Employment Officer v. Engine Driver

After catching her breath, soaked head to foot, the Employment Officer and Embalmer fought - and the Employment Officer won.

Her concern isn't one of ammunition scarcity, but of drying off. Or at least of getting out of the rain.

She walks north to Stetson's cabin and bangs on the door. The Grave Digger releases the crude latch and looks outside, careful to open just far enough to keep out the rain. He looks down on a miserable sight: the Employment Officer - her make-up running in streaks down the contours of her puffy face, flat dark hair pressed against the sides of her face and neck, blouse soaked, making apparent the outline of a gargantuan bra. He cries out.

My daughter!

Pee-paw!

The door opens, the Employment Officer enters, and thus begins a tearful reunion.

This is where you've been?

I'm sorry I left you, sugar lumps. I just couldn't bare to be without work, seeing you starve on your government salary.

Oh pee-paw!

Oh honey dough!

They embrace.

I'm all wet from the rain, and I killed a man.

Don't you ever speak of that! We'll get you clean and set.... We'll find a way.

When the Engine Driver arrives, he sees no one. He waits.

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.