Hot American Summer Sun

Thomas is caught in a half-sprint, half-stumble with just a dash of insane-arm-flailing as he flies across the tall weeds and crashes just behind an enormous oak tree. He pulls himself up from the dirt and pushes his back against the oak, hiding himself… from them. A cloud of dust settles in the air. Thomas tries to blow it away. It’s a dead giveaway. If they see the dust circling around him, they’ll know his exact location.

He continues to blow through pursed lips. The dust cloud is insistent on pointing to Thomas’s hiding spot. Thomas is blowing more and more, it dissipates little by little. Thomas hears heavy footsteps thudding on the dirt floor off in the distance. He holds his breath, dust still hanging in the air. He hears only his heartbeat, loudly in his ears, and then more footsteps… heavy… running. Probably 200 feet behind him. The footsteps slow down. Twigs snap. Leaves crunch. Maybe about 170 feet away.

More leaves crunch. One of their voices, maybe Red, starts to say something and then a harsh “Shh!” One more twig snap under a heavy footstep… and then the footsteps stop. 150 feet away? Thomas cranes his ears towards the sounds. He remembers the sound of it, how loud it was, they might even be 120 feet away. 120 is a large number… but that is not that big of a distance to separate him from Williamson, Red… and Yellow. Yellow, and his grin that might’ve been caught eating manure.

The dust isn’t as thick but still hangs in front of Thomas’s face. It’s too quiet in the woods. Do they see the dust cloud? Are they figuring out his location? They did stop just now. Maybe they are just reassessing their plan. And there are a lot of oaks in these woods, Thomas should have decent cover. He looks back to the dust cloud, almost completely gone. He breathes a sigh of relief.

Thomas hears whispering but can’t make out the words. What he can make out is two distinct voices whispering back and forth. And then a third voice. They’re all there. All three of them, ready to take Thomas out. And then the footsteps start again… closer… closer.

Silently, Thomas reaches for his hip, pulls the shiny revolver out of the holster. He feels its weight. He doesn’t even need to look. He knows how many rounds it holds. Five. One for each of them… two in which he can afford to miss with. There’s some high-quality math right there… under pressure too.

Still… he can only miss two shots. Thomas doesn’t like those odds. What a horrible situation he’s gotten himself into. Out here with the dirt under his feet, under his nails, in his nostrils. Oh, what he would give to have a different stench in his nostrils. Something sweet. Something promising… promising a heavenly meal. A life of relaxation and tasty food.

No, Thomas doesn’t have that right now. Thomas has an empty stomach and a cold butt on the cold dirt. A feeling of despair comes over him. The footsteps crunch quietly, but ever so surely, closer.

A bird caw-caw’s above Thomas from a high branch. It looks right down at him and caw-caw’s again.

Stupid bird! You trying to give me up?!

Thomas feels some stones to his side and contemplates throwing one near the bird to scare it away. But that would give him away. Then, it hits him, like a big ol’ yellow bolt of lightning the same color as Yellow’s stupid hair atop his freckled face.

Thomas clutches three stones in his hand. He listens. The footsteps are still coming right for him. That’s got to be 70 feet… and closing. He can’t waste anymore time. He flings the rocks to his right. They fly between several trees. One smashes into a tree and the other two tumble into the dirt, making a racket.

“Over there!” Williamson yells out.

The footsteps take a hard right turn and run towards the rocks. Now, is Thomas’s time.

He jumps up and runs in the opposite direction. He avoids as much grass as he can, as many twigs and as many leaves as he can. He attempts to stay in the somewhat silent dirt as best he can. Hundreds of feet up ahead is the clearing. Just beyond that, the exit out of these forsaken woods. Beyond that, the open field. 50 more feet up, and it’s Thomas’s safe zone. All he needs to do is get into that field and make it those extra 50 feet… and he’s home free. No one can do anything to him once he’s there. Not Williamson, Not Red… and sure as shoot-your-pistol not Yellow.

But Thomas is presented with an immediate problem as his legs stretch across the dirt floor that these oaks call home. He’s running out of dirt. Only leaves up ahead. The real dry, real crunchy ones that the summertime leaves you with. All falling off the trees and drying up under the hot American summer sun. The sun is hotter in America. Thomas was once told that. By Williamson in fact. He’s a dang, dirty, derelict… he’s a heck of a heathen, but he’s also a heck of a genius.

Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!

The cacophony from Thomas’s feet sounds like someone churning butter in an empty barrel. It echoes across the woods and bounces off every single oak tree, growing in volume with each bounce.

“Hey!” Sounds like Red. “He went that way!”

The “clack, clack, clack” from pistols is unmistakable. Thomas veers to his right looking for cover. Then, he hears a sound he isn’t used to. A bit of a “gloop” and a “ping” then the sound of something soaring through the air. He turns back to see an arrow flying directly at his head. He ducks and dives all at once like an injured goose. The arrow sails over his head and he tumbles behind another oak tree.

