Death Head Valley

by David Charlesworth

  Tomorrow. He planned to do it tomorrow. They'd go for a little drive through the valley and find a picturesque area and he'd take to one knee. It was a shame his Pop couldn't be there. If Donovan didn't know his old man any better he'd swear his Pop was about to shed a tear when he had asked if he could use his Mom's ring to propose.

  The scattered remnants of the town of Angélique began to pass them by. Homes long since abandoned and boarded up sat in yards where the grass and plant life had took dominion, ready to thoroughly reclaim the land that man had so arrogantly built on.

  Rotting bunting hung on rusted, twisted wires that stretched from the old sodium street lights that lined the main strip; relics from a time where every day was a celebration of prosperity. They were joined by old flags, faded and dirty that flapped from their poles affixed to buildings that once housed stores and cafes. Much like the homes they passed the store fronts were boarded up, and broken windows hid the shame of the gutted innards of once proud businesses.

  The gang looked up, past these hollow shells that lay dark and dormant, and up at the mountain faces of the two Alans' that sat in watch, blotting out most of the sky.

  'It'd be pretty majestic if this wasn't a ghost town,' Philly said.

  They slowed to a near crawl, taking in the view.

  'Been this was since the fifties, I think,' Donovan said,

  He'd done some light reading about the place before they came. Specifically checking the Google Maps aerial images to see if there was any good vantage points within the valley itself. There was no official name for the valley but it had garnered the nickname Death Head Valley. Mostly from the way the two dark mountains appeared like eye sockets and the town spread out in an upside down V shape looked like the empty nasal cavity. He'd saved a picture to his phone to bust out around the campfire later. He was looking forward to freaking Philly out with it.

  The strip ended at a wall of trees and with it, civilization ended too. The trees made up the woods that carpeted the valley floor between the mountains and a dirt trail cut into them and ran parallel to a river that ran off to their right and under an old, iron bridge. Before it sat the only two buildings that appeared to have survived the depression: a dive bar and a grubby looking diner.

  An old guy pushed his way out from the gloom of the bar, passing by a burnt out sign for Coors, and blinked his tiny eyes as he looked at that SUV, as if he didn't quite believe what he was seeing. Then, much to the horror of Annie and Philly, Donovan pulled up and lowered his window.

  'What the hell are you doing?' Annie hissed, afraid the old drunk might hear her.

  'Just drive on!' Philly urged.

  'It's alright, it's O.K,' Donovan cooed.

  The old man pulled his stained cap down over his eyes which were red and clearly not used to seeing natural daylight. He approached the vehicle with slow, measured steps. Each footfall threatening to send him tumbling.

  'You goin' the valley?' he said, voice hoarse, each syllable coming out hard.

  'Yes sir,' Donovan said, 'just a couple of days, that's all. Do we have to inform the Sheriff or-'

  'You can't go into them woods. Stay out of the valley, hear?'

  'Is it privately owned? That's why I pulled over to ask if-'

  'Only person who owns them woods is Connor Finlayson!' The old man cut in. He stepped forward a few more paces, his eyes were now wide and wild, his voice softened, and now the words came easily as he continued his rant, 'I'm begging you kids, don't go in there. People stay out of the valley ever since the quarry accident. Only person to survive was Connor. Saw his whole family die as a boy, drove him mad. Now he kills whoever comes into the valley as revenge...'

  'Donovan, dude...' Philly urged from the back seat.

  Behind the old man a flat face, built like a bulldog's, was peering out from the window of the diner. Its owner was small but heavily set and wore a ratty brown uniform. She shook her head before silently calling out to someone they couldn't see.

  'There's nothing but death in the valley, kids,' the old drunk continued, 'people go into the valley and go missing, turn up dead... Please for the love of all that's good in the world. Please-'

  'JIMMY!' A voice called out.

  The diner's door was thrown open. A man with a heavy moustache and cheeks thick with stubble was marching towards them. His hair was oiled back and glistened in the late afternoon sun.

  'Maisie has some coffee in the pot for you. You go on inside now,' he said.

  'Franco, you can't let these kids go into the woods. Tell them, Francis. Please!'

