by Philip Cox
NO PLACE
TO DIE
PHILIP COX
**
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
The author is British, but the story takes place in the United States, and most of the characters are American. So: British English or American English? The narrative is in British English, and the dialogue is mostly American English. So US readers please note that some words may be spelt differently, such as tyres for tires, centre for center.
Chapter 1
Its tiny tongue flicking to and fro, the gopher snake made its way slowly through the chaparral, along the dusty earth, pausing now and then to investigate the many rocky crevices and small shrubs she encountered. Twilight was approaching, and the soil still retained some of the heat from the day’s sunshine.
Twilight for the gopher snake, of course, meant food. Its main diet comprised small mammals or birds, and the occasional egg. Mainly diurnal, these cold-blooded reptiles often change their activity patterns to become nocturnal during the months of intense desert heat. It was late May, and summer was beginning: early evening was slightly cooler, and this was the time its prey would emerge from their burrows and forage for food themselves. So now this snake, three feet in length, was out hunting, at the same time avoiding its own predators, such as coyotes or hawks.
Heavily bodied, the gopher snake has around sixty light to dark brown or reddish blotches on a base colour of yellow, straw, tan or cream. A dark stripe runs from in front of the eye to the angle of the jaw. The scales on its back are strongly keeled, becoming smoother on the sides.
Non-venomous, it kills its prey by constriction. However, it is often confused with a rattlesnake when alerted to danger, when it will coil up, vibrate its tail, flatten its head and hiss a warning. In fact its genus name, pituophis, means ‘phlegm serpent’ in reference to its loud hiss.
But as with all but the most aggressive and dangerous snakes, the gopher will seek to hide from any danger rather than seek a confrontation. Through the sensitive scales on its underside, the snake can detect movement in the ground nearby, and quickly hide beneath a rock until the threat has passed.
The threat on this occasion consisted of three pairs of hiking boots. From beneath the rock, the snake watched as one pair paused not eighteen inches away from the rock. Its tail started to twitch, but relaxed when the boots withdrew. It could detect more sounds, but these seemed more distant.
The owners of the boots were three twenty-somethings, two men and a girl, hiking. One of the men, a tall, slim blond by the name of Mark, stopped walking and perched on a rock. The other man, Robbie, shorter and heavily set, paused, stretched and put his hands on his hips.
‘What?’ Robbie asked.
Mark tilted his head in the direction of the girl. Smaller and slighter, her pale complexion contrasted with the men’s heavy tans. ‘Waiting for her to catch up.’
Robbie adjusted his baseball cap and wiped his forehead. ‘Come on, Jan,’ he called out.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ Jan replied breathlessly as she hurried up the slight incline to catch them up. ‘I need a breather,’ she panted, sitting on the small embankment.
‘We can’t be too long,’ Mark said. ‘It’ll be dark soon.’
Robbie looked up sat the sky, squinted and checked his watch. ‘Seven thirty almost.’
Mark consulted the pamphlet he was holding with a map. ‘Says here sunset’s at 7:55. Twilight till 9:30.’
‘Twilight’s no good for us,’ Jan complained. ‘We need daylight. Let’s face it, guys: we’re lost.’
Robbie looked down at Mark. ‘Are we? You’ve got the map.’
Mark looked around and studied the map. He grimaced. What had started out as a straightforward hike through Bronson Canyon had not gone to plan. He looked around again.
Jan threw her arms in the air. ‘Told you – we’re lost!’
Still studying the map, Mark shook his head. Slowly, he replied, ‘No, we’re not lost…’
‘Where are we, then?’ Robbie asked.
‘Not quite sure. Let me see -’
Jan gasped. ‘Lost, then. Jeez.’
Mark ran his finger over the map. ‘It should be quite easy to retrace out steps. Look, here’s Franklin Avenue, where we started off, then North Canyon Drive.’
‘That’s where we left the car,’ Robbie said. ‘Hours ago.’
‘No, no,’ Mark replied, as his finger followed the route they had taken. At the end of North Canyon Drive there is situated the Camp Howland Parking Lot, where the three had left their rental car. ‘The parking lot here,’ said Mark, ‘is where the unpaved road started. And we followed that to Bronson Canyon.’
‘Where we explored the cave,’ Robbie added.
‘Don’t talk to me about that bloody cave,’ moaned Jan.
The cave they were referring to was Bronson Cave, not so much a cave but a fifty-foot long tunnel. It has featured in many feature films, notably The Searchers and Star Trek VI – The Undiscovered Country. The mouth was also used as the entrance to the Batcave in the 1960s Batman TV series.
‘We should’ve turned back after we’d done with the cave,’ Robbie said.
‘Yeah, but we didn’t,’ Jan wailed. ‘So now we’re stranded here with – oh my God!’
Mark looked up. ‘What is it?’
Jan stood up quickly, looking around frantically. ‘I’ve just realised – don’t they have rattlesnakes here? And mountain lions?’
