Clownfish Blues

Chapter 21

After Dark

High beams of a black SUV split the ominous night on Highway 98. Nothing but trees and lawlessness. An oncoming semi truck whizzed by on the two-laner, rattling the car. Then wisps of fog. Every now and then, eyes glowed on the center line before darting off into the brush.

It became less isolated as they saw more and more headlights. The vehicle crested a hill and found the reason. A country store near the Wakulla River. Only place open for miles at this hour.

The SUV pulled into a parking lot full of pickup trucks with abnormally large tires. They went inside, and Nigel headed for the beer case. “You get the shovels.”

They approached the counter.

“Shovels and beer?” said the grizzled clerk. “You boys burying something?”

“No!”

He scanned in the purchase. “Then you must be digging something up.”

“W-w-why do you say that?”

The clerk shrugged. “It’s Friday night.”

Nigel and Günter rushed out of the store.

The next customers stepped up to the counter.

“Anything else?” asked the clerk.

“Just the shovels and beer.”

The SUV took off into the woods. Günter popped the cap off a Beck’s and began chugging.

“Give me one of those,” said Nigel. A green bottle upended.

The Suburban flew over hills and screeched around desolate turns, deeper into nature. Deeper into the beer. They took the fork at Tate’s Hell. A bottle flew out the window and shattered on the sign. “Fuckin’ A! . . . That’s what they say around here, right?”

Nigel turned up the brightness on the vehicle’s instrument panel and watched the odometer, counting down the last 5.7 miles to X-marks-the-spot. They slowed to a crawl when the last tenth turned over. “We’re here!”

“A-Ooooooooo!” Günter bayed at the moon. “Werewolves of London!”

It had been a twelve-pack. The contents of ten were back in the mist, with the final two in their hands as they opened the back of the vehicle for digging implements.

“Just a second,” said Nigel, pulling back the mat over the wheel well. “Take this.”

“A gun?”

Nigel tucked his own pistol in his waistband. “They sell them everywhere in the state. I bought these last week during our confrontational exposé on the dangers of gun shows.”

“Why?”

“To be on the safe side.” Nigel popped his last beer and staggered toward the woods. “Those gun people were scary.”

The pair plunged down the road’s embankment through mossy ground cover, aided by a D-cell baton flashlight.

“This way, I think,” said Nigel. “Günter? . . . Günter! What are you doing waving that gun?”

“Thought I heard something.” He crouched and took aim. “Shine that light over there.”

The beam hit a tree and an unimpressed bird.

Bang.

The bird took flight.

“Why’d you shoot at an owl?”

“His intentions were unclear.”

“Well, knock it off. We might need those bullets. These automatics only hold sixteen.”

Onward. Scraping themselves on branches. Falling down, tearing their pants.

“What’s so funny?” asked Nigel.

The cameraman stifled giggles. “This whole mess. Now that we’ve calmed down, it’s pretty hilarious if you think about it.”

“Günter! We’re not out of this yet! . . .” Snort. “We still have to—” Then he was cracking up as well. “You’re right. It is funny.”

Günter held his last bottle up to the moonlight. “How much you got left?”

“About half.”

“Same here . . . On three: one, two, three!”

They guzzled the last of their beers together, followed by the sound of bottles breaking on trees. Laughter again as they threw arms over each other’s shoulders like war buddies, blustering forward dragging shovels.

They found themselves in a clearing. An erratic flashlight beam bounced around trees and dirt.

Günter turned in a circle. “Where’s the grave?”

“Remember, it was by a clump of trees?” said Nigel, curiously pointing the flashlight at his own face. “And a fallen log?”

“I’m starting to get worried again.” Günter leaned on his shovel. “What if the cops— . . . Can’t even think about it.”

“I feel the same. The beer isn’t cutting it.” Nigel reached in his back pocket for a sterling-silver flask.

“What’s that?”

“Emergency supply to fortify our nerves.” Nigel took a swig and cringed. “Wasn’t sure how hairy this would get. Try some . . .”

Günter sniffed the pungent open cap. “What is it?”

“Sour mash, from someplace they called Tennessee.”

“Never tried it,” said Günter. “I’m a gin man.”

“So am I, but they told me everyone in the state drinks this stuff.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“At the gun show.”

Günter glugged and coughed. “That’ll sure clear your sinuses. Which way?”

“Let’s try this direction,” said Nigel, setting off north.

The pair wove through the woods for a half hour, meaning they were ten minutes from the road.

