by Jack Castle
From behind the wheel, but never taking his eyes from the road George asked, “What?”
Still in the passenger seat, Barnaby held the binoculars to his eyes and said, “They’re headed for the gorge.”
“What?”
Barnaby lowered his binoculars. He had been studying the road ahead of them. He started pointing repeatedly. “We’re about to run out of road.”
George looked farther down the road and saw that a few miles down the road the highway dead-ended into a stone ruin… of sorts.
“I’m going to get ahead of them.”
George stepped on the gas and soon they passed the hover barge and began to leave it behind.
Three miles later the truck power-slid to a stop in front of a staircase made of wide slabs of solid rock. The massive stones served as steps up to a terrace crudely constructed by fitting together more thick pieces of rough stone.
After mounting the steps, George passed in-between two crumbling stone obelisks that framed an entrance to a nonexistent bridge over a massive gorge.
At the base of one of the obelisks was the corpse of a man dressed in a park ranger’s uniform complete with wide brimmed hat. Cause of death was very apparent--an obsidian blade at the end of a long, primitive-looking spear wedged deep into his chest. George knelt on his haunches. The man’s nametag read: STEVE. Judging by the extreme decay, the man died a long time ago, perhaps decades.
What the heck happened here?
George stood up and surveyed the wide, deep chasm once more. There were no other signs of any bridge or end to the chasm in sight. “Now how the hell are we supposed to get across that?” he asked sourly.
Still huffing and puffing from his short climb, Barnaby gasped, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “I don’t know, but here come our friends.”
The royal hover barge had caught up with them.
George began waving his arms frantically at the approaching hover barge. “Hey, we’re over here, hey!!!”
He’s going to get us killed, Barnaby thought, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell George that. There was just no talking to the man.
If the crew of the royal hover barge had spotted George waving frantically at them they certainly weren’t offering any sign. Barnaby was grateful the barge was now almost halfway over the gorge. With a little luck, they’d just pass overhead and go on without them.
Then, as though the idea had just struck him George said, “The flare gun.” And he suddenly began running for the truck.
Jogging after him Barnaby asked, “Are you crazy?” Now George was just being plain ludicrous. “If they see us they’re not going to roll out the red carpet. No. Uh-uh. They’re going to open fire with everything they have and kill us.”
A momentary look of confusion appeared on George’s face. Barnaby felt as though he was finally getting through to him.
Barnaby’s relief was short-lived, however. George shook it off and moved toward the driver’s side door.
Seeing this, Barnaby leapt inside the passenger side of the truck, flopped himself across the seat, reached up and slammed the driver’s side door shut. Before George could open it, Barnaby reached up and hit the small thumb-tower lock on the window’s frame.
He heard George slip off the handle, cursing as he did so.
“What are you doing?” George asked.
Barnaby sat up. Terrified and shaking, he said, “I’m trying to save your life.” His voice sounded sheepish. It didn’t matter. George didn’t hear him. After a couple tugs on the door, and after checking the position of the departing hover barge(it was nearly all the way across the gorge now, just a few more seconds), he roared, “Barnaby, open this door right now!”
Barnaby slowly picked up the metallic case with the flare gun in it and held it tentatively to his chest. He wanted to say something but George’s face… he knew the man was going to kill him. Barnaby spied the keys, with the lucky rabbit’s foot, dangling from the ignition. Maybe I should just drive away.
Barnaby didn’t get the chance. George removed his coat, wrapped it around his elbow and smashed out the glass of the driver’s side door.
Startled, Barnaby cried out. He squeezed his eyes shut and waiting for George to sock him a good one. Instead he felt the flare gun kit rip from his hands.
When Barnaby finally dared to open his eyes, George was placing the kit on the hood of the truck. He opened it, and quickly inserted a cartridge into the flare gun. With a quick flick of the wrist he snapped the silver-metal gun closed and ran for the stairs leading up to the terrace.
The aft section of the hover barge hadn’t quite cleared the edge of the gorge, not quite yet.
George stretched out his hand toward the vessel and fired.
Thankfully, the old dusty flare only half-worked. It shot up into the air only about ten feet then whizzed off sideways and fizzled out.
George cursed.
Barnaby saw him running back down the stairs for the open flare gun kit on the truck’s hood. I have to stop him. He doesn’t understand. Barnaby leapt out of the passenger side as fast as his girth would allow. He had intended to grab the kit off the hood before George could get another cartridge, but they collided in front of the truck’s front bumper. Even though George was physically superior, Barnaby still outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. George bounced off him and landed on his butt on the pavement. Under any other circumstances it would’ve been comical.
But George was pissed.
“Are you kidding me?” George asked. Not waiting for an answer he risked a quick glance at the hover barge, and jumped to his feet.
The aft section was nearly over the edge now but there was still a chance they’d see a second flare. So Barnaby, summoning what little courage he had, blocked George’s path to the flares.
George lowered his voice and said venomously, “Barnaby, get out of the way.”
Barnaby shook his head. “You don’t understand. If they see us, they’ll open fire and they’ll kill us. They’ll kill you.”