  'Nothing wrong with the woods, Jimmy. You know that,' he then turned to the car and repeated, 'Nothing wrong with the valley, folks.'

  'Nobody comes out of there alive! So many people have gone missing! We can't let Connor keep getting away with this!'

  Maisie, the waitress, had joined the fray. She smiled at the group, a forced turning up of the lips. A smile that never met her eyes, as Donovan's mom used to say. He understood what that meant now. Though he couldn't blame the woman. She lived in a town with barely one final breath left in it, after all.

  'You kids want some pie?' she asked, placing a thick arm around Jimmy's shoulder, guiding him away. The old man sank into himself, his fight gone. 'Jimmy here'll sit quietly in the corner, wontcha, Jim. I know the old place don't look like much, but the food is real good. Believe you me!'

  'We're meeting friends, but thank you anyway,' Annie said.

  Maisie smiled again and began to walk Jimmy back.

  'If you get tired of eatin' your store bought burgers just remember we're only down the road. Take care now.'

  As she left, Francis leant in, placing his hands on the roof of the truck. His breath was heavy with the smell of coffee, its stink just about hid the reek of whiskey, 'Sorry about Jimmy there. Lost his kids, shook him up something awful... didn't lose them in the valley, mind. I've been going out hog hunting with nothing but my spears for as long as I can recall. Just to keep their numbers down, you understand. Valley's a beautiful place and we're proud of it. Nothing wrong out there. Just been some... unfortunate circumstances is all.'

  'Thanks for letting us know,' Donovan said, 'so we don't need permission to camp at all?'

  'Not as far as I'm aware. Not heading in too deep, right? No mountain rescue here in town and as I say, real easy to have an accident out there.'

  'No, nothing wild. We've been camping and hiking for a few years now. Fully stocked with first aid kits, clean water and we know which berries not to eat.'

  'We're just looking to roast some marshmallows and watch the stars. That sort of thing,' Annie smiled.

  'Yeah sure!' Francis laughed. 'As well as getting' fucked up and then getting fucked, right?'

  'WHOAH! Hey now!' Donovan shouted, leaning out towards Francis.

  'Jesus Christ!' Philly cried out.

  'Easy. Easy...' Francis said, raising his arms in mock surrender. 'Didn't just mean your lady there, I meant the whole bunch of you. I know what kids are like. That's all. Say, you want me to bring some extra booze along? Some pills? Maybe we can kick things up a notch, know what I mean?'

  'Oh God! Just drive, Donny,' Annie said, turning away.

  Donovan stared at the guy for a moment. He wanted to get out and put his fist though his smug face and he would have done it as well. But Annie placed her hand on his, calming him. He'd spent a lot of his youth fighting, it made him a natural on the football field, but it also caused him more trouble than it was worth at times. He pushed out the thoughts of busting open the perverts face and, in response, he put his foot down, the truck roaring away, across the road and onto the dark trail. Franco's laughter following them until all trace of the vile man, and civilization, was swallowed up by the woods.

  2.

  Within the valley sat a raised hillock of clear and flat ground. Upon it Bilbo was re-checking his camping supplies. The fire pit itself had been set in the middle of the clearing, naturally. He had set up the protecti
ve ring of rocks around it and erected the free standing grill across the flames. Around that, sat the chairs, his being at least four times the size of everyone else's. Bilbo was near enough four hundred pounds and required a specialist, reinforced quasi hammock to support his massive bulk.

  They had parked down the embankment, just inside the treeline and the gentle walk up to where he was now had nearly killed him. That's why he was adamant about making sure everything was in order. No way in hell was he heading back down to the “car park” again until it was time to leave.

  Besides his gargantuan chair, in coolers and containers were everything he'd need for the weekend: Drinks (alcoholic and soda), snacks, real food, blankets because he planned to sleep out under the stars one night, and most importantly, an absurdly large amount of marijuana.

  He sat down and let out a grateful sigh. If things went to plan he'd not need to move again until his bladder was full. He leant over to his left and grabbed a beer, then to his right to pick up a freshly constructed joint.

  It was glorious!

