Storytellersunplugged

First day of autumn.

That means, among other things, that it’s almost time to buy firewood for the winter. And I hate to do that, because it requires going back to the wood lot, and I never want to go back to the wood lot again. It’s just too scary.

Many people think that Arizona is just hot and dry all the time, and they’re wrong. Arizona is a huge state containing every ecosystem you’d find traveling from Mexico to Canada. The Flying M Ranch is a little over 4,000 feet in elevation, and in winter it gets cold. We have two woodstoves to supplement the central heating, and have at least one of them burning most nights in late fall and winter.

But there’s only one “wood guy” in our area, old Joe. The first time I called Joe last year, I asked if he had a half-cord of 16-inch logs. He told me that he did, so I got in the truck and drove over, about 20 minutes from home.

When I got there, his wife came out and said no, they didn’t have any 16s. Joe had been sick, she said, so he hadn’t been out of bed much and didn’t know that they’d sold out. But another load was expected soon, so I should check back.

Which I did. When I called a little more than a week later, Joe said he had a half-cord of 16-inchers left that I could buy. I made the drive again, hoping that he wasn’t still thinking about the one that had been sold before. But no, this time he met me at the door and volunteered to walk me out to where it was in the lot—even though, he told me, he’d had pneumonia and complications and had mostly spent the past six months in bed.

So we walked. Or I walked. I’m not sure what you call what he did. His paces were about an inch long, and his feet barely left the ground. Joe is not a small man to begin with, and six months in bed doesn’t count as an exercise regime. So I tried to not leave him too far behind, since I didn’t know where we were going, and he took these tiny steps, about as vigorous and sure-footed as an infant letting go of dad’s knees for the first time.

As we walked, the family’s dogs barked and growled at us, which they tend to do, although they didn’t approach us. I had waited too late in the season and the day was cold, leaden skied, with gusts of bitter winds.

The wood lot is less than an acre, to the east of the house. Cords of wood in 16 or 18-inch lengths, stacked between posts, scattered over bare earth. Most of the area is covered in grass and brush, but the land of the wood lot feels blighted, nothing growing there but a few scraggly weeds. Maybe the dogs knew something we didn’t, because they wouldn’t follow us in.

A little more than halfway to my half-cord, I stepped over a tiny corner of chicken wire fence laying on the ground. You know how thick chicken wire tends to be, right? Maybe 1/50th of an inch, if that?

But when Joe reached those minute strands of wire, in my wake, he couldn’t get his foot over them. Somehow that tiny big of fence tripped big Joe, and he toppled like a redwood. Face down, not even putting his hands out to stop himself as you or I would likely do. He landed with his hands still at his sides, breaking his fall with his protruding gut and his face.

I rushed to his side and helped him back to his feet. His forehead was bleeding and he was winded from the fall. Holding his arm to help keep him balanced, I assisted him to the half-cord I was looking for, and he leaned on a nearby stack of logs while I fetched my truck and started loading. Joe apologized for not helping me load, but I didn’t want to see him have a heart attack or anything, so I was happy to do it myself.

As I loaded, his wife and daughters came into the driveway in their truck, having just made a delivery. The dogs took time off from yapping at us to run and yap around the wheels of the truck, and one of them ran right into the front left tire as the truck pulled to a stop.

The dog yelped once and then fell over into the dust, twitching, trying to regain its footing.

At which point the rest of the dogs, five or six of them, turned at once into a savage pack and tore viciously into the injured animal. They snarled, snapped, bit, until the injured dog was dead and blood spattered the dusty driveway. Once he was dead, they lost interest, and wandered away.

Joe and I watched the whole thing happen, too far away to do anything even if there had been anything we could have done.

When it was over, Joe turned to me. “That one was my dog,” he said. “The rest of those are her dogs, but that one was mine. Well, I’ve got one other, that gray one.” He pointed to a dog tied near the house, unable to join the pack. “But he’s mean, and I’ve got to put him down.”

I loaded the rest of my wood as quickly as possible. When I drove away, the dead dog still lay in the dust of the driveway.

And people wonder where horror writers get our ideas….

Jeff Mariotte

http://www.jeffmariotte.com
http://jeff_mariotte.typepad.com/my_weblog/