Let it Wander

He pulled off the black top just north of Flatonia and slowed as the tires on the old Chevy kicked up dust and the smell of white chalk and cattle feed filled the cab of the pick-up. He reached over and rattled a few aspirin from a plastic bottle into his left palm and chased them down with a swig of the beer. The rolling pasture-side arched up and then down toward the big yellow house. Several head of cattle grazed in the field. The house was coming apart. It was only right. No one had lived there for quite sometime and probably never would again. Whoever owned the place now likely had a modern spread outside La Grange or Columbus. They probably only saw the place once or twice a year. Pete got out and leaned against the warm hood. The dull ache in his gut throbbed heavily now.

The old man sure wasn't saying anything anymore, not about cows or hard work, much less what a real man should do or be. The burning sun and the hard black-land soil finally shut him up once and for all. Pete laughed under his breath and kicked at the gravel. He took a long look at the old place.

“I’ll see you later old man. And when I do, well…”

Pete pulled back onto the blacktop and headed north. The humidity directed his hands on the steering wheel. He meandered out of the old soggy creek bottoms where the spirits of dead confederates and their proud, turgid posterity fished up the old boots of black boys sent to an early death by peckerwoods filled with too much corn swill and wild-eyed obsessions of miscegenation. Pete headed up toward the plains of the yeoman up country toward Belton and Temple. He decided against stopping in on Kenny boy after all.

As the sunset out the driver-side window, Pete cracked open a fresh cold beer from the cooler in the passenger side floorboard. It was his last and he hankered for something stronger to cover the twisting pain in his guts. Outside Belton, just off the highway in the woods sat a busted old roadhouse. He turned off and came to a stop in front of a large hand-painted sign that read Denim n Diamonds. Pete sat for a minute and polished off the remaining gulps of beer. He glanced in the rearview mirror across the road to the dense thicket of cedars and then back at the worn down old shack of a saloon.           

‘What a mess,’ he thought.

He gathered up the empties from behind the seat and stuffed them into the brown paper bag, climbing out of the cab and dropping them in the dumpster beside the bar, he adjusted his belt and tucked his shirt into his pants before opening the front door.  The light slung across several hard-worn faces before the door shut behind him. A few old men sat in the corner playing cards and two younger dudes leaned against the corner of the bar. They all looked Pete over as he entered the joint. He saddled up at the bar and ordered a beer.

“Pearl Light?”

“Sure thing fella.” The bartender reached down into a large, 24 gallon cooler and fished a can out from under the ice.

“Two bucks son.”

“Thank you.” Pete replied kindly.

Pete sipped from the beer can for a good of couple of minutes before he turned to survey the landscape. The place largely consisted of plywood, both floors and walls, except for a smattering of faded promotional beer posters and cardboard cutouts of swimsuit models. A few scattered patches of dark indiscernibly colored carpet lay about the room, and some cheap wood paneling covered the floor in front of the jukebox. The bar was backed with a sizeable mirror framed in Christmas lights, a few dirty old ball caps, and a woman’s bra. Pete eyeballed the small bags of fried pork rinds hanging on the clips in back of the bar.

“Pardon me sir, can I get a packet of the pig skins?”

“Sure thing bub.” 

“And another beer?”

“Comin’ up.”

Pete figured it was cold beers only, but he guessed at the old timer keeping a handle of something hard in the reserves. Few men could spend twelve hours a day in a place like that without a sip or two of spirits.

“Say friend, you got anything stronger somewhere back there?”

The bar tender gave a sly smile and spoke under his breath.

“You know it fella’, but it’ll cost ya’ two and a half bucks.”

Pete put three ones on the bar and took another long pull from his beer. The bartender placed a small glass on the bar in front of Pete and poured a tall shot of what looked like homemade corn whiskey. The two old men eyed Pete closely as he drank it down. They knew he wasn't from the neighborhood and they didn't trust anyone they didn't’ know.

“That’s my own recipe.” The old timer stated. “Call it Coon Dick.”

“How about a round for us?” One of the old patrons suggested, glaring at Pete.

Pete nodded to the bar tender and he poured for all three men.

“Here’s to you gentlemen, and to Coon Dick!” Pete toasted.

They all drank and laughed and Pete played the jukebox. A few other locals strolled in and took their places around the tables. Two women, a handful of bikers, a few kids fresh off the farm in their dirty shirts with leather work gloves stuffed in their back pockets. The crowd was of mean condition to say the least, but they smiled and hollered, got good and drunk like any good folks would under the circumstances. By closing time, they were just getting started and the old guy behind the bar was in no shape to physically remove them—some weighed well over two bills—from the establishment. One of the old timers saddled up at the bar next to Pete and asked him how he liked their homebrew.

“Not bad at all.”

“If you want, I got a few jugs back at my place I’ll sell you for five bucks a piece.”

“Awful kind of you.”

“Yeah, I just live across the road over there.”

“Sure.”

Pete followed the three old buzzards out of the joint and started for his truck.

“No, no,” the old man hollered, “its just over here. Can’t drive through there. Just a short walk,” he said, pointing over at the woods across the road. The other two were already entering the tree line, leaning on each other for balance and slurring Hank Thompson.

“I gots tam fer un mo rown’ an a sers pa t’ go.”

Pete followed the man across the road and down into the cedar trees.

“Name is Earle.”

“Earle, I’m Pete.”

“Pleased to know ya’ son.”

“Likewise.”

They walked a half a mile or so through the woods until they came up on a large clearing. Pete could make out a few heifers in the distance lying under a patch of Pecan trees. There was a trough and a bale of hay nearby.

“You farm this place?” Pete asked.

“Yessir.”

“You own it or just work it?”

“Own it outright, all fifty-seven acres. Grew up down near Victoria.”

“The prairie, huh?”

“Moved up here when I lost my first wife, bought this piece, run it ever since, going on fifty years now.”

“You ever remarry Earle?”

“Yes I did, in ’67, she died of the cancer some time ago. Now its just me and the hands.”

They made their way across the field and up to a large barn. Down below in the pasture sat an old house, single story, shiplap siding, tin roof, with a porch out front. Earle motioned to Pete and they headed over to the barn. He opened the door and pulled a shovel from the inside wall.

“Here, take this.”

Pete took the spade.

“What’s this?" he asked.

“I don’t keep the stuff lyin’ around, its illegal you know. We gotta go over in the yard and dig it up.”

Pete thought the notion odd, but he followed Earle anyway. The other two men had made their way to the house. Pete could see them out on the front porch. He heard them talking, arguing over something. The indigo sky overhead felt cool and a mild breeze blew across the land. They walked down to the yard thirty feet or so from the house and Earle took the shovel and started digging a hole. After a good few swipes, he paused and looked around.

“I’ll be damned. Thought it was right here somewhere.”

“You mean you don’t know where you buried it? Pete asked.

"No, I know I buried it right here, just not exactly where, right here.”

The old timer kept at it for a while, and then started to hack and cough some. Pete took the tool and told him to take a rest. He started digging a few feet away from Earle’s hole and then every foot or so within the yard. He didn't find anything though.

“How deep did you bury the hooch?”

“Couple a feet maybe, less even?”

They took turns digging until nearly the entire yard was pock marked with what looked like small craters.

Pete finally grew exasperated and sat down in the dirt.

