Endurance

by Jack Kilborn

  Deb had that feeling too. “Call me Deb.”

  “Thank you, Deb.” He offered his hand again.

  This time, when she took it, she didn’t squeeze as hard. Or pull away as fast.

  “Look, Deb, I don’t want to impose, but the desk clerk said they had several rooms, and since all of my interviews are at the same inn, it makes sense for me to stay there as well. Do you mind if I grab my suitcase from my room? I know you’re in a hurry but I haven’t even unpacked yet. It’ll just take a second.”

  “Sure, Mal. I’m parked right outside the lobby. It’s the red Corvette.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be two minutes, tops.”

  He gently disengaged his hand, then quickly walked over to Rudy and exchanged a few words. Deb turned to go to her car and caught a glimpse of the manager again. He was looking straight at her, and seemed to be saying something.

  To me?

  No. He was talking on the phone. He smiled at her, then shot her with his thumb and index finger.

  Asshole.

  Deb turned, slow and easy, and headed through the lobby, to the revolving doors.

  Revolving doors were tough to navigate in her cosmetic legs. So were stairs and ramps. Ladders were the worst of all, and the one time she tried to climb one, she fell and sprained her wrist.

  There are no handicaps. Only challenges.

  But why does every simple thing have to be a challenge?

  Back when she was still doing the Internet dating thing, one of her prospects actually had the guts to ask what it felt like, trying to walk on prosthetics.

  “Ever have your foot fall asleep then try to walk?” she’d responded.

  It was a good analogy, but not perfect. It explained the lack of sensation, and how taking away that sensation made it very hard to judge where to place your feet. But it didn’t cover the balance difficulties. Deb spent over a year in thrice-daily physical therapy to get to where she could walk again, and another two years to be able to run, which required a whole new set of challenges.

  She approached the revolving door warily, timed it right, then took some awkward little hops to get in, holding the door for support. When she made it through she let out a little sigh of relief—falling in a revolving door was the worst.

  Her Vette was where she’d parked it, in the drop-off zone. Deb fished out the keys and hit the alarm, unlocking the doors. Then she maneuvered into the front seat, adjusted her fanny pack so she wasn’t sitting against it, and took the portable GPS out of the glove compartment.

  The creepy manager was right. Her Garmin couldn’t find the name of the inn, or the road it was on. She programmed in the spot where it was supposed to be and stuck the unit up on the dashboard, then fought the urge to check herself in the mirror.

  After ten seconds she gave in, flipping down the sun visor, meeting her own gaze.

  No crud in the eyes. Her brown hair, with red and blond streaks, was a bit poofy and windblown from the ride up, but the layers looked natural and were hassle-free, just like a three hundred dollar haircut should be. The touch of blush and pink eye-shadow—applied at home in D.C. on the off-chance the reporter spotted her in the lobby—were still in place. Deb touched up her lip gloss with just a dab of wet red, and judged herself okay.

  Deb knew she was pretty. She just wished she was whole.

  She fidgeted, waiting for Mal. He looked to be late twenties, maybe early thirties. Only a few years older than her. Deb hadn’t seen a wedding ring on his finger, but that didn’t mean much. At their age, all the good-looking ones were either spoken for, or gay.

  Not that it mattered. The only man Deb had been with since the accident was Scott, and it had been awful with him and not something she ever cared to repeat.

  Another minute crawled by, and Deb began to wonder if Mal had changed his mind. She’d gone on a blind date last year, and the guy had gotten up to go to the bathroom at the restaurant and never came back. It was right after he’d gotten a little frisky with his flirting and had cupped her knee, feeling the prosthetic leg below it.

  This isn’t a date. It’s an interview. And he already knows you have no legs.

  She wondered if Mal, or Rudy, would want to see her bare stumps for the article. That would be a no way. The only one who had ever seen them was her doctor, and the only other person who would ever see them would be her undertaker.

  Someone knocked on the hood, startling her. Mal leaned over the driver side door.