Thank you World… for being so plentiful with oak trees. These are quite possibly saving my whole life right now.

Thomas catches his breath for a moment. The footsteps are coming at him once again. He wasn’t able to gain much separation. If he tries to outrun them again, he will surely fail. Even though he has made it closer to his safe zone… he isn’t close enough.

Williamson, Red, Yellow, they’re all smarter than him. They’re all faster than him. And of course, they’re all taller than him. Isn’t that the way it always goes? You can’t have one without the other two. Thomas can’t outsmart them. Thomas can’t outrun them. And Thomas definitely can’t out-tall them.

Thomas looks to his right. Another oak tree. With a large split in it, creating a hollow cavern. About 48 inches tall. His exact height. He can’t out-tall them. But he can out-small them.

He dashes to his right. A couple clacks as he dives for cover. No one got him. He is good. Thomas crawls into the cavern inside the oak tree, scrambling to get inside completely. He pulls his entire body into the tree and is completely covered. The darkness of the inside of the tree hides him from the hot light of the hot and bright American summer sun.

Thomas inhales big, to hold his breath and to avoid making any noises. He gets a big whiff of the oak tree he resides in, but beyond that, he smells something else. Something sweet, oh so sweet. And savory at the same time. Delicious fruit, hot, baked, forcing mouths to water. A flaky and buttery crust. Thomas can smell the flakiness, he can taste it on the tip of his tongue. He must be closer to his safe zone than he realized. If he can smell this sweet, sweet American summer heaven, if it can pull the saliva up from his glands and cause them to well in his mouth, if he can smell flakiness… then, he is close to the safe zone.

He can hear the muffled sounds of the footsteps approaching the tree. He glances quickly up into the sky to see the positioning of this hot American summer sun. It’s lower than he realized. It all makes sense. The safe zone is close… and it’s just been made safer. This is the time of the day where the sweetness of the fruit hits the air, where that savory smell wafting in just behind that of the fruit puts a sleepiness to the state of everyone in its vicinity and pulls away violent thoughts and replaces them with ones of peace and relaxation. It’s time. Thomas didn’t even realize it. But he cannot get complacent now. There are still killers outside this tree. In fact… they are right outside this tree.

Thomas holds his breath even more… if that’s possible. First walks by Red, right in front of the oak. They tip-toe quietly, but are totally unaware that Thomas is directly next to them. The silver gleams off of Red’s pistol as he passes. Yellow passes by next, eyes darting around. His bow and arrow hang by his side. Next, Williamson passes by. He pauses for a moment just outside the tree.

Oh no. I’m caught.

Thomas grips his pistol. Still just as heavy. Still has five rounds. Of course. Why would there be any less?

Williamson turns towards the oak tree, stares up at it. He ignores the crack in it. He lazily looks around the rest of the area and then continues on, completely unaware that Thomas was so close to them.

Thomas exhales slowly. He waits, breathing in normally now, allowing his lungs to work again, returning his heart rate to normal. The smell of the fruit enters his nose again. It beckons him. If he waits too long… there won’t be any sweetness left for him. There won’t be any savory, buttery, flakiness for him. If he waits too long, the safe zone won’t be as safe. Right now, this is the best time, the safest time. He just needs to reach that zone, cross that threshold in the field. He just has to go for it.

Right.

Now.

Thomas peels himself out of the oak tree and bursts back into the woods! Williamson, Red and Yellow are all off to the right and are stunned as they whip around and notice Thomas making a mad dash out of the tree. They’re caught off guard. Thomas gets the first drop. He lifts his revolver as he runs off.

“Bang, bang! You’re dead!”

Red drops to the ground. That’s two bullets. Three left. Yellow lifts his bow, clutches an arrow and trains it on Thomas. Thomas keeps sprinting with his head turned around, watching Yellow. Yellow lets go of the arrow and it sails towards Thomas. He dives to the ground landing on his back as the arrow sails over his head. From his position on the ground he shoots twice more.

“Bang, bang! You’re dead!”

Yellow drops to the ground. Thomas was right. He got him. But with two bullets. Only one left. How’s that for more high-quality math under pressure? He peels himself off the ground and sprints off, zigging past oaks, zagging past more oaks. The sound of Williamson’s pistol is clacking all through the woods but these oaks provide excellent cover for Thomas.

Williamson pursues him. A pistol filled with way more rounds.

Thomas pushes himself through the woods. Running harder, faster. But he can hear the footsteps of Williamson closing in on him. He is taller and he is faster.

Thomas reaches the clearing. He is too out in the open. Time to kick it into overdrive. Thomas squints his face like he has seen his neighbor’s dog do. He thinks it makes him faster. He is running faster now. His theory was correct. He blazes through the clearing and out into the field.

