DARKTIME
by
Derek Rush
Copyright © 2011 by Derek Rush
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
1
The Town of Ramblewood
I ROLLED INTO town that chilly autumn night just shy of eleven o’clock, my mind dead set and determined to get some of that much needed shuteye, to simply park the “Ol’ Pete,” loaded down with 60,000 lbs of structural steel, in the next cutoff and crap out for the evening in the cozy warmth of the cramped sleeper bed.
After another drawn out day of swigging the java juice and popping No-Doz like Tic Tacs, letting myself be lulled into slumber by the soft purr of the trusty C15 Cat idling its hypnotic lullaby was setting up to be as simple a task if there ever was one. Besides, I’d come inches from turning a broke down VW into a roadside accordion only moments before, missing its ass end by a matter of inches when the Black Dog of long hours of big road driving distracted my all too weary gaze. If I’d have been paying any attention to the rules of hours set by the Diesel Cops, I should have been in the land of wet dreams more than an hour ago.
But truth be told, I was never one for rules, and as a result was now as lost as a blind rat in maze without the scent of cheese at the end to help lead my dim-witted ass out—Nothing new in them neck of the woods. I had made a habit, back then, of wrong turns and short-cuts to Nowhereville, USA as a big rig rookie.
Having ambled aimlessly after high school through one dead-end job after another, I up and decided one fine day to follow in the footsteps of my old man. Fresh out of driving school and hardly resembling the “King of the Road” I sought desperately to be, I became familiar with the occasional grind of the clutch and a missed gear here and there, yet at the ripe old age of twenty-six it was a kick to finally break free of the daily grind before it got a chance to pull me under. I wanted to get out and see all that country I’d been hearing about for so damn long.
In them first six months of Big Road Drivin’, hauling loads from Bean-Town to K-Town, from Bull City to Sin City, from the Big A to the Big D, I came to enjoy the freedom of it all; not having the boss man hawking over my shoulder all the live long day (though I heard plenty of him over the phone), taking breaks whenever you pleased (but not too long ‘cause, after all, time is money in the truckin’ biz), and getting paid to travel and sight-see seemed to be quite the life.
In contrast, being away from the homestead and everything I knew (family, good eating, bathing in solitude), and everything I came to know (being on my ass for hours on end, dealing with traffic bog downs, work zones, toll booths, and the constant hassle of the Diesel cops at the chicken coops and creeping up my six every time I dared to glance in the mirrors) could wear down even the best of the veteran drivers. I came to hate the rain of Northwest (though loved the scenery), and found myself craving more of those runs that took me through the Southwest (the Triple-Digit-Rides I called them), out over endless stretching, undulating roads to mountain strewn horizons that always tend to stay just out of your reach. Some of the most remarkable sunsets I’ve ever seen came in the form of rippling red skies over the dusk strewn desert landscape.
My one nagging problem was that all too often I thought I was still in a car, an awfully big car, yet a car nonetheless. Winding up lost on back roads not meant for semis tugging 48 or 53-footers behind them all too often introduced the novice driver to more problems than he or she is ready to contend with; I found that you can’t just turn one of those grumbling brutes around in the dirt lot of Aunt May’s Country Market (though on a few occasions I gave it my best shot).
Sometimes your hunger encourages course deviations. That chilly autumn night, however, I came to learn it was far, far better to stick with the interstate and hope for a Chew and Spew or Pickle Park with vending machines further on down the line.
I was en route to Albany after leaving the steel yard, coming out of the Poconos in search of 84 eastbound, when my grumbling stomach got the better of me. The sign promising the hungry traveler some grub at a nearby diner was lopsided and rusty, partly hidden behind the sagging branches and roadside bushes left to run amuck. Since I’ve never been one to sleep on an empty stomach, I figured a quick stop at a roadside diner before I knocked off for the night would do me very nicely. The dark and winding road I soon found myself on, however, snaking a tricky path through the sleepy foothills of what I figured to be upstate New York by that time, made me wish I had just made a B-line for the damn freeway as I had originally intended.
Quiet. Snug. Some might even call it “rinky-dink”. The secluded mountain hamlet of Ramblewood, Population 632, was nestled in Mother Nature’s smothering embrace. The surrounding foothills almost looked specifically carved and sculpted to allot just enough room to toss a tiny town in the nooks and crannies—open up your back door to toss a steak on the grill and you would likely be staring into a steeply wooded hillside, and right at the furry grin of a curious coyote looking for a handout.
