Cause of Panic
Cause of Panic
By Dominick C. Barratt
Amos Jennings laid a cast iron pot directly on the orange radiant coals; then slowly returned to his stool. Above, a sky with a countless number of distant stars provided a spectacular ceiling.
Amos reached for a cup of coffee that was staying warm on one of stones surrounding the modest campfire. He finished drinking the coffee and refilled his mug; as he poured the dark potent liquid, he wished he had company to share it with.
Amos regularly visited his adult children- most of them lived within an hour drive from his home. Since the passing of Grandma Jennings over three years ago, Amos invested much more time with his grandkids than previous years.
He always looked forward to the autumn season. Deer hunting was a skill that Amos’ grandfather taught him, and he loved passing the hobby along to his teenage grandchildren. This year was the first that he could remember when his family didn’t make the two hour journey with him to the usual hunting spot. The kids were getting busier every year. Open season started first thing in the morning. The night before was what Amos looked forward to most. This was when he would usually share old hunting stories with the boys. Whether or not Amos recounted the events accurately, anticipation always burned behind each of the grandchildren’s eyes.
This was a lonesome evening for Amos; he could only replay fond memories in his mind. He nursed his warm coffee and looked forward to tomorrow when his family would finally join him for the weekend.
Amos stared at the hypnotizing flames; judging by the heat of the coals he gauged it would be time to hit the sack in about thirty minutes. He sat motionless and paused his breathing for a moment to listen to his surroundings. Deep, uncontrolled breathing resonated low on the ground behind him. He pivoted on his stool to see what was there. When his eyes adjusted to darkness he found that less than two feet away, crouched on the leaf covered soil, laid an animal with brown brindle hair. As Amos’ eyes met with the creatures’, it lifted its head. Without warning the animal opened its mouth revealing stained canine teeth. Its tongue curled up and outward as it yawned. Amos calmly stretched out his hand and massaged behind its ears. “Are you gettin’ tired, boy?” asked Amos, not expecting an answer.
Bundt was a mutt that the grandkids talked their parents into buying for Grandma shortly after she got sick. Grandma named the puppy Bundt because she thought his defined brown brindle coloring looked like her homemade Bundt cake. Amos loved this dog more than any other; he was one of the last threads connecting him and his late wife.
After petting Bundt for a few minutes Amos stood and removed the boiling pot of water from the fire. He rinsed out his mug and cleaned the rest of the dirty dishes. Afterward he stepped a few yards away from the sanctuary of the fire and stretched his aged, worn out back. The air was chilly; Amos could see his steamy breath rise and spread out slowly in the stagnant darkness. He focused passed a thick stand of aspen trees, and saw a narrow sliver of the moon creeping upward from behind the horizon. He gazed at it until it was halfway up. The white bark of the aspens now glowed, illuminating his surroundings. Eerie shadows crept from their hiding places as the moon rose even higher. Amos pinned his pitiful vision on a dark spot fifty yards from camp. The harder he tried to focus on it the more unclear it became. Although he was unable to identify the object, already he didn’t like it. Without showing any anxiety he returned to the stool near the protection of the fire and his loyal companion. He attempted to dismiss the peculiar feeling he had.
Unintentionally, his eyes kept returning to the unknown shadow. Enough is enough. He thought. He retrieved a flashlight and shined in it the direction of the scary silhouette; nothing but an old root wad, from a fallen tree. Amos scoffed at himself. He shut the light off. Amos relaxed with a deep breath, suddenly a coyote yelled from behind the adjacent ridge. The shrill yelp cut through the secluded moonlit forest. Like the scream of a child in distress would do, it brought Amos a sick feeling. He cringed downward and spun his head in the direction of the sound. In the lower part of his vision he notice Bundt was on high alert, frozen, pointing in the direction of the echo. “It’s O.k., boy…” before Amos could finish his sentence Bundt was off like a greyhound. He raced passed the camping trailer, and leaped over fallen trees before disappearing. Amos shouted his name several times before accepting that Bundt had his own agenda. Darn. I hope he comes back soon. Amos stood silent staring through his steamy breath in the cold mountain air.