“I don’t care. Get out of the way, Barnaby.”
“No,” Barnaby answered meekly.
When George lunged forward for the kit Barnaby, surprised even himself when he wrapped his meaty arms around George in a great big bear hug.
George easily broke out of the hold, grabbed him by the shirt with one hand and reared back his fist.
Barnaby knew he was no match for George so he turned his head to side, squeezed his eyes closed again and waited for the inevitable.
But the blow never came. And he felt George slowly release his hold. When Barnaby opened his eyes George was just shaking his head at him, the cracked-open flare gun dangling in his hand.
“You just blew my only chance of saving my daughter.”
Barnaby meekly brought his hands to his chest and said, “George, if they saw you, the gunnery crews would’ve opened fire. There’d be a crater where we are standing now. I’ve seen it before.”
George’s voice cracked when he replied, “We lose sight of them there’s no guarantee we’ll ever find them again.”
George had never looked so… hopeless. Barnaby didn’t like seeing him that way. Then, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Wait a minute,” Barnaby said. He pushed his bush hat up onto his forehead and cupping his eyes, he said, “I think they threw something out.”
“What are you talking about?” George asked.
Barnaby brought down his hands and said. “I’m not sure, but I could’ve sworn I saw two small arms toss something over the side.”
George spun around and watched the departing hover barge, and then he saw it too. A trio of red velvety balloons was floating down from the hover barge and got caught up in its tumultuous wake. Although it was difficult to guess at this distance, Barnaby figured the balloons to be about the size of weather balloons. Once they cleared the barge’s jet stream, the balloons were floating back toward them on easterly winds.
Georg
e was now standing on the running board of the truck between the open door and the roof of the cab. He was peering through the binoculars when he said, “There’s some kind of box hanging beneath the balloons.”
George lowered the binoculars, turned his head, and took one last look at the hover barge. The vessel was now on the opposite side of the gorge, and continued westward over a thick canopy of trees and seemingly impenetrable jungle.
Meanwhile the box beneath the velvety-red balloons continued on easterly winds, in a gradual descent, back toward the crossroads they had passed earlier.
George threw the binoculars on the front seat and climbed back into the truck behind the wheel. He cranked the engine over and when he saw Barnaby hadn’t joined him yet he yelled out the window to him, “C’mon. Let’s go see what they left us.”
Aside from the entrance to the broken bridge and an endless expanse of rolling hills there was nothing around for literally dozens of miles. Barnaby quickly shuffled around the hood of the truck and climbed in. He hadn’t even closed the door yet when George put the truck in reverse and spun the tires.
It was a bit more difficult to turn the long safari truck around because the truck was so long and the road so narrow. And this did wonders for George’s already sour mood. Once they were completely turned around George stomped on the gas pedal and they set out for the dropped air cargo.
As they sped back toward the crossroads, chasing after the wayward balloons, Barnaby wanted to tell George something to the effect of, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find her,’ but even he wasn’t so sure.
Chapter 28
“Maddie’s Box”
They hadn’t said a word to one another.
George didn’t want to hear an apology, and Barnaby was too scared to offer one.
It took almost a full hour before the balloons finally touched down in a field of tall grasses. And when they did, George pulled the truck over on the side of the road. Without saying so much as a word he got out of the truck and began hiking toward the downed balloons.
“Wait a minute,” Barnaby shouted after him. When George turned, the obese accountant was still in the truck. When he realized George couldn’t hear him he rolled down the window. “Where are you going?”
George, incredulous, raised his hand and pointed at the strange balloons barely visible in the tall grasses in the distance, “Where do you think?”
“It could be a trap,” Barnaby answered. “Or maybe something will get you while you are out there. Either way, you shouldn’t go traipsing around out in the open like that.”
Barnaby was right, of course. The box could be a trap. And the balloons were a good hundred yards off, not far from a very ominous looking tree line at the base of the mountains that could be hiding Lord only knows what. He was being reckless. George knew he was better than that.
The only real weapon they had was the flare gun. And even that was only marginally reliable; the first round had zigged way off course from its target.
Barnaby turned in his seat and grabbed something inside the truck. When he turned back around he shoved the metallic case through the window. “You should probably take this with you,” he offered sheepishly.
“And leave you here without a gun?” George asked, trying to keep the venom out of his voice, and failing.
You need to get over this, he thought to himself. For all you know, Barnaby saved your butt back there. You wouldn’t have done Maddie much good as a smoldering pothole.
Barnaby’s face said he clearly hadn’t thought of this. Eventually he shook his head, and bouncing his jowls in a way that made George suppress a laugh said, “I’ll stay inside the truck with the doors locked.” He then pushed the flare gun kit out toward him a little more. “You’ll need this out there more than I will in here.”
George took the kit from him. He put it on the hood, opened it up, and removed the gun from the kit. Now that adrenaline wasn’t racing through his veins he realized how heavy the darn thing was. And how am I supposed to carry it? He thought about tucking it into his pants but an image of the antique flares spontaneously going off in his crotch quickly ruled out that idea.