  “Can you pop the trunk?”

  Deb hit the button, then had a moment of panic realizing what he’d see.

  It doesn’t matter. He’ll see your prosthetic legs during the competition anyway.

  She braced herself for his comments when he sat down next to her, but all he said was, “Thanks again for the ride, and the interview. Please let me pay for gas.”

  “If you insist. But this beast doesn’t get very good mileage.”

  “I can imagine. I drive a Prius. But I always wanted a Corvette.”

  “Me too.” She smiled. “Buckle up for safety.”

  Deb started the car, engaging the hand clutch on the gear shift, and squeezed the gas lever on the steering wheel. The tires squealed, pinning Mal into his seat, and the car peeled away from the lobby entrance and onto the main road.

  Almost immediately Deb squeezed the brakes, skidding to a stop as someone darted into the street ahead of her—

  THWAK!

  —the dark figure slapped the hood of her car, spun, then scurried away in a limping crouch. He disappeared into the bushes alongside the road, into the woods.

  “Holy shit,” Mal said.

  Deb blew out her cheeks, the adrenalin making her hands shake.

  “Did I hit him?”

  “I dunno. He was huge.”

  “All I saw was long, white hair. But an old man couldn’t move that fast.”

  “Did you see his eyes?”

  Deb nodded, then shuddered.

  “They were red,” Mal said. “I swear they were red.”

  After taking a few more seconds to compose herself, Deb pulled onto the side of the road and parked the car.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Mal said. “He jumped out of the bushes right in front of you.”

  “If I hit him, it’s my fault. I have to check.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Deb undid her seatbelt and pulled herself out of the Vette. It was dusk, but looked even darker because the sun had dipped below the tree line. The town of Monk Creek wasn’t exactly a town, per se. It was more like a collection of a few motels, some scattered stores, and a loose group of homes interspersed along the mountainside and woods in a thirty-square-mile area. The hotel was packed, but once you stepped off the property you were smack dab in the middle of the wilderness.

  Deb squinted into the brush just off the shoulder of the road, where the man had disappeared. If he’d been hurt, he couldn’t have gotten far.

  “Hello?” she called.

  No one answered. A strong breeze kicked up, blowing Deb’s hair into her eyes and making her widen her stance so she didn’t tip over.

  “Anyone there? Are you okay?”

  She watched the breeze make the bushes sway, back and forth, like they were waving at her.

  Deb peered at the ground, at the slight slope leading into the woods. In her Cheetah-Flex sprinting legs she could bounce down there, no problem. In her cosmetic legs, chances were high she’d be on her ass after a few steps.

  “I’ll go check,” Mal said, a penlight in his hand.

  Deb frowned, began to protest, but he was already halfway down the embankment, pushing into the brush.

  She waited, feeling her stomach go sour.

  What if I hurt him? What if he’s badly hurt?

  What if he’s dead?

  The thought of killing another human being—it would be too much to live with. She cursed herself for showing off in the car, accelerating so fast. Since her accident, Deb prided herself in paying e
xtra attention, avoiding mistakes and screw-ups, because she realized how precious, and precarious, life was.

  Deb walked over to the front of the Vette, checking the fender for dings. Or blood.

  All she found was a decent dent in the hood, from when the man slapped it.

  Had he slapped it out of anger? Or to steady himself because I hit him?

  Then she noticed the blood. Hard to discern against the red paint job, but it was there.

  Quite a bit of it.

  Deb felt herself getting ready to vomit, when someone yelled, “Uh!”

  Mal?

  She went back to the shoulder, squinting into the gathering darkness. No sign at all of Mal, or the man. The wind continued to blow the bushes to and fro, to and fro.

  “Mal?” she called.

  Mal didn’t answer.

  Deb tried louder. “Mal!”

  A faint sound caught on the breeze. Something high-pitched.

  Is that giggling?

  Deb considered going to the trunk, putting on her running legs to make it easier, and then decided screw it and began to make her way down the slope.