“If its here we’re not likely to find it tonight. I better be on my way. I still have to make it into Temple tonight.”

“Hell you do, you agreed to pay me five bucks for a jar of my corn buck; you cain’t re-nig on our deal now. Uh-uh! No sir. I’m afraid I can’t let that happen.

“We’ll, Earle, from the looks of things here, you don’t exactly have any CORN DICK to sell, now do you? And this whole damned escapade is likely some cruel lark.”

“Why you son’va bitch, I should’a know’d you was a double-crosser. Now…you help me dig up this swill…or… else!” Earle belched in exasperation.

Pete sized up the tired old drunk bastard and figured he was out of sorts.

“Well…Earle, you have yourself a nice life buddy. I’m going to Temple.”

Earle reached in his coat and pulled a tiny boot revolver and pointed it at Pete. Pete started to back away slowly, raising his hands in the air, laughing nervously.

“Don’t shoot, you crazy ol’ coot, I’ll give you your five dollars, just put the damned piece away.”

“Uh-uh, I don’t take handouts, a deal is a deal. Besides, you tore up my lawn and that’ll cost me extra…time to recompense youngster.”

Pete felt one of the piles of dirt under his right toe and he kicked it at Earle and turned to run, but Earle fired and caught Pete in the right shoulder. Pete went down for a minute but got back to his feet and ran for the trees and the highway beyond. Once inside the woods he paused, catching his breath; he felt the wound in his back, the slug still burned inside his flesh. He tried to make out the proper direction back to the road but the trees blocked out much of the light and he couldn't hear any cars. He stumbled at a modest pace in the general direction from whence he’d come.

Back in the yard, Earle hollered at the fellas on the porch to help him.

“Get that cheatin’ and swindlin’ bastard!”

The boys weren't sure what had transpired in the yard, nor did they care to get involved.

“Oh come on and sit down and have a drink Earle.”

“That no good lousy thievin’ cretin! He owes me five bucks.”

“How do you figure Earle?”

“Yeah Earle, did he take something from you?”

“He took my time on a promise to pay five bucks for a jug of my corn swill.”

“Did he take the swill without payin’?”

“We never found the damned hooch on account of we weren't done diggin’ it up yet, when he up and decided to skeedaddle.”

“Well that is low down, if I do say so myself.”

“Yessir, suppose it is Earle.”

“This whole country has gone to shit, that’s for damned sure. There are no more good guys out there these days.”

“What about us Earle? Ain't we the good guys?”

“Shut the fuck up Dale before I shoot you’re ugly ass and the Jesus his self thanks me fer doin' so!”

Pete hobbled through the woods until he made out a light a stint or so ahead through the trees. He heard Earle fire his pistol a couple times in the distance. He thought to himself that the next time some old man offers to sell him some moonshine, he’d ask him to deliver the product himself prior to the discussion of purchase price or quality of said product. His shoulder burned like shit fire and he couldn't tell how bad the bleeding was but he knew he was far from any hospital. Slowly he meandered his way upon the road and he saw the roadhouse in the distance. As he crossed the road and made it to his pick-up, an eerie moan came from the shadows on the side of the building. Pete climbed in the cab of his truck and turned the engine over. Switching on the headlights, he caught a fully lit view of a fat bearded red neck on bent knee performing fellatio on an old man up against the dumpster. Pete slammed the driver’s side door and tore hell in reverse out of the gravel parking lot nearly crashing into the mesquite thicket across the road and punched the gas. He spun the steering wheel hard right and skidded out north, screaming as he pushed the gas pedal to the floorboard.

“COCKSUCKIN’ SONS A BITCHES!!! FUCKING A…JESUS…H. FUCKING …OH…AHHH…CHRIST…AHHH…MAN!!!”

The blacktop stretched out under his headlights and he switched the brights on, blinking hard to get a good look at the road. The trees lofted out in an arch overhead until they met those on the opposite side, forming a canopy. It looked as if he were driving through a tunnel toward the depths of hell. He cringed under the pain of his shoulder wound and swerved fighting his increasingly blurred vision. The booze seemed all gone now, but it was really just overridden by the endorphins from the gunshot.

Pete slouched, trying to hold the wheel steady. He felt his blood drip from his arm onto his hand as it pushed the gear stick from fourth to fifth. He suddenly felt he really might not make it.

The Christmas lights spun all around him, reflecting off the mirrors and windows. The troopers had him good this time. He meant to slow by pushing down on the brake but his lack of coordination impaired him and he gassed the El Camino hard. Texas State Trooper, Joe Hooley, saw the late model Chevy El Camino roar past him a mile or so from the Markeska’s place. Joe Hooley was a grunt.  He never quite made the Marines but every man in his family had. Joe played ball and was smart as a whip, but he didn't have the taste for foreign lands and barking generals. He loved his country—Texas especially, and America tangentially, at least as much as he understood it—and he figured he did as well as any man. Joe made a fine cadet at the trooper academy in Austin. He aced all the tests and was a torrid force on the obstacle course. All the pasty white sullied boys from deep east Texas saw Joe as a cowboy, and they looked up to him. He graduated the Department of Public Safety training school at the top of his class.

Joe liked to shoot things. He mounted seven near-ten point bucks on his wall in just over sixteen years of handling the thirty-thirty his father passed on to him. Joe wasn't afraid of using his side arm. Once, outside a Mexican Joint in Waco, he fired on two shit heads that tried to  run him down in their dually. One lived but never walked the same. The other took one in the jugular; dead on arrival at the local hospital. Joe didn't feel bad about either one. He figured he was a cop. It was his job. Not an easy one either. But it paid the mortgage and his boat loan. Joe liked being able to carry a gun, and use it on occasion. The Judge let Joe off on the manslaughter charge, said it was self-defense.

“There aren't too many good guys left in this world Sgt. Hooley. You’re one of them. You go home to your family and thank god for all you have.”

Joe’s wife, Cindy Hooley, pressed her hips hard up against him outside the courthouse smearing her fire-red lipstick across his mouth. She loved being married to a cop. She liked Joe to wear his holstered pistol to bed. Joe like that too.

Joe Hooley took off after the blue El Camino, sure he’d get the poor bastard and lock his ass up for being a piss poor degenerate. He watched the tailgate swerve back and forth across the road. He knew it was some worthless asshole by the beat up condition of the pick-up. Only a dumb shit would drive an old piece of shit like that. Joe called in the license plate and reported the speeding offense to the operator, Jeannie, back at the office. Jeannie smacked her sugarless chewing gum and pressed the open wavelength button so the other troopers could hear the report across the radio. Joe smiled determined now, he wanted the piece of shit in a pair of cuffs. That’s what he did; it got him fired up. 

Pete spilled off the road and into the barbed wire fence dragging the truck to a stop only after the impact forced him to let loose of the steering wheel. Joe Hooley watched the truck pour over the gravel shoulder and knew he had a real situation on his hands. When he approached the crash, gun drawn and calling for the driver to show him his hands, he hoped the shit heal was unconscious, but he was prepared to shoot any drunk bastard who didn't follow his commands right quickly.

Pete was drunk indeed and his leg was twisted up so he could not use it to get out of the truck cab. The impact broke his nose and blood covered his face and shirt. He saw the cop approach, gun drawn through the side mirror and he hoped he might avoid being shot, so he managed to place his hands on the steering wheel.