  Probably his finest work to date. He held it out in his palm and felt the weight of it. He had constructed it using almost a whole pack of rolling papers and it was enough to feed a family of four, it was his warm up for the weekend. He sparked the beast and brought the roach to his eager lips, stopping for just a moment to appreciate the aroma. It was strong and sweet and brought a tear to his eye.

  'This is the motherfuckin' life,' he said, taking a drag.

  And that was Bilbo. A simple man who enjoyed the simple things. People who didn't know him would call him lazy and disgusting; wondering how someone could let themselves get so fat. The truth was not that Bilbo didn't care, it was that Bilbo was completely and utterly at peace with himself. He enjoyed what he enjoyed: weed, good company, and fantasy in the forms of books, films, and video games. In fact, the nickname Bilbo had begun as an insult in high school. But Brendan, as he was then, loved it. Already a chubby kid with a heart for adventure (not literally, though, as it would be likely to explode under too much duress) he wore the Hobbit moniker with pride. He had even wanted to go and get his name changed officially, but that would mean waiting in a queue in some office somewhere, probably. And he argued with himself that he hadn't time for that. Especially seeing as he had just started a new game of Skyrim.

  He kept in a lungful of smoke before exhaling the thick, hazy cloud and wondered what Kevin and the new kid, (what was his name? Antony?) were up to. He began to daydream about the woods and the adventures they might have gone on, just like his namesake. The babbling brooks, the glades and dales, the secret grottos of the world. He scanned the trees and imagined giant, walking trees, Ents, out there. Kevin and Anton (that was it) being carried around by sentient Firs and Redwoods.

  As much as he would have loved to have joined them, his imagination was as good as, in his mind. Real life could offer only so much, after all. He'd tried to explain his dreams and ideas to Kevin a few times, but he'd always miss out key details or get the sequence of events mixed up and in the end the pair of them would just end up falling about laughing at the nonsense Bilbo had just spewed. And that was just fine for Bilbo. So long as his friend was happy.

  The buzz had wrapped him up nicely now. His mind was padded and chill. He reached down and grabbed himself a packet of chips as, on the verge of his senses, he heard the hum of an engine and the grinding drone of wheels on soil. That had to be Annie and Donovan, and his little homie Philly. From his low profile he couldn't see the car, but he could tell it had driven past where they had parked up. Then the top of the vehicle crept into view...

  He spat out his joint in a fit of coughing and spluttering.

  It was a police cruiser and it was stalking up towards him at a deliberately slow pace! He quickly shifted to try and stamp out his masterpiece and failed, his thick thighs getting in the way of each other. Then he tried to reach down to pick it up to stash it in his open can, but his gut halted his attempts. It was too late anyway, he heard the cop's door open and then slam close. He was busted!

  'Howdy,' the cop called out. His voice entirely pleasant.

  'Hey man... I mean hello officer,' Bilbo replied, trying to waft away the smell of weed by pretending to stretch. He caught sight of the officer's badge. The Sheriff didn't move, but he was built like a linebacker and had a square, cleanly shaven jaw. His hair was hidden under his hat, but Bilbo figured if it was blonde he may as well have been speaking to Captain America. O.K maybe Captain America's middle aged uncle.

  'Name's Montrose,' the Sheriff said.

  'Pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Bilb... Brendan Washington.'

  Perhaps he hadn't noticed the joint and the wind had carried away the smell of weed. Bilbo's gut clenched as Montrose approached. Then he took off his hat, revealing hair that was smartly cut and disappointingly brown.

  'Having a good time smoking out here?' he said.

  He was busted. For the first time in his life he felt something akin to fear. First of all what would these people out here even do with a black guy for smoking weed, then, worse still, what would his Mom say? It'd break her heart.

  'It's uh, medicinal, sir. I have papers for it... but they're at home.'

  'That right, huh?' Montrose said, face blank and impassive, before slowly his lips cracked into a smirk, 'Weed is legal in this state. But from the look on your face, you didn't know that, huh?'

  'I near had a heart attack there!' Bilbo laughed.

