Ben Dover Has Died From Dysentery—

The words blinked across the bulky monitor, in neon-green pixelated 1983 technology.

“Dude, dysentery is a bitch!” Matt Cooper squinted at the rudimentary picture of an ox and wagon, and then shifted his hazy gaze to his friend Snake, laying on the floor.

“What’s that?” Snake asked, pointing up with one hand while reaching blindly for the paper plate of gooey brownies behind his head with the other.

“It means I shit myself to death.” Matt replied before dissolving into laughter.

Snake erupted along with his friend. “I meant where’d you get that?” he wheezed, pointing at the Tandy 1000 perched on the oak desk in the Cooper’s basement.

“Probably from a dirty ox.” Matt answered, howling at his joke while he popped another brownie into his mouth.

“The computer dumb ass! It wasn’t there yesterday.” Snake sat up, peering at the screen through red-rimmed eyes. “And, who’s Ben?”

“A surprise from Dad yesterday. This Oregon Trail game’s awesome!” Matt opened the list of top scores. Lou Stool, Rusty Pecker and Ben Dover were in the first three spots.

Matt, overcome with his own hilarity, guffawed himself right out of the chair, and onto Snake, the shag carpet, and the plate of brownies.

Snake emitted a guttural Ooooh-Yeah, threw his arm across Matt and with the speed of a scared slug, wrestled him into a headlock. “Feel the wrath of Hulkamania!”

Matt bucked his legs to free himself from Snake’s grip. In the process, he knocked the oatmeal-coloured monitor off the desk. The heavy screen bounced off Matt before smacking Snake on his carrot-haired noggin. The teens roiled on the carpet alternating between groans of pain and laughter. Matt attempted to focus on the cartoon stars flying around as the room began to spin. Faster and faster.

“Axle…?”

The spinning stopped and the stars disappeared.

“Huh?” Matt lifted his head from the rough wooden boards and squinted up at the man staring at him like a zoo exhibit, with the bushiest gray beard and eyebrows Matt had ever seen.

“Son, this ain’t no place to take a nap. You got an axle or not.” The man impatiently tapped his index finger on a glass cabinet.

Matt gaped, open-mouthed. The man shuffled backward until he was out of view. Moments later the tinkle of a bell and soft thud of a door shutting snapped Matt out of his trance.

“Dude, how many brownies did we eat?” Snake’s languid voice drawled from behind him. Matt pulled himself to his feet and took in the surroundings. He was behind the long glass counter filled with knives, axes, and other metal objects he couldn’t identify. The small room was stuffed with wooden barrels, burlap sacks, rudimentary hand tools and bolts of cloth.

“You look so dumb.” Snake snorted. Matt looked down and saw his Levis and Led Zeppelin shirt had been replaced by itchy wool pants, a tea-coloured linen shirt and suspenders.

“I wouldn’t talk. You look like Pa from Little House on The Prairie,” Matt replied.

“Oh no, Blind Mary is trapped in the old barn. I need to save her,” Snake said in a sing-song voice, skipping around the room, a black felt hat perched on top of his head.

Matt grabbed Snake by the shoulder and pointed at Matt’s General Store painted in green above the wooden door. “Homie, look! It’s like from the game—gnarly!”

Snake’s eyes widened as he looked from the sign to Matt before clapping his friend on the back enthusiastically. “Congrats man! I didn’t know you bought a store.”

The boys hooted with laughter until they were interrupted by the jingle of the bell over the door. A buxom woman in a long dusty dress and straw hat sashayed towards the counter.

“Good day ma’am welcome to Matt’s Marvellous Mercantile.” Matt bowed deeply.

“Dude! Did you just make that up?” Snake stared at him, slack jawed. “You’re like a poet and didn’t know it.”

“It just sort of popped into my brain. I think I might be a genius here.” Matt closed his eyes, concentrating. “Roses are red, violets are blue. We sell shovels and pickaxes too!”

Snake put up his palm for a high five. “You need to write that down! Awesome!”

The woman stared, wide-eyed, from one teen to the other, taking in the exchange. She blinked slowly several times before speaking. “I’m Mrs. Stitts. I’m in need of one full sack of grain.”

“Mrs. Stitts, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Matt.” He held out his hand.

The woman softened slightly and lightly pressed her fingers to his. “You can call me Norma.”

“Norma Stitts needs her sack filled!” Matt called to Snake in the back room.

Snake exploded with a room-shaking hee-haw. “My pleasure ma’am,” he replied. He resumed scooping grain, mumbling “Norma Stitts” every few seconds, followed by fits of giggles.

A disheveled man stepped up to the counter, shoulders drooping. “Solomon Tobias Bauls, here to pick up my new wagon wheels,” he said somberly.

“Why so glum, chum?” Matt said, smiling brightly.

“My Mavis died from dysentery yesterday.” The big man sniffed.

“Disen-tery? Serves her right!” Called Snake from the back where he was still filling Norma’s sack. “What’d Terry ever do to her?”

In a surprising burst of speed, the man pushed past Matt, grabbed Snake by the collar and backed him into a wall of wagon wheels. “What’d you say about Mavis?”

“Ok Sol, calm down.” Matt wedged himself between the two men. “Snake, our friend here said Dys-en-ter-y! No one was dissin’ Terry!”

The purple-faced man lowered Snake to the floor. “Just get me my wheels so I can get outta here.”

Matt looked through the large ledger book on the counter, scanning the names. “Ah, here we go. Four wheels for Sol T. Bauls.”

Snake’s whoop of laughter echoed through the little store and Mavis’ poor widower could do nothing but watch as both teens doubled over with laughter.