Mark turned over the pamphlet he was holding and turned it over. ‘Yeah, rattlesnakes, black bears, coyotes, skunks…’
Robbie grinned. ‘But no crocs.’
‘It’s not funny, you guys,’ Jan wailed. ‘We’re lost, it’s nearly dark, and… and…’
Robbie looked around. ‘Look down there, Jan. What can you see?’
She followed his gaze. ‘Nothing.’
‘Look. Tell me what you see.’
Puzzled, she replied, ‘Just lights.’
‘Yes, just lights. Lights from the city. And buildings. Although soon it’ll just be lights. But we know the streets of Hollywood are down there. So we head down there.’
Mark stood up. ‘Twilight lasts for another hour and a half. If we get a move on, we should get to the parking lot before it’s fully dark.’
‘Yeah, but the path wasn’t exactly the Gore Hill Freeway. It could be dangerous in the dark.’
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‘So we’d better get a move on now,’ Mark said abruptly as he began to head off down the hill.
Jan was about to protest some more, but stopped as Robbie put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he said quietly. They both began to follow Mark down the slope.
Mark paused as the path made a slight turn. They were on the top of a ridge. Mark looked around. Pointing behind the others, he said, ‘Look up there.’
They turned and looked.
‘I had no idea we were so close to it,’ Robbie said.
‘Now we know where we’re headed.’ Mark began climbing back up the slope.
What Mark had spotted was the famous Hollywood sign, its nine 45 foot letters standing proudly on the side of Mount Lee.
‘There must be something up there,’ Mark called out to the other two who were twenty feet behind him.
‘You’d better be right,’ Jan muttered.
‘He probably is,’ Robbie said, trying to reassure her. ‘It’s a tourist spot, isn’t it? There’s probably a cafeteria, restrooms, phone booth.’
‘Yeah, it would’ve been helpful if we could get a phone signal up here,’ Jan muttered in reply.
‘Can’t have everything,’ Robbie said. ‘Jesus, Mark; be careful.’
‘I’m okay,’ Mark called out. ‘It’s just a little steeper here.’
The three half walked, half scrambled up the steep slope, using the frequent sage brush bushes to help their climb. Mark paused again and pointed up at the sign.
‘Nearly there,’ he called out. ‘And there’s more buildings there, too.’
Robbie and Jan looked up, silently nodded, and continued their climb. It was getting darker, but they could still see the white letters of the sign, and a tall tower painted red and white and covered in communications dishes.
After five or six minutes the ground levelled off slightly. They stopped on the level.
‘That’s great,’ Jan whined. Mark said nothing, just wiped the sweat off his forehead.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Robbie said, shaking his head.
They were some twenty feet from the two giant Ls, but separating them from the sign was a tall fence, at least ten feet high, and topped with razor wire.
Mark began to make his way along the fence. ‘There must be a gate somewhere.’
‘I need a piss,’ Robbie said, and disappeared behind a bush. The other two waited until he returned.
‘I need to, too,’ Jan said sheepishly.
Mark rubbed his face. ‘Christ. We’re going to be -’
Jan held up her hand. ‘Don’t even…’
The two men waited while Jan disappeared into the undergrowth.
*****
Meanwhile the gopher snake had long emerged from its rock, and was continuing its search for food. Snakes do have nostrils, but their tiny tongues play an important part in hunting for food. When a snake flicks its tongue in the air, it picks up tiny chemical particles. When it brings its tongue back into its mouth, the tongue fits into a special organ on the roof of its mouth. This organ takes these particles and tells the snake what they are – dirt, plants, other animals. A predator, or prey.
This time it was prey – a two-inch desert shrew. The gopher snake moved slowly to a point twelve inches from the unsuspecting rodent, then struck. In a fraction of a second, its coils were encircling the shrew, which let out a helpless squeak, but no more. When it could feel no movement from the shrew, the snake released its coils slightly, turning to face the rodent’s head, and opened its mouth, the jaws extending to take in the wider animal.
*****
Mark and Robbie studied the perimeter fence while they waited for Jan. They both started as they heard her yell.
‘What is it?’ Robbie called out, as they both hurried in the direction of Jan’s voice.
‘There’s something here,’ she said.
Then she began to scream.
*****
Having caught its prey, the gopher snake saw no need to rush its meal. Slowly, its enlarged jaws worked their way down the shrew’s body, until its tail slowly disappeared down the snake’s throat.
*****
Further up the side of Mount Lee, by the time the snake had finished eating, Jan was still screaming.
Chapter 2
Harry Webb looked up from his keyboard. The little cursor flashed at him, as if to say, come on, where’s the next word?
Harry was a screenwriter. Had been for some fifteen years now. Mainly TV, some movie work, but nothing that had hit the big screen.