A few single story cottages were tucked back in the gloom on either side of the roadway. They were nestled among the thick pine forest, with soft amber light glowing in a few of the windows. If you didn’t know any better you’d figure your drive down Main Street to be a trip through a well-kept ghost town, where the specters of a once thriving community could be seen waving back at you from the remaining storefronts, or lost in the dark shadows of deserted streets.
No cars lined the narrow two-lane road. No late night pedestrians were seen meandering home from the local pub or tavern. There were few streetlights to light the way. And not a traffic light in sight. The only stop sign I recall seeing was at the last minute when I’d gone speeding through the town’s lonely intersection. But God help me, I liked the place. It was the sleepy little town I always envisioned myself settling down in after my days on the road came to an end, the place where each resident had a story everyone else wanted to know, but out of common courtesy, didn’t ask.
Even more so, it was a perfect place to crash for the night.
Seeing no sign of that open diner, or anything of the sort, I followed the road up a ways to a dirt cutoff. There, I pulled to the side, popped the breaks—pfft!—and rubbed my eyes with grimy mitts. Although it growled in protest, my empty stomach was going to have to wait till morning for that grub. I was beat.
WHEN I WAS stirred awake a little after 1 am., shooting upright to thump my head on the cabin roof, I thought the scream had come from the radio. I liked to keep on low when I slept (a little trick I had to help drown out the note of passing traffic in those freeway rest areas or crowded truck stops). And seeing as with Halloween being just around the next bend, and having spent most of the day listing to a plethora of scream-fest commercials for Haunted Hayrides, Ghost Walks, Creepy Castle Tours and other theme based attractions (all those high-pitched shrieks, goblin giggles, and ghostly moans were driving me bonkers), this is all I figure it to be. No biggie. I shrugged it off.
Standing there in stooped fashion, half asleep and rubbing some good sense back into my bruised head, I agreed with a frowning nod that that would’ve been a perfectly plausible explanation for the sudden shriek in the night … if I had actually left the radio on that night.
You see, I’d lost reception on Mr. Kenwood soon after entering town three hours ago, right in the middle of Morrison singing Light My Fire—a real classic. I thought it was the channel so I hit the search button while occupied with my own scan of the area for that place to eat. But it was static galore all of a sudden. Even the zany Fog lifter on the ole tin can was cutoff before he got to the punch line of his cowboy meets the horny horse joke. Hills on all sides usually meant for bad reception for CBs and radios alike. It was to be expected. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time.
The dirt cutoff I found just outside of town was especially dark. I couldn’t fathom much traffic in this sleepy old town, save for the lone deputy dog doing the rounds, so I found no need to close the curtains that separate the cab from the sleeper.
Outside, the gusty winds that always come in the fall to help the trees shed their colorful foliage were doing their part in keeping me from the land of deepest slumber. Every once and a while it howled, rocking the cab something fierce.
Past the feather dream catcher and through the windshield ahead, out over the Pete’s long Viper red hood, I could see the fallen leaves, in the dim silvery glow of the moon, being ushered left to right across the narrow road, sometimes swirling and taking the form of mini tornadoes that swept off into the woods.
I braced myself on my knees, half asleep and waiting, listening, watching the surge of leaves … then beginning to yawn.
Then it came again: a sudden, drawn out scream. Loud like a banshee’s wail.
I cringed as would anyone else. But then felt foolish for falling back onto the bed.
Yet there I stayed, one leg drawn up and a look of my face no doubt like a little schoolgirl who just found a big hairy spider crawling around the rim of her bowl of soup.
The woman, whoever the hell she was, was right outside the damn truck. She was suddenly pounding at the driver’s side door. I was hesitant to move, confused, wary of that leech named trouble that has a special knack for attaching itself to me. Whatever this broad’s deal was, I thought to myself, I sure as hell didn’t want to get involved with it.
No one’s home!
But she persisted.
“Oh Christ! Oh Christ!” she screamed. “Help me! Is there someone inside? Please … I need help! Please let me in!”
Boom! Boom! Boom! the pounding.
I heard the door handle jiggle, the girl outside trying desperately to get in.
“Help me, please!” She sounded terrified. A ring on her finger or something she held added an extra tic! tic! tic! to each Boom! Boom! Boom! at the window now. Her shadow danced over the dashboard, my empty coffee thermos, and my Mr. Roadrunner doll at the helm.
What in God’s name was going on out there, I thought, running my tongue over peeled back lips and wondering if I should just stay put, play deaf and dumb, or lend the lady a hand and feel better about myself come morning.
