Dark Corner

BRANDON MASSEY

To my mother who made it possiblein more ways than one.

lthough William Hunter had lived his entire life as a slave
ion a plantation in the Mississippi Delta, he had never experienced anything like the horror he was about to face.

His muscles ached. His hands were sore and dark with
gunpowder. Blood not his own-soiled his ragged shirt
and pants.

Killing was hard work.

But they weren't done yet. The worst was still ahead of
them.

He was part of a group of four men. One was a black
man, a slave from the same cotton fields on which William
had once toiled; one was a young white man, their slave
master's son; the last man was a warrior from a Chickasaw
Indian tribe.

They were an unlikely team, drawn together to battle a
common enemy. Only an hour ago, there had been seven of
them. Two had been killed; the other, unable to endure the
terror, had run away.

"We don't have much time till dusk," William said, looking to the edge of the forest, where the orange-red sun steadily sank into the horizon. "We must finish what we've
begun."

The men grunted. Their faces, sweaty and spattered with
blood, were grim with resolve.

William knew that every one of them was as frightened as
he was, but they were determined to conceal their anxiety.
True courage was doing what you had to do-without giving
in to fear.

Almost as one, they shifted to confront the cave. The ragged
mouth was large enough to admit three men. Sharp stones
jutted from the ridge of the maw, like teeth.

Like fangs, William thought. A shiver rattled down his
spine.

The fading sunlight did not penetrate the thick blackness
that lay beyond the entrance. Stepping inside the cavern
would be like plunging into a deep Mississippi night.

He hoped that their weapons would be sufficient. He was
armed with a rifle. The Indian warrior had arrows, the heads
wrapped in kerosene-soaked cloth. The other black man
gripped a shotgun, and the white man had a revolver-and a
supply of dynamite powerful enough to shatter the cavern
walls, if need be.

All of them carried whiskey bottles full of kerosene. A
cotton rag dangled from each lip, a poor man's fuse.

They'd done the best they could with the wreckage they
discovered at the ravaged plantation, the place that, only yesterday, had been his home.

William had fashioned a torch from a broken broom and
a towel. He struck a match and lit the makeshift wick. The
fire sputtered, then strengthened into a healthy flame.

He advanced to the front of the group. Holding the torch
aloft, he looked at each man.

They were brave men. He did not understand how he'd
become their leader. He did not understand much of anything that had happened since his old life had ended last
night. He walked on instinct and faith.

"One day, our children will thank us for this," he said.
"Let us pray that they never have to follow in our footsteps"

The men nodded and murmured their agreement.

William Hunter turned to face the cave's mouth. This
close, the stench of death wafted from inside like a dense
fog.

He whispered a prayer, for himself and his men.

Then, he led them into the darkness.

Evil knows where evil sleeps.

-Ethiopian proverb

One who enters the forest does not listen to the
breaking of the twigs in the brush.

-Zambian proverb

Not to know is bad; not to wish to know is worse.

-Nigerian proverb

t sunrise on Friday, August 23, David Hunter drove away
from his town house in Atlanta with a U-Haul trailer hitched
to his Nissan Pathfinder. The trailer contained clothes, two
computers, books, small pieces of furniture, and other assorted items that held sentimental or practical value. He had
left behind everything else at the town house, which, in his
absence, would be occupied by his younger sister and her
roommate.

In the SUV, David had a road map, a thermos full of
strong black coffee, a vinyl CD case full of hip-hop, R&B,
gospel, and jazz discs, and his four-year-old German shepherd, King. King lay on the passenger seat, looking out the
window as they rolled across the highway. David tended to
drive with one hand resting on the canine's flank.