Читать книгу The Legend Unleashed - L.S. Strange - Страница 7

Chapter 3

Dawn came at 4:28 a.m. the next morning, and the Smithfield house was buzzing with activity. John was the first one to arrive, prompt as usual.

He emerged from the taxi wearing stiff new blue jeans with the waist of the pant worn high above his bellybutton, a thin black belt and a plaid shirt that was buttoned all the way up to his neck.

The plastic breast pocket liner was stocked full of every kind of pen, pencil, and highlighter you could imagine. It was anyone’s guess why he would need these writing utensils for a camping trip.

John stepped out of the cab and reached back to retrieve his belongings. He removed his backpack without a problem. This was quite a feat in itself, for John was not a graceful man. As he pulled out his fishing pole, the hook caught in the upholstery of the back seat and refused to budge. The cabbie lost control.

“Hey, Pal! Watch the upholstery!” John leaned down into the back of the cab struggling to free the stubborn hook. When he did this, all the pens spilled from his pocket to the floor.

“Today! Move it!” The driver bellowed becoming more irritable with each passing second.

The angrier the cabby got, the more flustered John became only making the situation worse. Just as the driver was about ready to burst, Scott appeared at John’s side. With ease, Scott released the fishing pole hook from the upholstery and effortlessly removed the rest of John’s belongings, including the pens, from the back of the taxi. He walked around to the front and paid the driver then helped John carry his stuff over to the trailer.

“Thanks,” John whispered sheepishly. John was three years older, and Scott was always coming to his rescue. He smiled understandingly at John. “We’re gonna have a great time!”

The next one to arrive was the dreaded Bob. He raced up in a 1974 Gremlin with a modified engine. After shifting into park, he revved it hard three times causing loud rumbles from the glass packs to shatter the early morning silence. Bob shut off the engine, gulped the last of his beer, crushed the can, and chucked it into the back seat. He got out of the car and slammed the door. The extreme quiet amplified all of his movements, which were already as loud as a rock concert. As he walked to the back of the vehicle, he belched, farted, and scratched his butt. To add a final touch, he blew the contents of his nose onto the pavement by closing one nostril with his index finger and discharging profusely through the open canal.

Bob lifted the hatchback and had to hold it in place because the shocks were broken. With his free hand, he pulled out a filth crusted gunnysack filled with his necessities for the trip. The gunnysack was an old baseball gear bag made of green canvas. His fishing pole protruded out the top. Bob leaned the bag against the back of the car. The hatchback door slipped from his hand and crashed down against the frame of the opening snapping off the end of his fishing pole. He instantly lost his mind and began swearing loudly.

Violently he grabbed the bag, not bothering to retrieve the broken part of the pole and continued to complain as he strutted up the walk to the house.

The last ones to arrive were Ron, and Michael’s friend Noah. As he pulled up to the house, Laura stood on the front porch offering a pot of hot coffee and orange juice. Ron took everyone’s gear to the trailer. What a fantastic trailer it was! Must have cost a bundle, he thought as he looked around. Scott had purchased it just a few weeks ago, and this would be her maiden voyage. Because of this, Scott teasingly wrote in large bright red letters on a sign that was hung on the door, “Titanic.” Then he broke his beer bottle on the edge of the trailer christening it as such.

The trailer was thirty-two feet long with white fiberglass siding that had a fat blue stripe down each side. At the back end, a door opened into a bedroom that contained three bunk beds. The door from this bedroom led to a small bathroom that contained a sink, vanity, and toilet on one side. Directly across from it was a small shower and tub. Leading out the other side of the bathroom was the kitchen and dining areas. The kitchen was on one side of the trailer, and the dining table was on the other. At the end of the kitchen counter was a breakfast bar and two barstool type chairs. Next to it was the other entrance to the trailer. Parallel to the kitchen was the dining area and directly from that was the living area. At the end of it was a small four-foot-long, four-foot-high entertainment unit that held a Smart TV, Blue Ray player, and CD stereo. Continuing along at the far end of the trailer just off from the living area was another bedroom with a double bed.

The streamline trailer comfortably slept nine adults, so accommodation would not be an issue. The design did not allow for dead space as every inch was utilized.

This trip would be excellent. Much better than using nylon tents and sleeping bags on air mattresses.

The only concern with the trailer was the interior color choices. It had a color scheme that seemed to be designed for women with pastels and floral patterns, and not a bunch of men.