Wheeler Transport prohibited firearms of any sort from being on-board their rigs. It was strictly verboten – Rule #1 – grounds for immediate termination. The Smokey Bears didn’t think too kindly of it either; if they went digging hard enough and found that little toy I never leave home without, I’d be up shit’s creek without a paddle, and facing some pretty hefty charges, fines and, depending on where I was, a good beat down and date with a judge. But I’ve never been one to abide by those bullshit rules and regs. So, behind the driver seat, concealed in a pocket of my pack, within easy reach driving by day or sleeping by night, was where I kept my .380 SIG; a decent little shooter in stainless steel with a good set of night sights for the Darktime run-ins with the Doctor of Trouble and his lowly henchmen.
I went for it, tugged it from the holster, drew back on the receiver to load a nasty little 90 grain stinger of a hollow point round into the chamber – Damn ‘em if they can’t take a fucking joke!
The girl outside continued screaming for me to let her in.
She looked frantic, wide-eyed … pretty – nothing resembling the truck stop whores, the “Lot Lizards”, that come-a-knockin’ in the night to offer up their services to any big rigger with a buck or two. A suck, a fuck, crack or weed. You name it, they had it. A haggard bunch, not worth the spare change I kept stowed in the ash tray for soda. Then again, I wasn’t at a truck stop, was I? And she, certainly, was no Lot Lizard.
“Please let me in,” she ask more quietly through the glass as our eyes met, her pretty blues locking on my muddy browns to convey her message loud and clear. She clung to the mirror bar, using it as a hand grip, the nails of her right hand digging into the weather stripping of the window’s base. “They’re right behind me.” Her breath fogged the window.
I stubbed my toe hopping across the front seat to let her in. I could sense her hopping-about-urgency to get inside and away from whatever was putting such a damn good scare into her out there.
I still gripped the gun, though kept it low at my side, hammer cocked. There was no telling what I was getting myself into here. Worried about how small towns have a way of making real big headlines, I was wary of being led into a trap, or worse.
There's always worse.
I remembered the incident from a few years back when the softy inside talked me into lending a hand to the lonely hitchhiker girl standing beside a spankin’ new Caddy with a flat along I-90 a mile or so outside of Cleveland. A heavy duffel bag draped over a sagging shoulder and those sad doe eyes instead of an extended thumb were enough to do anyone in.
How was I supposed to know she was a runaway who stole her parents’ DeVille to later, with the help of her druggie boyfriend, rip off a mini-mart for gas money to make it to Vegas?
Which brings us to Rule #2 of Wheeler Transport: Under no circumstances, are you to ride with passengers … namely hitchhikers.
Enough of that problem, and on to the latest predicament.
She wore her short dark hair pulled back into something of a ponytail. Her face was young and fresh, dusky in the dim moonlight, with big blue eyes as wide as saucers staring back at me … “Please. They’re right behind me.”
I couldn’t just leave her out there …
I flipped the lock and was going for the handle to let her in, but she beat me to it, practically crawling right over me to get inside. She slammed the door behind her so fast my big fat head was nearly squashed between it and the jam. She slapped and clawed repeatedly at the lock to assure no one else was getting in.
“Hey-hey, easy. Settle down,” I urged.
Without saying a word, she scurried over into the passenger seat where she settled in her own embrace after checking the lock there, too. She shied away from the window. Her eyes were frantic, looking everywhere. Her head bobbed like a worried chicken with a hungry fox in the coop. She looked at me with nervous impatience, said, “Well come on, what are you waiting for? Let’s go!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa … hold on,” I stopped her.
“They were right behind me! We really have to go!”
“We're not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on. Who’s out there? Who’s chasing you?”
“I don’t know who they are,” she said, shocked and bothered that I wasn’t already in high-gear and on the move. She had tears building in her eyes. “My car broke down … and … and …” She looked past me, wanting to see outside.
I peered guardedly out into the dark, searching the shifting patchwork of wind blown shadows occupying the road outside my truck. I saw nothing but the blowing leaves.
“They’re out there!” she assured, hugging her knees tightly in the seat beside me.
That’s when the idling engine stuttered and died.
She looked like her bridge to freedom had just collapsed ahead of her. “W-w-what happened? Why’d your truck stall? Are we out of gas or something?”
I could only shake my head at her query, knowing that I had more than enough to make it to Albany and back. Twice if need be. No lights shown on the instrument panel or were buzzing to signify some sort of power failure. I was confounded yet hardly eager to leave the cab to check under the damn hood.
When she yelped, I thought I saw a shadow move quickly across the road.
As it did, the instrument panel flashed twice and went black.
“What the hell’s going on here?” I asked as much of myself as of her.
She shook her head and sunk deeper into her leg wrapping embrace.
