THE NAUTILUS
Chapter V
THE GODS OF GHOST RIVER
“If only, if only, the moon speaks no reply;
Reflecting the sun and all that’s gone by.”
- Louis Sachar, Holes
Alone again… Alone again. Lonely, I stare at the vacant space where the wraith stood, a numbness I hoped to stave off crystallizing into my flesh and bone. The material becoming immaterial, in the void left behind, the demonic form seems more and more a figment of my imagination. The only tethers that lend credence to strange being’s existence is the sprawl of Vermillion standing before me and that lingering warm glow permeating my chest.
••••
The world turning so quickly, I try to keep up, keep pace, keep in stride. But it’s pulling away from me, something’s pulling me down, an invisible weight pushing me to sleep. Do I dare stop or slow down? No, my body grows sluggish, I fear if I stop, even for just a second, I’ll slip into a coma, and never wake up…
••••
Intrusive thoughts, foreign to me, maybe a part of my psyche I drove down and hid away. But, I’ve always allowed myself to be still… could this be my mind ushering me to keep up my momentum? I’ve seen more than a lifetime’s worth of bad in a matter of hours… I’m alive and I’m not going to question the ins and outs of my brain’s motivating forces. If it works, it works. Something at the edge of my perception tugs me, electrical signals zinging through my limbs, calling me forward. I search my pockets, for anything of use. There’s nothing… except for the little mahogany hued fossil... a comforting symbol of my survival. Nico’s idiot machine now holds most of my earthly possessions, as for the phone and wallet, I’m pretty sure Ghost River ate them. Peering down at my ripped and bloodied tank top, there’s no way I could borrow someone’s cell, let alone talk to anyone with murder plastered all over me. Pulling the splotchy fabric over my head, I wad it into the smallest ball I can possibly shape, I need to dispose of this grotesque thing. My disgusting lone souvenir to the world’s shittiest three days.
The afternoon sun beats against me, but I’m close to people, shade is a guarantee somewhere, and running water. Striding towards the industrial end of Vermillion, a small cement plant stands visible in the distance, as well as a myriad of run down business parks, thirty to forty years out of date. I roll by one constructed of ugly mustard brick, stained with desert rust. A single vehicle sits secluded in the lot, no security cameras to be seen. Not a surprise, the isolation of this town is in its spirit, surveillance seems like overkill, an overused crutch the big cities have become accustomed to, and maybe eventually enslaved by. A single brown industrial dumpster slumps behind the building, I haven’t seen a soul yet, but cautiously I survey the area just in case. No one. I inconspicuously shove the shirt into the dumpster, my long arms making it over the lip, no problem.
It’s a grueling day, people won’t think twice about a man walking around shirtless in these conditions. Still, I feel exposed, unshielded, I don’t want people to notice me. Wandering aimlessly down a grid of streets, I look for a place I might grab some water without being turned away. It seems like a mostly white folks kind of town, between looking homeless, and my native ancestry, that’s two strikes on the patience of most people I may encounter. Coming to the heart of Vermillion where the downtown peaks higher than the houses and businesses, a green sign greets me at the intersection of a road cut with four lanes, reading “Main Street”. I roll my eyes, the most generic name, fitting for a place like this.
I spot a red and white logo across the pavement, a familiar striped spiral shell. A “Nautilus” gas station, there’s got to be running water, a bathroom, someplace I can wipe the desert off of my face. Crossing the mostly empty road, I hurry against the light. Maybe, there’s a phone I can borrow, or perhaps a payphone…. If they even exist anymore. A single rusty powder-blue pickup truck passes behind me, slowing to a crawl for half a second, then speeding up, leaving me to finish my journey. The gas station looks like the newest edifice I’ve seen so far, possibly only a year or two old, it’s cherry tomato red paint sparkles in the scouring sunlight, that luster only new things have.
Eager for air-conditioning, I push against the glass door, which swings with so little effort that I throw it open with an awful slam.
Peew-doo!