“What’s your name, young man?” He asked angrily. The boys struggled to catch their breath. Matt managed to squeak out “He’s Sssssnake.”

“Snake! Where?” Solomon jumped around the room, grabbed a rake and scrambled onto the counter. “Is it a copperhead?”

“My mom says my hair’s auburn.” Snake stopped laughing and looked at the man indignantly. “And she says it’s beautiful, like a sunset!”

“He’s talking about the snake, Snake.” Matt brushed spilled grain from his wool pants.

“You’re both loons! I’ll get my wheels somewhere else.” Mr. Bauls slid off the counter and huffed out.

“Here you go, Mrs. Stitts.” Matt handed her the full bag. “Happy trails!”

Norma departed with her grain.

“What now?” Snake propped himself up on a barrel, surveying the shop.

“Do you have any more brownies?” Matt slumped to the floor, the weed and adrenaline of the last hour abandoned his body at the same time.

“They’re in your basement,” Snake replied. “How do we get back there?”

“I don’t even know how we got here,” Matt said. “The game ends when the player either makes it to the Willamette Valley or dies.”

“I’m too young to die!” Snake cried out. “I’ve never kissed a girl and I’m supposed to see Return of the Jedi in the theatre next week!”

“I guess we need to hitch a ride,” Matt said with a sigh. The two stood up and shuffled out the front door to the bustling street. Settlers loaded wagons with months’ worth of supplies, tended to livestock that looked skinny and hungry already, and gossiped in small groups about everything from runaway wives to illegitimate babies.

A frazzled man limped towards them and implored in a thick French accent. “I hope you are not closing for zee day. I need to buy a cane. I fell off zee wagon.”

“A cane’s not going to help you with that Buddy! Just need some good old-fashioned willpower!” Snake said under his breath.

Matt shot a threatening look at Snake and continued. “Sorry friend, we don’t have any canes, but I have an even better idea.” Matt pointed at the wagon. “We’ll help with your wagon in exchange for a ride.”

The man held out his hand. “I’m Monsieur Strappe, but call me Jacques.” Matt helped him into the wagon seat.

Snake climbed into the seat beside him and whispered. “Don’t feel bad, my Granny’s fallen off the wagon dozens of times and she’s still alive. But she’s a lot less fun when she’s on the wagon.”

“Let’s roll!” Matt called from the back of the wagon before Jacque had a chance to respond. The wagon set off, creaking and bouncing along the trail to Oregon.

The next four months were filled with struggles as the travelers faced perils flying at them with rapid speed. First Jacques’ injured leg developed gangrene and the Frenchman was dead within a week.

Jacques Strappe Died From Gangrene

Despite being alone on the trail, they managed to stay alive and avoid trouble until they came across Norma walking along the trail, drenched from the rain, tears streaming down her mud-streaked face.

“Bandits tossed me out of my wagon and took off with all my belongings.” Norma wept as the boys helped her into the back of the wagon, piling wool blankets onto her shivering body. When they stopped again that evening Norma was burning hot to the touch. The fever killed her the next day.

Norma Stitts Died From Fever

Their oxen dropped dead two weeks later – seemingly out of the blue. With nothing to pull their wagon, Matt and Snake begged for mercy from Solomon Bauls. He agreed to let the boys ride in his wagon in exchange for the rest of their supplies.

Sol hadn’t returned to Matt’s General Store for his new wheels, a decision he deeply regretted as they began to cross the Willamette River. Two wheels got stuck in the mucky river bottom and that was all it took for the trip to turn disastrous.

“Dear Jesus, I’m sorry I stole that Playboy from 7-11 and hid it in the woods. I’m sorry I didn’t pay for my Columbia House subscription. I’m sorry I…”

“Snake! Snap out of it!” Matt shouted at his friend over the roar of the river. Water was pouring in on all sides as the wagon floated along.

“Jump fellas!” Solomon called from the front of the wagon. “1… 2… 3…” Splash! Matt pulled the canvas flap open in time to see him jump into the water, surfacing briefly only to be dragged back under by the current.

Sol T. Bauls Died From Drowning

“It’s now or never. Swim as hard as you can.” Matt held out his hand to Snake and the two plunged into the frigid river just as the wagon broke apart. When they resurfaced the canvas was barely visible, bobbing through the frothy water.

They swam and drifted for several hundred yards before the current dragged them close to shore. Matt and Snake pulled themselves onto the rocks, panting with exhaustion.

“Look!” Snake pointed at a neon green orb floating in mid-air fifty feet from shore.

“That must be the end of the game. Let’s go!” Matt and Snake clambered to their soaking-wet feet and sloshed their way towards the light. The world began to spin as they drew close and Matt felt himself being dragged forward.

“Delicious…”

“Huh?” Matt raised his head from the plush carpet, shaking out the fuzzy feeling. His father and mother stared down at him. Chewing slowly.

“Did your mom make these Snake?” Mrs. Cooper popped the last brownie into her mouth. “I need the recipe.”

“We thought we’d see if this computer stuff is fun for us oldies too.” Mr. Cooper reached for the keyboard.

“No!” Matt and Snake shouted in unison. Matt rolled across the floor and pulled the plug from the outlet. “How about we play scrabble?”

————

Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home between the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island, Canada. She writes about the chasm between love and loss and picking out the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments. Christy has been shortlisted for Bath and Bridport Flash Fiction prizes and is a two-time New York City Midnight winner. She has been published by Sky Island Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, Sunlight Press, and others.
www.christyhartmanwriter.com