2
The Mystery Light
A SHORT WHILE went by without any real sign of trouble. The girl managed to calm down enough to describe briefly what had happened to her—her panicked run through the woods from unseen pursuers—though remained on edge and jumped when so much as a leaf struck the window. I kept trying to get the Pete to turn over in the mean time. Having no success other than that demoralizing cla-clunk! sound that goes hand-in-hand with dead batteries, I practically cursed my shitty luck with each turn of the key. She kept trying to get a signal with my cell phone, though met with no success, and after a few moments gave up and slapped the lid closed. She looked to me as if I was the answer man, or at least might yield her some clue. I shrugged. She huffed.
Eventually I worked up the nerve to jump out and take that little look-see under the hood, then tooled around with the batteries set in their own compartments along either side of the cab. I even sneaked a peak in the fuel tanks just to be sure. Everything seemed in working order. But what did I know? I just drove the damn thing. It was the mechanic’s job to fix what needed fixing.
After a while of deliberating our options, we decided it best to set out on foot the short distance back toward town. We figured the coast was clear, and that whoever had been chasing the girl must surely given up and moved off to pester someone else, otherwise we’d have heard from them by know. Besides, I didn’t like being cooped up in a truck that was going nowhere fast. I needed a good mechanic, she needed a cop—neither of which where going to come calling on us any time soon by the looks of things.
The wind was nippy but not the biting kind, the sort where you can’t see your breath but feel it in more in your bones. It made you wish you had a heavier coat yet knew you could go without the hat and gloves. It hinted of winter months ahead.
The deep pockets of my jacket kept the .380 out of sight yet within easy reach if needed. I carefully watched the flanking woods. And her. I was still not convinced that she was telling me everything she knew, if she was being truthful or hiding from me some deep dark secret. “So tell me again,” I asked. “What exactly happened to you out here tonight?”
“Like I told you before,” she answered in a sweet little voice with a dab of irritation to spice up the mix of left over fear and angst, “I don’t remember much. Everything’s so confused. My mind is spinning … a thousand overlapping thoughts. I can’t concentrate on any one thing for long enough to do much with it. It’s like a kaleidoscope spinning and whirling about in my head. Like some type of really weird high.”
“So you don’t know where you are, or how you got here?”
“No. I don’t.”
I needed to better clarify: “You said you were in your car when it died on you …”
“Right after the radio turned to static.”
“But you don’t remember where you where heading at the time?”
“I think I was lost,” she said searchingly, holding her head like it hurt.
“You think?”
“After the car died, I just remember sitting there in the dark for a while, trying to get the damn thing to turn over for me. But it didn’t. Just like your truck. Then I got tired of playing with it, and got out and walked.”
“You got out and walked?”
“That’s right.”
“And did you have any specific direction in mind? I mean, take a look around, kid, we’re in the middle of nowhere, you claimed not to know about the town—where’d you think you were going?”
“I don’t know.” She hung her head, her eyes wandering over the ground before her.
“You don’t know?”
“I was scared!” she snapped, “It didn’t feel safe there.”
“Uh-hu.” For some reason, I wasn’t buying it. Something smelled fishy.
We continued our stroll down the road toward town, constantly looking over our shoulders, always on guard. I brought my pack (my bug-out-bag I called it) filled with the necessities—a change of cloths, a few energy bars and water, spare ammunition, a first aid kit, and a few other goodies required in the event of Armageddon and the downfall of civilizations as we know it. She held her coat tight near the neck to prevent the chill from getting in at her. “You live around here?” I asked.
“No,” she promptly answered. “I don’t even know where here is.”
“Ramblewood, population 632 … or so the sign read.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” She sounded annoyed.
“Yep, just another perfect example of Small-town USA. The type of place they don’t even bother to throw on a map. And believe me, I looked. Spent half and hour looking.”
“So tell me, Mr. Curious—if you’re finished with this third-degree—could I ask where it is that you’re heading?”
“Albany. I’ve got a load of steel due there tomorrow morning. That is, of course, if I can get the Pete started back up.”
“Albany … Albany …” She repeated it, thinking hard, and sounding like the pieces of her puzzle were starting to come together. “My sister’s in Albany. She’s an art teacher at a Middle School there.”
“Art, huh?” I laughed under my breath, scratching at the stubble upon my chin. “I got into that for a while.”
“Really? Any good?”
“Let’s just say that I had high hopes for myself after high school. My art teacher told me I had quite a knack for turning a blank piece of paper into something worthy of sticking in a nice frame to hang above a fireplace. Bet no one would’ve thought I’d be driving trucks for a living seven years later. Not that that’s a bad thing.”
