Rain pelted down onto the riverstone paths around Buck’s feet as he continued to search for his father’s grave. The scent of the wet earth filled his senses, comforting him. Yet, as he trudged through ever-thickening mud he chuckled to himself. It was a wonder that anyone could find anything in this damn graveyard. Small towns in the middle of nowhere Wyoming always had the most asinine organizational structures.
“Would it kill someone to learn alphabetical order?” Buck smiled to himself “It’s the little things”
His father had insisted on being buried in the place he was born. Buck couldn’t blame him; the graveyard was nestled beautifully between the towering peaks of the Wind River Range, in the spot the locals called Sinks Canyon–right where the Middle Fork of the Popo Agie river falls underground, only to rise a few miles down the road. He used to spend time here with his friends as a kid, camping deep within the towering Lodgepole Pines and exploring the caves hidden just past the graveyard.
To this day, his wife, Emily, found it strange that he chose to spend all his free time here as a child, but in a small town, what else was there to do? Hang out in the only park within a sixty-mile radius? Go to the lone movie theater in town that would play the same movie for three weeks straight? If he did, he would undoubtedly see the same group of bullies that had terrorized him in his teens. The graveyard was his safe space, a place where no one dared to go; the dead didn’t speak.
His mother thought it was a good thing. “Spend more time outdoors,” she would always insist. “You and your friends are always playing those damn video games; it’ll rot your brain.” Little did she know that most of the time, they were drinking whatever backwater swill they could find and concocting fantastical stories based on the limericks written on the gravestones. His favorite was about a man who had died in the 1860s: “Beneath this stone, a lump of clay, Lies stingy William Wight. Who died one morning just at ten And saved a dinner by it.” Buck couldn't help but laugh; man, that was pretty fucked up of them.
As usual, his wife was right. Here he was, walking through a graveyard in the middle of the night, lost and soaking wet, with a soft wind causing the pines to sway in a way that seemed as if the spirits themselves were trying to escape. He just wanted to say goodbye to his father one last time before they returned to the big city. At least he could have listened to her and brought a raincoat. “It’s Wyoming,” he had said. “It doesn’t rain here! The Popo Agie has been down almost a foot for years. I can’t believe they even call it a river anymore.” Not tonight though; he could hear it raging behind the thick pines.
Ah, here he was. A smile crept across Buck’s face as he knelt in the wet dirt and wiped away the pine needles covering the grave. The gravestone was simple, just like his father—a natural stone laid flat in the ground, his father’s name carved into it in bold, unwavering letters: “Glenn Blackwood, Loving Father 1932-2024.”
Buck sat in silence; the words were lost on him. After all the preparation, he still had no idea what to say. That’s why he had insisted on coming here by himself, leaving his wife and dog at home with his aged mother. He wasn’t proud of it, but a part of him was glad he had passed. Of course, he had loved his father, but the last three years had been tough for the whole family—watching him wither away until he was just skin and bones. He couldn’t help but compare him to a ghoul toward the end and observed how the people at the nursing home had to carry him back and forth to the bathroom.
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He had given up; his eyes were always glassy, staring off into the middle distance as if he could see the Reaper coming for him. Buck had said goodbye years ago. He realized he might have been the first to say goodbye. Was that why he felt so bad now? No. He had known his father well; he was the first to see when the end began. Although it’s impossible not to hurt when the man who raised you isn’t there anymore, Buck knew he had a good life. No, a great life. His wife had just received a promotion, and their new house was finally starting to feel like a home. He didn’t need to stay here to feel sorry for himself. Buck stood up, starting to make his way back through the graveyard toward his car.
Back through the trees he went, following what resembled a path made of river rocks and fence posts hammered into the ground by some minimum-wage groundskeeper. At least the rain had stopped. Wait. Gazing up, Buck realized that the torrential downpour had completely disappeared. All that remained was the sound of water dripping. Where was the sound of the Popo Agie? He stilled; it was still there, but it seemed quieter—no, just further away. Strange.
To the North, the sun began to rise. Had he really stayed out all night? No, that’s not where the sun rises. It had to be around 10 p.m. when he got here, nowhere near when the sun usually rises. But as he gazed, it continued to rise, looming larger and more imposing than it had any right to be, its fiery orb swelling like a malevolent eye watching over the dead. It was as if the last twelve hours had taken thirty seconds. The sun sat now in the middle of the sky as if it were noon, but something was wrong.
Blinking back tears, Buck looked at the blazing sun. That’s a bit too large, isn’t it? The sun doesn’t usually fill the whole sky, with only blue appearing at the edges. It was as if the entire sky was a sea of flames. That’s when he realized how warm it was. My God, was it warm. “Told you I didn’t need a coat,” Buck laughed. Yet the warmth didn’t stop, spreading over his body until he felt the water drying on his skin from tip to toe. But as he looked around, the water was evaporating everywhere. Steam rose from the surrounding gravestones as if he had found himself in some old-school horror movie— the wisps of fog that clung to the ground, curling and dissipating in the overwhelming glow as if they too were frightened to remain. And like an old-school horror movie, Buck realized that his skin was beginning to burn.
Buck felt the heat seeping into his skin. In mere seconds, Buck was covered in sunburns, his skin beginning to bubble as if it were boiling. His mind raced; the tree cover wouldn’t be enough. As he glanced over, the air around him shimmered. He could see the branching needles of the surrounding trees were already smoking.
The River! In a frantic rush he ran, pushing through the dense foliage toward the Popo Agie. He watched as the pines around him periodically burst into flames while he frantically fought his way through. His breath ragged, the heat dried out his mouth, making it feel like he was trying to breathe through a handful of hot sand. There was no way he would make it, but what was he going to do—give up and let himself burn? Just as his vision began to blur, he heard it: the whitewater raging down into the mountain.
It took two hours for the water to pass through Sinks Canyon before it popped up into a small lake collectively called The Rise. But at this point, Buck couldn’t think about survivability. If he didn’t dive into the water, he would burn alive. All he could do was hope he could grab hold of a rock or boulder before being sucked under. His sunbaked skin began to crack and boil, blood dripping down his arms. The pain was blinding, and his vision blurred as the branches of the pines cut across his face and arms like scalpels. No time to think. Buck took one final labored breath and dove into the water, the powerful current sucking him down into the darkness.