by Edward Lorn
She finally shrugged and shook her head before turning back to the tour guide. Mark pulled his shirt away from his belly and looked at it—no stains or anything funny. He checked his zipper—all hemmed up. So what had she been looking at? Just to be sure, he brushed a hand over his face, checking for boogers and anything wet that didn’t feel like it should be there. His hand came away clean.
Weird chick. She was another one he’d have to keep his eyes on. The assignment could turn out to be one of his more interesting stories. If nothing else happened, at least he had something to work with. A dishonest tour guide and a strange group member called all different kinds of headlines to Mark’s mind.
Not to mention, the Dastardly Bastard. That one still burrowed its way through Mark’s head like a tunneling worm. The information Willy had emailed Mark had been enough of a reason to take the job, other than the obvious need for a paycheck. The document attached to the email had opened with a poem, a short nine-line rhyme that wouldn’t be out of place in a Grimm Brothers fairytale.
The Dastardly Bastard of Waverly Chasm
Does gleefully scheme of malevolent things
Beware, child fair, of what you find there
His lies, how they hide in the shadows he wears
‘Cross wreckage of bridge is where this man lives
Counting his spoils, his eye how it digs
Tread if you dare, through his one-eyed stare
This Dastardly Bastard is not what he seems
This Dastardly Bastard is not who he seems
Sure, the ending was a bit stilted, but so were most of the whimsical rhymes Mark had ever heard. He assumed one of the final lines had been lost over time. That tended to happen more often than not with such things. Like the game of Telephone, the ending message was never what the originator had intended.
The next section of the email was the electronic brochure Pointvilla Parks and Recreation gave out on their website. The information inside told of tour times, souvenirs, and restroom locations—only two, with one back at the car park and the other a chemical toilet at Scooter’s Dive.
Finally, there had been a personal line from Willy.
Mark. Don’t fuck this up. P&R guys paid for coverage. So cover it.
—William Montgomery
When Mark had read that last bit, he almost put his fist through the top of his rented Prius. By “P&R guys,” Willy had meant the Parks and Rec group that oversaw the chasm as a whole. Mark only assumed they were the same contingency that made poor Jaleel Warner tell everyone that Fairchild Lookout was sponsored by Righteous Cola. Mark thought that soda tasted of carbonated feet and balls. If state and county were that desperate for money, Mark had better make this story shine all big and pretty like. Both for himself, and Jaleel.
Justine was staring at him again. Mark still didn’t acknowledge her, only spotted her from the corner of his vision. When Jaleel began talking about continuing, Justine finally broke contact. Mark was glad; she was starting to thoroughly creep him out.
The tour guide finished up and led the group to where the trail ended and Waverly Chasm began. Mark stayed at the back behind Marsha and Lyle.
Mark was taken aback by the pressure he felt in his head as he looked out over the expanse of the opening. He raised the viewfinder of the Nikon to his eye, widened the zoom, and glassed the chasm. The massive crevasse seemed to go on forever, disappearing with the curve of the earth. He snapped off a three-burst sequence, then checked the digital display to make sure he’d gotten the shot he wanted. Bringing the camera back up, he zoned in on the hundreds of trees that lined the sheer walls, their roots reaching out from the rock face, having broken through after what could have only been decades of struggle.
Click, snap.
Mark lowered his camera. His foot found a loose stone. He nudged it over. The rock clacked off an outcropping of rock, spinning away into the dismal void. He heard nothing else of his stone as the blackness swallowed it whole.
The pathway cut out and down in a zigzag pattern. The foot space was about four or five feet wide, plenty of space to feel comfortable in, but it might as well have been only inches to Mark. He reeled as vertigo threatened to take him over. He took a step back, not realizing he had done so, and felt his foot settle on something soft.
Someone squealed behind him, sounding like an animal caught in a trap. Mark spun around, his belly slapping the little person behind him, sending the man hurtling to the ground.
“What the hell, Tubby?” the little guy raged as he struggled to push himself up before the dust had even settled.