“What made you become a trucker? I mean you don’t seem the type to me.”
I smirked. “Growing up in the ‘burbs south of Boston, I was stuck in the rut of that starving artist thing for a bit longer than I should’ve been. Mom and dad provided me with a roof over my head so long as I chipped in with a few of the bills and chores, but I was growing tired of sweet talkin’ the ’84 Olds each morning just to get me back and forth between an endless stream of dead end jobs. Later one of the few friends I had left got his ticket punched in a bike wreck one summer. Another moved away the following winter; got married to a Brazilian girl and dropped off the face of the earth. I got to play the part of the lone wolf good enough to earn me an Oscar nomination. I needed something new. In truth, I wanted out. Bad. So I got my license, found a small company who was willing to take on a rookie driver, and here I am.”
Staring off into the woods, she asked, “Doesn’t it get lonely being on the road all the time? No one to talk to?”
“Oh it ain’t that bad. I’ve come to enjoy the silence. Besides, we have some lively folks on the Tin Can to keep us entertained when the chips are down.”
“The Tin Can?”
“The CB … you know … that thing that made that funny noise when we were back in the truck.”
Rolling her eyes, “I know what a CB is,” she scoffed and rolled her eyes.
“Thought of getting a dog once, though,” I continued. “A fella driving a Freight Shaker out of Tennessee was looking to part ways with a little runt by the name of Skip. But I was having about all I could handle tending to my own needs at the time. He was a spunky little guy, thought—took quite a liking to me. I think we might’ve had a good time out there on the road, seeing the sights, goofing on the people.” Feeling the nip, I too cinched up my jacket. I looked to her walking beside me. “My name’s Shane, by the way. Shane Dobbins.”
“Kayla Vansen.”
She offered her hand courteously with a smile. We shook. I could tell her knuckles were skinned and bleeding even as a cloud scooted by to temporarily block out the moon’s silvery glow. She shied back at once, closing up her coat collar again. I became insistent with a prying, though hardly menacing, stare. “You have to give me something to work with, Kayla, some sort of clue as to who was after you back there?” She picked up her pace, forcing me into longer strides to keep up with her. I said, “Look, I’m more than willing to help you out but I need to know what the deal is. I hate being left in the dark. I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”
She turned back to me, still walking rather quickly. “Look, like I told you back in your truck, Shane: I don’t know. They surprised me, alright? They came out of nowhere, and knocked me to the ground.”
“So you where hit?”
“It wasn’t so much as being hit as having the wind sucked from my lungs. I felt a tingling course through my body. I saw stars. I saw myself falling. Then everything went black. When I woke up I was being dragged down a path through the woods. It was too dark to see them, but I felt their cold grip around my ankles.”
“And these guys are still out there.”
She stopped to stare off into the woods, remembering. “I kicked and I screamed. They let go. I got up and ran. That’s all I remember. How long is this road, anyway?”
“We should be almost to the town by now,” I told her. “I passed through it to get to the cutoff. Couldn’t have been more than a quarter mile. Maybe less.”
“I think we’ve gone more than a quarter mile, wouldn’t you say?”
I didn’t answer her right away. I just held my gaze on the woods beyond, trying to peel back some of the shadows here and there with my small flashlight, digging with my eyes through the piles of endless black to glimpse our stalker. Since we left the truck, I kept thinking we were being followed. I wasn’t certain, so I didn’t speak a word of it to her. But I couldn’t shake the feel of someone close by, keeping pace, moving in the flanking forest with the fervency of a wraith, staying always out of sight, yet hardly out of mind. Above us the battling limbs knocked and groaned. The wind was blowing hard enough to cover the occasional snap of twigs, and the shuffle of any feet through leaves would be easily lost amidst the thousands of others being carried on the brisk current of night air. They scrapped like animal claws across the worn blacktop where weeds grew from cracks that crept from the rough and crumbled edges. But she was right … we should have been to town by now. “Don’t worry,” I said with an assuring smile, “I’m sure it’s just up ahead.”
THE BOTH OF came to an abrupt halt when we caught sight of the light; a pale blue-white orb, the color of lightning, seen faintly flickering through the trees in the woods to our left. It remained stationary, just a dim pin point of light in a vast abyss of black.
“Ha! Civilization at last!” she proclaimed. “Let’s go!”
“To where?” I urged, seeing her start in the light’s direction. I stopped her by grabbing the sleeve of her coat. “You’re not thinking of trudging off through those woods are you? We should stick to the road. The town can’t be much farther ahead.”
“Shane, we’ve been walking forever. This road’s leading us nowhere fast.”
