A Novel by Author FRED WIEHE
Copyright © 2001 by Fred Wiehe. All rights reserved.
Old George was a loner, a hermit, and even though he looked ancient—his face craggy, beard gray and grizzled, and gray hair tangled in knots and piled high on top his head—he was only fifty-two years old. Even so, everyone around Big Sur knew him as and called him Old George.
"There goes Old George," people would whisper and point. "You know...Old George is crazy."
But he paid them no mind. He’d smile his toothless smile and go about his business. In truth, he liked being the oddest character in a place full of odd characters. He liked being alone.
Today, as always, he was alone. But seconds ago a dark shadow had passed over him like the earth during a solar eclipse. This shadow, however, hadn’t been the result of an external force, as the moon blocking the rays of the sun. This shadow originated from deep within him—a dark and obscured sense of dread. There was no one around, but he inexplicably didn’t feel alone. He felt as if someone or something watched his every move.
With that thought, a chill stepped onto the staircase of his spine. Its cold feet rocked him with an uncontrollable shiver.
He stood on his porch and stared out across his valley, searching. Something gave him the willies. As expected, he didn’t see anyone or anything. He never had visitors, and a bobcat or mountain lion would keep its distance and stay hidden.
He lived two thousand feet above sea level, in the Santa Lucia Mountains—a rugged mountain range that exploded abruptly out of the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean, trending northwest to southeast, parallel with the California coastline. More years ago than he cared to remember, he discovered this small, quiet valley tucked between two steep ridges. The ridges and valley ran perpendicular to the main ridge—the Coast Ridge—that fronted much of the immediate coastline. The only access to the valley was a narrow road winding its way along the edge of steep ridges and dipping down into deep canyons like a roller coaster constructed of dirt and rock. This roller coaster continually climbed for over nine miles from Highway 1. It was here, on a small patch of flat land nestled between the ridges and hidden by the main ridge to the west, that he had built this ranch.
The one-story ranch house faced northwest, looking out across the valley, toward the east-facing slope of the Coast Ridge. He had used split redwood logs for the walls, asphalt slates for the roof, bricks for the chimney and fireplace, and wooden planks for the large porch out front. The barn faced southeast, opposite the ranch house, and opened into a corral situated between the two. For the barn and the corral, having run out of money, he had used whatever lumber he could cut or scrape together.
The ranch had looked brand spanking new and prosperous back then though, probably more than thirty years ago. Now it looked as old and rundown as he himself. The redwood logs and planks of wood were diseased with dry rot. Bricks were chipped or missing from the chimney like rotting teeth in a decay-riddled mouth. The roof had bald patches where slates used to be. The barn and corral looked arthritic.
The inside of the ranch house was no better off. There were only two rooms, furnished with nothing more than a Civil War army cot, a wooden table with an amputated leg, an upholstered chair that looked as if it had been attacked by Jack the Ripper, and a rust-infected wood-burning stove. The artwork of spiders, an arrangement of cardboard boxes that contained supplies or garbage, woodpile sculptures, and a menagerie of empty beer and whiskey bottles decorated both rooms. The door between the two rooms had broken off its hinges long ago and now rested in a dead state against one wall. Bricks had mysteriously vanished from the fireplace. The ceiling, shot full of holes by a drunken madman, leaked when it rained. Years of dripping rainwater warped and stained the wood-planked floor below. Electricity hadn't yet been invented that far up in the mountains. Plumbing didn't exist either; he used the great outdoors as his bathroom, and the closest water supply was a stream that ran through a deep gorge beyond the next ridge to the south.