A mocking door-opening sound accompanies my unnecessary roughness, so much for being discreet, everyone in the store will know I’m here. A short attendant in a scarlet uniform with neck-length brown hair busily tends to something over the counter, unflinching from their task. I pause. Nothing… Phew, I can proceed with impunity. The room is surprisingly large, part grocery store, part auto parts outlet, and part gift shop. My eyes dart about, looking for… SHIRTS! A cornucopia of them hung in a methodical arrangement, so perfect, almost compulsive, color coded by the order of the rainbow, on a single shiny circular rack. Drawing myself closer, I pull out a dark grey tee and look at the print on it. “City of Vermillion Est 1877”, it reads with the hills printed in faded ink, meh, I return it. Pulling out a maroon one, I gape at the dumb words printed on the t-shirt, “I Found My Favorite Mounds in Vermillion” with a questionably raunchy illustration of the landmark. Hurriedly, I shove the shirt back into the display, blushing slightly… yick, that’s classy… whatever.
Where we’re going, I bet there’ll be plenty of bitches for you. Vivid ashen light pours from the thing’s throat. Nico… a mound of unidentifiable gore.
An intense wave of nausea hits me, I fidget with a new hanger, hoping the excruciating sensation subsides before I lose my stomach contents all over the display. Pulling out a black one, my discomfort subsides. Peering at it, the logo looks like a bison skull with strange markings printed on it, in white the lettering states, “Keep the Homeland Native.” Ah yes, finally a keeper.
“Hey, I’m sorry man, but the owner’s pretty strict on the ‘No Shirt No Shoes’ thing,” a soft voice proclaims behind me. Nearly dropping the clothing in my hands to the floor in surprise, the timber sounds strangely familiar to me, a case of strong déjà vu.
“You’ll have to put on a shirt and come…”
I turn to face the speaker.
“HOLY SHIT! Riley? Is that you?”
Looking down, the husky attendant from behind the counter stares back at me, a face so nostalgic, a ghost from my past. His features are unmistakable with his pointy, but full cheeks, an enormous broad-toothed grin, and deep umber eyes. A childhood buddy, aged seven years since I last saw him, but only standing about five foot four with unusually shiny bone-straight espresso hair. Shit, super models would kill for hair like that.
“Bobbi?” the shock clearly painted on my face, “What’re you doing here?”
“Dude, you got tall!”
“Couldn’t say the same for you,” smirking, while attempting make myself smaller.
“You look like Hell!” concern crossing his rosy complexion, “Do you need water? Pick a t-shirt, it’s on me…” he nods at the onyx shirt in my hand, “What in the name of the old ones happened to you?”
“It’s a long story,” I state exasperatedly, panic and overwhelm taking hold, his quick draw questions and cascade of kindness hitting me like bullets.
“No it’s okay, really, take it,” Bobbi points at the shirt.
Bobbi wanders over to the soda machine and pours me water into that discount kind of cup with the misty opaque plastic. With zeal, he ushers me to join him, a new project to attend to, hopefully more captivating than repeatedly organizing souvenirs and junk food. Shrugging in defeat, I pull the fresh new t-shirt over my head. The fabric is nicely made, a soft cotton blend, something unfamiliar to my skin. Thinking back, I can’t remember the last new shirt I’ve owned.
Bobbi pulls up a stool to the side of his counter, “Sit down for a bit, and drink this, it’ll help.”
Padding up next to him, I take a seat, the vinyl cushion is slightly tacky with a squish factor at the same time, similar to the seats of an old school diner. The convenience store’s aquatic logo is printed brightly on its shiny veneer, honestly beats sitting on the hard ground. Eying my water cup, it looks more appetizing than it did a minute ago. The thirst awakening somewhere deep inside of me, I snap it up and gulp it down like some kind of ravenous beast.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Galactic sky… Thunderous roaring.
Brooding in silence, the exhaustion creeps back into me, fatigue staved off by being continuously on the go. The rhythmic humming of the coolers lulling me into a trance, brand name energy drinks and soda crystallizing into a kaleidoscope of fractured hues. Buzzing transitions into crashing rapids… Ghost River, liquid filling my mouth, my lungs, weightlessness, endless… glaring florescent lights, a ringing in my ears as I zone out…
“What happened?” he points to my cut up hands, still bandaged in strips of my destroyed tank top. I’m acutely aware that my face is covered in scabs by the worry written on his face. That’s not good. Maybe, I really do look like I clawed my way out of the underworld.
“I’m okay… Promise. It looks worse than it is,” I pause and wonder if I should tell him anything about my past seventy-two hours.
Muscle, sinew, and flesh, weaving into form.
“Bullshit!” Bobbi calls my bluff, “My mom is a PA at the Ghost River Reservation Clinic. She’s coming over for dinner tonight. I’ll make sure she takes a look at you.”
“Wait, your mom’s here?”
