by J. K. Scott
I had two hours before meeting my transport eight miles away, near Interstate 75. I waited forty miserable minutes before leaving my spot until I could follow an employee through the hotel’s back door. Quickly, I followed an older woman in without incident and asked for directions to the lobby. After a few minutes, I asked the front desk to order transportation to the Home Depot so I could meet the transport truck.
The truck arrived a few minutes early. I climbed into the black truck with my backpack and small bag. A few minutes later, the truck driver walked around the transport, and I flapped the passenger visor for him to see. He waved back.
For three days, I lived in the truck’s cab. Twice, the driver left two jugs of water next to the passenger door, which I appreciated. I had to tolerate my own disgusting garbage and plastic bottles of waste. It was the most miserable trip I’d ever taken. At least the truck driver had partially left the windows down, but I had to endure flies and unbearable heat with two dirty towels that I hung over a window and the dashboard. I swore this wouldn’t ever happen again. Nothing relieved my discomfort.
Three days later, after midnight, the truck pulled into the rangers’ station along Highway 179. Earlier I had cleaned the cab with bleach wipes, and I anxiously waited for the truck to stop. Excited to leave the cab, I held on to the garbage and canvas bag and secured my backpack. I jumped off the truck with a jarring impact to my stiff legs. I found cover behind a fence as the truck left. The driver used his low-beam lights, which I appreciated. I disposed of the garbage bag in a bin, laughing about how important garbage bins had been recently in my life. I trudged into the forest of red-rock country elated to be there.
In the dark wilderness, I found a clearing and spread the dirty towels on the hard red dirt. I released a deep moan as I lay down. I lay on my back with cloudy dark skies above. I hoped returning to Sedona would solve my dilemma.
The echo of rustling tree leaves awakened me. It felt eerie as the wind rattled tree branches. With an aching back, I attempted to fall back to sleep. I removed three tiny rocks from under my back; they had felt like boulders. Finally, I drifted to sleep but was aroused by a strange haunting. I felt vulnerable lying under the dark clouds as my eyes conjured darker forms. A shadowy presence intensified as adrenaline surged through my veins. My heart pumped like a jackhammer; I was aware of being alone. I could vanish without a trace, and who would know?
The presence of a shadow swarmed around me. My body sank into the ground, my breathing slowed, and my mind shifted to low gear. Paralysis overtook me. Ethereal waves seeped into my being. I sank deeper into darkness as the vibrations consumed me. My thoughts floated freely. Unable to visualize, disoriented, I felt suspended in space. Mentally, I asked for answers. What is happening? I was deflated when there were no answers.
Then I perceived a mental message: “I am with you. Solve the images for humanity.”
I focused on the dark shadow and mentally asked, “Are you the ghost of the courier?”
“I am you.”
The words echoed in my mind.
I’m solving the images, I thought.
“There’s a void. Solve it.”
I was overwhelmed, but I felt lighter. I felt a sinking sensation and intense warmth in my being. I couldn’t move. My eyes felt closed, but I could hear the moving tree limbs above me. Aware of my experience, I opened my eyes and gazed at the dark sky. I drifted back to sleep, listening to rustling leaves, and breathed the sweet aroma of evergreen.
I awoke with a jolt as insects crept over my arm. Jumping from my spot, I flicked off the line of ants. I stretched my arms straight into the air. In the dawn light, I saw rooftops in the distance. I chuckled at myself for believing I’d been alone, deep in the forest. The night sky had maintained its cloud cover. I felt grateful to be in Sedona and alive.
Memories spilled into my mind as I thought about the void the shadowy messenger had left me. Could I have overlooked something? The word void conjured visions of nothing. Or did void mean invalid? Was I on the wrong path? Could the void be the space between the two images, or could it be inside the forms?
Having the haunting experience for the first time was a singular event; the second shadowy message added pressure. Research still hadn’t convinced me that paranormal intervention to the majority would benefit existence and people’s worldviews. However, research on the multiverse and numerous dimensions provided various confusing possibilities. With a second event, I had to consider the possibility that my higher self or dimensional self definitely was orchestrating the messages.