“Of course it is,” I argued. “Every road leads somewhere. I drove straight up through the town to the cutoff. It couldn’t have been any more than—”
“I know: a quarter mile. But unless your definition of a quarter mile is about six times further than the rest of ours is, I think it’s fairly safe to assume that we’re lost, that somehow we’ve happened onto a side road or something while talking. It’s dark. We’re human. We’re not infallible. It’s possible, right?”
Well sure it’s possible, I thought. I wasn’t willing to agree with her right then and there, yet staring down the long stretch of road ahead of us, watching it be consumed by the swarthy shade of night, I couldn’t provide her with a good enough answer to convince her otherwise—or myself, for that matter. I conceded, “Okay, fine, we might be lost … I’ll give you that much. But I’d much rather be lost on the Goddamn road than in the woods. I feel safer on the road. We don’t know what’s out there, or who. Plus it’s darker than hell. This flashlight’s practically useless. And almost dead by the looks of it. How are we going to see where we’re going?”
“If I didn’t know any better, Mr. Dobbins, I’d say you’re a little bit scared.”
“Pff! hat’s absurd.” I swatted my hand at her, in no way ready to relinquish my grip on my manly composure. I was concerned, yes … admittedly uncomfortable about what she was proposing we do … but scared? Hardly!
“You are, aren’t you?”
“Oh for cryin’ out loud, would you be serious. That light seems to be a good ways off. There’s no telling how long it’ll take for us to reach it, if we could at all. That’s just asking for trouble. I’ve got a load to deliver to Albany tomorrow, and my truck needs fixing. Neither one of us can get a signal on that damn cell phone. And I don’t think we need to complicate matters any further by getting lost in the woods.”
“There! Flash your light over there.” She was pointing to a spot at the road’s edge, about ten feet ahead of us. The dim glow of my fading light revealed the start of a path leading into the woods. She took my arm as a cute little conspiratorial smile spread across her face. Dimples formed in her cheeks. “Come on,” she eagerly urged, “let’s follow it.”
“‘Let’s follow it’,” I repeated to myself. “‘Let’s follow it’? Have you lost your mind? Do I have to remind you of that little incident, not too long ago, when your mysterious friends dragged you down a similar path? This could be a trap for chrissakes.”
She was shaking her head. “I don’t think it is.”
“You sound so sure.”
“Call it a hunch.”
“A hunch … Well that’s just great.”
The ways she looked at me, with the moon lending a sparkle to her insisting eyes, I begrudgingly agreed: “Alright fine, but you’re taking point.”
“Huh?”
“Just … go.” I waved her ahead. “I’m right behind you.”
3
Darktime
“DARKTIME”, IN TRUCKER’S lingo, refers to the hours between dusk and dawn, that time when the world of dog-eat-dog settles in to rest for the morrow, where the ebb and flow of night-tide dreams infest our minds, when the drone of the refrigerator and the tic-tock of the grandfather clock are the only sounds heard throughout a sleeping homestead. It is also the time when another realm wakes with a stretching yawn and strikes out into the gloaming.
It has never been the darkness that causes me jitters; after all it is just the absence of light, a cause for you to draw up your hand like a blind man for the added insurance you don’t run into anything along your dubious wander. No. What I’ve always been leery of are those things that come out to play when the light of day slips behind a distant horizon, those mischievous nocturnal souls that sleep by day to do their bidding in the gloom of night, lurking, roving furtively in the shadows. By the light of day most may be just like you or me, average and ordinary, if not more shy and subdued, hardly threatening. But take away our ability to see clearly that shifting shade that melds so effectively into a stagnant river of so many others, the ordinary suddenly becomes sinister.
The path we followed was overgrown; a narrow swath cut through the forest understory that probably hadn’t seen the tread of a human foot in years. The ground was hard-packed and slightly sunken, infested with roots, and partly filled by leaves and pine needles. While in spots the trail would widen, in others it simply shrank back up to swallow us whole. The branches on either side poked and clawed tauntingly as we shoved them aside, often forcing us to crouch and stoop, bob and weave through the oscillating patchwork of shadows and ashen moonglow. But the going was seldom arduous or straining.
A good portion of moonlight shone through the spindly autumn canopy above our heads to lend ample illumination to see our way along, though we sometimes trudged through ominously dark stretches where stands of conifers grew so close as to black out the light of the moon almost entirely. In these spots I resorted to using my light to guide the way; a rugged little handheld with a push button end cap, super-bright, but an efficient drainer of batteries.
