One Shot Left
by Kerry Johnson
“One shot left,” thought Brynne as she changed cartridges in the medium-format camera she always used for night work.
It had been a tough assignment from the photo desk, to take a shot of a rising moon that looked “spooky,” and for the last few nights she’d taken dozens of shots all over town, and was disappointed in what appeared in the darkroom.
The city just wasn’t right, there was too much light.
So on the last night of the brightest part of the moon, as it teetered toward waning gibbous, she loaded up her gear into the Packard and headed west, away from the lights, to find “spookiness.” She stopped not far from Deposit, on a gravel road flanked with firs, knowing that the direction was right and the trees would be perfectly craggy against the light if she got the exposure right.
Brynne hauled tripod, sandbags, film cartridges, and camera from the vast trunk of the black cruiser, jumping at the night noises of the forest, and feeling spooked enough for three people. The sooner she was done and back in the bright city, the better, she thought.
Once the equipment was ready, the moon was rising. She set the aperture and f-stop to capture the backlit clouds and rattled off a couple dozen shots.
As she stepped back under the cloth hood to take one last shot, the first wolf took her leg in his still-changing mouth, eager for the taste of meat.