However, the land surrounding the ranch was still as beautiful as the day he had picked this spot to build on. From the first day he saw it, he believed it was truly God's country. He also believed that God couldn’t make up His mind, so He created a collage of terrain, microclimates, animals, plants, trees, and colors where mountain met ocean. The dense forest that covered the north-facing slope behind the ranch house was a flamboyant mixture of colors and smells. There were madrone with red-orange bark and glossy green leaves, tanoak with spiraling branches and the silvery sheen of its wind-rustled leaves, live oak with its sturdy branches and bowl shaped leaves, California bay with long, narrow leaves that emitted an intense, almost nauseating, fragrance, and the Santa Lucia fir with drooping branches and sharply pointed needles, all mixing with, and eventually giving way to, a lush evergreen forest of Coulter and ponderosa pines at the top of the ridge. In contrast, the south-facing slope behind the barn looked more like a desert, with the low-growing cover of sagebrush and deerweed, the stiff, stubby branches of chaparral, and the candlelike stalks of yucca plants growing in the dry, rocky soil. Three live oak trees poked up out of the side of the slope but resembled large bushes more than trees and were barely taller than a person. At the top of the ridge, brown grass waved in the breeze. The valley floor around the ranch house, corral, and barn was dry and arid like the south-facing slope. The land consisted mostly of dirt, rock, sagebrush, and chaparral. Farther west, grass gradually took over, with large blue and valley oaks dotting the landscape. The oak trees were old, with elaborate labyrinths of thick, gnarly branches. The bluish-green leaves of the blue oaks and the dark green leaves of the valley oaks contrasted sharply with the sea of brown summer grass all around them. Eventually the oak trees and grass disappeared into the dense stand of hardwo
od trees that covered the east-facing slope of the Coast Ridge. The west-facing slope of the Coast Ridge was a continuous series of smaller ridges, canyons, and rolling hills. The ridge stooped forward, diving down three thousand feet until finally giving way to blue-green ocean. From the top of the Coast Ridge, he could see Highway 1—a narrow ribbon of road zigzagging along the edge of the mountain—and the rugged coastline beyond. On clear days the sun set on a beautiful horizon of sparkling salt water. Other days thick fog banks rolled in like giant, white blankets and completely covered the world below.
Now, standing on his porch, looking for anything out of the ordinary, searching for signs of an intruder but seeing none, he was unable to determine the reason for the bone-chilling eclipse within him. The air was dry. The day was hot. Everything looked the same.
Old George stepped off the porch. But after only two steps toward the corral, he stopped abruptly. He stood very still and alert, like a black-tailed jackrabbit sensing the danger of a stalking coyote. Suddenly, he understood what was wrong. Everything wasn’t the same, after all. It was too quiet. The usual sounds of animals and birds were mysteriously missing: The woodpecker that nested in the woodlands on the north-facing slope wasn’t busy drilling holes; the steady tap tap tap didn’t echo through the valley. Gone was the scurrying sound of rodents, lizards, or snakes in the sagebrush and chaparral. Hawks, usually perching in nearby trees or soaring overhead like kites without string, weren’t in sight and didn’t call out with their familiar kkeeeeer. The single note toot of the mountain quail was silent, as were the cheery songs of the wrens, thrashers, and meadowlarks.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Someone—or something—was in his valley that shouldn't be there. Watching him.
He had had this feeling before, recently, only a couple of days ago. But it came to nothing. He had started to think that his life as a hermit, the life he had always cherished so much, was beginning to make him paranoid.
Screwing up his courage, he walked toward the corral with slow, deliberate steps. His mule, Maybelle, met him at the railing. She nuzzled his arm with her nose. Old George nervously patted her, then pulled a sugar cube from the pocket of his dirty overalls.
"That's my girl," he said as Maybelle took the cube from his hand. He watched her greedily eat. "Good girl." He patted her again. Maybelle seemed herself, not skittish or scared.
But still the dark shadow cast itself across his soul, and his bones ached as if intensely cold. He couldn’t shake the eerie feeling of being watched.
He turned away from Maybelle and leaned back against the corral. Shielding his eyes against the bright sun, he looked westward, searching for some sign of life. But all he could see were a few cows far off in the distance, slowly making their way across the valley. He shook his head, feeling sorry for the cows. He knew the only grass the cows could find this time of year would be brown, dry, and dead. His property wasn’t much as ranches go, and he wasn’t much of a rancher. He only kept cows on his property for appearances, so no one would question where he got his money to live on.
