The Flight of Frank Stanton
an excerpt

It’s dark.

Sit up. I can’t.

Frank Stanton’s every muscle ached as he tried to move. The wind blew in the trees around him as he lay on the cold, wet ground. He reached an arm out and felt something unmoving.

“Jacob? Andy?”

Oh God. I don’t feel well.

“Jacob? You awake yet?”

Frank’s eyes adjusted to the dimness of the woods and he managed to roll towards his friend. A metallic smell met his nostrils.

Blood. Oh God. Whose?

He touched his fingers to the back of his head and drew them to his nose. His head was definitely bleeding. He grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his scalp. A blaze of pain shot through him, and he inhaled sharply as he saw stars.

“Come on, Jacob, this isn’t funny. Wake up, we’d better go.”

Frank reached over and shook his friend, who didn’t move.

“Jacob?”

Frank got to his knees, ignoring the dizziness now, thinking of nothing but his friend.

“Jacob!” he yelled with greater urgency.

At his friend’s side, he patted Jacob’s cheek and shook his shoulders.

Nothing. Oh God. Maybe he hit his head too.

Frank tried to roll Jacob over, but he felt sick. Moving to one side, he vomited over the side of the ditch where they were laying.

Turning back to Jacob, he mustered his strength and rolled his friend onto his side. He knew it wasn’t good. He grabbed the handkerchief sticking out of Jacob’s back pocket, though it was wet and covered in mud.

“Jacob?” Slightly hysterical now, Frankie yelled and tapped Jacob again. Nothing. Silence. Dead silence.

Frankie felt in his pockets for some matches, and struck one. He wished he hadn’t. In the pale, flickering light, for just an instant, he saw the white of Jacob’s skull. The wind blew out the match, and Frankie rolled up onto his knees, struggling not to retch again.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Who could have done this? Were we really that drunk?

Could I have done this? Ok, think. Think. Where the hell is Andy!?

“ANDY!!!!!!!!” Frankie called into the woods. “ANDY!!!! ARE YOU OUT THERE!?”

The hooting of an owl was his only response.

Frankie struggled to his feet. Stars burst in his eyes, and he felt woozy and unsteady on his feet.

“ANDY! Get out here and help me! Jacob’s—Jacob—“ Frankie’s voice trailed off as he choked back a sob.

Help me, help me, help me. Please God, please Jesus, help me. Help Jacob.

Looking around, Frankie had no idea where the hell he was. He tried to remember so hard how he’d gotten out there on the path. He felt so alone and so scared. He knew Jacob was dead and he had no idea where Andy had gone. He felt sick, and he didn’t know how to get home and what he’d say to Mama.

Oh God, Mama!! I’ve already given her so much to worry about. How am I going to explain this!?

Frankie stumbled off in the direction he hoped the town of Mulberry Creek lay. He stumbled along the dark path, the branches clutching at his shirt, crying, sobbing, tears and blood and mud and snot mixing and smearing on his face and clothes. He tried to keep the handkerchief pressed to his aching scalp, but this only made his arms hurt, and his balance was so poor, he had no idea how he was going to make it home.

Lights. Home? I can’t tell. How long have I been out here? Help. Help me. Someone help me. No, I don’t want anyone to find me, to see me.

What’s happened? Until I know what happened, I can’t see anyone.

Frankie stumbled into a clearing, and came up on the small cabins that rested along the western edge of Mulberry Creek. He knew from the look of the place he was on the Lower Creek, and he’d have to circumvent town to get home, a full two miles west of Mulberry Creek proper.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

He stumbled along, and somewhere along the way, finding the path in the woods he knew led in a wide arc around town. How many times had he, Andy, and Jacob taken that path to skirt their parents’ watchful eyes, to meet girls, to share a drink and skip school and avoid work? And now…Where was Andy? And Jacob, all too real, all too cold and dead on a path somewhere.