50 more feet. Thomas can do this.

He turns back and Williamson is approaching the clearing quickly.

Oh no.

Thomas turns forward again. His safe zone is up ahead. The smell of sweet fruit is infiltrating his nose at a high rate now. It has made a home in his nostrils, hung up posters, put its feet on all the furniture. It is so close. It is here.

40 feet.

Thomas turns back around. Williamson is so close, Thomas can make out all the details of his face. His missing tooth that he got a quarter for last week. His birthmark on his cheek.

Thomas turns forward again.

30 feet.

With one bullet it will be hard to hit Williamson. And he will be expecting it. Thomas doesn’t have much of a chance to get Williamson in this fashion.

20 feet.

Thomas turns around while still sprinting ahead. He grips his pistol tightly. Williamson is closing in on him, readying his own pistol. He is smirking. Williamson knows he has Thomas right where he wants him.

Or does he?

Thomas whips his entire pistol at Williamson. It careens towards Williamson’s face and he shrieks like the McCarthy girl down the street. He puts his hands up in defense and the gun sails right past him. He is so taken off guard that Thomas is able to sprint away.

10 feet.

0 feet.

Safe zone.

Thomas stands in his backyard, heaving, panting, huffing, puffing, the works, every way someone can breathe heavy, he’s doing it.

“Oh, you guys finally came in!” Thomas’s Mom says as she strolls by, holding a big tin and setting it down on the picnic table. Thomas’s Dad and Red and Yellow’s parents eagerly wait with plates and silverware. “Just in time for apple pie!”

Thomas doesn’t hesitate. He makes his way right to the table and sits next to his mom. She slides him a plate with the first slice of that beautiful hot summer American apple pie that she bakes. The sweetness of the apples, the spices atop the apples, baked right in, it caresses Thomas’s nose buds… if those are even a thing. That savory crust… Thomas stares at it… oh, it is flaky. The cracks on the edges of his slice of pie are so slight, but revealing that golden brown interior. The slices into this pie are laser-accurate, Thomas’s Mom may be a Cooking Robot put on this Earth to bake the perfect apple pie.

The aromas continue to dance and Thomas let’s them. He wants to experience them before he dives into the taste of the pie. Also, it’s just polite to wait for everyone.

Williamson shows up, setting Thomas’s pistol next to him on the table.

“Good job, you really threw me for a loop there!” He says. “Next time, you be Williamson and you can hunt me.”

“Thanks Henry.” Thomas can now use his real name, they are in the safe zone.

Red and Yellow show up, dusting themselves off. Their parents look at them and deliver a “Look at you two, covered in dirt!” and also a “Well, you look like you were having fun out there in the woods!”

Red and Yellow pull up some chairs at the picnic table and a slice of this delicious, hot summer American apple pie is served to everyone.

“Thomas should take the first bite.” Henry proclaims. “He won!”

Thomas’s parents smile. They nod.

“Alright, we’re all waiting on you, kiddo.” Thomas’s dad laughs.

Thomas lets the side of his fork slice into the tip of the apple pie. Caramel brown apples slide out, but enough stay in between the crust that Thomas identifies this as the perfect bite to take. Like a tall deli sandwich, crust way up high and way down below, several inches of apples and other delicious goodness smashed in between. Thomas lets the piece fall onto the top of his fork, cradled by the dip below the tines. He lifts it slowly to his mouth. A quick and gentle blow on the piece of apple pie in order to cool it down, but not so much as to blow away all that delicate smell and taste. Thomas wouldn’t want to deprive his taste buds of one single cell of flavor.

Thomas places the fork in his mouth, slides the pie in, removes the fork and bites down into a piece of heaven that once fell off from a cumulus cloud above and landed directly into his mother’s pie tin before being slid into that new stove his dad just bought and baked at 382 degrees. That’s the trick. They say 375. But those extra 7 degrees cook the outside faster and make it crispier and leaves the insides just a bit gooier.

Mother, you are an angel. An angel that learned cooking lessons and fell from Heaven when the first apple pie fell and you stayed here and you made Dad the luckiest grown-up in the Tri-state area and made me and Henry the luckiest kids ever.

“How is it, kiddo?” Thomas’s Dad asks.

Thomas swallows. A feeling of complete and total joy comes over Thomas. He is content. He sits and basks in this beautiful day as the sun still hangs in the sky and only slowly lowers, letting the day drag on just a little bit longer. Letting these lucky eight people enjoy this perfect day a little longer. Thomas cherishes the company, he cherishes the perfect weather, he cherishes the great smells, he cherishes this apple pie.

“Well?” Thomas’s mom leans forward slightly, awaiting Thomas’s answer. “You going to tell us? How is it?”

Thomas looks up at his mom and at everyone else.

“It’s summer.”