Why did we build the outhouse so far from the camper? As I walked through the dark desert, slamming the ancient flashlight with my palm to get it to maintain more than a candles worth of light, I lamented this bit of questionable judgement. The small plywood structure sat around 40 yards from my small camper that served as a poor excuse for a living space. What were we thinking? I mulled over this as I barely caught myself from tripping face first into a particularly gnarly patch of prickly pear. I finally trudged up to the outhouse and swung up the pivoting 2x4 block that served as a latch. We installed it to keep the elements out, while also serving as a crude “occupied” indicator. How we would come to regret that decision.
I yanked open the gnarled door and ducked inside. I nearly snapped off the handle every time. Then again, with the door being as gnarled and warped from years of heavy rain and hot sun as it was, I was surprised I could open it at all without knocking the whole thing down on my head.
I had locked the inside latch and was fumbling with my pants button when I heard it. Footsteps approached the door outside. Heavy, trudging, they stopped outside the door. “I’ll be out in just a minute!” I called to who I assumed to be my little brother. No answer. I initially thought nothing of it, but then paused. I had seen no light under the door. With the corners curled as they were, I would see any light long before I heard any footsteps. No way could anyone make the walk blind. Hell, I had a light, and it was as harrowing an experience as any. I ran over this in my head as I heard something that makes my skin crawl to this day. The block on the outside of the door slid shut.
However, at the time, I took it as proof that it was my brother. “Hilarious, Luke. You got me. If you don’t let me out, you’ll find a trout in your bed tomorrow.” Nothing. “Luke, for Christ’s sake, open the latch!” Suddenly, I heard the trickling of liquid outside. “You just couldn’t wait 5 minutes, could you? You could have taken a piss behind the camper. What are you bugging me for?” I noticed something strange about the sound. It was moving. I listened as it made a full circle around the outhouse, and then stopped. I was starting to get freaked out, so I started hollering. “Dude, just let me out!” With each time I yelled, I was becoming less convinced that this was anyone I knew. Then, I heard something that still plays in my head through many a sleepless night. The rattle of sticks. The sliding of paper on paper. The scrrrrape and hiss that could mean ony one thing. I was now sitting in the world’s nastiest furnace, about to be lit.
“Mother of God, NO!” I screamed as I realized my life depended on it. I started screaming for help and kicking the door, praying that my voice, still tired and ragged from a restless half nights sleep, would carry to the camper. Alas, it fell upon the ears of the heaviest sleeper I’ve ever known, snoring like an asthmatic bulldog. I realized only I could get myself out of this death trap. I put my heels against the far wall, and pushed with everything I had. Smoke had already filled the structure, and flame licked at my heels from under the walls. I roared out of pain, desperation, and pure adrenaline powered determination to escape as the door finally relented. I collapsed on the sand, lightheaded from smoke inhalation, and thought blearily, That just happened. Someone tried to burn me alive in the shitter. That really just happened. Suddenly, the thought occurred to me that they may have gone for the camper next. My burnt calves, streaming eyes, and spinning head now were forgotten as I leapt up to check on my brother. I ran to the intact camper, and slammed open the door. “LUKE!” I cried desperately, fearing the worst. “Ughhh… what the hell?” My brother mumbled. Barely even half awake, he looked at me with a slightly peevish look on his face. “You get snakebit, or what? What are you yelling for?”
I fell to my knees and felt an overwhelming wave if relief crash over me. I told him all that happened as quickly as I could, we both grabbed our pistols in one hand and a 5 gallon jug of water in the other, and raced out to try and get everything under control. Fortunately, the old outhouse went up like a matchstick and was mostly burned out by then. We got what was left under control and called the police. As it was past midnight, and we were far out of town, whoever did this was long gone before we even got to the fire, let alone the police. There was no real physical evidence of who may have done it, or why. We were just ranch hands who had never stirred up trouble for anyone. I left out how the perpetrator had made his way through the tar black night with no light because they probably wouldn’t believe me, anyway. The police said they would keep digging, but Luke and I knew better. There were no leads, no bits of evidence, and no way to know who was behind it.
It’s been 4 months, and still no word from the PD. I knew they had nothing to tell me, and the ordeal was probably eating at some detective as much as myself. My burns have healed, and we rebuilt the outhouse, but I can’t help but look over my shoulder every time I make my way out there. Knowing someone is out for your blood is an ugly feeling that no one should have to go through, but I would now have to live with it for the rest of my life.