“You okay there pal?”

Pete hardly heard the cop talking, but his voice faded in and out as Pete’s consciousness failed.

He awoke in a stark white room; the sun shown through the curtains, almost convincing him that he’d gone to the afterlife. The nurse, a hefty, cute brunette, asked him how he was feeling. He starred at her almond eyes and long curls wondering all the while if he were dead and gone to heaven. He had not. The fact made itself more clear as his body recovered enough to feel the damage that it sustained in the crash that night on the roadside. The television in the hospital room played CNN and Pete left the dial there almost permanently, except for the early evening when he turned to the American Movie Classics station to watch Jimmy Stewart in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, or Sydney Poitier in Blackboard Jungle. To Pete, the slightest subtly delivered line or affected monologue by classic actors lent him some solace against what the newspapers and business reports constantly purported to be the total chaos and impending doom, incessant cultural division, and unending detritus of the great American century sinking to its long awaited demise. Pete did not buy the easy analysis that the U.S. was in decline, nor did he accept obtuse suggestions that George H. W. Bush was a reasonable man, or a convincing commander in Chief. NO, Pete sat in his hospital bed watching with utter disgust as the spray-tanned anchors suggested that the latest Presidential debate was a draw.

“I’d draw on him, sure as shit!” Pete said out loud. The empty hospital room offered no response.

Joe Hooley opened the door and politely asked Pete if he could have a minute of his time to finalize the police report on the accident. Pete acquiesced figuring he was in for the riot act, him being an obviously drunken gunshot wounded driver on a public road in the dark of night. He vaguely remembered Joe Hooley’s face from the night of the accident.  Joe took a seat in the chair next to Pete’s bedside and looked up at the television. He opened the leather binder containing the police proceedings from the crash and looked at Pete squarely.

“Do you remember why you decided to get behind the wheel that night Mr. Thompson?” Joe Hooley asked.

Pete hesitated before finally asking the young, flat top square head, what Pete figured was a superfluous but importantly and meaningfully distracting question.

“Do you believe in freedom sir?”

“Excuse me?” Joe Hooley responded.

“Never mind.”

“You must be a ton a bricks son?” Hooley asserted.

Pete didn't look away from the television. “Just a man on the fly sir. But I guess you’re genius detective work already figured that much out.”

“This report paints a fairly poor picture Mr. Chavez.”

“I guess it is a ‘fairly poor picture’ all together,” Pete motioned toward the CNN broadcast on the screen: “depression and wars, AIDS and what not.”

“You some kind a bleedin’ heart son? A liberal?”

“Sir?” Pete asked.

“You a fairy assed quitter…a fag? Do you love America and George Washington?” Hooley prodded.

“George Washington Carver? Who doesn’t like a good goober pea, sir?” Pete smiled without meeting the officer’s gaze.

“Son, your sarcastic wit might be what is keeping you back.”

“Well, I love Texas and Sam Houston law man, is that good enough for you?”

“Are you one of the good guys Mr. Chavez? Cuz right now, your comments are leaving me in serious doubt as to the content of your character.”

“Are your hands clean sir?” Pete countered.

The Nurse returned, just before Hooley could answer, to check on Pete’s condition.

“Anything else officer?” Pete asked.

“Just need you to sign off on this form. Luckily no one was hurt but you, the court date for the DWI is in 90 days. You can contact the court at this number here on the back of the citation.”

“Thank you officer. And you keep your head up sir.” Pete offered.

Pete was just relaxed enough from all the booze that when he hit the tree his left leg folded over under the force of the crumbling engine block and thus narrowly escaped a terrible break.  Pete glanced over at the nurse’s figure as she adjusted his heart monitor. He thought of Poppa in A Farewell to Arms and whether the young nurse might fancy a roll in the sack. It remained unclear if he was fit for such activity, so he let it aside for the moment and refocused on the television. As she tucked him in, the nurse grazed at his groin and Pete glanced up at her in suggestion. She glared in contempt of his weak attempt at a sexual interlude, of which he was totally incapable of executing. Nonetheless she admired his audacity, as most women do. She placed her warm hand directly on Pete’s crotch and said…

“You’re a big boy…but I need a soldier.”

She then abruptly left the room. She did not return for exactly forty-eight hours. Pete lay in that miserable sterile room wondering, minute after minute, when they’d release him. He accepted the loss of his truck and the police were sure to arrive any minute to take his statement and begin the legal case against him for reckless endangerment or disturbing the peace or god knows what trumped up charge. He eventually dozed off under the influence of the heavy pills the nurse fed him. The television ran on and on about the President and the Super Bowl, and the economy, as if any of them would change the game substantially for anybody trying to get out of a hole. Where was the nurse? Where were the cops?  When would he get the fuck out of this stinking prison, this oppressive regimen of thermometers, green peas, and white rubber gloves? Who could stand this inhumane treatment? If only that chunky little brunette bombshell would return to finish the business she started?

When Ray and the kid pulled into the Hospital driveway in his blue Dodge Ram, Pete sat perched in a wheel chair with a bandaged foot and a stitched up face. The boy, Charlie, sat up front. They both got out and greeted Pete, who sat in that miserable wheel chair, leg in a caste, shoulder still heavily bandaged from the bullet wound. Suddenly the nurse appeared over Pete’s shoulder. She whispered into his ear then licked it hard and wet. Ray and the kid walked over and smiled glad to see Pete in one piece.

“Fuck was that about?” Ray said. “You remember Charlie don’t ya?”

“Sure,” Pete said. “How you doin’ Charlie? I’m your cousin Pete."

“Hey Pete.”

Ray drove directly to Pepe’s Café out on the interstate where the boys all sat at a red vinyl covered table eating enchiladas and guacamole  Pete and Ray drank beers and Charlie had a Roy Rogers.

“You gonna be alright brother?” Ray asked.

“Oh sure.” Pete replied.

For that moment at least Pete felt everything was not lost. The kid was a handsome daring one, and Ray was a good dad, and they had survived a terrible fire, lost everything but each other, but there they were, eating enchiladas and drinking cold Mexican beer. Maybe there was hope for America after all.

Charlie looked up at Pete.

“Wha happen to your face Pete?”

“Well tiger, cousin Pete had a bit of a car accident…I got in a jam with some bad men.”

“Oh yeah?” Charlie asked, excited by the idea of gunslingers and derelicts. “Oh yeah? Bad men? What kind a bad men?”

“Oh just some down right dirty dealers son.”

“Are we the good guys pop?”

Their decision to adopt seemed to help, but the process was involved and couldn't happen fast enough for Janet. Robert wouldn't admit this to anyone, but he now wanted a child more to restore the woman he loved so much rather than the family that child would bring, or even that he might be a father. Was it wrong to want your wife back more than a child you didn't have? Maybe it was. Just another reason he looked forward to his tiny vacations.

The bright July sun threatened to make today the hottest of the year yet, and the lack of breeze promised to help deliver on that threat. Robert's brow was beaded with sweat as he flipped the page to a new chapter before looking up to that mountain view he loved, hoping the sight of those distant peaks where patches of snow still clung defiantly would help cool him off. His mind wandered to those mountains and the hiking trip he and Janet took just last weekend near Guanella Pass where they shared a brisk dip in one of the alpine lakes. It was the first time he heard her laugh in a long time, giggling at the funny face he made when his thighs breached the surface of the frigid water.