“Yeah, when we moved out of the old neighborhood it was cuz she took a job out here. We’ve been in Vermillion ever since.”
•••
Darion grabs his reflective dirt bike and takes another pass at my rickety jump. Tearing down the street with unwise speed. I keep a close eye on his progress, in a way only older siblings do. I’m blind to the rest of the world.
My brother’s approach is seamless, I don’t notice a shape closing in. Inches from the ramp, his scream pierces my brain. He’s in a heap on the ground, a branch tangled in his spokes. Nico, with his two sizes too big shoes, is on the other end of the stick.
Blood is gushing from his nose. Bobbi hurries over, removing his sock and placing it under Darion’s wound.
“Don’t be a little bitch,” Nico snarls, “He’ll be fine!”
“Why would you do that?” Bobbi barks at him.
“I didn’t do anything, it was an accident. Jeez, don’t put this on me!”
“Are you kidding me?” the shade of purple in Bobbi’s face revealing levels of anger new to me, “You can’t seriously think we buy that!”
My little brother whimpers in pain. Guilt burns into my body, I wasn’t paying attention. Maybe this was all my fault. I should’ve seen Nico farting around with the tree limb. Nico is high energy, but I can’t see him doing this on purpose.
“Bobbi, it was an accident. I’m to blame, I wasn’t looking where Darion was going. Let’s get him home and cleaned up.”
The look of pure rage Bobbi gives me is palpable, I turn away to avoid his gaze.
“Fine, let’s get him inside,” Bobbi’s glare fixes upon Nico.
•••
My failing, a memory I’d forgotten… Nico, playing the role he’d always played, while I stood blind to it. No wonder Bobbi felt such disdain for me, in that moment I chose a side, the side of Darion’s tormentor. That’s not what good big brothers do, not by a long shot. Maybe, had I listened, not turned away from Bobbi’s heavy eyes so long ago, none of this would’ve have come to pass. Even in his cheerful presence, I dodge his event-horizon stare, worried it’ll pull me somewhere into that darkness of my laundry list of mistakes. I sit mute, no words call fill the void between us. When he left for the rez, I more or less abandoned him. I could’ve picked up a phone and at least called him once or twice. But no, to me, he was an accessory, not a friend… like Nico saw me. How I miscalculated, a fatal misstep, one that took at least one life. I stare down at my grimy less-than-black boots in my self-contained shame.
Follow The Lines.
“Hey, you’ve got nothing to feel ashamed of,” putting his hand on my back, his deep eyes are steady and trusting, just a little bit soul piercing. How… just a seamless transition from my thoughts to an accurate response, an echo. My face is too readable, it must be.
“… The body of one of two missing hikers in Vermillion Hills State Park, was recovered this morning in Hughie Box Canyon. The body of twenty-two year old Cody McKinnon, of Santa Ana, was discovered by a ranger patrol in the early hours of the morning. Preliminary findings suggest cause of death by blunt force trauma from an apparent fall, pending a formal autopsy… Search continues for Ashley Hanes who is still considered a missing person…” The flat-screen mounted to the wall interjects our conversation, adding to my hesitance to come up with something to say.
“Got lost in the desert, like those two poor fucks?” Bobbi adds, gesturing towards the news.
I nod.
“It’s wild country. Out there, people disappear all of the time, statistically anomalous, is what some folks say.”
“But why?” I suppress that chilling image of the bat-like beast burned into my brain, replaying like a broken record.
Just out-of-towners, prolly just don’t have the survival instincts to keep themselves from doing stupid shit… thinking the whole world belongs to them, no respect for the old places.”
“Or the old things…” I mutter to myself under my breath.
“But, hey… Locals don’t vanish, most folks have been here since at least pioneer days. Or even earlier,” he explains.
Peew-doo!
A man with bushy blonde hair and a bit of a beer gut saunters into the store.
“Hello sir, let me know if there is anything I can help you with,” Bobbi puts on his customer service voice.
The man makes eye contact, twitches in acknowledgment and proceeds to inspect the savory snack aisle.
“Yeah, still the Wild West out here huh?” I respond, a little delayed by the man’s entrance.
Making a half-hearted nod at me, Bobbi looks to the man pushing towards the counter with his vinegar kettle chips. He scans the bag efficiently and asks, “Is that all for you sir?”
The stranger’s untamed mustache bristles as he gestures at the cigarettes, “I’d like uhh numba seben an a numba elleben.”