Ron took a deep breath savoring that familiar smell, the wonderful aroma of “new.” Scott spared no expense, after all, you only live once.

Ron stacked all the bags in the back bedroom with the bunk beds. He then separated the fishing gear to the front bedroom. A quizzical look crossed his face as he gingerly lifted Bob’s ganky filth-crusted bag. His mind could not even begin to imagine how Bob’s fishing pole sustained its injuries. The fact was he didn’t want to know. He contemplated which bedroom to put it in.

“Ummmm,” Ron mused. “Definitely back bedroom.” He decided and chucked it back there on the heap. Loading the gear didn’t bother him since it kept him busy and away from small talk with the others. He was not a morning person and just wanted to be left alone until the journey was underway.

The trailer was hooked up to a two-year-old full-sized Chevy conversion van. The van comfortably sat seven with room to spare. The paint was superb, a metallic deep-prism blue. Fog lights mounted to the front bumper gave it an ominous appearance. The powerful V-8 engine was smartly tuned, all muscle, and would have no difficulty pulling the trailer, just a slight touch of the gas, and she took off. A three-step chrome ladder was mounted on one of the back doors and led to a luggage rack up top. The best thing about this beast is that it was trimmed out in chrome, a feature missing from most late model vehicles and is, to most people, the best part.

Ron walked over to where everyone was excitedly discussing the events they were planning for the expedition.

“All packed up and ready to go. You did the food already, right?”

“Absolutely,” Laura responded with a smile.

“Come on, guys!” Scott yelled with a huge grin on his face. It was a grin that would take a surgeon days to remove because it was the grin of true happiness.

Michael came barreling down the stairs and out the front door, full of happiness and excitement. All the campers clambered into the van. It took on the appearance of a ship at sea as it shook back and forth with the boarding.

“Shotgun!” John yelled as he raced for the front passenger seat. This was very out of character for him. His excitement had dissolved his inhibitions. Bob plopped down in the captain’s chair directly behind the driver’s seat and closed his eyes to sleep. Michael stretched out over the bench seat in the far back. Ron, being the last one to enter, grabbed the captain’s chair next to Bob. At least in this seat, because it was next to the door, he would be the first one out.

Before Scott assumed his place behind the steering wheel, he gently took Laura in his arms and gave her a tender kiss goodbye.

He carefully backed out of the driveway into the street. Scott shifted the van into gear, and they went off down the street, embarking on their mission. By now, the sun had risen over the horizon and shone brightly to illuminate the morning.

The miles of city travel seemed long and endless. Michael could barely contain himself as he eagerly looked out the window, hoping to get a glimpse of something worth seeing.

After what felt like an eternity, Michael’s heart began to beat faster as he saw the sign for Highway 119. They would soon be at the foot of the mountains with the city driving finally over. His enthusiasm caused his pulse to race and breath to quicken. He could hardly sit still.

Scott maneuvered the van to take the exit for this highway. The gentle lull of the van, as it rode smoothly down the road, was a good sedative. By now, all occupants of the van, except Scott and Michael, were asleep. They were not used to early morning hours, but Scott had to remain alert as he commanded the vehicle, and Michael was just too excited to sleep.

He sat wide awake taking in the landscape as the van continued down the highway. It didn’t even begin to lose power or speed on the incline as they approached the city of Golden, nestled in the base of the mountains. The lifeblood of Golden is the Coors Brewery. It stands tall and proud, its buildings towering over the city below. As usual the brewery was bustling with activity at this early hour while Golden was silent, still in a deep slumber.

The van ate up the road and sailed on effortlessly. After passing Golden, Scott slowed down at the last traffic light before entering the mountains. He turned north and continued through Golden Gate Canyon.

A multitude of aspen trees lined every inch of the roadside. Their leaves, heavy with dew, shimmered in the morning sun. Strong bold greens of summer gave a cool relaxing feeling to the canyon. Softer gentler shades splashed highlights over the foliage making it vibrant and alive. It made you feel as though the earth were fresh and young and new. Emerging from between the aspens were small bushes, struggling to break through the dense growth of the trees. It was as if they were playing a never-ending game of hide-and-seek, peeking around an endless array of steadfast magnificent white trunks.

As the morning wore on, the sun climbed higher into the sky. It shone through the leaves illuminating them from deep shades to brilliant hues while dewdrops clinging to them, sparkling like diamonds creating a spectacular sight. Michael stared in awe at the splendor of nature.