His mind turned to Janet, and he wondered how her day was going. While he cherished his tiny vacations, he knew she almost always worked through lunch. Her career in social work seemed to help her fill the voids she felt growing within, and her long hours were a small price to pay to keep her afloat. She was probably sitting at her desk, perhaps eating yogurt, pouring over a prospective kid's file. He picked up the phone lying on the passenger seat and sent her a short text message. Hey babe, thinking of you. Hopefully that would make her smile, even if he couldn't be there to see it. He turned his gaze north, the direction in which Denver sat some forty-plus miles away, and imagined Janet in her office, smiling.

A drop of sweat trickled down the bridge of his nose, causing him to take off his sunglasses and run a napkin across his brow. He replaced his Wayfarers and noticed a prairie dog run by not ten feet from the truck. Despite the heat, the prairie dogs were out carrying on as usual. They had practically invaded the nearby field as it sat undeveloped, and the dry space was pockmarked by the holes of their burrows. He smiled as a chase ensued between two males, one actively defending his home and territory from the other, who was remarkably persistent. He'd seen it before: yip, bark, run in a big circle, pause to yip and bark some more, and saunter back to their holes and prepare for another attack. 

He lost himself in the critters' familiar patterns, his mind on Janet, when he noticed that something snapped them to attention, each one of them standing upright looking in the same direction. They must have sensed a nearby predator, and he turned his gaze expecting to see a nearby hawk. What he did see made his heart drop. Off in the distance, in the same direction as Denver and where his Janet sat at her desk, bloomed the iconic mushroom-cloud shape of a nuclear explosion.

Unable to move, he braced himself for the sound that he was sure would follow the sight of the explosion. The seconds ticked by like hours while Robert sat there in his old truck, his eyes locked on something that should not be. His mind went to those who were much closer to the blast, those who would have died instantly, those who were burning to death in the fast-expanding heat wave, those who might die days later from radiation poisoning. He thought of Janet, and then he heard it. It wasn't terribly loud at this distance, but it was enough to shake him from his trance. He cranked the old truck to life, threw it into gear, and mashed the accelerator, and as he pulled out of that vacant parking lot he thought about how there would be no more tiny vacations.

The roads around Monument were quiet, indicating that many people probably didn't yet know what had just happened in Denver. Panic had not set in as it will once people struggle to understand the significance of what was happening. Robert was not a religious man, but he found himself praying for Janet; praying that maybe she wasn't at her desk as he had imagined her. He picked up his phone to call her, but the recorded message played as he had expected, indicating a failure to connect his call. She hadn't replied to his text, but he sent another remembering that sometimes small bits of data seem to get through when calls can't. Janet, come home now.

The old radio in his truck stopped working years ago, but this was the first time Robert missed it. He remembered reading on CNN's website that, in the wave of yet another public shooting, the President would be in Denver today to talk about gun control. Earlier that day, he had vehemently agreed with the President on the issue, but the world had just changed. There was a good chance the President was killed in that explosion, along with millions of others. What if the attack was not isolated? Robert now feared the panic that would inevitably follow this catastrophic event as people dealt with their own fears. Fear made people irrational, and many of those irrational people would turn to violence.

Fifteen minutes later, he turned off the county road onto his long gravel drive that wound through aspens and evergreens up to the house. Still no text from Janet. He needed to find out what was happening, and just how bad the attack was. He knew their house was a safe distance from the explosion and thought about how thankful he was that there was so little breeze today. Maybe the fallout won't be too bad down this way. 

This far out of town, they only had satellite for television and internet service. After opening the door and squeezing past Hank and Jasper, who wiggled excitedly, Robert made his way to the living room and turned on the television. Moments later, the head and shoulders of a CNN news anchor filled the frame, his face barely concealing the anguish he felt as he talked about new reports coming in from across the country. Multiple nuclear attacks reported... Los Angeles ... Seattle... Denver... Dallas... Chicago... New York... Atlanta... death toll unknown... President dead... Vice President Morley declares martial law... stay indoors... do not panic...

Robert fell back into the deep leather couch, momentarily unwilling to accept what was happening. His biggest fears were confirmed; this was not a sole incident, but a national incident. How had something like this happened, without any warning? His thoughts turned to Janet, and as he sobbed, his whole body shaking with emotion, Hank and Jasper climbed onto the couch to try and comfort him in the only ways they knew -- with licks, touch, and whimpers. Robert envied them and their limited view of the world. In their minds, the day was beautiful, there were bunnies to chase outside, bones to chew inside, and one of their masters came home early to spend time with them. Robert curled up on his side, hugging his knees, and cried for his love, and the millions who died with her. Tomorrow he would do what it took to survive, but today he would cry. 

Robert lay there watching the shadows outside creep along the ground like ink from a broken pen. He had long ago turned off the television and embraced the silence. From time to time he would look at the screen on his mobile phone, but Janet never replied. He didn't even know if he still had service. Didn't care, at this point. He thought about how his last words to Janet that morning weren't I love you, but I'll pick up some Chinese food for dinner. When was the last time he told her he loved her? Had it been the weekend, or was it sometime last week? He thought about how much he loved her and regretted not telling her five, or ten times a day. He picked up his phone to try one last text. Janet, I love you.

Robert didn't remember falling asleep on the couch when he was jerked awake. For a moment he thought it had all been a dream, and looked around for Janet. She wasn't there. It took a moment to shake the haze of sleep before he remembered the events of the day before. Or had it all happened just earlier that day? Outside, the sun had long since set. He fumbled for his phone wanting to see the time, or find a text, but it was dead. He moved to peel himself off the leather couch when he noticed a flash of light outside the house. A car was making its way up the drive and the dogs appeared to be mid-stride in their happy shuffle at the door.

He stood and went to the front door just as Janet stepped onto the front porch and his heart nearly burst with joy. Just hours ago he was certain he had lost her forever, yet here she was, and she was...smiling. He flung the front door wide and took her up into an embrace so tight that neither of them could speak for want of breath. But words weren't yet necessary. His arms, wrapped so strongly around her body, tried to make up for all the times his voice, or touch, neglected to tell her how he felt. Right now, she was all that mattered, and they lingered long in that moment.

"Janet, I thought I had --" Robert began, but Janet silenced him with a kiss. Then, she leaned away and said, "Robert, there's someone I want you to meet." 

Janet walked back down the front porch steps and toward the passenger door of her car and opened it. Robert watched as she took a child's hand in her own and led them from the car back to the porch. 

"Sasha, this is my husband, Robert," said Janet.

Robert lingered, slightly confused, before reaching out his hand to Sasha to greet her.

"Hi, Sasha, I'm happy to meet you." Sasha took his hand in turn and shook it softly.

"Sasha will be staying with us for a while," said Janet. "I was watching her earlier today -- gosh, I guess it's tomorrow now -- while her mom was at work. We were well on our way to a meeting in Boulder when it happened. Jesus, Robert...I didn't know what to do. I panicked when I realized I had left my phone at the office, so we just drove. Isn't that what you told me to do? In case of emergency, come to the house."