We past by a beautiful pond turned a shimmering silver in the lunar radiance. We then soon came to an old rickety footbridge that sagged and threatened to snap under our weight. An ancient relic from decades past, slick with moss and partly submerged, we took turns crossing the gurgling brook one at a time. Lady’s first.
The sounds of the forest, of combating limbs and branches, scraping and clicking and groaning and thumping, covered our own passage. The leaves were rustling, the wind whistling, whooshing. I strode with the incertitude of an infant taking his first steps, trying to imagine myself on a wonderful jaunt down the Yellow Brick Road, accompanying the doe-eyed Dorothy in her magical quest for a place called Oz, though feared—as I often do when I know I’m getting in over my head—that it was hardly the giddy horde of spirited munchkins we would soon become acquainted with.
Because, of course, there was that light …
What I had at first been inclined to believe was a far off porch light, not thinking much of it a few moments before, suddenly began to drift about. I kept tentative watch over it as it went about some unknown task in the distance, wondered as to its source: a motorbike, a car with one headlight out traveling a lonely country road, someone with a flashlight out checking on things that go bump in the night. I had no idea. To her it was like the farm girl from Kansas getting to see the ocean for the very first time. For me the damn thing was just downright odd.
I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about that light just didn’t sit well with me. It kept me on edge for the way it seemed to probe closer, as though curious of our presence. Yet it would always stay just far enough ahead so as not to allow a clear enough view through the silhouetted stanchions of hardwoods of what it actually was. There was no sound that I could make out over the rushing wind, nothing of a motor, or footsteps, or voices from other people. It glided about on its own accord, silent, not at the whim of the inconstant, blusterous winds, sometimes against them, but always swift and true through the trees, avoiding each, maneuvering intently, intelligently, with some indefinable purpose. Because of it’s strangeness I concluded it to be something better left alone to do its nocturnal dance through the graveyard hours of this late October night.
Kayla had a different point of view altogether …
Kayla’s ineffable fascination with it was confusing to me. Her sense of wonder and amazement became childlike in vigor. She’d navigate her way with surprising ease through the same gloom that hindered me so greatly. It was tough to keep pace. Sometimes I’d hear her giggle under her breath as if it were all some sort of game—one in which, however, I was not amused.
And how could I be?
This was a young girl who hardly half an hour before came banging at the window of my truck, screaming and terrified for her life. I found it odd, to say the least, how she could be so carefree, enthralled by, and determined to find the source of what was now an exceedingly strange light, especially with the increasing likelihood of her attackers being close at hand. To me, this concern was starting to loom as mightily as the surrounding hills. Who else would be out here at this hour, I was fast to wonder.
As we went, I began to muse quietly in this new role of tagalong doll, silently mouthing the vulgarities that only a trucker could, cursing myself over how I could be so easily talked into something this brash without fully weighing out the dangers involved; leaving the road to wander through unfamiliar night-clad woods was a fool’s errand. I was not so able to cast aside the bedeviling bug of vexation left on my shoulder as was she.
Along with my disquietude over the frolicsome light, arose anew the feeling of eyes upon us. Before, those which tickled the nape of my neck now bore right through me, sending a cold shiver the length of my spine—What are you doing here? Go away!
I let myself trip repeatedly over the exposed roots in the dirt instead of drawing undue attention by foolishly shining my light about. I used it only sparingly.
My wandering gaze scanned the encircling forest, half convinced that something lay in wait, watching, ready to leap out of the dark. Some thing with razor teeth and an equally nasty temper.
The eternal pessimist, I was never one who’d been able to see the hint of hope in a flood of adversity. I drew my pistol.
Perhaps my unease could be attributed to the upcoming vibe of Halloween in the air, the thought of wicked witches and vile ghouls who’ll soon set forth to do us harm, of monsters that played in this sort of dark. Or maybe it was the soggy slop that drew on my cords of aggravation, the swampy section of puddle strewn path that got our feet wet even though we did our best to avoid the muck by weeding our own path through the unforgiving thickets. For a while, one of my boots made annoying squeak-suck-squeak sounds with each step.
But I was soon to learn my concerns were not unfounded.
A heavy thud resounded just ahead of us, off the path, in the darkness to our right.
Kayla came to an abrupt stop.
And so did I.
“Did you hear that?” she asked of me immediately.
“Sure did.”
“What do you suppose it was?”
“To be honest with you, it sounded like someone falling out of a tree.”
She laughed at this, and turned back to face me. “Who’s going to be out here to fall out of a tree?” Though I couldn’t see her rolling eyes, I felt her smile.