Harry was also a dreamer. One day, he would hear a famous voice announcing, ‘And the Academy Award for Best Screenplay goes to Harry Webb.’ Cue thunderous applause.
One day.
But tonight, he was alone on his veranda working on a screenplay, looking out over the city.
Looking out over the city as his house was a stilt house on the Mulholland Highway. Stunning view when the conditions were right, but tonight they were not. He had a deadline to meet. He sat back, ran his hands through his hair and cursed.
Since he got up at seven this morning and ate his normal breakfast of raisin bran, all he had achieved was two pages. And now it was past 11pm. He habitually set himself a goal of five pages a day: today he had just achieved two after eighteen hours of staring at his keyboard.
Over the past fifteen years he had worked for a number of studios: a couple of the majors, but mainly smaller, independent, cable-only ones. The only difference he had found was the label on the bottled water in their offices.
His previous job was a two-hour pilot for a cable network, about sexual liaisons in the Senate. Nothing new there. It was taped, and the final cut sent to the network. Then they waited for The Call.
When it did come, the producer had That Voice. ‘We tried our best, Harry, but the network passed on it. Another time.’
Over the last five years, Harry had been paid to write fifteen screenplays. Some do get made, most don’t. His name had only appeared on one. He still fantasized about walking around sound stages, going to premiers and walking down to the stage in the Sony Theater but accepted that it would stay a fantasy.
He had gotten used to the ups and downs. Especially the downs. In this town it was useless to dwell on past failures instead of working on the Next Best Idea.
He stood up and wandered over to the edge of the veranda and looked at the horizon. In the darkness there were rivers of car headlamps. That was an advantage of living in a stilt house. To this day, he was astonished the house had stayed up so long, especially in an area prone to earthquakes, mudslides and wildfires.
About fifteen hundred of these dwellings were built between the end of WW II and the mid-1960s; city building regulations now meant that none had been built for years – nowadays they would be multi-storey mansions gouged into the landscape.
Not aesthetically pleasing, they were modest, one storey, and boxy. Not exactly a blot on the landscape, but fragile.
Fragile was the word Harry would use.
As the 1994 Northridge earthquake showed, when thirteen houses collapsed, and slid down the hillside. They were built on two or more stilts, diagonally braced by rods or cables in an X pattern, holding up the floor. Sometimes the floor was attached to the street level foundations, more often not. A bigger risk was that of fire, and a recent building code regulation required the underside of the house be enclosed or made resistant to fire for at least one hour. That was expensive, so Harry hadn’t done it, and nobody had checked. So underneath Harry’s house were rocks and sage brush, and an old couch.
But it was the view Harry liked most of all. His ex-wife suffered from vertigo, so never went outside. But Harry used to sit out here on the veranda, with their energetic Labrador bitch called Myrna.
But now the bitch had gone.
And taken the dog with her.
So went Harry’s favourite joke, probably the only one he knew – he didn’t write comedies – and which he would tell on every po
ssible occasion.
He returned to his keyboard, and picked up the book. It was not an original screenplay that he was working on this time, but an adaptation of a best seller he had never heard of. Target audience: thirteen-year-old girls, he guessed.
Only this best seller was, in Harry’s opinion, a crock of shit – 250 pages of pulp about a ghost who leaps about in time to visit his ancestors and his descendants to advise them on their lifestyle choices. How the hell could you write a good screenplay based on this crap?
He sat back and stretched. He needed some vapour. In the old days, he would have needed a cigarette, but six months back he had switched to one of those new-fangled vaporizers. Supposed to be better than his Marlboros: no coughing, no bad breath. He guessed they were okay. The vaporizers apparently contained what the guy in the store called an e-liquid, some stuff called propylene glycol, or PG. It gave off a vapour, which replaced the cigarette smoke. Harry liked the fact that he could choose different flavours: the last was cotton candy, but his preferred choice was buttered popcorn. So instead of smoking, he would be vaping.
Which he needed right now. He went back indoors, and looked around. Then rummaged around in the bedroom, then the kitchen, then the bathroom. Where had he left that damn vaporizer?
He had no idea. He swore. He didn’t want to go out as he had at least three more pages to write, but he needed some vapour to get these three pages done. Harry picked up his car keys, and headed for the door.
The place Harry was headed for was his local grocery store, set five minutes’ drive away in a small shopping centre off Mulholland Drive. It was at this store that Harry had been introduced to the delights of vaping.
There were four other establishments there alongside the grocery store: a laundromat, a bar, and a pizza take-out joint. The small parking lot out front had only half a dozen vehicles, so Harry could easily get a space. As he drove across the lot to the space nearest the store, he saw a man pacing anxiously back and forth. Harry thought nothing of it, and found a space, and parked. As he flicked the key fob to lock the car, he noticed the man watching him. This was a reasonably safe neighbourhood, so Harry continued to walk to the store, but remained on alert. As he approached the store the man hurried up to him, not in a threatening manner, but he was clearly distressed.
