Seize the Night

still huddled there, devising strategy or discussing the price of coconuts, I was nearly out of time.
    My hidey-hole was suddenly more hole than hidey.
    Unfortunately, no alternative presented itself.
    I fished the spare magazine of ammunition from its pocket in my holster and clutched it in my left hand.
    Holding the Glock ready in front of me, I eased backward into the broom closet—and wondered if the reek of death that saturated the kitchen might have its maggoty source in this cramped space. My stomach slithered like a ball of copulating eels, but nothing squished under my shoes.
    The closet was just wide enough to admit me. To fit, I had to scrunch my shoulders only slightly. Although I am nearly six feet tall, I didn't have to hunch down, however, the underside of the storage shelf pressed hard enough against my Mystery Train cap to impress the shape of the crown button through my hair and into my scalp.
    To avoid second thoughts and an attack of claustrophobia, I decided not to pass the time by listing the ways in which my hiding place was like a coffin.
    As it turned out, I didn't have any time to pass. No sooner had I stashed myself in the broom closet than monkeys entered the kitchen from the dining room.
    I heard them just beyond the threshold, revealed only by a barely audible conspiratorial hissing and muttering. They hesitated, apparently scoping the situation, then entered at a rush, lantern eyes aglow as they fanned out to both sides of the door, like SWAT-team cops in a TV drama.
    The crackling linoleum startled them. One squeaked in surprise, and they all froze.
    As far as I could determine, this first squad consisted of three members. I couldn't see anything but their shining eyes, which were revealed only during the moments when they were facing in my direction.
    Because they were standing still, swiveling just their heads as they surveyed the black room, I could be sure that I wasn't seeing the same pair of eyes as a single individual progressed from place to place.
    I was breathing shallowly through my mouth, not solely because this method was comparatively quiet. Using my nose would result in a more sickening exposure to the vile stink. Already, a sludge of nausea oozed back and forth in my belly. Now I was beginning to be able to taste the foul air, which left a musty-bitter flavor on my tongue and induced a flux of sour saliva that threatened to make me gag.
    After a pause to analyze the situation, the bravest of the three monkeys moved—and then went rigid when the linoleum protested noisily again.
    One of its pals took a step with the same result, and it, too, halted warily.
    A nerve began to twitch in my left calf. I hoped to God it wouldn't develop into a painful cramp.
    Following a lengthy silence, the most timid member of the squad issued a thin whine. It sounded fearful.
    Call me insensitive, call me cruel, call me a mutant-monkey hater, but under the circumstances, I was pleased by the anxiety in its voice.
    Their apprehension was so palpable that if I said “Boo,” they would leap, screaming, straight to the ceiling and hang there by their fingernails. Monkey stalactites.
    Of course, totally pissed by that little trick, they would eventually come down again and, with the rest of the troop, tear my guts out.
    Which would spoil the joke.
    If they were as spooked as I believed they were, they might conduct only a token search and retreat from the house, whereafter Curious George would be the troop's equivalent of the boy who cried wolf.
    The increased intelligence conferred on these rhesuses is as much a curse as a blessing to them. With higher intelligence comes an awareness of the complexity of the world, and from this awareness arises a sense of mystery, wonder. Superstition is the dark side of wonder.
    Creatures with simple animal intelligence fear only real things, such as their natural predators. But those of us who have higher cognitive abilities are able to torture ourselves with an infinite menagerie of imaginary threats, ghosts and goblins and vampires and brain-eating extraterrestrials. Worse, we find it difficult not to dwell on the most terrifying two words in any language, even in monkey talk, what if …
    I was counting on these creatures' being, right now, nearly paralyzed by a daunting list of what-ifs.
    One of the squad snorted as though trying to clear the stench out of its nostrils, then spat with distaste.
    The wimpy one whined again.
    It was answered by one of