Canyon Shadows

by C R Langille

  Toby ran toward the camp. The quick movement sent another wave of dizziness through his system, but he shrugged it off.

  “Dave!”

  Dave’s short form slumped in the chair. It looked like he was taking an afternoon nap, nestled up to the burning truck as if it was a bonfire to keep him warm. The closer Toby got, the more Dave didn’t look right. His arms hung limp, and the man’s head angled too far to the side.

  “Dave?”

  Toby slowed to a walk when he neared. He didn’t have to get any closer to know the truth. Dave was dead.

  Blood pooled beneath the chair and dripped from Dave’s body in a steady plop-plop-plop. Toby circled until he could see Dave’s face. Except Dave’s face was gone.

  “Jesus,” Toby whispered.

  Something had ripped Dave’s eyes out and left him with dark crimson chasms. Whatever took his eyes, stole his lips and the flesh around his mouth. He looked like a macabre rag doll, happy to see his friend.

  Toby fought back tears as well the bile, which made a slow crawl for freedom. He slammed his fist down on his truck repeatedly until it hurt. The pain helped center him. His body shook with rage, and thoughts of killing the person responsible filled his mind. A tickle ran up his spine, almost a caress. He shuddered in response, but deep down, it felt good. The rage gave him focus. He needed to gather supplies and start his hunt again. He needed to kill the bastard responsible.

  Toby salvaged a blanket from Chuck’s wrecked truck and threw it over Dave’s body. He checked Dave’s pockets and grabbed the radio. Its battery still had life left.

  “Chuck? Brock? Guys?”

  Nothing.

  “Guys? Dave’s dead,” Toby said.

  He waited a couple minutes and listened for any response. Toby clipped the radio to his belt as something hit the outside of Chuck’s truck.

  He brought the gun up to his shoulder. The truck’s driver’s side door was open. He tried to remember if the door had been open before when a branch snapped behind him.

  Toby spun and dropped to one knee. Brock stopped his advance. The man’s own gun sat snug on his back, but he held his handmade tomahawk and long knife. Blood covered both weapons.

  “Toby, what’s going on? You okay?” Brock asked.

  “Dave’s dead,” Toby replied. He stood up and rested his gun in the crook of his arm.

  Brock looked to the ground and then back up at Toby. Brock snapped the tomahawk back and sent it flying forward toward Toby in a fluid motion. There wasn’t enough time for Toby to react.