Desperate, I had few options but to contact Beyond Black Borders. Peter’s upsetting call distracted and angered me. In hindsight, I realized I should have asked for BBB’s emergency number. I felt dismal at that moment. I actually laughed, thinking things couldn’t get any worse.
23
WALKING TOWARD OAK Creek, hauling a backpack and bag and wearing a ragged wig in daylight, I looked suspect, but I had to discourage recognition. Attempting to hitch a shared ride became futile with the driverless vehicles on the road. I inhaled my last protein bar and drained my water jug. Each step added to my frustration and my desire to get off the road.
Burdened with questions and having gone days without a shower, I had another mile to endure before finding refuge at a hotel with a pool. Exhausted, I stopped at the first hotel and heard young kids playing around the pool. They were the worst offenders for not securing a pool gate. I waited for two girls to leave and grabbed the gate before it closed. Relieved to be near water and soap, I dropped my backpack on a deck chair and took my small bag to change and shower. Afterward, I put on shorts to join the others in the pool.
The swim only refreshed my worries as I backstroked through my options. Back in town without support from Ronzo, Harmony, or Rustler, I was on my own. They didn’t even have my latest burner number. The Sarasota gurus’ facility had offered me insights about BBB’s covert haunts, and I eliminated any office buildings as possibilities. Assigned to Cascade, I’d never been at a BBB headquarters location. I only knew it was near Sedona. It was a roulette wheel—either Cascade or the police would find me. I couldn’t understand how my jeep, parked blocks away from the hotel, had alerted the police, unless Rustler had been stopped or past drone surveillance had identified it. Or could I have been followed after meeting Peter? I might never know the whole story, but I had to be smarter and on alert.
Lounging by the pool lasted for five minutes. Even though the comfort of others eased my tension, I had to leave. I needed wheels and a campsite before the sun set.
I walked to nearby Oak Creek Village, stocked with retail shops and fast food that could provide for my needs. At the first stop, I devoured a hamburger and protein shake, then bought a new burner phone. I lucked out at a bike shop that sold me a used motorbike. I bought minimal supplies at a health-food store. With the canvas bag secured to the motorbike, shouldering a stuffed backpack, I took off to the nearby Chavez Crossing Campground, thankful for the tip from the man at the bike shop. With only a few supplies, I regretted that I’d had to dump my camping supplies in Sarasota, but I felt invigorated to have wheels and be back in Sedona, far wiser than when I’d left.
I rode to Chavez Crossing Campground along Oak Creek. It had cypress and sycamore trees that would shade my new pup tent. The camp didn’t allow motorcycles, but my motorbike passed. With limited funds, I paid the weekly camping fee. I had high hopes of making contact with BBB. I settled at a site isolated from other campers. First, I took a short hike to bury the Mylar disc and mil-spec computer and mentally mapped emergency escape route options.
Satisfied with the sunny campsite, I turned on my burner phone and stared at the date: Friday, August 24. I couldn’t believe my eyes; it was my thirty-sixth birthday. Fortunately, I still had my freedom, but I had to forego any celebration. My remaining funds had to last for food and fuel.
I dug in
to my bag for the cleanest dirty khaki shorts and a yellow T-shirt that didn’t smell. I trimmed my beard and attempted to tame the gorilla hair on my head. The Friday evening I’d seen Harmony at the Creekside Bistro felt like years ago—when I jeopardized her safety.
I waited until dark before leaving for the Creekside Plaza. Vehicles, bikes, and automatic Alto-electro vehicles jammed the lot. I hoped for another break of luck that evening and hoped there wouldn’t be problems. Pretending to be repairing my motorbike, I observed those arriving for drinks, eats, and a good time. An hour later, I couldn’t believe my eyes: Brandon from Cascade, along with an unknown man, arrived at the bistro. Desperate to approach him, I had to restrain myself. Was Brandon meeting Peter? I anxiously waited to see if Peter arrived. It didn’t take long before I recognized a rustic man with a ponytail riding a motorcycle. I recalled seeing the man with Peter at Cascade, which seemed like years ago, and wondered who he was.