Old George turned around. Maybelle had gone back inside the barn. He could see her rump and swishing tail just inside the large doorway. The rest of her was hidden in shadows.
He scratched at his beard with a nervous hand. He looked out to the east, carefully scanning the southeast ridge and the narrow canyon that led into his small valley. There was no sign of life—human or animal. There were no watching eyes.
As he stared eastward, the dark shadow lifted. The sun on his back thawed his bones, and he began to relax. His mind drifted from paranoid thoughts to memories of excursions into the interior of the mountain range. Beyond his valley, the mountain rose in a chaotic series of steep ridges, jagged mountain tops, deep canyons, and swift flowing rivers and streams until finally reaching almost six thousand feet within the Los Padres National Forest. It was there, deep within the backcountry of the Ventana Wilderness, that he and Maybelle had found the lost Indian gold.
Old George jumped. He heard Maybelle snort and kick inside the barn as if suddenly afraid. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and although it had to be at least ninety degrees, he shivered. The dark shadow was upon him again. His bones instantly froze.
Again, he sensed watching eyes.
He felt sick to his stomach, like a landlubber on the open sea, ready to vomit with every movement of the ship. He turned slowly around, all the while praying to God that he was wrong, that he was alone.
Old George's breath caught in his throat. He shivered again and choked back burning bile. Maybelle continued to snort and kick but stayed in the barn. He wasn’t alone, after all. A lynx sat not more than twenty feet away. Its yellow-red eyes stared intently at him, and its long, tufted ears twitched as it listened to Maybelle's commotion. But, otherwise, it didn’t move.
He couldn't believe his eyes. He had seen many bobcats, although not so close up, through the years. This, however, was not a bobcat. This wild cat was larger than any bobcat, and even larger than most lynx. It had long, gangly legs, big feet, and a broad ruffed face.
What the hell was a lynx doing here, though? He was sure they usually didn’t range this far south. He thought they usually stayed up north, around Montana and up into Canada, where their favorite meal, the snowshoe hare, was plentiful.
At that moment, however, whether it was a lynx or not didn’t matter. What mattered was that his Browning Rifle was inside the ranch house, a good thirty feet away.
Old George choked back more bile as he took two hesitant side steps away from the corral. The lynx shifted its position slightly, keeping its strange eyes fixed on him but made no attempt to pounce. Old George took two more side steps before turning his back on the wild cat and walking as slowly and deliberately as possible back to the ranch house. He knew enough not to run. If he ran or showed fear, the lynx would immediately attack.
Hiding fear, however, and not giving off the odor of fear were two different things. He kept his pace slow and easy, just like taking a leisurely stroll through a field of wildflowers, but he couldn’t stop sweating. Sweat exuded from every pore and with it, he was sure, the odor of fear.
Although he couldn’t hear the lynx, in his mind's eye he could see it padding silently behind him, ready to pounce, eager to kill with a precisely placed bite to the neck. His neck. He could almost feel the fangs stabbing into his flesh. Within three steps of the porch, he decided his only chance was to run, after all. But now that he made that decision, he wasn't sure he could. His old hiking boots seemed to turn into cement blocks, and he could hardly keep his legs moving.
Old George swallowed hard. He dared not turn around. He dared not look. The lynx might almost be on top of him.
After taking one step up onto the porch, he lunged for the door in a mad rush. He hit the door with his shoulder, forcing it open and crashing to the floor inside. From the floor, he kicked back at the door and slammed it shut.
The lynx hit the door with a thud.
He lay on the floor, breathing hard, trying not to shake. He had been right. The lynx had been behind him, playing a strange game of cat-and-mouse, and he had been the mouse. He could hear it now, outside on the porch, hissing and spitting over losing the game.
