Dying on the Hill
Ronny Murtry drove north on Highway 52 on the outskirts Brookville when the Honda broke down. A song from the latest Goo Goo Dolls tape, which he disliked, but listened to because it was a Christmas gift from his girlfriend, Darlene, cut out abruptly from the only car speaker that worked, and left him to the mercy of the wilderness. It dawned on him that he hadn’t seen a single car since he left Brookville, which momentarily unsettled him, but he wasn’t far from Darlene’s dad’s place, and not really bothered by the inconvenience. He decided he’d take a shortcut through the forest, and when he arrived he’d call his uncle to come tow the car.
He crossed the road and jumped the guardrail. It was a late-January afternoon, the trees looked ominous, and their bare branches creaked in the wind. He thought it would be a 10-minute walk, just beyond a hill and through a clearing. And there her dad’s trailer would be waiting, with the door swung open to let the weed smoke escape, and the TV ringing out the latest Jerry Springer episode.
The sun was still above the horizon, and he rested at the base of a tree. He daydreamed about all the people who lived in the forest before civilization, a reverie he often indulged during hikes, when his fantasy was interrupted by the chittering of a squirrel sitting on a branch above him. Quickly, it climbed down the tree and stood directly in front of him propped on its hind legs. And it appeared to be rubbing its tiny paws together like it was scheming.
Then it surprised Ronny Murtry. In a dulcet female voice, it spoke the following words: “Fact: female comedians are funnier than males. Hannah Gadsby and Marina Franklin are in an elite class and it’s not even close.” He wondered if he was hallucinating. He dropped acid the previous fall at a bonfire party, but assumed that any after-effects would’ve worn off long ago.
“Okay. I don’t know them people,” he replied. “Is this shit for real?”
“Ugh,” said the squirrel. “Of course you don’t know them. You probably like Ricky Gervais and Joe Rogan. That’s so problematic. Figures.”
“Um, no ma’am. I ain’t never heard of them, neither.”
“Dude, do you even work?”
“I work part-time at the Pizza King in Brookville.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about you cishet, white supremacist bigot!”
“Listen, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, or if you’re even real, but I got shit to do.” Ronny stood up, annoyed by the squirrel, when she became motionless, like she was dead, or perhaps stuffed. He walked around her, continuing on his trek.
“Twitter subscriptions have been an amazing way for me to get to know so many of you while showing more of my daily routine here in New York City. I’m so honored to call you my frens! My paypigs, er, I mean, my subs get priority in replies and always receive a follow back. Thanks so much for your support, and don’t forget to check me out on Instagram and OnlyFans.” That was the squirrel’s voice as he walked away, though her voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
“No sir,” he said to himself. “This shit ain’t real. This ain’t happening. None of that shit makes a lick of sense.” He watched his steps carefully along a rocky section while ascending the hill, determined to arrive at Darlene’s dad’s trailer as quickly as possible, but when he looked up again he saw the squirrel in front of him, and she wasn’t alone. Sitting beside her was a groundhog, both motionless. Then the groundhog tilted its head almost imperceptibly.
“When one speaks to a woman, there’s no common ground or consensus that can be reached,” said the groundhog, in a modulated, almost electronic masculine voice. “One is required merely to transmit emotion, but there’s no substance or heft behind the words spoken.”
“That is misogynistic hate speech,” said the squirrel. “Women are perfectly capable of engaging in the discourse. Don’t forget to like, share, and subscribe, frens—and respect women!” The final two words she spoke were accentuated by claps of her tiny paws.
“The difference between the white race and the black race is like the difference between the wolf and the coyote,” the groundhog said.
The beasts fell motionless and silent. Ronny Murtry inched closer to them, confused by their words and doubting his sanity, but he wanted to understand. He looked back and forth at them. Beyond the eyes of the groundhog, he saw a terrifying void, and it frightened him.
He ran as fast as his legs would carry him. When he tripped and faltered, he stood up and began again. He bargained with God that if he could only make it to the trailer then he’d be a better boyfriend, and perhaps call his grandma, or even go to church with her. He looked behind him to see if he was being chased, when he tripped over a girding root, fell into a hole, and hit his head on something hard. He saw starbursts and felt faint, believed he would lose consciousness at any moment, and when he did, he’d be swallowed by the forest. His right hand lay in something cold, wet, and moving, and he looked and saw a dead fawn, with its intestines bursting forth from its abdomen, covered in maggots. And the maggots spoke in discordant, earsplitting voices: “We are the forest. Like and subscribe. Do you really want to die on this hill? This ain’t it, chief.” They repeated these phrases in a deafening cacophony.
In a state of disbelief, Ronny tried to make peace with the possibility that he might die on the hill. So he whispered pleas for forgiveness into the forest, and closed his eyes. When he woke the next day there was no dead fawn. His head throbbed and he saw Darlene standing over him. She asked what happened and he lied about the events of the prior evening, and never spoke a word about it to anyone. He carried with him a sense of foreboding for years but then forgot about it. It was as though it never happened at all.