“That way looks familiar . . .”

They staggered southwest, then east, northwest, south—“Why can’t we find it?”—north again, southeast. If you could chart the flight of a moth, that was the course of their search.

The two stopped again. “Where’s that flask?” asked Günter.

“Me first.” Nigel took a slug before passing it. “Stuff grows on you.”

Günter drew a big sip, looked around and scratched his head. “It’s the damnedest thing. We were just here the other day.”

“I could have sworn I’d never forget the spot,” said Günter. “All that digging.”

“No way the forest could have covered it up so soon. It should be easy to identify with all that freshly disturbed ground.” Nigel stomped his foot, tamping down loose soil, and pointed the flashlight at the ground. “Like this place right here. There’s a clump of trees and a log. It should look exactly like this.”

“Okay,” said Günter. “We need to find a spot that looks like the one we’re at.”

“Let’s go.” They set off on another serpentine quest with a zigzagging beam of light that grew dimmer with depleting batteries. After a few cloverleaf patterns in the forest, they returned to where they had just started.

“Check it out!” Nigel aimed the beam. “It’s a spot that’s just like the other one.”

“And look! Fresh footprints where someone was just tamping it down!” said Günter, spinning in place. “Who else can be out here? I’m a nervous wreck.”

“Here’s the whiskey.”

“Right.”

They began digging. The task was much easier this time around, since the soil had recently been unpacked. It was sloppy as digs go, but precision wasn’t required. They were down to their hips, then chests . . .

Günter thrust his spade. “Think I just hit something. Turn on the flashlight.”

“It is on.” Nigel shook it next to his ear. “I think the batteries are dead. Dig with your hands.”

The German dropped to his knees and scooped. “Yeah, it’s definitely him. Here’s his nose.”

“This calls for a drink . . .”

They cleared a trench around the body, then stood at opposite ends and lifted him by ankles and armpits. “All right, throw him up there onto the ground.”

The swung the body from side to side to build momentum—“On three. Three!”—and threw him into the side of the hole.

“What happened?” asked Günter.

“This isn’t working.” They finished off the flask, and Nigel flung his shovel over the edge. “Okay, I’ll climb out, and you prop him up against the side. Then you join me, and we’ll pull him out together.”

Heavy grunting, but they finally extracted the corpse, then fell to the ground with it to catch their breath.

“What now?” asked Günter.

“I think we’re supposed to take him somewhere else.”

“Okay, I got his ankles.”

“I got the other end. Let’s go that way.”

“Wish that flashlight was still working.”

“Me, too. Start walking . . . Ahhhh!”

Thud, thud.

“Ouch! Shit! . . .”

“Nigel, I think we’re back in the hole again.”

They pulled the body out a second time and picked him up. “Let’s go a different direction—”

It was quiet except for a mild rustling of leaves under their feet. They heard a louder rustling, approaching fast from behind.

Günter’s head whipped around. “What’s that?”

Blinding lights came on as a cameraman rushed toward them. An Australian voice: “Why did you kill him?”

“Ahhhhhh!”

They dropped the body and fled in different directions.

“Follow them!” directed Cricket Brisbane.

The cameraman named Dundee gave chase. “I think one of them went this way . . .”

Bang, bang, bang.

Brisbane hit the ground. “Who’s shooting?”

Dundee killed the lights, ran back and flattened himself next to his producer. “I think they are.”

Now another direction: bang, bang, bang.

“Nigel!” Günter called out from behind a tree. “They’re shooting at us!”

“I know!” yelled another tree. “Where are you?”

“Over here! Let’s make a break for the car!”

“Okay, but we’ll have to cover each other!”

“Now!”

The pair charged out into the dark forest like Butch Cassidy and Sundance. Bang, bang, bang . . .

“Dundee!” whispered the producer from Perth. “They’re coming back this way. Make sure you get this.”

“I’m ready.”

Bang, bang, bang . . .

Dundee turned on the camera lights, capturing the rival reality team in full stride and blinding them.

Bang, bang, bang . . .

And just like that, nothing.

“Where’d they go?” asked Brisbane.

“I don’t know.” Dundee cut the lights again.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang . . .

Muzzle flashes flickered up out of the hole in the ground.

“What the hell?”

Then a long silence as tendrils of gun smoke dissipated into the trees.

The Australians cautiously rose. Camera lights came on again as they walked over and stared down into the grave.

“Are they dead?”

“Get a close-up.”