The corner of Janet's mouth twitched with a smile, and Robert was proud that she remembered him telling her that so long ago. At the time, she thought him crazy for thinking such things.

"Anyway, we drove west so that I could take the back roads south through the mountains. There's so much traffic and chaos out there...everyone's terrified. The roads hardly moved as people fled the city. We've been driving for the past twelve hours to get here."

"I'm so glad you made it -- both of you," and Robert looked to Sasha, who still did not speak.

"Robert, Sasha's family lives in Denver, blocks from where the bomb was detonated, given what I could piece together from the radio. She will need to stay here with us, at least until we know more about what happened."

Robert knelt down and, looking into Sasha's eyes that were red from crying, reached out to take her hands again in his own.

"Sasha, you may stay here as long as you like. Our home is yours."

And with a smile, he added, "Now, why don't we get inside and find something to eat, and I'll introduce you to Hank and Jasper. They'll be happy to have such a delightful new friend."

“Yes ma’am, every day -- this here plane is built for this stuff, and I won’t land if I don’t think it’s safe.”

Alright, that helps. Mark’s deep, buttery voice delivers that drawling accent with confidence, and my heart’s no longer racing like I’m a cornered bunny. I try to keep the sense of calm by focusing on something more familiar, like the backs of my eyelids. 

I’m thinking about why I agreed to do this for our honeymoon. Why couldn’t we do something else, like Italy? I mean, I hear that’s nice. A couple of weeks in Tuscany maybe? Lounging in the warm sun with a bottle of wine and a good book. Afternoon strolls to small cafes with delicious food. Oh, that sounds lovely.

Instead, I agreed to come up here for a week of backpacking in the romantic 200 Mile Gorge. I didn’t know it would involve a bush pilot, whatever that is. It’s just that Jack’s face lit up when he talked about wanting to coming up here months ago, and I just melt when he flips on that boyish charm. So, here I sit, in this tiny tin box with wings, surrounded by overwhelming beauty, terrified.

Mark’s velvety voice brings me back around.

“Alright, there it is up ahead. I’m going to set her down on that gravel bank to the left of the river. It’s plenty long, so this will be easy as pie. It will be a little bumpy once we touch down.” 

I can’t decide to keep my eyes open, or shut them again, so I somehow decide to close just one. I guess some part of me needs to watch while the rest of me remains terrified. The plane is definitely getting lower, and that little gauge Mark pointed to earlier is spinning faster. I risk a glance out the window to my right and see that the tree tops are now higher than the wings and the river is maybe ten feet under us. I catch a glimpse of what I hope was a moose -- and not a bear -- taking cover in the dense vegetation of the surrounding forest, evidently spooked by the plane. He’s not the only one. My curiosity more than satisfied, I squeeze both eyes shut and brace for the landing.

That wasn’t so bad. Sure, it’s bumpy, but not nearly as much as I anticipated. I guess Mark does know what he is doing. He brings the plane to a smooth stop within moments of touching down on the gravel bank, and I open my eyes while warm relief spreads through my body.  Mark leaves the engine running and speaks to us over the headphones. 

“Here we are. I am going to keep things runnin’ while y’all grab your bags and head out. Remember; be back here -- at this very spot -- in five days. If anything goes wrong, give me a call on the satellite phone and I will come get you. Y’all sure you’re up for this? I don’t get many requests to drop folks off in the Valley of Headless Men.”

“The Valley of what?!” I say loudly, this time on purpose.

“Babe, that’s just a silly nickname for 200 Mile Gorge. Yep, Mark, we’re great! We’ll see you here in five days. What time?”

Mark grins. “I’ll try to be here around noon, give ‘r take.”

“Roger that,” says Jack, evidently practicing his pilot talk. He gives Mark a thumb’s up and pulls off the headphones. I take that as my queue to do the same, but not before I thank Mark for getting us here safely.

Outside, I find the air much warmer than it was at the tiny airport we left just an hour earlier. The surroundings are stunningly beautiful, with high peaks and lush forest that reminds me of the coastal rainforests we passed through on a road trip in the Pacific Northwest last year. 

We gather our things quickly, all contained in a couple of backpacks, and clear away from the small plane. Mark gives us a wave, mouthing something that might have been good luck, and taxis the plane to the end of the gravel bank. We watch as he turns it around, gives it some gas, and is gone within minutes. I keep watching as the plane lifts up, getting smaller and smaller. As terrified as I was just moments ago, I have a fleeting feeling that I would rather be up there and not standing out here, miles from everywhere.

“Babe, isn’t this amazing? I mean, look around…we are in paradise!” Jack’s face lights up with that boyish energy and I can’t help but smile.

“You’re right, I don’t think I’ve seen a more beautiful place. Why do they call it the Valley of…whatever he said?” I have to pull off my fuzzy hoodie because of the unexpected warmth.

“Ah, you’re not going to let that one slide, are you? Well, they call it the Valley of Headless Men because of rumors that spread during the great Gold Rush when a couple of miners -- the McLeod brothers, I think -- came up here seeking wealth, but never returned. Apparently their bodies were found, some years later, and they were…well, headless. Since then, there have been other stories of people found, missing their heads, but I think they are just that: stories. Nothing to worry about.”

“And why didn’t you tell me about this before we made plans to fly out here?”

“I thought I had…didn’t I?”

“No, you nitwit, you didn’t.” I can’t really be mad at him because of the way he is grinning at me. He can be annoying at times, but I can’t help but love him. “Well, where to, love?”

Jack bends over to pull out his GPS from the top pocket of his pack.

“Well, let me first save this spot as a waypoint so we can find again.”

While he pokes around on his gadget, I shove the hoodie I just removed into my pack and take a sip of water from my Nalgenet.

“Ok, I think we should head up the river for a mile or two, and turn west to try and find a primo camp spot in this clearing.” He’s pointing to a spot on the GPS screen.

“Sounds good, babe. Lead on.”

Jack shoulders his pack after helping me with mine, turns to face what I am guessing is north, and starts walking. We pick our way through the dense vegetation along the river, taking in the sights and sounds of this temperate oasis. I stop to take pictures of stunning summer flowers, the landscape, and Jack, while he scans the water for trout. We carry on this way for the better part of an hour before coming across a trail through the brush.

“I wouldn’t have expected to see a trail out here,” I say.

“It’s an animal trail, and probably frequented as a way to the river.”

I think of the moose I might have seen from the plane and Jack picks up on my hesitation.

“Don’t worry, babe, anything that lives out here will be more afraid of us than we are of them. Let’s just make a bit of noise and stay alert…and stay close.”

I tell him about the moose near the river, and Jack reminds me that they can be quite dangerous, but only if they are taken by surprise. I make a note to wiggle my pack more than usual to keep the bear bells jingling, and we both raise our voices a notch, chatting while trudging down the new trail.

“I can’t believe how much warmer it is here than back in town,” I say.

Jack can be a bit of a know-it-all, bless his heart, so he is quick to give me some background. 

“This region is known to have a number of geysers and hot springs. With the closeness of the mountains, a lot of that heat released from the earth is held into the immediate atmosphere, making it much more warm and humid than the regions outside the valley. The heat and humidity often contribute to low fog, and most certainly contributes to the lushness of the area.”

(See what I mean?)

“Thanks, Tour Guide Bill.” 