I kept an eye on the rustic man as he locked his cycle. He was about six feet tall and wore black jeans and a dark jacket with a black ponytail under a forehead bandana. He had an unshaven look and appeared to be looking for someone. I continued working on the bike, thinking he could be meeting Brandon, and possibly Peter would join them. I needed to be ready to follow Brandon or the rustic man but still hoped for Peter. I leaned against the corner of the building and kept my eyes on the parking lot, front door, and patio. They couldn’t leave without me seeing them.
Restless and bored, I was stretching when the rustic man walked out. It was late so I decided to follow him, giving up on Peter. Besides, Brandon only worked for Cascade and not BBB and lived in Scottsdale unless he stayed at a local hotel. It could be risky to approach Brandon and his friend because of my status at Cascade. Therefore, I decided to follow the rustic man.
The rustic man’s cycle headed toward the Y. My motorbike was kid stuff compared to his ride. I hoped to cover a few directional turns before he disappeared. Tomorrow, I could backtrack to search the area. Or I might get lucky if he lived nearby. He circled left to West Sedona and obeyed the speed limit as I kept a safe distance behind him, unable to travel faster.
I almost missed his turn onto Dry Creek Road when another vehicle pulled in front of me and hampered my view. I saw his taillight and followed him on the dark road, which meant he could see my headlight. I slowed and risked dimming the headlight to focus on his taillight. After passing residential homes, I assumed he was staying at the Enchantment Resort or a minimalist campground near Boynton Canyon.
The taillight disappeared, but I continued with a dimmed headlight. Unexpectedly, a bright flare lit the road. My stomach sank as I saw the outline of the rustic man sitting high on his motorcycle, blocking the two-lane road and holding a strange weapon.
The rustic man’s form flickered as the flare faded. I rolled forty feet from him and stopped. He flashed a spotlight on me. Trouble stood in front of me. My eyes connected with a long metal cylinder pointed at me. The weapon appeared to be a pipe with a weird bulb at the end. For all I knew, it sprayed a toxic gas, flames, or bullets that could kill me.
Immobilized, I straddled the bike, firmly gripping the handles, panicked this could be my last breath.
The rustic man bellowed, “Why are you following me?”
I yelled, “Hey, man, I thought you were someone I knew.”
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Instead of shouting my name, I said, “I saw you leaving Cascade a few months ago. I had a few questions and hoped you had answers.”
“What’s your name?” he asked with authority.
I contemplated using Will Sargent’s cover. My gut warned against it. “Dak,” I said with conviction.
He paused for a second, deciphering my name. He shouted, “What’s your full name?”
“Daren Alec Kyle.”
He erupted into laughter as if I had told him the funniest joke he’d ever heard. His body shook as he laughed.
I couldn’t believe his strange behavior. I wondered if Cascade had an exorbitant reward on my head. Maybe this rustic man thought he had just hit the jackpot.
I yelled, “What’s so damn funny?” as I kept my eye on the metal cylinder wobbling as he laughed.
The rustic man tried to contain his laughter. “I’ll explain. Give me a moment to catch my breath.” He put the metal cylinder in a holder and rolled his cycle closer to mine. “Dak, I’ve been searching for you for days!”
I took a deep breath and absorbed his words. I didn’t know for sure if he was a friend of Peter’s or worked for Cascade. I couldn’t deduce if I was in deep trouble or should laugh myself. I asked, “And who are you?”
“We haven’t officially met. I’m Turbero.”
I couldn’t believe it. In a split second, Adam’s words hit me: “Remember the word Turbero.” I’d thought he was referring to a torus. Making the connection, I started laughing too.
“What’s so funny, Dak?” Turbero asked.
“Your name was mentioned to me. Are you with BBB?”
“That’s classified. This is an unbelievable coincidence. Move to the side of the road. I need to scan you.”
I got off the bike, replying, “I’m clean.”
Ignoring my comment, Turbero used two RADs to scan me. Both RADs showed green. He asked, “Does anyone know you are here?”
“No, I arrived recently from another state. I’m at a campsite under a different name.”