  Just as she reached the bottom, something lunged out of the bushes at her. Deb couldn’t react quickly enough, and her balance was thrown off. She landed hard on her backside.

  “Mal!”

  Mal’s eyes were wide. And his pants—

  They were covered in blood.

  Deb positioned herself onto her knees. Getting up off the ground in her cosmetic legs was difficult, so she reached for Mal, wrapping her fingers in his belt to steady herself.

  “Deb...”

  “Call an ambulance, Mal,” she said, grabbing his penlight and pushing into the bushes.

  “Deb, don’t go in there. It’s—”

  Deb didn’t hear the next thing he said. Once past the bush, her senses were overloaded with the stench, and the sight, of blood.

  A ridiculous amount of blood.

  It soaked the ground, and drenched the surrounding foliage.

  But it was more than just blood. It was bits of tissue. Sinew. Organs.

  The spectacle overtook her, and she stumbled forward, losing her footing on something slippery, falling forward into a wet loop of intestines.

  Deb recoiled, squealing, pushing herself away, bumping into a severed head with...

  Antlers.

  It’s a deer.

  Jesus Christ, it’s just a deer.

  Then someone grasped her shoulder.

  Deb turned around, the scream building in her chest, and saw Mal above her.

  “Looks like we both need a dry cleaner. I slipped, too.”

  He offered his hands, and she used them to pull herself up.

  “I didn’t hit a deer. I’m sure of it.”

  Mal’s face was kind. “I know.”

  “It was a man.”

  “I know. We both saw it.”

  Deb played the light over the carnage. Deer parts were everywhere.

  “Did that guy do this?”

  Mal nodded. “I think he killed the deer, and was skinning it.”

  “There’s blood on the hood of my car.”

  “Deer blood, probably. Maybe he didn’t have a hunting license, heard you pulling up, thought it was the game warden. Hell, it might not even be hunting season, for all I know.”

  “So I didn’t hurt him?”

  “I don’t see him anywhere. If you hurt him, he’d be nearby, don’t you think?”

  Deb shined the light on the deer head, wincing as she did.

  “When skinning a buck, is it normal to cut the eyes out?”

  “No. It’s not. Let me see the light.” Mal took it, moved in closer. “The ears are gone, too. So’s the tongue.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  Mal pointed the light at her. “I think we should go. Right now.”

  Deb didn’t like his tone. He sounded scared. When he took her arm, she didn’t protest, and when he put his hands on her hips to help her up the embankment she cared more about haste than dignity or modesty.

  “I’ve got water in the trunk. We can clean up.”

  Mal shook his head. “Not here. Not now. Let’s get out of here.”

  “What’s going on, Mal? You’re freaking me out a little. And it’s not like this situation isn’t already freaky enough.”

  “It’s Monk Creek. It has a history. When I was researching this article, I read up on it. Things have happened in this town. Bad things.”

  “Like what?”

  Mal looked over his shoulder into the darkness, then back at Deb. “I’ll tell you in the car. Please. Let’s go.”

  The breeze kicked up, and Deb heard it again, faint but unmistakable.

  Giggling.

  It took less than ten seconds for them to get into the car, lock the doors, and get the hell out of there.

  # # #

  “Buck and a half.”

  The bartender was overweight, unshaven, and his apron bore stains from days before, stains that were easy to see even in the low lighting of the smoky, shitkicker bar.

  Felix Richter slapped a ten next to the can of Miller High Life. The bartender reached for it, but Felix’s finger kept it pressed to the bar counter top.

  “I’m looking for a bed and breakfast in these parts.”

  The bartender spit tobacco juice into an ashtray. “Then get yourself a map, boy.”

  “This one isn’t on any maps. It’s called the Rushmore Inn.”

  The man sitting next to Felix—stereotypical redneck hunter-type—leaned closer. Felix ignored him, watching the bartender, searching his eyes for any sign of recognition.