“Anytime, dear…and with a little luck, maybe we’ll find one of those hot springs.”

I admit, that doesn’t sound terrible.

The animal trail leads us through what can only be described as an enchanted forest. Tall pines and cedars spread their high branches, leaving the forest floor in considerable shadow. It's cooler in the shade, but still humid, and we are serenaded by birdsong. The path cuts through dense ferns and berry bushes heavy with fruit. The damp air is fragrant with the ripe sweetness of summer. 

Within a couple of hours, we find a perfect spot under some trees at the edge of the clearing Jack pointed to earlier and set up camp. The trees provide anchors for the hammock we brought along, and I climb in while Jack pulls something out of his pack, walks over to a tree, and straps the small box to the tree at about eye level.

“What’s that?” I ask, curious, but fully aware of Jack’s bizarre tendencies. 

“Uh -- just a camera.”

I noticed it is angled toward the tent and the clearing and ask teasingly, “And just what do you plan on filming? Some honeymoon hanky-panky?”

He laughs. “No, no. It’s not a video camera. It’s just a cheap digital camera that's motion-activated. Hunters use them when they scout out spots for whatever they hunt. I just thought it would be neat to see if it takes any photos during the night after we turn in.”

“Ah, sounds a bit creepy, but whatever floats your boat.” I’m not really keen on this idea, but I let it slide.

He walks over to join me in the hammock for a while before we decide it’s dinner time and heat up some water for our freeze-dried spaghetti. (Trust me, it’s better than it sounds.)

The sun is late to set this time of year, particularly so far north, so we relax in the hammock after dinner, talking and listening to the birds still active in the surrounding forest. After a while the sun sets, and though it isn’t yet fully dark, we decide to turn in, both exhausted from the day.

Sleep comes easy, but it doesn’t last long.

Click...click.

"Jack, wake up...wake up," I whisper. "Jack. Wake. Up. Please." I have to give him a shake.

"Huh? What is it?"

"I think I just heard your camera go off."

We pause and listen, but the forest is eerily quiet.

"Maybe it did, but I don't think it is anything to worry about. I haven't heard a thing. Would you like me to take a look?"

"No, I must have been dreaming. Sorry."

Jack smiles and wraps me in his arms, and that takes the edge off; my heart rate begins to slow.

Click. This time we see the faint flash from the camera and hear something bound through the near forest like a charging rhinoceros.

"Ok, that one I heard," said Jack. "It's probably just a moose that got spooked by the camera."

I'm too frightened to say anything, so I just stare into Jack's eyes. He gives a half-smile, trying to ease my nerves, but I can see in his gaze that he is shaken. 

The windows of our two-man tent are obscured by the rainfly, so Jack unzips the door just wide enough for us to peek through with a view of the clearing. Despite the sun having set, the sky is still tinged with the sun's echo; it never gets fully dark in the summer up here. The day's luminous lingering helps ease my tension. We both agree that the coast is clear, and settle back into our nest.

Some time passes before sleep returns for me. I lie still, watching Jack sleep, listening for anything, but there's only silence. That same eerie silence. I think how there should be something. Perhaps the song of wooing insects. Anything; but silence is complete and unyielding. 

We wake up a few hours later and the birds and insects have returned with the sun. Jack goes eagerly to the camera to retrieve the memory card while I try to find a semi-private place to potty. Thanks to the night's events, I don't stray far.

When I return, Jack has plugged the memory card into our digital camera and is staring at the camera's screen such that he doesn't see me walk up.

"Oh my god, you aren't going to believe this," he says to me, realizing I've just returned.

"What is it, the Boogie Man?" I'm smiling, but he doesn't see it.

"I'm not sure." I want more, but that's all he says, and hands me the camera.

What I see sends cold shooting through my veins like an IV of ice water. Whatever it is I'm looking at can't be real.

The images captured from the small camera that was tethered to the tree frame the clearing with our small tent in the lower left corner. The first image shows something in the clearing -- a big something -- and there's motion blur, indicating quick movement.

"Jack, can you make out what that is?"

"No. There's more. Quite a few more. And look at the timestamps." Jack's voice is now shaky. The only other time I have heard him sound that way was when his mom was in the hospital last year. I press the button to go to the next image and immediately wish I hadn't.

Whatever was moving in the first image is now standing inches from the rear of the tent. Inches from where are heads were. The thing is roughly human in shape, but much taller than Jack. Almost seven feet, I guess. It's pale body is sparely covered in clumps of long, stringy hair the color of filthy bath water, leaving much of its pallid skin visible. What I think of as arms hang loosely to its side while it gazes down at the tent. God, how did we not hear it? Or smell it? The time in the lower corner is 12:38 AM and only one minute after that in the first image. My hands are almost shaking too badly to go to the next image.

This one is stamped 12:42 AM, and the same haunting beast is in the same location in the frame, but this time crouching. Its head appears to be tilted to the side as though it is listening to Jack and I talk. Was that when I woke Jack, and he embraced me and talked to me to calm my nerves? I want to stop looking. I want to be doing anything but standing here, only feet from where that thing stood, looking at theses images. I can't speak. I need to see the others, if anything, to know what we're up against; what we will be leaving behind very, very soon. I click the button on the back of the camera.

Jesus. A shiver starts at my right shoulder and spreads down my right arm, across my back, and through my body. The image is mostly the same as the last. Mostly. Still crouched, it seems to be touching the wall of the tent, its hand very close to where I lay hours earlier. I see stringy strands of that matted hair hang from the outstretched arm. The indicated time makes my stomach lurch. 1:38 AM.  I can't look any more.

"Jesus Christ, Jack" I say, attempting my cool, don't-fuck-with-me voice, but it doesn't work. Instead, I sound like a shaky old woman doing her best John Wayne impression. "It sat inches from us for nearly an hour and we had no fucking clue. I want to leave. Now. Give me the phone. I'm calling Mark. Pack our stuff, and please hurry. I'll help in a minute."

OK is all Jack says and pulls the phone from the top pocket of his pack from within the tent. I turn it on and the little signal bars indicate I'll need to move my ass before I can make any call. I guess the trees are blocking my clear view of the sky. This better work.

"Jack, I've got no signal. I think I need to go out in the clearing; get out from under these trees."

"Ok, don't go far. I'll pack as quickly as I can. If we hurry, we should be able to get back to the gravel bank in an hour-and-a-half."

Terrified and shaking, I walk out toward the center of the clearing, away from camp, intently watching for those tiny signal bars. Ten steps. Nothing. Twenty steps. Nothing. I finally see the first tiny bar pop up just when I count thirty-eight in my head and decide to give the phone to fifty steps out before trying to call Mark.

Hands still trembling from those haunting images, I struggle the right combination of buttons to find his programmed number. I turn around to look at the camp, and don't see Jack, but I know he is in the tent packing up the sleeping bags. I turn back around to keep my eyes on the opposite edge of the clearing because something about it creeps me out.

"Hello," he says in that calm, confident, Southern accent.

"Mark, this is Alice. You dropped us off yesterday."

"Yes ma'am, everything alright? You sound like you've just seen a ghost."

"Something like that. Can you come pick us up...now? We are ready to get out of here, fast."

"Why? What happened? You and Jack ok? You aren't hurt, are you?"

"No, nothing like that. We'll tell you all about it when you pick us up. We can be there in an hour-and-a-half."