Then he remembered the windows. There was no glass in the windows, just wooden doors that swung shut and bolted from the inside. But they were open.
He hurried to his feet, knowing it wouldn't take long for the lynx to find the open windows. First, he grabbed the Browning from where it leaned against the wall and cocked the lever. Then he cautiously approached the first window, glancing out for just a second before slamming the door and bolting it shut. After doing the same with each of the four remaining windows, he began to relax. Actually, he was proud of himself. After all these years, he still had some fight left in him. He had beaten the lynx, won the game.
Even so, he needed a drink.
Old George searched through every box and cupboard in the ranch house, hoping to find hard liquor but willing to settle for a warm beer. He found nothing at all. Nothing to take the edge off. Nothing to celebrate his victory with. His only chance for a drink was to go in to Sur City or the Big Sur Valley. But the pickup truck, an old '79 Chevy, was parked behind the barn. And the wild cat stood between him and his means to salvation.
Although he no longer heard sounds from the lynx, he waited before venturing outside. But after an hour, the desperate need for a drink finally won out over fear. He slowly opened the door and took two hesitant steps out onto the porch; the Browning Rifle cocked and pointed out in front of him. He wasn't a great shot, but he figured he could hit that big lynx if it came charging at him—that is, if his nerve held. But he didn't see the lynx. He sidestepped down the porch. His hiking boots sounded like the heavy hoof beats of a Clydesdale against the wooden planks. When he reached the corner of the house, he peered around it.
No lynx.
He looked out toward the corral and barn. Maybelle was back out in the corral, placid, as if never having been disturbed. The only sign the lynx ever existed was its wide, smudged tracks in the dirt between the corral and the porch.
In a bold move, Old George hurried off the porch. He trotted toward the barn. His head and the barrel of the rifle swiveled back and forth in anticipation of the lynx jumping out of some dark corner where it might be hiding, ready to pounce. He safely made it to the Chevy pickup, swung open the door and quickly climbed inside. The keys hung from the ignition, like always. He switched on the engine, threw the truck into gear, and exploded from behind the barn in a cloudburst of dirt and rock.
He drove the roller coaster of a dirt road like a stock-car racer in his prime: He barely slowed down for the twist and turns, and at times the Chevy pickup hung precariously on the edge of steep mountain ridges. He sped past grazing cows, never noticing the breathtaking view of dry, arid mountain slopes. He didn't even glance at the sun—a big orange ball—that simultaneously lit up the sky and the Pacific waters as it began to settle on the horizon below. He pushed the limits of the narrow road, breaking speeds of twenty and thirty miles an hour, unheard of on that narrow and dangerous road. His mind was on the lynx he left behind and the drink waiting ahead.
He didn't begin to slow and notice the beauty around him until descending into a forest of hardwood trees—tanoaks, California bay, live oaks, and madrone. The understory was shrubby, thick with poison oak, California coffeeberry, gooseberries, the delicate blossoms of hound's tongue, and the showy purple and white blossoms of the Douglas' iris. Within this beautiful forest, he began to relax. By the time he saw small redwoods, he still needed the drink but thought about the lynx less and less. As he reached the canyon bottom, the cool breeze and the gentle sound of running water filled him with a renewed serenity. Now the lynx behind him and the drink ahead of him were both completely gone from his thoughts. He slammed a door on the memory of the lynx just as he had the real wild cat and his surroundings refreshed him, as no alcohol could.
The narrow road ran parallel with the fast-moving stream. He saw tall, straight-growing sycamores and much smaller white alders cluttering the stream bank with a dense and brambly understory of vines, shrubs, and wild fern. A soft breeze rustled the alders' silvery-looking leaves. Redwoods towered overhead on the other side of the road and up the canyon wall. A few California bay and tanoak mixed in with the redwoods mid-way up the canyon wall where a small amount of sunlight could fight its way through the redwood canopy.
This was his idea of heaven. Could anything harm him here?