“I am so sorry.” Mark bent over and helped the man to his feet. “You all right?”
“I will be. You about crushed my foot, though.”
“I didn’t see you.”
“Bet you haven’t seen your dick in a while, either.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“That’s been accepted, Tubby. Now, can we move along?”
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t call me Tubby. How would you like it if I called you Squirt?”
“Wouldn’t dust my shoes, Tubbaloticus,” The little guy strode past, short arms swinging at his sides. “See ya, Tubster!”
“My name is Mark, Squirt.”
10
“GIRL, YOU GOT THE SIGHT,” Nana Penance had told Justine once upon a time.
When Nana Penance had her stroke, back when Justine was still living in Georgia and her parents were still married, Justine had seen death on her grandmother. Nana Penance had Thrown Shadows clear as day.
The fat man with the camera was Throwing Shadows. The sight chilled her down to her very core, but she shoved it to the back of her mind as she took Trevor’s hand and moved along the rocky slope of the pathway.
“You all right, baby?” Trevor asked, never really looking in her direction, his eyes on the ground before them.
“Yeah.” Justine didn’t know why she felt the need to lie. Protection, maybe? It was safer keeping her visions to herself. The less she had to explain, the less crazy she would seem. “Why?”
“You’re just quiet, is all. Not really like you.”
She was surprised he had noticed. Their nine months together had done things, big things. Somewhere along the line, they had really gotten to know each other, both in and out of the bedroom. The thought made her smile. “You notice anything funny with the camera guy?” she asked, as they avoided a sharp-looking rock sticking out on their right.
“The fat dude?”
“Quit!” She jabbed him in the arm with her knuckles. “You’re terrible. But yeah, him.”
“Nope.” Trevor pulled up his pants, but they immediately fell right back down to where they had been before he touched them.
Justine had tried to dress him properly on several occasions, but had always failed. He was a stubborn man. Sensitive and caring did not a sharp dresser make. Justine knew the only reason he dressed the way he did was because he wanted to fit in with everyone back home. Hell, if she didn’t dress the way she did, her Atlanta friends would razz her about it for days on end. Her social network needed as much of an overhaul as Trevor’s sagging apparel.
“Why?” Trevor asked, taking his eyes off the pathway long enough to look at her.
“He just seems… I don’t know… off.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know, Trevor. Just not right. I don’t really know how to explain it.” But she did. She just didn’t want to sound as insane as she felt.
“Don’t let him bother you.” Trevor leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Just enjoy the hike, or walk, or whatever I got us into here.”
She laughed. “You do pick some of the wildest places to take me. You know I’m black, right? All this camping and adventuring ain’t really what we’re known for.”
“All the more reason to try it, baby. Get some new blood in your veins!” Trevor twirled, kicking up fine gray dust in his wake.
“Whatever, fool. Behave be
fore you end up going over the edge.”
“Cheer up. When we get back to the hotel in Bay’s End, I got another surprise in store for you. Just make it through the next five hours or so, and you’ll be one happy woman, black or not. Okay?”
“Deal.”
Trevor slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close. Justine felt secure in his grasp, even though just two feet to her left was a drop-off so steep she could see nothing but inky shadows playing in the depths.
Stop looking, stupid, Justine told herself.
“Did you say something?” Trevor asked, his eyes studying the footpath again.
“Nope.” Had she said her thought out loud? She didn’t think so.
She rested her cheek on Trevor’s shoulder. She could hear the heavy footfalls of the camera man coming up behind them. The steps were fast, and she could tell he was out of breath.
Slow down, big man, Justine thought. Don’t you go throwing any more shadows until you’re far out of my sight. Leave the heart attack for another day.
PLAYTHINGS
11
DONALD’S FOOT STILL STUNG LIKE hell where Tubby had stepped on it, and he was sure he was going to end up with a concussion from his tumble, but he forgot the pain as they rounded the next curve and the slope steepened even more. He had to be very careful. Sure, he had a lower center of gravity than the giants, but if he tripped, he’d get caught in someone’s legs, and they’d all go screaming into the chasm.