Barnaby must’ve seen it too, for he said, “Here, I found this,” and thrust out the window a brown leather shoulder holster. George muttered a word of thanks and slid the flare gun into its holster. It fit perfectly, as did the flare cartridges in the loops. George had to loosen the shoulder straps, but aside from that, it was a pretty good fit.
George nodded to Barnaby. “Okay. If you see anyone, or anything, honk the horn and I’ll come running back here as fast as I can.”
The wind picked up a bit as George set out for the ornate box and balloons a second time. Another image flashed across his mind, only this time it wasn’t a flare gun going off in his pants, it was the wind picking up even more and him chasing after the balloons, much to Barnaby’s delight. Thankfully, the wind only gusted hard enough to bounce the balloons together but not lift the box more than a few inches at a time.
As he drew closer he could see the red balloons were made of a red velvet fabric, and the wooden box beneath it was more like an ornate box the size of a footlocker. He tested the weight. It was heavy.
There’s no way I’m dragging this all the way back to the truck.
George studied the box. Its edges and corners were reinforced with riveted gold plates. He was suddenly reminded of Barnaby’s comment about it being a trap. No. If what Barnaby was saying about how the hover ship could’ve blown them to kingdom come was true, they would’ve done it. Not drop them an I.E.D. disguised as a gift box. Reflexively he reached for the folding knife he always kept in his pants pocket and it wasn’t there. It didn’t matter anyway, he didn’t see didn’t see any obvious locks or opening mechanisms. Speaking aloud to himself, he said, “How am I supposed to open the damn thing?”
A long slow howl, like nothing George had ever heard before emanated from the darkness. Others answered the call.
That didn’t exactly sound like wolves. They sounded bigger. Scarier.
He scanned the darkness amongst the tree line. He suddenly felt very vulnerable out in the open and found himself wishing he was back in the truck.
What to do? Drag the box and balloons all the way back to the truck? He thought about loading the flare gun but quickly dismissed the idea because the cartridges were old and he didn’t want to increase the chance of them going off until the gun was pointed away from his body. He could load the gun and keep the woods covered with one hand while pulling the crate with the other, but that would probably take twice as long.
Another howl from the trees, only this one closer, startled him into action. George grabbed one of the handles on one side of the box and started pulling.
It was difficult work dragging the box through the tall grass like that with one hand while constantly checking the tree-line with his gun hand. After twenty feet he was breathing pretty hard.
More howls emanated from the trees. A lot more.
Suddenly the opposite side of the box lifted up as if magically on its own.
“Can we hurry this up please?”
It was Barnaby.
Chapter 29
“The Lamppost Man”
“Let’s get out of here.”
The ominous howling noises were increasing in tempo. Once they got back to the truck they didn’t waste any time trying to open the box. Instead they quickly loaded the ballooned crate into the back of the truck, balloons and all, and got moving.
They never actually saw the creatures making all those howling noises but they both swore they could feel their eyes upon them. George wasn’t one-hundred percent certain, but he was pretty sure he saw something large moving amongst the grass. It had fur, sort of. Not like the soft and light-colored of say, a Timber Wolf. No, even from a distance he could see the creature’s pelt was black as coal and coarse, even mangy in some places. Again, it had only been a glimpse. And he wasn’t about to tell Barnaby how close the ‘
wolves’ had really come.
Approximately twenty miles later they found themselves back at the crossroads they had breezed through earlier this afternoon. As they approached, George saw something standing on the street corner by the edge of the road.
Is that a streetlamp? I’d swear that wasn’t there before.
As the truck drew closer George also spied a strange-looking man leaning off the oversized solitary lamppost holding perfectly still. The man was wearing lots of makeup, a ringmaster’s bright red tailcoat, and black top hat adorned with old-timey aviator goggles.
He was about to ask Barnaby if he was seeing this too, but Barnaby was passed out in his seat. The man loves to nap.
George still couldn’t see anything in the distance in either direction, so, against his better judgment, he rolled the truck to a stop in the middle of the crossroads. He’d decided to keep the motor running out of fear it wouldn’t start back up again; plus, he didn’t want to be stranded with the weirdo perched against the lamppost.
Using his door as a shield, and standing on the truck’s running boards he got out of the cab and said to the Lamppost Man, “Excuse me, uh, sir?”
But the eerie man didn’t answer. Instead he remained perfectly still on his lamppost. So still that George actually considered he wasn’t a man at all, but rather a very life-like mannequin.
“Hey buddy, I’m talking to you. Hello?”
This is ridiculous. I’m talking to a signpost.
Just as he was ready to climb back into the truck the man blinked.
What the heck?
George gave him a hard stare, uncertain if the man on the lamppost had indeed blinked or not. It was at that moment the Lamppost Man suddenly turned his head toward him. And with a giant Cheshire Cat smile spreading across his face he jumped down in a mighty leap and bounded over to the truck. All the while, in a very gleeful voice, practically singing, he said, “Hello…. You must be George.” Rounding the truck door he clasped George’s hand in both of his gloved hands and began shaking hands profusely. “We certainly are glad to have you. Welcome, welcome. Why, I have been waiting for you up on that lamppost for, why, it must’ve been ages.”