The road followed the stream for less than half a mile before turning away. The canyon widened and the road wound its way through a stand of pure redwoods. The ground was flat and nearly bare of understory here, where the sunlight couldn’t infiltrate through the dense canopy overhead. There was only a thick, soft layer of duff—organic material dropped by the trees.
Old George pulled the Chevy pickup off the road. He parked the truck beside the massive trunk of a redwood and shut off the engine. Sitting behind the wheel with the window down, he listened for signs of life.
The forest was quiet, seemingly devoid of animal life. But this didn’t cause the bone-chilling eclipse to cast its dark shadow across his soul again. He knew from years of living in Big Sur that the lack of understory deterred both herbivores and the predators that usually fed upon them. Redwood groves were dark places of solitude, where only banana slugs, salamanders, newts, and a few lizards lived. At night shrews and mice might become active and attract the attention of a great horned owl. But, although it was dark with shade in the forest, it was not yet night. The scurrying sound of rodents couldn’t be heard yet, and the great horned owls were still sleeping.
Slowly, he opened the truck door and stepped out onto the soft duff. He took the rifle with him. Although his surroundings calmed and refreshed him, he wouldn’t soon let his friend, Mr. Browning, stray too far from his side again. The feeling of being watched had passed, but the fear he had felt when running from the lynx still lived deep within him. Granted, behind a slammed door. But still there.
He let the door of the truck stand open as he strolled through the redwoods back the way he had come, toward the stream. The urge to taste the cool water of the stream is what caused him to stop his hasty flight from the mountain. He was aware that the water around Big Sur was no longer as fresh as it once was. He knew that cattle and human excrement contaminated some of the rivers and streams. But, still, he never bothered boiling the water or using germicidal tablets before drinking it. In thirty years or more, the water had never made him sick. It had never given him cramps or intestinal disorders. And at that moment, he believed the cool stream water would be the finishing touch to what the redwood forest had already begun. He believed it would release him completely from the dark eclipse that had been inside him.
As Old George approached the stream bank, he became aware of sounds in the forest. Not just the water of the stream rushing over rocks but animals as well. Although he couldn’t see them, he heard scurrying in the vines, shrubs, and fern along the stream bank, probably snakes, or crayfish hurrying back into the safety of the water. A Steller's jay let out with a raucous outburst, alerting the entire area of an unwanted intruder. He assumed that he was that intruder.
Old George stopped when his hiking boots sunk into mud, and the toes submerged under water. He hunkered down, setting down his rifle in the brush, eager for the rejuvenating taste of the cool water. He cupped his hands in the water and carefully brought a sample to his lips. In mid-drink the Steller's jay let out with another piercing screech, causing him to choke on the water and spit most of it back up, some through his nose. When the Steller's jay screeched again, he somehow knew that he was not the intruder giving the bird concern.
His bones instantly chilled. His soul experienced another eclipse, darkening his mood, his thoughts. He, again, had the feeling of being watched and discreetly reached for the Browning, then slowly stood. He turned around. He hoped the warning call of the Steller's jay meant nothing. He hoped the cold darkness that had come over him meant nothing. He hoping he was alone.
The lynx stood within a stone throw of him. The wild cat hissed and snarled, showing off its daggerlike fangs. Old George stiffened, as if the wild cat was Medusa and meeting its burning yellow-red eyes had turned him into a granite statue.
The damn thing had somehow followed him. But how?
The lynx snarled again. It meant business. No cat-and-mouse game this time. He was sure it meant to eat him.
That thought shattered the hold the wild cat's stare had on him. He no longer felt made of granite. He could move again.
Before the lynx could pounce, he found his nerve, grabbed the Browning, and quickly cocked it. In one swift move he brought the rifle up to his shoulder and, without really aiming, fired.
The single blast of the Browning echoed through the forest. The lynx flipped up into the air. It came down on its back, rolled, and scrambled to its feet. But before he even thought of cocking again, the lynx quickly limped off into the cover of the trees and brush.
