Canyon Shadows

by C R Langille

  “No, we all have our ways of dealing with things.”

  He pulled the car into his mom’s driveway. Troy stopped the car and almost broke down again. Before his father had killed himself, he always referenced his parent’s house as his dad’s house. Dad’s house. Dad’s driveway. Dad’s yard. It was a force of habit to be sure because both his father and mother had owned the property jointly. Now it was his mother’s. He turned the ignition off and let the silence permeate through the vehicle.

  “Mom, do you want me to open this here?” he asked, patting the package.

  “No. I don’t think I’m ready to see what’s in there. Maybe later. Just not right now. Take it home with you.”

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  “I think so. I need some time, that’s all,” Susan said.

  She dabbed her eyes again with the handkerchief. It came away dark and black from her mascara, and for a moment Troy was reminded of the Rorschach inkblots that the psychologists use. What do you see? I see bullshit. Lots and lots of bullshit.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to stick around? It’s not a problem at all, I swear.”

  “No, it wouldn’t do any good. Thanks, though. I’m going to take a nap.”

  “Okay, but if you need anything, call me,” Troy said.

  “I will. Drive safe.”

  “I will, Mom, I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Troy leaned over and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Susan got out of the car and walked into the house. Mom’s house. Troy didn’t get two blocks away before the curiosity sank its talons into him. Troy pulled the car into an empty parking lot.

  Troy stared at the package for a moment. Then, using his pocket knife he cut the edges and opened it. The contents only created more questions.

  ***

  Dan drove through the town twice, hitting every street and alleyway he would think of, but he couldn’t find the strange duct tape bandit. He stopped at all the motels and left a description at the desk, just in case the man decided to show up.

  “Hey Dan, you up?” buzzed his radio.

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  “Just letting you know I’m up and on duty now. Consider yourself relieved.”

  “Copy, Brent.”

  Dan returned to the small sheriff’s building in the center of town. The office was located next to town hall and was part of an original building that had been erected in 1889 when Mormon pioneers first settled the town. The small department building was old but had character. Red brick walls complimented the town hall nicely and further added to the quaint look. Dan liked it and smiled whenever it groaned, settled, or popped.

  The cheap air conditioning unit was out again, and when Dan walked into the building, Terry, one of the town’s four dispatchers, looked up with sweat pouring down his face.

  Stale cigarette smoke glazed the air, and Terry had an ashtray full of butts laid out in front of him. Dan eyed the ashtray as he walked by, and Terry emptied it in the garbage bin.

  “You know I could cite you for smoking in a public building,” Dan said as he walked by.

  “Give me a break, Sheriff, it’s hotter than hell in here, and I have to stay at this piece of shit desk, in front of this piece of shit radio, and answer every piece of shit call,” Troy said, his graveled voice echoing in the small room.

  “Tell me how you really feel,” Dan said.

  “I’m afraid I would get fired.”

  Dan walked into his office and turned on the computer. The monitor came alive like Frankenstein’s monster, slowly at first until enough juice hit it. He filed the day’s reports but stopped when an email popped into his inbox.

  The subject line was blank, but the address stated it was from lower management. Dan sighed and opened the message. His monitor flickered on and off when he did. Dan growled and hit the side of the old screen. A moment later, the screen stopped its flicker, and the mail was open.

  Danjal,

  You have new orders. Keep your eye out for a unique individual that will be arriving in town soon. He is to be observed.

  -M

  Dan hit reply and simply stated “okay” and sent it back. The email felt odd. Lower management hadn’t sent him a message in a long, long time. It was always a special assignment. In fact, his placement in the town was a special assignment. Lower management told him they handpicked him because of his experience, but he figured it was more likely due to his own viewpoints and how they clashed with management’s. Dan vocalized too loudly to the wrong people. He wasn’t surprised his actions had caused him to be taken off active missions and put on guard duty.

  Dan leaned back in his chair. After a moment, he shut his system down and walked out of the office, leaving his reports unfinished. Terry had another cigarette in his mouth. Without saying a word, Dan grabbed the smoke from Terry’s lips and threw it on the ground, stomping it out. Terry didn’t have time to utter a full complaint before Dan stepped outside and into his Bronco.

  Chapter Three

  May 25, 1180

  We needed to restrain Sir Geoffrey. Only hours ago, an inhuman cry woke us from our slumber. We quickly tracked the source of the howl to Sir Geoffrey’s quarters. What we found in his room, I will never forget.

  The walls were decorated with strange pictures carved by Sir Geoffrey. It couldn’t have been anyone else, for he was the only one with access to the room. Brutish carvings, depicting mountains with structures built in them. There were other pictures as well, but I cannot, nay, will not, recount them here. They depicted things too hellish and vile to mention.

  We found Sir Geoffrey in one corner of his room. He was gaunt and pale, rocking on his heels. Blood flowed from a fresh wound on his arm. As we got close, we heard him muttering a phrase over and over. “He waits, deep in the mountain.”

  When we touched him, he lashed out. It took all of us to restrain him. As soon as we got him away from his cabin, he collapsed. For his own safety, we locked him in a secure room, taking turns watching over him.