Amos threw a few more small logs on the dying fire. He went in the trailer and removed an old revolver from the back closet and returned to his stool. The pistol gave him a sense of security that would have to do, until Bundt came back. In his old age, Amos knew that the chances of finding the energetic dog was out of the question so, he waited next to the revived fire.
A snapping sound in the distance caught Amos’ attention. “Bundt!” he shouted, “Come here!” Only silence responded. Amos tilted the revolver; utilizing the light of the fire he pressed the stiff release switch to open the cylinder. Six unfired, corroded cartridges resting in circular formation stared back at him. Amos had assembled each cartridge years before by hand. He had followed simple steps: primer, powder, and the bullet each rested in its casing. This was a redundant hobby he once enjoyed.
He snapped the cylinder in place and waited, conjuring up ideas of what was in the woods. He gripped the cold gun so tightly that it began to warm up instantly.
What made that snapping sound? He inquired his reasoning. He thought for a moment it was a squirrel that broke a small twig that fell. He quickly discredited that notion, convincing himself that it was something much larger. He mulled through many unsettling thoughts and realized he was very vulnerable regardless of the firearm. The idea of solitude was usually a relaxing feeling for Amos; now it felt as if it was suffocating him. He felt that he was being watched. No, stalked. Where is Bundt? I wish he were here! Amos’ eyes shifted back and forth past the fire and into the still, lifeless trees. Who is watching me? Why? What do they want? He needed to take action.
Amos’ rose, showing his potential perpetrator no sign of fright, and peered into the white, ghostly woods. He scanned until he finally spotted something out of place. A shadow of what looked like a man sitting against a tree stood out so clearly to Amos. I can’t believe I didn’t see that before. He thought. He cleared his throat, but his voice still came out shaky, “I can see you!” he shouted, “You might as well come out!” Nothing moved. Channeling his fear, Amos’ lifted the old pistol with a one-handed grip. He was trembling profusely making impossible to accurately acquire his target. “I am giving you to the count of three! If you can’t come out…” his jaw tightened and his lower lip quivered, “…then good riddance?” Nothing.
The first count seemed as if minutes passed. “One!”
Before the next second, Amos’ felt a cold sweat condensing on his forehead and on his wrists, “Two!”
He began squeezing the rigid trigger. Amos’ heart was now beating as an athlete’s does when approaching the finish line. “Three!”
Amos paused for a fraction of a second. He followed through with the laborious trigger pull. The hammer inched back and then slapped forward suddenly.
“Click” Amos’ racing heart stopped and fell to his stomach. His calm character, quickly felt a spear of horror, pierce his spine. He panicked and erratically yanked the trigger repeatedly. “Click, Click” He paused; he could still see the figure gawking at him, his heart restarted with more speed than before. “Click, Click, Click!” he cycled through the remaining rounds. He lowered the gun in shock. Before he could remedy the situation, an abrupt sharp pain hit him like a well placed punch, just below his left collar bone. He stumbled backward. He attempted to the pass the revolver from his right hand to his left, but had no coordination in his left arm. The gun fell to the ground. It tumbled for a moment and came to a rest. Amos turned and headed for the camp trailer. Halfway there his knees became weak, and he stumbled to the ground. They got me. He thought as he fell, face first in the dirt.He managed to roll over on to his back and he heard the sound of steps coming in his direction. Every breath became extremely difficult, but he endured it. He had to see his perpetrator.
Amos covered his heart with his hand and winced in pain, it was as if a pick-up truck drove on to his chest and parked. With his last degree of strength he waited for the being to approach, he had to see. A familiar face appeared within the scope if his vision. Peering at him, with a goofy smile plastered on his face and breathing heavily was Bundt. Amos grinned at his loyal companion as blackness consumed what little light he could see.
The returning of his friend dismissed all fear that tormented him since he disappeared. It was because of panic that Amos lied on the cold mountain side, helpless. The last sensation that Amos felt was a rough, wet tongue licking his cheek and then fell in to a permanent rest.