Old George didn't waste time. He took off, running for the Chevy pickup faster than he ever dreamed was possible—maybe faster than Jim Brown running for a touchdown, maybe faster than Jesse Owens running the 100 meters at the 1936 Olympics. Within four feet of the truck, he vaulted for the open door, landing on the seats headfirst. He scrambled into a sitting position as quickly as he could. He reached out with one hand, pulling the door closed behind him, while his other hand turned the key in the ignition. The back tires kicked up duff and dirt as he punched the gas and backed out onto the road.
The lynx effectively shattered the feeling of serenity and peace the redwood forest had given him. The need to escape and the burning desire for a stiff drink were, again, uppermost in his mind as he switched on the headlights, shifted into drive, and punched the gas again. He didn't slow the truck down until after climbing out of the canyon and emerging from the woodlands, back onto barren slopes.
The sun, just barely kissing the horizon, had not yet submerged itself beneath the ever-growing dark Pacific Ocean. But it could only light up the immediate water and sky around it. Looking at it, from more than a thousand feet up, the sun resembled a night-light in an otherwise dark room. Still, he believed he could see better than he had back beneath the shadows of the forest.
Slowly, the truck followed the zigzagging road down the west-facing slope of the Coast Ridge. The headlights illuminated the dark, skeletal shapes of the chaparral and coastal scrub that crowded the road. And behind each bonylike shrub, he was sure he saw the broad ruffed face of his adversary.
He desperately needed that drink.
When he reached Highway 1, the night-light in the horizon switched off. The world now looked as if it ended abruptly into pitch-black, unending space rather than the large expanse of ocean that he knew was out there.
But he was safe. Surely, the lynx wouldn't follow down this far, would it?
He stopped the truck at the end of the dirt road where it met Highway 1. As he sat behind the wheel, debating on whether to go north in to the Big Sur Valley or south in to Sur City or Lucia, he rolled up his window. The day up in the mountains had been hot and dry. But down there—close to the ocean, with the sun gone—the air was cold and damp. Besides, what if the lynx did—somehow, magically—follow him. Sitting still, with the window open, seemed an open invitation to be eaten.
Old George switched on the heater, cursing himself for not bringing a jacket. His head swiveled northward, then southward, unable to make up his mind.
He didn't like Lucia. It was too far away. The food was bad. The beer was warm. And the liquor was watered down. He wanted to go in to the Big Sur Valley. It was situated almost two miles inland and separated from the ocean by a large ridge so it was warmer there. He liked the River Inn or the cozy cocktail lounge at the Fernwood Resort. But it seemed so far, and the need for a drink burned inside him. The encounter with the lynx, although he had come out on top again, had shredded his nerves completely away, until he was nothing but cold, shaking bones.
He turned the heater up.
Nepenthe was just before the Big Sur Valley, not quite as far as the River Inn or Fernwood. But it was cold there, being so close to the ocean and perched precariously on top of the coastal ridge. Besides, he didn't feel in the mood for Nepenthe's higher class of clientele—tourists munching on Ambrosia burgers and sipping imported beer.
That left Sur City. It, too, floated above the rough, jagged coastline, offering an almost unearthly daytime view of the ocean. It, too, was frigid. But it was less than a mile to the south.
He had made up his mind and turned left, heading south on Highway 1. Although the heater was running full blast, he shivered. His cold bones ached with the need for alcohol. He took solace, however, in knowing that he would soon be nursing a drink in Sur City.
Sur City was not really a city at all. It was a gas station, a few rundown cabins meant for tourist rental, and one long building housing The Sur City General Store and Video Rental, Barto's Bar and Grill, and Big Sur Mementos. All three places of business shared common walls and connecting doors. Edward Barto, founder and owner of the entire city, and his family had lived in the living quarters above the businesses. At one time Sur City had been one of Old George’s favorite places. That was before Ed Barto and his family had mysteriously disappeared. That was when Barto's Bar and Grill had served as a familiar and cozy place for locals to congregate. But one afternoon, not more than three months ago, he had driven in to Sur City and found things had changed. Changed so much that he thought he had entered that time and space known on the television of his youth as the Twilight Zone. While rediscovering the small community, he had imagined hearing Rod Serling's voice and the familiar theme song playing through his head.