I wait quietly as Bobby bags the man’s small vices. Oddly, the craving for tobacco has left me, but I still miss those little pleasures. The things that somehow make the grind of simply getting out of bed in the morning just a hair more tolerable.
“Have a good day,” Bobbi calls as the man leaves.
I stare at the door for a minute or so to make sure no one else is coming in. Quiet at last, I return my attention to my old friend.
“Sort of, it’s kind of stuck in the eighties too. If you like stupid big hair and leather jackets, then this is the place for you” Bobbi laughs warmly, “Do you have any money or way to reach anyone? Your mom or Darion?”
“I lost my phone and my wallet,” A twinge of regret hits me, loneliness, “Is there a shelter somewhere in town I could go to and clean up?”
“There is one,” He gives me a concerned look, “But, it’s a mission. They aren’t particularly friendly to people like us. You can stay with me instead, it would be safer and hey at least I won’t be trying to convert you.”
I dip my head in acknowledgment, looking at my very tan skin. In the city, I get lost in the shuffle, I could be anyone or anything I want to be. But out here, people are still living a hundred years in the past. To them, I’m some heathen that needs fixing. It makes my blood boil.
“I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Seriously, you’re fine. It’s no big deal. You can borrow my phone and call home. I’m sure they’d want to hear from you.”
I don’t look up, I can’t stand the grief I’m feeling. The idea of Darion seeing his big brother fucking up this hard breaks my heart.
“… Or not, you don’t have to call them. Stick around as long as you need to.”
Peew-doo!
A tall figure in a wine-colored motorcycle helmet pushes through the door. They’re dressed head to toe in designer leather, down to the gloves.
“Oh hey, it’s the boss,” Bobbi exclaims, “Wassup Red Feather!”
Long dark hair spills out of the helmet. It’s a woman in her late thirties with hawk-like features. She examines her store, a predator surveying her territory, her serious expression lessening when her attention fixes upon Bobbi.
“Keeping it together, White Fox?”
“No shit,” Bobbi gestures to the immaculately clean store.
She beams with pride, pulling her helmet to her side, “You can call it, I’ve got it covered for the rest of the night. Who’s your friend?”
I put on my most forced smile, turning into more of a grimace, attempting to course correct, I give a painfully awkward wave.
“Oh yeah, this is Riley. He and I go way back. He’s had a bit of a rough time in the desert, so I invited him to stay with me until he recovers. I put money in the register for the shirt.”
“Well hi there! I wish we were meeting under better circumstances,” she eyes me probingly, the gears in her head turning, making up her mind if I’m “good people”. The muscles in her face loosen slightly as she decides I’m harmless, “You can call me Aria! If you’re looking for a job, I need some extra help. Poor Bobbi has been working his shifts alone for a bit and could do with some company.”
“Sure, I’ll think about it.”
She shoos us away from the counter, “Get out of here, go enjoy your dinner!”
“Oh you know we will!” Bobbi bounces for the door dragging me behind him, “I have green chili tortilla soup in the crock pot for tonight!”
Peew-doo!
The familiar chime declares our exit. Heat hits me like a wall of flames, it seemed easier to be outside just an hour or two ago, I must be reverting back to my dependence on creature comforts. Bobbi strides over to a silver sedan, maybe five years old, it’s arguably the most generic car anyone could pick. Deep down, he doesn’t want to stick out. Maybe tensions between the Ghost River Reservation and the town’s folk of Vermillion are little more strained than I thought?
“My place is on the other end of town. It isn’t too far though.”
I open the passenger side door, and scrunch into the vehicle. My knees are uncomfortably close to my face; the phantom presence of a much shorter person’s habits lay imprinted in the seat position.
“The bar is on the front… yeah there. I think mom was the last one riding with me.”
Relief as the cushions slide backward, my legs no longer feeling like sardines in a can, the car chugs to life, as we pull out of the newest parking lot on the street. The historic buildings of Main Street slide past me, most are in excellent repair, fresh paint, clean stone, and brick. A quaint hand spun taffy and ice cream parlor in a royal blue building speed by, had things been different, this might have been a fun place to visit. Taking a deep oxygen-permeating sigh, I wish a lot of things were different.
Circling around me, her gaze unbroken.
My sense of reality is failing me, the shapeless monster seems more tangible than this boring sedan. Maybe, just maybe, a hot meal and some rest will help me make sense of it. Or maybe, just maybe, my nightmares are real and this world is imaginary.