  “Never heard of it.”

  If the bartender was lying, he was good at it. Felix had become pretty good at spotting liars. He’d talked to more people in the last year than he had in his previous twenty-six.

  Still keeping his finger on the bill, Felix tugged a worn photo from the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. He held it up.

  “Seen her before?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Maybe it would help if you looked at the goddamn picture.”

  The bartender’s eyes flitted to the photo, then back to Felix. “Don’t recall,” he said, spitting again.

  “I’ll pay for the information.” Felix dropped his voice. “I have a lot more money.”

  “Then buy yourself some swabs to clean out your ears. I never saw the girl before.”

  Felix let him take the ten. Then he flipped the picture around and stared at it.

  Like always, seeing her face made his jaw get tight. Her voice played in his head, even though her last words to him had been an acronym-filled text.

  Felix – you’re probably asleep. I’m at a creepy B&B, not the hotel. Long story, but it’s free. That equals more money to spend on our honeymoon. We’ll talk later. Ta-ta for now, hope to see you soon, love you, Maria.

  He thought about looking at his phone to read the message again, for the ten thousandth time. Then he thought about calling her, just to hear her voicemail message. He kept paying her monthly cell bill even though the account hadn’t been used in twelve months.

  The barkeep brought back his change. Felix took it, left the beer untouched, and got up to leave.

  How many bars had it been so far? Fifty? Sixty? Add in the restaurants, the gas stations, the motels, the homes, and it was well over a hundred he’d visited.

  Not too many left.

  And then what? Give up? Finally have her declared dead and give her the funeral her parents have been pleading for since Christmas?

  No. Felix wasn’t going to give up on Maria. Ever. When he’d asked questions at every shop and residence within a hundred square miles, he’d start over at the top of the list.

  Someone had to know where the Rushmore Inn was.

  If the Rushmore Inn even exists.

  Felix stepped out into the night, rolling his head on his neck, loosening up the tension in his shoulders. The bar pa
rking lot wasn’t paved, and the gravel crunched underfoot like freshly fallen snow.

  He looked out over the road, into the dark forest.

  The women I love is in there. Somewhere.

  After Maria went missing, he’d tried all the conventional methods of getting her back. The police. The FBI. Hanging fliers. Offering a reward for information. Even hiring a private detective.

  The only thing he’d accomplished was getting fired from his job, which turned out to be a good thing. It freed him up to investigate full time.

  Unfortunately, his unemployment checks were just about ready to run out, and the only lead he’d uncovered in all of his searching and questioning was a vague reference by an old drunk to a bed and breakfast called the Rushmore Inn.

  “Supposedly it’s been in these parts forever, but no one knows where it actually is. Or those that know, don’t tell. It’s like one of them roach motels. People check in, but they don’t check out.”

  Felix questioned him further, but his answers became increasingly incoherent. Drunken mumblings of strange rituals and birth defects. The old woman who lived in a shoe. Something to do with blood types. He eventually passed out in mid-ramble, right at the bar. When Felix went to visit him the next day, having written down his address from his driver’s license, the old man wasn’t there.

  He turned up that afternoon. The state trooper said it was a car accident. But Felix had seen the supposed crash site. The blood trail went on for almost a quarter of a mile. Like someone had tied a rope around the old guy and took him for a drag.

  Felix took a big gulp of West Virginia air. It smelled clean and fresh, but there was a sour note beneath it. Felix hated the country. He hated the trees, and the mountains, and the clear sky, and the beautiful sunsets. If he ever found Maria, he’d never leave the city again.

  When, he corrected himself. When I find Maria. Not if.

  He climbed into his pick-up; a purchase meant to help him blend in with the locals, like his flannel shirts and work boots and unshaven face. Digging out the area map, he drew an X through Mel’s Tavern. The map contained so many Xs it was getting tough to see the roads.

  A knock on the driver’s side window startled Felix. He looked up, saw a man standing next to his truck. The hunter from the bar.