The Sur City General Store and Video Rental and the Big Sur Mementos had both been there. However, he hadn’t recognized any of the employees. Gert and Jim, who for more than twenty years had run the general store and video rental for Ed Barto, had vanished. Hank, a fixture at the gas station, and Doris, who worked in the memento shop, had also left with no trace. Young faces he had never seen before had replaced them all—faces with eyes that looked at him in a weird sort of way and made him feel uneasy.
But Barto's Bar and Grill had been the biggest shock of all. It was now called The Den, and the once quaint and warm atmosphere inside had changed as well. The new name hadn’t referred to a comfortable, secluded room found in someone's home, with walls of books and a cozy fire burning in the fireplace. The Den had proven to be cavernous and dark, like the lair of a wild animal. The shades were drawn, as if sunlight was something to fear. Two neon signs behind the bar and votive candles in ruby-red glass bowls on each tabletop provided the only light. The heads of predatory beasts—wolves, mountain lions, lynx, grizzly bears, black bears, coyotes, and bobcats—hung from the walls. Their glassy eyes had peered through the dark, reflecting the eerie-red light of the votive candles.
From that time on, Old George had never seen Ed Barto, his family, or the other familiar faces of Sur City again. He had never asked any of the new faces what had happened or where those people had gone. But he had always suspected that the new bartender everyone called Lucan had bought Sur City. He had then assumed that everyone had moved away.
Old George parked the Chevy pickup in a space right outside The Den. He stepped outside the truck, then peered back in at the rifle resting on the floor. He hated to leave it in the truck but knew Mr. Browning would not be welcomed inside the bar. So, he slammed the door and hurried up onto the wooden deck, eager to escape the cold Pacific air. He swung the door open and stepped inside The Den. The air inside was as frigid as outside. He shivered as new goose bumps prickled up and down his bare arms. Convinced that only a stiff dose of alcohol could thaw his chilled bones, and with his eyes already adjusted to the dark, he went directly to the bar.
Lucan stepped out of the dark shadows behind the bar. Old George started at the sight of him, not just from being surprised but also from the way Lucan looked. The bartender was tall and gaunt, with hallowed cheeks. He had thick, white hair, swarthy skin, and bushy, white eyebrows that met over the bridge of a greeklike nose. His deep-set eyes seemed to glow in the dark, resembling the eyes of an animal in the night.
"Good evening," Lucan said. He used a white towel to wipe the bar as he smiled, showing sharp, yellow teeth. "What can I get you, tonight?"
"Old Crow…straight up," Old George answered. He looked away, trying to avoid Lucan's strange eyes. At first, he focused on Lucan's hands as the bartender poured his drink. But the long, horny nail of Lucan's left thumb resembled the talon of a beast and the sight of it made him uneasy, so he had to look away. He scratched at his beard with a nervous hand while looking around the room, hoping to appear nonchalant. But all around him were the staring, glowing eyes of dead animals.
Old George shivered. His blood ran cold. A dark shadow eclipsed his soul. He turned back toward Lucan, but the bartender had disappeared. The glass of Old Crow rested on the bar, in front of him. He grasped the glass with both hands and gulped it down in one swallow. Even with the bourbon gone, he hung on to the empty glass, clinging to it in the same manner a drowning man would cling to a lifeline thrown from the deck of a ship.
Someone was watching him. He could feel it. The same way he had felt the presence of the lynx at his ranch. It wasn't just the glassy eyes of severed heads mounted on the walls all around him. He was sure these eyes belonged to someone that was alive.