“Good. I’ll send security to your campsite to check if anyone is looking for you.”
I was relieved to have found BBB, but I still didn’t know my status. I asked, “Are you bringing me in?”
“Absolutely! We’re concerned about you. Dak, there’s a hefty reward for your capture on the dark web. We prepared for the worst but hoped you were still alive and on the run.”
My ears rang, and my heart pumped as I thought about a bid for my capture. I was reluctant to say I had talked to Peter a few days ago. I was still questioning if Peter was a friend or foe.
Turbero said, “We need to leave. I’ll follow you. Turn left at Boynton Pass. Keep going for ten miles. Then you’ll need to follow me. And keep to the speed limit.”
I pulled in front of Turbero and almost laughed; I couldn’t go any faster. I took off down the dark road, grateful for that moment. The nightmare of running and searching had come to an end. I hoped I wouldn’t be sorry.
I inhaled deep breaths and gazed at the canopy of stars flickering over the valley. The sky scape seemed brighter and bigger as I inhaled the moist night air. I wasn’t the brightest or biggest star on the planet but only an anchor dot in life surrounded by billons of stars. I felt euphoric.
Turbero passed me and turned onto a gravel road that tortured my tires. After a mile, Turbero pulled over, and we rolled our bikes toward a cluster of trees that hid an old shack beside a cliff. Turbero opened the shack’s door and flashed his light into a windowless twelve-foot area covered with a splintered wood floor. We pulled our bikes inside and swatted the low-hanging cobwebs attached to the rusted corrugated-tin ceiling. Turbero pulled out his RADs and scanned the run-down shack. As he scanned the room, I noted markings on a worn topical wall map.
Turbero said, “Hikers take refuge in the shack from heat exhaustion or storms. And the map guides the lost hikers. There are posted Private Property signs, but they are largely ignored. The shack is monitored, and we pipe in eerie ghostly sounds to discourage hikers from sleeping here. We save the funniest videos for gut-wrenching laughs.”
I looked at Turbero, thinking, Who is this guy? I assured myself that I had made the right decision and asked, “What now?”
“I’m waiting for a signal,” he said, when a high-pitched buzz vibrated in the shack. He dimmed the flashlight.
Hearing the soft whining, I held on to the bike as the floor vibrated as if in a mild earthquake. However,
the last significant quake in Sedona had been more than a century ago. Turbero grinned as if he knew my thoughts.
The floor slowly sank, though the worn walls remained the same. Then a wood slab noisily slid overhead, replacing the floor we’d been on. We gathered speed. “What the hell?” I gasped, holding tighter to my bike.
Turbero chuckled before saying, “The floor is an elevator. At ten miles per hour and one thousand one hundred twenty-nine feet, we will hit the bottom in thirty-eight seconds.”
Stunned by his remark, I gazed at the wood walls as the elevator lowered.
Before the door opened, Turbero said, “This floor of the elevator is left here with a sliding replacement above.
As we rolled the bikes into a dimly lit mine shaft, I gawked in amazement. In front of me was a worn train cart that belonged in a Western studio. Two tall men dressed in black appeared out of nowhere. One man took my bike and lifted it into the back of a six-train cart. Turbero said, “Sit in the front cart. I’ll join you in a minute.”
Turbero spoke in whispers to the two strange men. I strained to hear them with no luck. The tunnel smelled musky and gritty. I glanced back at the elevator door and noted it seamlessly disappeared. Everything felt weird and eerie.
Turbero joined me, sitting across from me on a bench. He checked his smartphone. I caught a glimpse of the two men opening a door that lit up in a computerized control room. They sat at a console where a green light flashed, and the engine hummed as the train rolled slowly.
Turbero said, “Welcome to Drab Wash Junction. Enjoy the ride; we will talk later.”
I couldn’t fathom why he thought I’d enjoy the ride while not knowing the fate of my arrival. I was inside an old mining tunnel, slowly moving to an unknown destination. I wondered how long, how big, and how deep Drab Wash Junction could be. Turbero kept touching his smartphone. He looked up and asked, “What’s the name and number of your campsite?”