  Sir William, wary of the book, locked it away. He prohibited any of us access. I don’t doubt his wisdom and feel better having the book secured.

  When we dressed Sir Geoffrey’s wounds, we noticed that the walls of his room were not his only canvas. He had carved a crude symbol of a mountain into his forearm.

  -Sir Pons of Montpesat

  Canyon Shadows, Utah

  The symbol on his forearm began to throb. Jared Barlow dropped the calculator on the counter. The scar on his arm formed the shape of a mountain. Jared had obtained the mark when he was younger. It helped him communicate.

  Are you faithful?

  “Not now, not now, go away!” Jared said, covering his ears.

  The pressure in his head doubled, staggering him with pain. Whether he wanted it or not, it was going to take him.

  Jared looked around in a panic. Even though the voice was in his head, he wanted privacy. His pawn shop was empty of customers, which was usual. He ran to the door, engaged the deadbolt, and flipped the sign in the window to Closed.

  He went into a secluded room nestled in the back of the shop. Hand drawn sketches of the nearby mountain littered the walls of the small room.

  ARE YOU FAITHFUL?

  Jared fell to his knees, covering his ears. Blood blossomed from his nostrils.

  “Yes, of course.”

  You will be tested again—soon.

  “I will be ready.”

  He stood up and stumbled to the door, unlocking it. He walked into the street, not caring what others would think of his bloodied visage, and stared toward the nearby mountains. He wasn’t alone. Many other sanguineous residents had joined him—all looking towards the mountains.

  Beaver, Utah

  Garrett pulled off of I-15 into a small fill st
ation. He’d been driving for a few hours since landing in Salt Lake City. Not wanting to miss the turn to get to Canyon Shadows, he decided to ask directions. Besides, he hated driving long distances. Trips in general let his mind wander, and it always found itself back in the darkness with his dead wife and child.

  It was a typical gas station full of a multitude of travelers. There were small kids running between the narrow aisles in a craze for candy or soda, a couple of bikers dressed in cowhide leather armor ready to battle the elements astride their two-wheeled iron horses, an angry business woman annoyed at the noises around her as she tried to command peons through her cell phone, and a young teen behind the counter with a look of boredom and annoyance across his face. It’s always the same people, just in different places.

  Pausing briefly, he stared through the faux frosted glass at the cornucopia of different beer in front of him. Like a Siren’s call, it was very tempting; however, Garrett knew it wouldn’t end with just one, and he had to get moving—besides, there had to be a liquor store in Canyon Shadows, right? Garrett sighed as he moved away from the freezer. Instead of alcohol, Garrett grabbed a soda and a candy bar making his way to the counter.

  The two road warriors made a crude joke about the business woman as they walked out the door. Garrett rolled his eyes, setting his items next to the register.

  “Will that be all?” the kid asked.

  “Yeah. Hey, do you know how to get to Canyon Shadows?”

  “Uh, hold on, let me ask my manager. He might know.”

  “Thanks.”

  The kid walked into the back office. A moment later the kid returned, followed by a man who’d seen too many Twinkies in his day. The man ran his meaty digits through his greasy hair before waddling up to the counter.

  “Where ya headed?”

  “Canyon Shadows. Do you know the best way to get there?”

  “Why the hell would ya wanna go to that piece of shit town?”

  “Business.”

  “Whatever. Go south on I-15 ‘til ya get to a turn-off telling ya to go to Panguitch. Probably, ‘bout twelve miles from here. From there, ya gonna to follow the road, SR20 I think.”

  “Okay. Then?”

  “SR20 will connect with the 89, follow that into Panguitch. From there, ya can follow the signs through Bryce Canyon onto Canyon Shadows. Easy peasy,” the man said before blowing a wad of snot into his hand, inspecting it, and then wiping it on his shirt.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it,” Garrett said.

  “Whatever. It’s your funeral.”

  Garrett stopped and turned around.

  “What does that mean?”

  “What ya want now?” the man asked, still battling the snot on his hand.

  “What did you say?”

  “Easy peasy.”

  Garrett narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “After that.”

  “Nothing. Did ya want something else?”

  The heavy pop and rumble of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle derailed Garrett’s train of thought, soon followed by a second bike.

  “No. Thanks.”

  Garrett exited the station as the two bikers left the scene. He got into the rental car and double checked his map.

  ***

  As Garrett pulled out of the station, the fat man and the boy watched.

  “Ya couldn’t pay me enough to go back to Canyon Shadows,” the man grumbled as he fished a half-melted chocolate bar out of his pocket.

  “Why’s that?” the teen asked.

  “Creepy as shit. That place feels wrong. When I went there a few years back, it just felt… off. Ya know what I mean?”

  The fat man took a bite of the candy bar, demolishing it in one bite. He crumpled the package and threw it at the teen.

  “No, not really,” the teen said, flinching away from the harmless package.

  The fat man wiped his hands on his shirt again and then dug something out of his teeth. He narrowed his eyes at the teen, and for a moment it looked like he was about to elaborate. Instead, he turned his back to the young worker.