He could see it very clearly in his mind’s eye. A subtle trip, his foot catching on a jutting stone, and he would fall forward. The couple behind him would get tangled up in his flailing body, and over they would go. Tubby might even reach over to grab one of them, trying to be some kind of obese superhero in their time of need—Fatman: The Pork Knight—but his stomach wouldn’t allow it, and his girth would carry him over the steel-braided guard wire. Marsha and Lyle would reach for the overturned man’s immense calves, grabbing hold of them before finally being overcome by all that was Tubby. Then, they, too, would shoot head first into the chasm. The tour guide would try to help, diving for them with some inane thought of responsibility to act, believing he could fly. But alas, R. Kelly he was not. And then, there would be one. Lonely Donald seated on the rock face all by himself, singing an old Baptist hymn, the juxtaposition striking because he was, after all, an atheist.
Donald shook his head, coming out of his self-induced fantasy of horrors, a shiver running down his spine. That was how he scared over two million people a year with his novels. That was the author in him speaking—H.R. Chatmon, the stoic, clean-shaven storyteller, all five-foot-nine and confident, not Donald Adams, the bumbling midget who nursed a sore foot and a thundering headache.
“Fuck you, Jeff,” Donald said.
The outburst caused the boy in front of him to turn around. “What?”
“Nothing,” Donald snapped. He hadn’t meant to bark at the kid, but it seemed to have the proper effect. The boy’s mother glanced over her shoulder, gave Donald a dirty look, and took hold of her son’s hand. Their footsteps quickened.
Donald still couldn’t wrap his brain around Jeff’s blatant betrayal. He’d known the man far too long. Jeff had been there after Sunne was murdered, a friend during Donald’s darkest times. To throw all that history away for money seemed a ludicrous idea. Donald only hoped Jeff Carter choked on every stinking penny.
Donald had been betrayed in the past. He made a living out of knowing people, knowing that none of them could be taken at face value. The human condition, the lies they all told, the darkness they all held within their too-small hearts made him physically ill. He repressed vomit like a prizefighter knocked out opponents, with well-honed skill and experience. The writing helped. Those people Donald couldn’t stomach, he’d just kill off in one of his books. It was cathartic, even if a little sadistic.
In the end, Donald had become one of them—a liar. But a useful liar, nonetheless. His stories spoke to people. Even the biggest shit-stains of them all loved his tales of death and darkness and suffering. He wrote to appease his demons. His hatred was let free on the world in short bursts of grisly detail, and those sorry sods sopped him up like a biscuit in a side of gravy. His work was his escape, his release, and no one could ever take that from him.
He might forever be smaller than the masses, but he was the bigger person. He’d adapted, learned his surroundings, and evolved. The butterfly to their caterpillar, he was forever one step ahead.
In reality, he was better than all of them. Grander. The alpha male.
Yes!
Unconsciously, Donald had moved past the mother and her son. Matching the tour guide’s steps two to one, he looked up at the man’s light brown face and smiled.
“Do you have a question, Donald?” the tour guide asked, looking down at him.
Of course, they all looked down on Donald Adams—Jeff Carter, Lars Stillstead, even his beloved Sunne. Every one of them thought themselves so high and fucking mighty. Well, he would show them. Starting with Janeel… Jamaal… Jah-whatever-his-name-was.
“Yeah. In fact, I do.”
“What’s that?”
Wait for it…
Donald grinned. “How’d a nigger like you get such a cushy government job anyway?”
12
LYLE LAKE WAS STOPPED DEAD in his tracks by both his mother’s death grip embrace and what the little man—Donald, according to his nametag—had just uttered to the tour guide.
“What did you say?” The guide, who had halted in his tracks, looked down at the little guy, confusion contorting his face. Lyle had expected full-blown anger, but Jaleel surprised him. Instead, the guide looked mildly shocked, more disappointed than anything.