  'Sorry about that,' Montrose said, laughing too, 'just couldn't resist. I know the ideas people have about us small town cops. They see Rambo once and think we're all hard-ass bastards who just want to bust a strangers chops. It's just the opposite in fact. We so rarely get visitors the last thing I want to do is have them leaving with a poor opinion of our little part of this big old world. So how's it going? The whole camping thing?'

  'Pretty good thanks, Sheriff...' Bilbo relaxed and reached for his lost spliff. After a few lunges Montrose strode over, plucked it from the ground and passed it back to him.

  'Thank you. Couple of my boys have gone out exploring, few more people coming later.'

  'Just here for the weekend?'

  'Yeah. Maybe Tuesday. Depends on what runs out first, toilet paper or beer.'

  Sheriff Montrose smiled and replaced his hat, 'Great stuff. Hey, listen. I won't stick around and put anyone else off having a good time. You've obviously got your head on straight, so can I just rattle off some general guidelines and can you relay them to your friends?'

  Bilbo nodded as his thought drifted slightly. Were Sheriff's just modern day paladins? Were forest rangers just modern day rangers?

  'Well, first of all, with the river and the mountains the area never gets too dry. We don't usually have much call for worrying about fires. But all the same-'

  'Only I can prevent them,' Bilbo cut in, quoting Smokey the Bear, then held his hand up in salute, 'sorry for butting in, Officer. Used to be a Scout.'

  'Excellent! Good to hear it. Then the next thing shouldn't be an issue either. For the moment the valley isn't registered land, but all the same we have a lot of pride for what we have here despite...' He paused and cleared his throat. 'Despite what happened. We'd really appreciate it if you cleared up after yourselves. No garbage or non bio-degradable junk.'

  'Of course, Sheriff.' What did he mean by “what happened”, that didn't sound good. Not at all. Bilbo was about to ask, but Montrose hadn't stopped his speech,

  'Just one last thing... I don't want to sour your weekend, but someone else is in the valley with you. Passed through a couple of days ago. Didn't stop, didn't say hello, and I couldn't find him out here. He looked pretty... intense... is the word I'd use. Now, I wouldn't get too worried. We often get campers out here who just want to keep to themselves and this guy was in a nice enough truck. I don't think you've got Charles Manson for a neighbour, but all the same I wanted to let you know. You're not alone out here.'

  Bilbo's mouth dr
opped as the Sheriff nodded as he tweaked his hat and sauntered back to his car.

  Not alone? Christ, what kind of parting words were those? And what kind of bad history did this place have? And where exactly were Kevin and Anton?

  3.

  Kevin's hands were shaking so bad he was afraid to take them out of his pockets lest Anton see them and make fun of him. He'd never done anything nearly this crazy or wild before and there Anton was, calm as anything as though nothing had happened. Anton is the coolest. He thought to himself, fretting that he'd accidentally said it out loud. Kevin wanted to ask if Anton had his goatee and long hair in order to look more like Satan. But he figured that was a dumb question and didn't want to insult his new friend. Anton was a self proclaimed Satanist. Of COURSE that's why he had a goatee!

  He hoped the rest of the gang liked Anton as much as he did. He'd met Anton at a gig back in the city. Kevin had been floating from bar to bar, drunk as all hell and trying to find somewhere that sat right. He had heard the roaring heavy metal long before he even saw the small entrance to the club that was producing such a riotous din and the bouncer stopped him a clear six feet before he got to the door and shook his head, saying, 'Really don't think this is your scene, bro.' But he offered no resistance when Kevin had shrugged and wandered past anyway.

  His bones shook as he entered the venue which was all but empty. A few metalheads threw themselves around before the stage, as the lead singer, face painted white and streaked with black scars screeched about devils and blood into the mic.

  It was a revelation!

  All his life he'd never really known what to do with himself. People had expected him to fall into the same subcultures as his brother, but that held no appeal for him. He wasn't a gangsta. He wasn't much of anything. He still listened to rap, but it never spoke to him. Not like this, the raw and real emotion from the band whose name he could barely pronounce. He'd always thought of metal as a sideways step from the general geekdom he'd come to embrace by having Bilbo as a best friend, but he finally crossed that boundary the same fateful night he met Anton.