In the Woods by Merry Jones

anybody. Hiram hadn’t said he had; in fact, Hiram had implied that some outsider had probably shot Russo by accident. But wouldn’t that be an odd coincidence – a novice hunter who didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, shooting both Rogers and Russo by mistake? In the same morning?
    Either way, that damn Josh had gone too far. Renegade needed to be brought down.
    The chief wanted a cigarette. Hadn’t smoked in a year. He got up, began searching cabinets, drawers. He must have left a pack somewhere. Damn. Maybe in the bedroom? He stomped through the cabin, tearing things apart until finally he realized that it wasn’t a cigarette that he wanted. It was relief. He just wanted a fucking break. How was he supposed to rein in these people when each one of them thought they alone knew what was best and didn’t give a crap in hell what their actions meant to anyone else? Who’d blown up the old hunting lodge – and why? Had Josh shot those two guys? And if so, did he plan to keep on shooting?
    The chief went back to the kitchen, poured yet another drink.
    Damn, the locals were rising up. Three hours until the meeting. And who knew what might happen before then? It was time to take charge. Finishing his drink, he reached for the phone, punched in a number.
    ‘Mavis? Stay put. I’m coming over.’
    Before she could talk, he hung up.
    Shit. Literally. Pete had it in his eyes. Mucky stinking cold black soup, all over him. Under him. Around him. He blinked, trying to see. Raised a slimy wet hand to smear the stuff off his face. His hands came away blood-streaked. Where was he? What the hell had happened?
    Cautiously, he lifted his head up off the ground and looked around. Everything was splattered with the stinking stuff – bushes, weeds, fallen leaves. And Bob.
    Bob was there, lying still as a log. Where the fuck were they?
    ‘Bob?’ Pete started to say, but stopped. When he opened his mouth to talk, crud seeped in, starting him gagging.
    When he finished puking, he was on his knees. He looked over at Bob. Bob hadn’t moved. Christ.
    ‘Bob?’ he managed. His voice sounded dim and far away.
    Bob didn’t answer. The silence was long and thick. Why didn’t Bob answer? Oh God. Was he dead? Pete strained to remember what had happened. Where they were. Why couldn’t he remember? He crawled to Bob, his hands slipping in slime, and he saw something hanging out of his vest pocket, a drenched paper. He pulled it out, unfolded it, his map of the pipeline. He blinked at it, finding jagged shards of memory. The pipeline. They’d come to blow it up. He remembered finding the place where it passed through the old campground. He remembered putting the device together. And waiting for the moment to set it off. Had they done it? Blown the thing up, destroying the pipeline? Making history? He couldn’t remember.
    ‘What?’ Bob’s voice was dim, like an echo, but it sounded mad. He was flat on his back, covered with muck. Blood trickled out of his ear, his nose. He didn’t move. Just lay there, moldering.
    Maybe they were both dead. This could be hell, the smell, the crap all over. The ringing howl in his ears. The cracking pain in his head. The bomb – they must have done it. Actually blown up the pipeline. The explosion must have sent them flying, knocked them out. He looked down at the map. A red drop landed on it. Splat. Pete stared at the drop, then up at the sky, trying to see where it had come from.
    ‘Fuck.’ Bob still didn’t move. ‘What happened?’
    Pete touched his forehead. His cruddy hand came away with red smears. Blood. He looked at Bob. ‘I’m bleeding.’
    Bob didn’t say anything.
    ‘Bob? You okay?’ His voice sounded muffled, as if filtered through a feather pillow.
    ‘I’m fuckin’ ducky.’
    Pete could hardly hear him. Why? Damn – had the explosion blown his ear drums? Made him deaf?
    ‘Chrissakes, Pete.’ Bob pushed himself up on an elbow. ‘Would you stop doing that thing with your