Embalmer v. Employment Officer

The Grave Digger tells the Embalmer that he's at a loss. He spent the previous night looking again through Stetson's cabin. No bullets were found, or anything relating to their manufacture. He checked the books on his shelves. Apart from one out-of-print manual on simple machine maintenance, all were fictional or on topics of esoteric knowledge. He tried the radio, but didn't understand how to interpret it.

We have four bullets left.

The Grave Digger shakes his head. Reluctantly, he suggests finding another means of dueling.

Like what?

Well... the Grave Digger says tentatively, I was thinking - knife fights.

The Embalmer balks.

Now just hear me out. I can get two buck knives from the warehouse depot. We'll keep 'em sharp. Winner's the one that doesn't bleed to death.

Out of the question.

Well excuse me for thinking outside the box, he says bitterly. He walks back to the cabin.

That evening the schnauzer barks like mad again. It drives the Grave Digger from the cabin, holding a weak flashlight for guidance in the semi-darkness of the quarter moon. He makes it to the oak, where the Embalmer sits awake, armed with both pistols.

Every night that dog's been barking, the Embalmer whispers. Tonight I heard voices from there. Sounds.

The Grave Digger flicks off the light. The schnauzer's barks let up momentarily. Just enough to hear the plaintive call of a loon.

That's no loon, the Grave Digger says. The Embalmer can hear the fear in his voice. It's them.

It only has two bullets left, says the Embalmer as he hands the Grave Digger one of the guns. But that should be enough.

You can't harm them! There're too many. The Grave Digger pushes the pistol back. He looks around nervously, flicks on the flashlight, and makes his way quickly to the cabin.

After an hour, the schnauzer returns to the oak.

The Employment Officer, a triple-chinned bureaucrat in an oversize blouse, stops three times to catch her breathe before settling down in the grass under the shade of the oak. Rain threatens, then breaks. The Embalmer tries hurrying her onto the field, but she demurs over and over.

Need to catch my wind, she says in a throaty drawl.

Embalmer v. Embriologist

The Embalmer tags along as the Grave Digger prepares the burial of the Electrician. The two men, possibly by some unspoken occupational connection, develop a quick camaraderie.

At least he went quickly, the Embalmer says.

The Grave Digger, flipping through the Electrician's overstuffed wallet, looks up. Never seen one linger, he realizes.

The schnauzer lies nearby, gnawing on a stick he found by the edge of the forest.

They talk. At some point during the course of conversation the Embalmer mentions the shortage of bullets. The Grave Digger walks to the oak and inspects the guns. Three cartridges are chambered in each pistol. A few empty casings litter the area around the table. He looks in the forest dweller's dusty satchel and sees more empties of the same caliber.

We can't go on without ammunition, states the Embalmer. It's not like we can change weapons; it's duel by pistol; it's part of the unspoken rules.

None up in the cabin either, murmurs the Grave Digger.

The Embrilogist arrives on time the following morning. Dark clouds hang over the sky. She walks to the oak. The schnauzer gallops up to meet her, sniffing her hand, before walking off. She meets the Embalmer.