"Alright, but it will probably take me closer to two hours. I need to get the plane gassed up. I'll hurry as quick as I can, alright?"

I relax a little when he drops the ma'am stuff and calls me darlin'; he clearly understands that the situation is serious.

I turn and start jogging back to help Jack pack up when I noticed that the birds are no longer out singing. Nothing is making a sound -- just the same eerie silence from the night before that makes my ears burn. I don't see Jack. Shouldn't he be done with the sleeping bags by now and have already started taking down the tent?

I pick up the pace because the silence has me totally freaked. Getting closer, I see the navy blue hammock pulled taught and gently swinging between the two pine trees, the ground below mottled in dark shadow from the diaphanous morning light that has struggled through the dense canopy above.

"Jack, no horsing around!" I call out. "I want to leave this place soon. Let's hurry and finish packing."

No reply.

“Jack, seriously -- this isn’t funny. Get up," I plead, my voice unsteady.

From ten feet away, or five hurried steps, I can already tell that the dark spots below the hammock are more than shadow. Something thick like dirty oil is pooling up in the darkness below.  Oh God no. I try to call out Jack’s name, but the words stick in my throat like a dry chunk of bread when I see blood trickling down from the lowest part of the hammock.

One step away and I see Jack's body nestled in the fabric sling, his plaid shirt and khaki zip-off pants heavily dappled in blood. I scream and silent birds take flight from the trees above. Jack's face is frozen in terror. His toffee eyes look up at me from a head that's been mostly torn free and now rests on the neck's meaty stump at an odd, broken angle. I want to vomit, but hold back the heave and feel the burn of acid at the back of my throat because all I can do -- need to do -- is run. 

Savannah slid out of bed and noticed that Mark had already left for work. She put on the robe hanging in the bathroom and, leaving it untied, and walked out to the kitchen. She poured a cup of tea, toasted an English muffin, and took her breakfast out to the large deck off the main floor. With its sweeping views of the Malibu coastline, this was her favorite spot in the house. After breakfast, she grabbed one of the iPads that Mark used to control parts of the house and logged in to check her email. There, at the top of her inbox, was a message from a name that she recognized. Savannah, an only child who fell out of favor with her parents long ago, wasn't one to foster friendship. The fact that someone she had known at some point in her life was trying to contact her bothered her. She never gave out her email address and only used pre-paid mobile phones that she could later discard. This particular message had been sent the night before by Jackson, a guy she stayed with briefly while passing through Texas more than a year ago. The email message itself was empty, emphasizing the significance of the subject's three little words, "I miss you."

Just below the message from Jackson was an email from Orbitz.com announcing a sale on airfare between New York and several Eropean cities. Savannah embraced that as a sign that it was time for a change of scenery. It's true that she had been growing restless over the past week - she had never stayed with any one person so long - but the message from Jackson spooked her. Her tryst with Jackson wasn't a particularly memorable one. She simply needed a place to stay while passing through Houston and he was reasonably handsome. She remembered that he had never really doted on her, something so many other men had done and a most egregious annoyance to her when they did, which is why the message surprised her. At the time, she had claimed she was on her way to see family in Portland and he insisted on buying her the airfare from Houston. Perhaps that was a mistake. One she vowed not to make again.

After she had purchased the flight to Rome, Savannah thought about how much she would miss Malibu Mark. Of all the men she had met in life, he was the easiest to be with. Rarely pretnensious, and unshakably easygoing. Above all, he never idolized her in any way. He was a confident man who knew how to flatter a woman without words, a rare gift. Most of all, she would miss her morning tea on the deck overlooking the ocean. She could almost imagine herself staying here, and maybe such nonsense could have been if she hadn't received that message from Texas.

Savannah had very few material possessions, and she could pack them all into a single carry-on bag. Men would invariably buy her clothes when she stayed longer than a few days, but she generally left them behind when it was time to go. This time was different. She wanted to remember Mark, and packed away several of the things he had given her. Her favorite was the thin black cashmere hoodie she was wearing, supremely comfortable and perfect for a road trip. With her bag packed, she went to the kitchen one final time to leave a note for Mark. She wrote that her sister had been pregnant and there were complications, and that she wanted to go spend a few days with her out in Denver. She also wrote that she didn't call because she didn't want to bother him at work, that she would see him next week, and that she hoped it was ok that she borrowed his car. Inside, Savannah knew that Mark would likely call her after reading the note, and that she would answer, or at least send him a text, and convince him not to worry. She would tell him that she loved road trips, and thank him for letting her use the car. She hated lying to Mark. He wouldn't know that she wasn't coming back until she was long gone.

In the garage, Savannah was thrilled to see that Mark had taken his black Mercedes S600 to work, leaving the Porsche. He had told her that she was welcome to drive either car while he was gone if she ever had any place she wanted to go, and always left the keys in the top drawer of the toolbox to the right of the door. She loved driving the Porsche, particularly with the top down along the stunning coastal highway. Minutes later, Savannah's long chestnut hair was whipping in the breeze as she and the silver 911 were on their way to the New York.

Later that night Savannah crossed the state line between Utah and Colorado with the low-fuel light beaming, hoping to find a place to get some sleep in Grand Junction. As she expected, Mark called earlier that evening, but she let it go to voicemail. She didn't want to talk to him yet, and sent him a text a bit later, "Trip is going well. I'll text you when I'm safe in Denver. Thank you, again. XOXO."

Fifteen miles later, the 911 sputtered to a halt on the highway shoulder. Sometimes Savannah's lack of planning worked against her, but she thought of it as just another adventure, and set out to find a ride for the remaining fifteen miles into town. She would pick up some fuel and get a ride back out the following morning. An old green pickup pulled over moments later, driven by an overweight man in his late twenties wearing a sleeveless flannel shirt and oil-stained jeans. Savannah thought he smelled of gasoline and baby powder.

"Need a hand?" he asked.

"I've just run out of gas. I'd really appreciate it if you might give me a ride into town," said Savannah, smiling expectantly.

"Sure thing, gorgeous. Hop in."

Savannah winced at his efforts at cheap flirtation, but she gave the man another smile, tossed her bag in the truck bed, and hopped in.

"I'm Stan," he said, extending his hand to Savannah. "Destiny," Savannah replied, and shook his hand. His palm was damp with sweat. The way he looked her, the touch of his skin, Savannah could tell that Stan had other, more vulgar things on his mind than polite introductions.

They made casual small talk during the short drive into Grand Junction, Stan continuing to sprinkle in compliments on Savannah's appearance. Minutes later, Stan yanked the wheel of his old pickup into a parking spot of the first gas station they came to. From the lights of the store's windows, Savannah could see Stan slide his tongue across his lips, as though he was choosing his words carefully.

"Destiny, is there anything else I can do? I, uhh...you are the prettiest woman I've seen in a long time. I bet you get told that all time..." he said, his voice quivering.

"Thank you, Stan. You're sweet to say that," Savannah interrupted, but she really hated dealing with these things, the burden of a beautiful woman. Nonetheless, she was keen to smile.