The canyon derived its name from the way it appeared in the autumn. Crisp, cool air would cause a wonderful metamorphosis of the leaves on the aspens, altering the greens to hues of yellow, orange, and red. They were magically transformed by the sunlight during the day into a river of shimmering gold that flowed from one end of the canyon to the other.

The bountiful beauty he saw as the van wound its way through the canyon mesmerized Michael. The grandeur of morning unfolded as wildflowers opened to greet the sun, and small furry animals ventured from their abodes to locate a meal.

There was a mystical feeling in the air. At any moment, he fully expected to see a unicorn leap from the foliage and take off galloping wild and free.

Michael was jarred from his daydream when the van exited smooth pavement and devoured dirt as the road transformed. Patches of washboard dotted the route causing the van to shake. Scott slowed down even more to diminish the effect of the rutted way. Dust filled the air as they continued.

Michael found it difficult to survey the mountainside through the sunlight and dust. Eventually wonderous sight appeared, and Scott pulled over to the side of the road. The long wild grass swayed gently, beckoningly in the soft warm breeze. Scott and Michael looked at each other and grinned while he parked and turned off the engine. Michael and Scott, the only vigilant occupants, alighted from the van. Scott could not believe that the others were not awakened by that bumpy ride; they were still sleeping.

Scott and Michael walked twenty feet from the van and stopped. Before them was a large iron archway that read, “Central City Cemetery.” The wrought-iron fence started on either side of the arch and encompassed the small, very old graveyard.

“This is way cool, Dad!” Michael whispered, afraid that speaking would ruin the moment. Scott nodded his head in agreement. After standing there for several seconds, soaking in the atmosphere, they walked through the archway and into history.

The cemetery was old and had been neglected for many years. Wild grass had overrun the gravestones, making the smaller ones difficult to see, indicating that nature had begun her duties trying to cover over the old with new life. Plants and wildflowers stretched out to almost completely erase the paths that lead the way through the burial ground.

The once polished white stones, painstakingly chiseled to bear the names of lost loved ones, now stood pale and gray from the unrelenting weather that vanquished them year after year. Some stones had even begun to crumble, leaving sad forlorn-looking monuments that had, in a time forgotten, stood tall and proud.

The breeze had subsided, and all was still. Michael could hear his heart pounding in his ears. As they slowly walked around, they were seeing a chronicle of yesteryear. Scott bent down to a plot to read the epithet. He gently brushed his fingers over the face of the stone, removing the crusted dirt to reveal the words below. He read in a solemn whisper, “Mary Barton. Beloved wife, mother of seven. Hers was a soul too gentle for the uncivilized world. Born January 4, 1824, died May 18, 1881.”

“Dad, she was only fifty-seven years old. She probably died from having too many kids!”

“It was quite common back then for women to bare that many children. Medical science wasn’t very advanced so to have two or three children live to be adults, a woman would give birth to seven or eight. Many babies died before they were even a year old. Besides, fifty-seven was a ripe old age back then,” Scott explained. An unsettling feeling came over him as he noticed the small Kewpie baby doll on the next grave, the grave of a child. As he stood up and looked around, he saw many Kewpie dolls throughout the cemetery, all on the graves of children. Then, he turned his attention back to Michael who had walked over to another grave.

“Albert Finnigan. Treasured husband taken to soon by consumption. Born in County Meade 1803. Died August 31, 1834. Isn’t consumption that lung disease?”

“Yes. Tuberculosis. It eats away the tissues of the lungs until you die because you can’t breathe. Now you can take medicine to cure it, but back then, they had no cure. It was a slow and painful death,” Scott answered.

“That’s what Doc Holiday had!”

“Right, it was called consumption because it consumed or ate away at you.”

Michael wandered farther into the cemetery. Scott pointed out another head stone.

“Here lies Lester Hawkins who came to strike it rich on ore but died from a bullet on the bar room floor. Birth date unknown. Died April 5, 1859.”

“How many people do you think came here to dig for gold?” Michael asked.

“I don’t know, thousands I guess. Central City was a mining town. They were called boomtowns because once the word was out that gold had been discovered, people rushed in. Soon the town population exploded in a boom.”

“So when the gold was gone, the people left, and then they turned into ghost towns, right?”

“Right! How’d you get so smart?”

Michael grinned. “Hey, look at this one.” They walked over to the corner of the cemetery, far away from the other plots. As they drew near, Scott stopped in his tracks.