“I didn’t say anything,” Donald responded.
Lyle could see something had changed in Donald’s face. His countenance had been screwed up into a joker’s grin, a wicked little Cheshire Cat number, but had become softer, the skin looser. His entire affect seemed lighter.
“Yes you did! You called him a nig—” Lyle felt a hand slap over his mouth and another wrap around the nape of his neck as his mother fought to silence him.
She hissed, “We don’t say words like that!”
Jaleel looked at Lyle, his eyes questioning. “He did. Didn’t he?”
Muted by his mother’s sweaty palm, Lyle nodded with exaggerated movements. His mother, apparently not wanting him to communicate anything else, shoved him up against the rock face. She stole his breath with a forearm to the chest while the other hand kept its hold on his mouth.
“Would you just shut up!” his mother bellowed. “For once in your miserable existence, please, learn how to be fucking quiet!”
Spittle covered Lyle’s face in a fine mist.
“All you do is screw around on that phone and ignore me! I’m your mother, you sniveling little cunt-rag! You’re the reason your father died! You! The poor son of a bitch ran straight into the bowels of hell to get away from your incessant goddamn noise. All day, all night. Me, me, me, me, me! It’s all you think about. No wonder tigers eat their fucking young!”
“Mmmphhhh…” Lyle managed through the palm she still had over his mouth.
“Just stop it! Shut the hell—” His mother’s eyes suddenly softened. She shuffled backward, releasing him. “L-Lyle, what’s wrong? Honey? What happened?”
“You went batshit,” the guy in the baggy pants said. His girlfriend punched him in the arm.
“What’s going on?” Donald asked from the guard wire.
“Everyone just relax.” Jaleel held his hands out in front of him as if everyone were going to stampede. “It’s anxiety; I’m sure of it. It’s like cabin fever or something like that. This trail gets to people. Just calm down, just breathe… it’s like… you know, when the lights go out, and you don’t know where you are, and then BAM! BAM! Whooey!”
With that, everyone in the group jumped at once. The tour guide spun in circles, laughing. His head tilted bac
k at an odd angle as he sang to the heavens, “The Dastardly Bastard of Waverly Chasm does gleefully scheme of malevolent things!” Over and over again, Jaleel trilled those same words, as his revolutions got wider.
Everyone was yelling, hurting Lyle’s ears. He clamped his hands over them, but he could still hear their muffled calls of confusion, anger, and fear.
“What the hell is wrong with that dude?”
“Somebody grab him before he goes over the edge!”
“Stop it!”
“I didn’t say anything! I promise!”
“Mom?” Lyle looked to Marsha for comfort, an explanation, something, anything as the voices around him carried on. His head spun like the dancing tour guide, and he felt himself stepping forward. He had to escape. No one could help him. The chasm was the only way out.
Lyle sprinted for the steel wire, his right leg coming up to hurdle it.
He would be so welcome down there, down in the dark, where the Bastard played. Everything felt so right. Nothing would ever be wrong again. Lyle could hear angels singing, trumpets sounding, and birds chirping. Paradise was just over the wire.
“I’ve been ever so lonely down here,” a voice beckoned.
13
THROUGHOUT THE CHAOS, MARK SIMMONS kept his camera working. Something instinctive made him catch every insane happening as events played out before him. Not caring about the framing or focus of the Nikon, he pressed the shutter release repeatedly.
Click, snap…
Squirt seemed upset about something. His eyes showed dark, vehemence filling his face as he spoke to the tour guide. Mark couldn’t make out what the man had said, but by Jaleel’s reaction, it hadn’t been good.
Click, snap…
Lyle tried to say something. Marsha reacted as any mother would by clamping a hand over the boy’s mouth, silencing him. But what came afterward was as far from motherly as one could get. She spit venom, and Mark cringed as every foul comment lit into the boy. Lyle’s eyes showed cold fear. Mark had seen that same horror in the eyes of soldiers, soldiers he had also watched die because of that fear.
