Scott Nicholson - Forever never ends

"I'm game," said DeWalt.

"Don't say that, especially when that Mouth looks like it's ready to do some hunting of its own."

He led DeWalt back toward the farmhouse, hoping his directional memory and woodsman's instinct held true. They reached the ridge overlooking the farm just as the sky turned from pink to violet. Chester was leading the way down one of his old hunting trails when he heard a twig snap. He spun, lowering his shotgun to waist level and pointing it toward the sound.

"Uh, pardon me, folks," the man said, stepping from behind a laurel thicket. "I got myself lost here."

"Stop where you are and open your eyes," Chester said.

"They are open."

No green lights. Chester exhaled and let the gun dip. His trigger finger relaxed, but only slightly.

"What in bluefuck blazes are you doing out in my woods this time of an evening? Trying to break your fool neck?" Chester hoped the man didn't realize how close he'd come to getting himself a new blowhole. He could feel DeWalt at his back, peering over his shoulder.

"Just out looking, sir," the man said.

"Trespassing ain't looked on too kindly around here. Ever damn thing and its brother’s took up residence on my property." Chester didn't like the smell of the stranger's cologne. Smelled like sissy stuff. But at least his eyes weren't glowing green and he wasn’t dribbling mush from his face.

"I apologize, sir,” said the smooth-talking man. “You wouldn't happen to be Chester Mull, by any chance?"

"Depends on who's asking."

"Emerland. Kyle Emerland." The stranger stepped out of the shadows and extended his right hand. DeWalt muttered under his breath.

"That's fine and dandy, Mr. Emerland,” Chester said, ignoring the offered hand. “Can't say as I'm glad to make your acquaintance. You still ain't said why you're out here, and you don't look like a midnight poacher in that fancy suit of yours."

"I'll be blunt then, sir. You seem like a man who appreciates honesty. I'm here to make a business proposition."

"I'm not in no business. What have I got that you want?"

"About four hundred acres of mountaintop, for one thing," DeWalt interrupted. "You're pointing a gun at the man responsible for the development of the Sugarfoot resort. I'll turn my head if you want to shoot him without any witnesses."

"Herbert DeWalt, is that you?" the stranger said cheerfully. A little too cheerfully, in Chester's opinion. Slick, like. Maybe he’s in on this Earth Mouth deal somehow. Maybe it’s some sort of high-dollar pollution. Or a secret government test of some kind.

"Yes, it’s me, Emerland,” DeWalt said. “I’m sure you’ve done your homework, so let’s not play games. You're just wasting your time. Chester's not interested in selling."

"Come now, let's be reasonable. Let Mister Mull decide for himself."

"Hold on, hold on,” said Chester, irritated. His mind had been forced to make too many leaps already today. He was just coming to grips with a strange unworldly visitation, and now a stranger wanted to talk real estate. "Anybody mind clueing me in, seeing as how I seem to be the bone that the dogs are tugging at?"

"At least hear me out, Mister Mull,” Emerland said. “Let's sit down and put it all on the table. I think you'll find my offer's extremely generous."

"Do what?"

"He wants to buy you out, Chester,” DeWalt said. “He wants Bear Claw so he can fill it in with concrete and steel, shiny glass and ski lifts, and the finest tourists that New Jersey and Florida have to offer.”

"Come on, DeWalt,” Emerland said. “You know I'm a fair man. And I’m not a cheapskate.”

“He’s got a bulldozer in place of a heart,” DeWalt said to Chester.

Chester squinted at the stranger's face. “A little earth moving might not be a bad idea, if this here Emerland’s got a big enough shovel for the job.”

An early moon had arisen, a crisp wide ball that looked like it would drip milk if squeezed. Chester was uncomfortable standing out here at night, with a forest full of mushbrains and Earth Mouths and Lord only knew what else.

"Why don't we take this little powwow down to the house?" Chester said. “I don’t trust these woods this time of night. Never know what you might run into.”

DeWalt was looking at Emerland as if watching a rattlesnake that might decide to strike. Chester headed down the trail, glad he'd shut the flatlanders up enough so he could listen to the trees.

Because the trees were whispering, and the language was soft and slushy and strange. He picked up speed as he headed downhill, leaving the two men to make their own way back. But they must have experienced the same uneasiness, because they stayed at Chester’s boot heels until the trio reached the forest’s edge.

Chester breathed a sigh of relief when they stepped out from the canopy of the woods into a meadow. He looked at his farm spread out below, at the dark buildings and the barbed-wire stitching that marked off the fields. Under the stars, it was a beautiful, peaceful place. Except for its unwanted visitors.

The evening dew soaked into Chester's boots, making his feet heavy. He dug into the pocket of his overalls for his moonshine. DeWalt stepped beside him, breathing hard.

"Let me warn you about him, Chester," he said, low enough so that the trailing Emerland couldn't hear.

"Shoot, pardner." Chester screwed the lid off the jar. He hoped DeWalt didn't launch into his tree-hugger bit. He glanced back at the mountain. He could just make out the green glow in a pocket between two ripples of black land.

"You know that song ‘This Land is Your Land?’"

"Sure. Learned it in third grade. My last year of schooling."

"Well, there's a new version. It goes”-DeWalt drew in a breath and sang in an off-key bass-"This land was your land, this land was my land, now it belongs to… that bastard Emerland…"

Chester chuckled. "You couldn't carry a tune in a galvanized washtub. But I get your drift."

"What's that, gentlemen?" Emerland called.

Chester stopped and lifted the moonshine jar to his lips. “Oh, just talking about you behind your back, is all.”

“Don’t believe everything DeWalt says. He’s only protecting his own interests. We’ll top his offer by twenty percent.”

“Don’t matter none,” Chester said. “I ain’t selling. And I got other problems at the moment.”

“Mister Mull, we’re talking a high six figures here,” Emerland said. “Maybe bumping seven. And our development will be ergonomically designed to fit the environment and protect the viewshed. The impact on the natural beauty will be minimal. My architects-”

“You can shelve the twenty-dollar words, Emerland,” Chester said. “Won’t make no difference.”

“Chester, his idea of ‘low impact’ is a truckload of dynamite,” DeWalt said.

Chester had lifted the jar for another sip but stopped with the jar inches from his lips. “What’s that?”

“Emerland likes things that go boom.”

Chester took the delayed swallow, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and said, “Dyn-ee-fucking-mite.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” DeWalt said.

“Yeah, but probably in plainer words.”

“Blow the fucker back to hell?”

“Can’t get no plainer than that.”

Emerland's eyes shifted back and forth.

Probably wondering how he ended up with such a pair of fruitcakes on a cool Appalachian mountain under a grinning moon. Chester grinned.

"Hey,” Chester said to him. “You got some dynamite over there at the construction site, don't you?"

"Huh?" Emerland's clean-shaven jaw dropped.

"Ka-blooey stuff. TNT. Instant avalanche."

"You're insane." Emerland raised his palms in protest. "That stuff is seriously regulated. It has to be double locked and every damned piece has to be accounted for-"