A chill had caught the air and the sounds of nature halted as clouds suddenly moved in, blocking the sun, creating a gloomy atmosphere. Before them was a blank stone. Nothing living grew around it for several feet in all directions. The ground was bare. A small sapling was the only living thing, which had sprouted just outside the fence of the cemetery.

“What does it mean?” Michael asked.

Scott just starred. He didn’t know who was there, but the message was clear and not good. After several seconds of inquiring eyes boring into his head, Scott spoke, “Well, that’s the grave of something evil.”

“No way.”

Scott’s silence caused goosebumps to pop up on Michael’s arms as a shiver ran down his spine. It’s one thing to talk about wicked things and quite another to be face-to-face with one.

“Sweet!”

Scott’s expression continued to be sober as he went on, “The people of the area believed whatever they buried there was so evil that they refused to honor it with any acknowledgement. They placed one barren thin stone to mark the spot and let everyone know, kind of like a sign, to stay away. See, it’s placed out here on the other side of the fence, an outcast, and not allowed to be buried in hallowed ground.”

As Scott answered, Michael was excited and engrossed hanging on Scott’s every word. His heart was also pounding wildly, not from fear but from the adrenaline that shot through his veins pumping him up. A slight grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he waited, his anticipation growing, for his dad to go on.

“What if it was some evil town killer who liked to kill kids then eat them?”

“No, nothing like that. They were usually hung and then burned, nothing left to burry. People like that only exist today because laws about punishment protect them. You know, men who have been on death row for years because the state keeps giving them appeal after appeal.”

“Oh.” Michael became silent, seeming somewhat disappointed.

Scott took this opportunity to move away and change the subject. Funny though, as soon as they left the unmarked grave, the chill subsided, the clouds cleared, and the warmth of the sunny morning returned. He didn’t dare to look back. His instincts told him not to. Was it just a feeling or was it more? Scott didn’t remember how he knew about the grave; he just knew it.

“You’ll tell me the real story later, right?” Michael asked.

What a sharp kid! He could read Scott’s inner feelings just as an adult would be able to tune in that something was wrong.

“Maybe,” he answered.

Scott allowed his son to wander around reading the headstones for several minutes while he smoked a cigarette. No smoking in the van. He kept a watchful eye on him to make sure Michael kept away from that spooky grave. When he was finished, he called to him, “Come on, can’t waste all morning!”

Michael reluctantly came back to where Scott stood, resting against the entryway. They strode to the van and got in. Scott tried to start it, but the engine wouldn’t turn over. It just clicked as he turned the key.

“What the hell!” he spat. Scott was immediately angry, and his blood began to boil. He had put the van in the shop to make sure everything was in good condition before starting this trip. He tried to start it several more times to no avail. Finally exasperated, he started swearing as he pounded the steering wheel with his fist. He pulled the hood latch, threw open the door, and got out.

Mumbling under his breath, he jerked up the hood and put the metal jack arm in place to hold it up. Scott took in a quick gasp, and his body jerked in one horrified spasm. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his blood ran cold. He couldn’t believe his eyes! He was frozen still, paralyzed.

“There is no way this could happen. It can’t be. Everyone’s still asleep. They would’ve heard something.” His mind continued to race. “The latch to open the hood is inside, and with it so quiet out here, any door being opened or closed would echo loudly,” Scott thought aloud.

He slowly began to shake his head in disbelief. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, some rational and some not. There before him, the distributor wire cap had been disconnected and was set to the side on top of the battery. He knew this was something that didn’t just pop off on its own. Two clips had to be pried back, and then it still had to be pulled very hard to get it off. Small bits of leaves and twigs were stuck and wrapped around the wire.

At that very moment, he felt he was being watched. Scott whirled around to confront his unseen foe. Nothing was there. His eyes darted over the landscape desperately hunting for something amiss. Everything remained in order; as it should be. Then he heard it. A soft whisper on the light breeze, “J–o–h–n.”

He broke out in a cold sweat. This horrific feeling was burrowing into the depths of his soul. With shaking fingers, he tried to reconnect the wire cap. After three attempts, it went into place. He noticed more leaves and vines on the ground at his feet. With trembling hands, he picked up the vines and cast them to the side of the van and out of view. Scott then closed the hood with a loud bang. Swiftly he got back in the van, closed the door and locked it. The engine started with a loud roar and burst into life. With his nerves jumping, he yanked down the shifter and stepped on the gas. The van shot off down the dirt road leaving the cemetery far behind.