  “Whatever. Ya couldn’t pay me enough,” he repeated as he walked back into the office.

  ***

  Garrett found the exit easy enough. He followed SR20 as it cut through the hills and countryside. A small shack-like cabin sat in a vacant field on his right. As he drove past, he wondered who could have lived in such a building. When he turned his head back, he saw a coyote standing in the road in front of him.

  He slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel. The car lurched to the left, barely missing the creature. As the vehicle skidded to a stop, Garrett looked back to see if he had hit the animal. It was gone.

  It must have run off, lucky son-of-a-bitch.

  Pulling off to the side of the road, Garrett got out to walk off some of the adrenaline giving him the shakes. He was definitely thirsting for something with a kick now, something to take the edge off. When he turned back to the car, there was a man standing next to the passenger-side door.

  “You okay?” the man asked.

  “Yeah, I about hit that coyote.”

  As Garrett continued to look for the animal, the adrenaline started to wear off, and he took a better look at the man. He was of average height with long braided gray hair reaching toward his waistline. He had the complexion of a Native American. He wore a faded flannel shirt and a trucker cap that said “Chick Magnet” in big red letters and had a large hiking backpack.

  Garrett took a few steps back towards the spot where he had swerved, looking for any markings that may have indicated if he hit the coyote or not. He turned back to the stranger and found the man right next to him. Garrett hadn’t heard the man approach but figured it was nerves.

  “Did you see that coyote?”

  “I saw you,” the man replied.

  “Hmph, I could have sworn... Anyway, glad I didn’t hit it.”

  “Me too, my name is Rusty.”

  “Rusty?”

  “Yeah, Rusty. Did you expect something like Runs-With-Wind or Sitting-Deer?”

  “Uh, I guess not. You just don’t strike me as a Rusty,” Garrett said as he raised his hands with innocence.

  “You can call me Stands-by-the-Road if you want.”

  Garrett smiled. Rusty was very likable. Garrett thrust his hand forward in greeting. “Nice to meet you, my name’s Garrett.”

  They exchanged a handshake and walked toward the car. Garrett looked back at the small cabin in the field.

  “History is interesting, always full of wonder and questions,” Rusty said, looking at the cabin.

  “Uh, yeah. Anyway, can I help with anything? Otherwise, I have to get going.”

  “Can you take me to town?”

  “Panguitch?” Garrett asked.

  “Yep, I’ve been walking for hours.”

  “I suppose I can. Hop in.”

  Normally, Garrett would have loathed even to speak to Rusty or any other homeless vagabond for that matter. He didn’t have much respect for them, and he had heard enough urban legends to suspect it wasn’t safe practice to pick people up on the side of the road. But Rusty was different; there was something natural and good about him. Garrett felt like he had known the man for years. Hell, maybe his whole concept of hitchhikers was misguided.

  “Thanks. Say, do you like stories? If so, I’ll tell you one of my people’s stories as you drive.”

  Garrett pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?”

  Garrett thought the distraction would be good for his mind as well as his soul. The trip was taking its toll on him, and before rolling up on Rusty, he had caught himself muttering conversation to Trisha, only to look over to the passenger seat and find it empty.

  ***

  Dan stared at the Confederate money. Randall Childers had confirmed the bills w
ere authentic, which put Dan in a quandary. Money like this was worth something, at least to some collectors. Randall had told him as much. It didn’t make sense for someone to wad them up and spend them at a convenience store.

  Dan couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was amiss. The mysterious duct tape bandit along with the official email had his mind reeling. He needed to take his mind off the task and let it focus on something else.

  He walked outside in front of his cabin and into the night air. He stood motionless for a few minutes, letting his mind focus on nothing but breathing. When he found his center, he exploded into action.

  Moves and maneuvers he had perfected over the years took over his limbs, and he let the motion of the routine move him, not unlike a Japanese kata. Each action had a purpose, and Dan executed them with precision.

  Dan’s instructors would have berated him for modifying the routine, touting that theirs was the only correct way to conduct the battle, but experience in the field and actual use in combat had been a better teacher than any instructor he had encountered. Dan was no stranger to fighting, whether it be large scale or hand-to-hand. The feeling in his guts told him he would need his skills razor sharp and ready. He learned to trust his feelings.

  Chapter Four

  June 10, 1180

  After seemingly countless days at sea, we encountered land. Sir Geoffrey calmed down, and we have allowed him to roam about the ship freely. He doesn’t talk much, and when he does, it is always something worrying or mysterious.

  After a short time on land, we encountered native peoples. Never before have I encountered such a group. They were barely clothed and adorned with a variety of natural and animal accouterments. They were wary of our arrival, keeping their distance. It was not long until the village elder saw us and hurried over. The elder looked as if he knew of us—almost as if he expected our arrival.

  They escorted us further inland, where we came upon a great city built of stone. Although these peoples looked primitive, they had a talent for architecture rivaling even the mighty structures in the Holy Land.

  We were unable to speak to one another but could communicate through gestures. We were treated to some of the local food and were privy to watch a game involving a ball at their stone court.