"I don't suppose you would like to get a quick bite of dinner with me, would you?" he asked sheepishly. She noticed that his forehead was beginning to bead with sweat. Savannah felt pity for the fat man in the truck, but more than that, she was disgusted with his effort to win her over. He was repulsive in his constant flattery. The way he admired her through puppy-dog eyes. Savannah hated men like Stan since childhood, and she felt that familiar snap within. She began to feel something inside that she had hoped was long dead. Instead, it roared back to life and those hungry flames of desire began to lick the back of her throat. She yearned to taste it again.

"Stan, why don't we skip the formalities and find a place where we can be alone for a few hours," Savannah suggested, and watched as Stan threw the old truck into gear and drove to the roadside motel just down the way without another word. She waited in the truck while he went into the office to book a room, and then shouldered her bag and followed him up the outside stairs to room 207. Savannah delighted in the coincidence that the room number happened to be the same as her birthday, February 7th. She took it as another sign that her life was on the right path.

Inside the room, Savannah withdrew to the restroom to freshen up while Stan took off his filthy pants and stretched out across the top of the bed's floral comforter in an apparent state of arousal. Moments later, Savannah opened the door of the bathroom and walked to the edge of the bed where she stood, hands on her hips, in a pair of black lace panties.

"God damn, girl. You look amazing," said Stan, pushing himself up to get a better look.

"I know," she said. "Now I want you to take off your shirt and underwear." Savannah watched as his hands tore at the buttons of his shirt and found him repulsive. Once he had finished and was lying naked on the bed, she climbed over Stan with the quick grace of a panther, pinning his arms beneath her knees, and leaned forward to kiss him. She brushed her left hand against his cheek while her right hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife she had sheathed in the back of her panties. Savannah playfully bit at his sour tongue while she pulled firmly at his greasy, thinning hair, and with the speed and precision of a falcon on the hunt, brought the knife up to open a ribbon of red across his neck.

Savannah straightened up and watched Stan frantically paw at the gushing tear at his throat. He tried to yell and scream, but the knife had been sharp and expertly handled, and he could only make wet, rasping sounds. When his movement slowed, she stuck her left index finger deep into the meat of his throat and then brought it to her mouth to suck clean. There it was, that familiar satly metallic warmth that the beast longed for. Just a taste, and it was satiated.

All that seemed to change for the boy when they arrived at the old farmhouse. From a glance, the old place appeared warm and inviting in the late summer sun, with its broad covered porch and sweeping steps that reached out like open arms for a welcome embrace. While the parents went inside to make arrangements for their night's stay, the boy and his two cousins went off to explore the property with the hope of finding something cool to play with like the stack of hay bales at the last inn that played havoc with their allergies.

The boy, however, felt something different in the air. It wasn't so much an off smell, but something altogether indescribable. He noticed a feeling of emptiness in his stomach and an intense awareness of his surroundings. It was the sensations a gazelle might feel just before they see the lion pride; an eerie calm with a pounding heart.

He heard his cousins call for him from somewhere behind the house and decided to try and shake the weird feeling and check things out. The various buildings out back were nothing like the charming house in front. Most were in various states of disrepair, with several seeming to have either fallen, or burned many decades before. There was small sty attached to one roofless barn with a couple of filthy pigs rooting about in their own waste. Back here, the stench was overwhelming. Again, his cousins called for him, and when he found them on the opposite side of the largest barn, roof still intact, his heart sank. There, in a narrow doorway, stood an emaciated horse staring hopefully at the three boys. The poor thing appeared hardly strong enough to stand, much less walk, and the boy’s eyes began to wet with tears. 

Inside the house, the boy found his mother and told her about the things that he had seen out back. She brought this to the attention of the innkeeper, and the boy listened as the innkeeper explained to them that the land behind the house now belonged to the neighboring farm and that he has already issued a complaint that week to the appropriate office in town. He assured them both that he would take a few apples and carrots out to the poor creatures that very evening.

The boy was sent to wash up before bed. Comforted by the innkeeper’s generosity, the strange feeling the boy felt outside hadn’t returned until he was taking his bath. There, in that bathroom, the sensation was overpowering. It was like hearing a soft call your name from the dark room in a house one knew to be empty. Unwilling to let his imagination get the best of him, he quickly climbed out of the tub, toweled off, and returned only slightly cleaner to the room he was sharing with his mother.

“Wow, that was fast,” said the boy’s mother, grinning. “That might even be your best time yet.”

“Mom, there’s something strange about this place. It gives me the creeps,” said the boy.

“That’s just because it’s so old. This place was built over two hundred years ago.”

“But something weird happened in the bathroom, and I think the lights flickered.”

“Like I said…old house. Don’t worry, it’s just your imagination. Try and get some sleep. As Bill and Ted might say, we have a most excellent day planned tomorrow,” she said reassuringly.

The following morning, after breakfast, the boy returned to the bathroom to brush his teeth and have a pee while the rest of the family finished packing up. Despite the morning sun beaming through the window, the bathroom was just as eerie as the night before. Quietly urging himself to make it quick, he unzipped his shorts and began to pee when he felt something go horribly, yet intangibly wrong. If it wasn’t for the sound of splashing water, he would have thought he had suddenly gone deaf. There was nothing beyond the sound of his own breathing. Deafening silence.

"This is an old copy of Dante's Divine Comedy," said Thomas, feeling it best to remain cordial, but brief. He regretted that he could not be honest with the man, and though the book before him most certainly wasn't written by Dante, he was familiar with the work and, being one of his favorites, was the first title that came to mind.

"Forgive my sayin' so, but that Dante feller mustn't be so good at humor. You haven't laughed once in the half-hour you've been sittin' there."

Thomas smiled at the barman, finding humor in the connection the man had made about the book, or the lack thereof. "Believe it or not, it does have its moments," he said, and then returned to the book. Thomas was a social man and he disliked having to be rude to the barman and not enjoy a bit of conversation, but time was ticking away and Thomas still had not figured out the riddle on the page before him that had been haunting him for weeks. He was certain the answer, or at least part of it, must reside somewhere in the book. Thomas regretted that he had taken a seat at the bar, and not back in one of the more private booths. It would certainly be inconsiderate to pack up and move now. The barman, however, seemed to understand, and after asking if Thomas needed anything else, returned to washing up the glasses from the night before.

There they were, those four lines that had Thomas so puzzled:

Vesperam et mane duo unum exitum Omnis qui superaverit in meridie gratiam habebit Milites ducem itineris trium Hoc libro tenet clavem ad luculentam in proelia

Thomas, having been fortunate enough in his youth to pursue education over toil and trade, had this roughly translated to:

One man will fall at twilight and two men at dawn Grateful he will be at midday who survives them all One of three soldiers will guide him the way This book holds the key to tidy the fray

Just below the riddle was a note to Thomas written in his father's hand and dated June 5, 1919, the very day his father died.

Dearest Thomas,

Were you here by my side today, I could tell you how much I love you. By God's will, I have little time left for this world and I fear I won't be here to see you return. There are so many things I never told you, nor anyone. And now it is too late. Take this book, study it front to back and know that it is more than it seems. Above all, never let it leave your side. I have always been so very proud of you. Goodbye, son. Good luck and Godspeed.

Your loving father, Charles Wolf

Thomas was in Paris when he received word telling of his father's illness and immediately made arrangements to return home to London, but his father passed while he was still at sea, his fever having taken him during the night. It pained him that these words, written just four weeks ago, were the last he would hear from his father.