An icy shiver of fear streaked up his spine. Gooseflesh revisited his bare arms. Instantly, he realized he was a fool to come there. After all that had happened, this should have been the last place in Big Sur to take refuge. Each time he came, he swore never to return. But for some unexplainable reason, he always did.
Old George set the glass down, releasing his death-grip. He desperately wanted another drink, but instead stood on unsteady legs and turned to leave. But he stopped cold. For the first time, he noticed the emptiness of bar. No customers. Not at the bar. None sitting at the tables. No waitresses either. And Lucan hadn’t reappeared.
Had it been this way when he arrived? If so, he hadn't noticed. The burning need for a drink must have been too strong.
Old George hurried for the door, his legs no longer weak with fear but strong with the need to escape. It was all so damn strange. And although The Den looked empty, he still had the overwhelming feeling that someone watched.
Outside, the night was cold and clear. Bright stars peered down from the heavens above, looking like diamonds against a backdrop of black velvet. Looking up into the sky, he imagined the sliver of moon as a slight tear in the fabric, exposing a small amount of the light of God that must lie beyond. The rhythmic sound of the surf, crashing against the rocks two hundred feet below, periodically shattered the otherwise quiet night. Like inside the bar, no one was around, and the beauty of the Big Sur night gave him renewed courage. He was under God's sky, and he took a deep breath of God's air.
Old George got in the truck and started the engine. He stared at the rifle on the floor next to him. Yes, he was in God's country, but God protected those who protected themselves. He thanked God for the Browning as he switched on the headlights and backed out of the parking space. He drove north toward the Big Sur Valley, determined to get another drink, this time in the friendly atmosphere of the Fernwood cocktail lounge. But after less than a mile, a dark shape darted into the beam of his headlights. He slammed on the brakes. Even over the high-pitched squeal of the tires, he heard the loud thump of the Chevy pickup hitting whatever had run into the road.
Old George sat very still. He clutched the steering wheel with both hands. He couldn't believe he had hit something—the topper to a terrible day. He threw the gear into park and hurried out of the truck in the hope he hadn't killed what had appeared to be a large dog.
He stood in the beam of the light, searching the road for the injured dog. But he saw nothing. No sign of an animal. Alive or dead.
Then, he heard the menacing growl. Low and guttural. Behind him. Back by the truck.
He slowly turned. The beam of the headlights struck him in the eyes, blinding him. But the menacing growl grew louder, almost deafening.
He took two steps backward.
The growling thing stayed on the side of the truck. Out of the light. Hidden by the cover of darkness.
Old George quickly turned away. He ran up the highway, cursing himself for leaving the Browning back in the truck and simultaneously praying to God for help.
But God helps those who help themselves.
He had doomed himself with his own carelessness.
Old George ran even faster than he had back in the redwood forest, but the growling thing still gained on him. He could hear the clicking sound its paws made on the pavement, loping behind him, apparently sure of its ability to bring him down at will. Soon more clicking sounds—more paws—joined in, until it sounded as if a whole pack of the growling things were pursuing him.
He picked up the pace, running until his breath froze in his lungs, and his legs cramped with fatigue. He collapsed by the side of the road and crawled on his hands and knees to the edge of the cliff. Below, lay jagged rocks and crashing surf. He sat at the edge of the cliff. Searing pains stabbed at his chest as he struggled to breathe. He prayed for the sight of an oncoming car but no headlights appeared around the bend.
God helps those who help themselves.
The dark, indistinguishable shapes of the growling things formed a semicircle around him. Bright-red eyes stared at him from out of the darkness. He forced himself to his feet. His rubbery legs almost gave way, but somehow he stood firm. He was going to die. He knew that. But he would not let these things, these demons, eat him alive, and steal his soul. He turned his back on the pack of demons. But before he could jump, one landed on his back. Together, they flew over the edge. As Old George fell the last thing he felt was the sharp pain of canine teeth stabbing into his neck and throat.
Continued in
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