“That’s precisely what worries me.” I once read about how black bears are pretty nifty climbers. They can scoot right up a tall tree without much effort at all. I wondered if one had, earlier on, climbed up a nearby tree to take a quick nap, fell asleep, then got blown out the shaky perch by all this wind—poor fella, what a way to wake up.
For a minute, we stayed put to listen, though heard nothing of the restless rummaging we’d expect of an injured bear in the undergrowth. We continued on, extra guardedly, eyes darting left to right and back again.
No more than thirty seconds later, we heard it again. This time it came from the left. And much closer than before.
“Do you hear them?” Kayla asked.
“Hear what?”
“The voices.”
I had my pistol out. The night sights I had installed some months before glowed a dim green at the ready. Both hands clutched the weapon. “Listen, I think we should head back for the road. Even you have to admit, by now, that this is pretty foolish being out here like we are, not having any idea where we’re going. Someone’s messing around. Playing games with us or something.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, No? Christ, Kayla, we could be getting into some real serious shit, here. God only knows what those guys would’ve done to you if you hadn’t gotten away from them. If it’s them out there messing around, this is their home field. They’re sure to have the advantage. They might have bigger guns than this.” I held up my little .380 for her to see.
“I don’t care. We’ve come this far, we can’t turn back now. We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?” I asked, throwing my hands out in the dark. “I thought you didn’t know where here is.”
“I don’t. Listen, you can go if you want to. But I’m following that light.” Further up the trail, near the top of a slight incline ahead of us, it sat motionless, waiting. “I need to find out what it is … where it goes. It’s important. I don’t know how, I don’t know why … it’s just a feeling I have.”
“This is nuts! Absolutely nuts! That light is spooky, Kayla. Spooky!”
“If we stay to the path we’ll be fine.”
“How can you be so sure?”
She said nothing. She abruptly turned away from me.
The luminous orb, caught in a silent hover at forty yards distant, held her stare.
After a moment, she said to me, “You’re right … I can’t guarantee you a damn thing.” Then she started for the light. And I think she was smiling.
From what I could tell, it wasn’t projecting a beam as would your average, run-of-the-mill flashlight—it just glowed, it glowed like a magic crystal ball the size of a man’s fist. It lent a pale blue-white hue to what the light of the moon could not: the trunks of trees, the ground clutter around it, the underside of foliage above. I wanted to shoot at it, end this game before it got a chance to kick into high gear. I wanted to seize the initiative, charge outright, screaming something fierce like a wild animal, give these bastards something to really think about. But I wasn’t fully convinced that it was someone out there with a flashlight, wasn’t convinced as to whether or not the light, natural or supernatural, was either benign or malevolent, there to help or to do us harm. I remained hesitant.
The path behind us was dark, an admixture of silvery hue and nightshade constantly shifting in the wind. A similar scene presented itself to the right and left—dark … foreboding.
I wasn’t about to leave her alone out here. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t abandon her.
Reluctantly, and with a huffish attitude, I chose to follow her and that damn light.
The instant I started forward, my foot snapping a twig, the light darted off—Whoosh! Gone!—disappearing over the hill and leaving only a fading white glow in its wake.
Watching Kayla Vansen ahead of me spin back with a halfhearted frown and scolding eyes, cinching her collar tight against the cold, I shrugged—Hey, don’t look at me. She offered a thin smile before continuing on.
I told myself that I had to have lost my mind, standing there trying to convince myself that it had to be more than a pretty face which made me follow her. This wasn’t high school any longer; I shouldn’t be so easily persuaded by a great ass alone. I liked to believe I did the bulk of my thinking with the head on my shoulders, and not with the little camper in a denim tent.
The truth of the matter was, that as I stood there watching this girl head off up the trail, with or without me, the reasoning behind it all became suddenly clear. It had nothing to do with being attracted to her, nor was it that I was a habitual do-gooder. Back then I just as well would have shrugged my shoulders and said “that’s a shame” to someone in need than toss out a hand in aid. No. It was more than that. Much more. What it came down to was a chance to offer her, a complete stranger, what I was sadly unable to offer my own sister many years before …
I wasn’t but ten at the time, and Jamie was hardly a month past her eighth birthday. The both of us were just a couple of restless kids looking for something to do on another one of our boring family outings. Mom called us the Dynamic Duo, practically inseparable—mainly for the reason that neither one of us could get untangled form the other one’s hair.
Tiptoeing out of RV confinement, we wandered from the camp grounds that morning after a night of heavy rains, just looking to get out and stretch our legs and hike down to the river where we caught the two trout the day before, and skip rocks out over the water. We let our parents sleep in. Once there, we found that storm surge turned the water brown and ugly. It was churning and angry, with logs and other debris caught in the new rapids.