowed an eerie warning. Amazingly, a single star penetrated the thick snow clouds, and cast a ray, piercing a path from the truck to the front of the house. Mike swayed a bit, as he could see the drunk hunters trying to pick off the swinging deer that hung just outside the door with crazed rifle shots. Bullets whirred by his shoulder, and slipped with a rapid thunk into the threshold. Whatever was left inside of Mike took over, and in scant seconds, it was finished. The coroners packed the 3 stiff bodies in their zippered body bags, and grunted as the gurney made its way thru the red mush that used to be virgin snow. “Three shots, three kills, right to the haid!” the sheriff shook his head in awe, as the deputy-sheriff was leaning over a rocking Mike, as he sat on the porch, dumbfounded. “Jim, you surely don’t think Mike did this, do you?” the deputy asked. “Who else was here? Julie will be alright at St.Steven’s Memorial, but thairs no way in Hades that she coulda dun this.” They both looked at Mike, but he refused to speak, and years later, people knew that the night in which a single star shone, was the night Mike stopped talking to folks. “Mike, I’m a gonna havta haul you in for questionin’, ok?” the sheriff posed to the simple man, as they led him to the squad car. As he took hold of his arm, a shiny medal fell from Mike’s shockshelled hands, and landed on the sun. The sheriff deposited Mike in the back, watched the distant taillights of the ambulance with a frightened Julie inside vanish beyond the last cornfield. He slid in behind the wheel, with a deathgrip on it, as he still mused on the nights happenings. The deputy dutifully turned off the gaslight, dropped the damper, then removed the wood from the woodburning stove, put it into its protective urn, and dragged it outside the porch. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the glint of medal and fabric, and leaned over to pick up the object. He brushed the snow from it, smiled a wry smile, and nodded slowly, as he slipped it into his pocket. ~~MARINE~~ SHARPSHOOTER was all it said.
Posted on: Thu, 06 Jun 2013 16:30:18 +0000
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