Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

“But do you actually hear them, Dan?”

He pulled her close. “No, I’m not schizophrenic. They don’t really speak to me. I thought about it years ago and came to the conclusion that they were somehow. . well. . genetically implanted in me. It’s almost as if I really knew them. Actually, it answered a lot of questions I had about reincarnation and other unexplainable beliefs. Imagine, if you will, that our cells-our individual DNA-come with implanted memory from our ancestors. Tiny computer chips that contain the memory of the ages. I know it sounds far-fetched, but if such a thing actually happens, it would account for people who can speak foreign languages under hypnosis and remember places they’ve never been. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Nicole was silent for a moment. “We are them, you mean?”

“In a sense. We add our own experiences to their knowledge, but basically, we are the current rendition of all those who have created us and made us who we are. We can still choose to do different things, act differently, even deny our basic instincts, but we can never really escape our heritage. If one believes that. .” he said, pausing a moment to formulate his thoughts, “then it becomes important that we live so that our children and their children will benefit from our actions, rather than spend their energies trying to overcome whatever bad tendencies we’ve created. The theory could go in many directions, if you wanted to pursue it to its extreme. Psychologists could have a ball with it.”

“Is that something your grandfather taught you?” Nicole asked.

“No.” Dan laughed. “It’s vintage Rawlings Psychology 501-of my own making.”

Nicole stepped back to the Blazer and opened the door. “No time for philosophy tonight, Mr. Rawlings. We’ve got a tight timetable, but I think I understand your theory.”

They reentered the Blazer, then crested the mountain road and commenced down the other side. “One other thing, Nicole,” Dan said, anticipating Nicole’s thoughts. “I haven’t had my dream about Susan’s accident or any trouble sleeping for a couple of months now.”

She remained quiet, accepting Dan’s way of thanking her for entering his life and helping to put a troublesome and difficult memory to rest.

Reaching State Road 53, Dan turned north and began to search for the Anderson-Marsh Park Road. Several miles up that canyon there would be a side trail, Stevenson had told Nicole, which would be identified by a rusted bulldozer pushed off the side of the California Forestry Department’s fire trail. Finally, after making two passes, a small, faded sign reading Anderson-Marsh State Park appeared, and they turned off the gravel road onto a dirt fire trail. As dark as it was, only the glow from their headlights provided any guidance, and then only for short distances as the road broke left and right. Finally, after going about six miles, Nicole told Dan to stop and back up. Shining her flashlight to the side of the road, she spotted the broken bulldozer, now partially covered with brush and new growth.

“Can you turn around on this road? Stevenson said the trail was about a hundred yards farther south from this bulldozer, running east another three or four hundred yards to the cabin.”

Dan maneuvered the Blazer around and located the fire trail, following it slowly. Dan spotted the cabin first and angled the car so the headlights provided partial illumination.

“Let’s get the shovel and walk around back. It’s gonna be hard with everything so dark. Can you leave the headlights on?”

“Yeah, for awhile. We don’t want a dead battery up here at night.”

Behind the cabin, Nicole tried to identify the landmarks Stevenson had named, tripping over fallen logs and righting herself again.

“You okay?” Dan queried.

“It’s like being in a Halloween fun house-blindfolded.” Nicole stumbled on for a few more feet, calling to Dan as she located a pile of discarded four-by-eight corrugated tin roofing panels. “It’s under here, Dan. Help me move this stuff.”

After shifting the tin sheets, Dan started to dig in an area their flashlights illuminated as having a slightly discolored dirt surface. Only about eighteen inches down, he struck a metal box.

“Eureka!”

While Dan held the flashlight, Nicole knelt down and pried the lid off the tin box. Inside there were eight CD disks enclosed in plastic bubble wrap. Two disks were marked “Missouri” and two “Oregon.” Four of them read “California,” with progressive time notations on labels attached to each one.

“Let’s go,” Nicole said. “It’s getting cold.”

After they got in the Blazer, Dan slowly backed his way out of the clearing, then headed down the dirt road. Just before reaching the fire service trail, Dan suddenly stopped the Blazer and turned off the lights, once again engulfing them in darkness.

Nicole looked over at him. “Out of gas, Mr. Rawlings?”

Dan leaned forward without answering and stared through the windshield toward the mountain road where it joined State Road 53. “I thought I saw some lights through the trees.”

Nicole watched with him as lights could occasionally be seen flashing through the darkness as a vehicle proceeded up the road.

“I’m guessing there’s not usually traffic up here this late at night,” Dan said, starting up the Blazer again. Turning on just his parking lights to shine on the next few yards, he drove slowly toward the main fire trail. “I’m going to pull off into that small side-cut we passed, just short of the fire trail, until we see who these folks are.”

Turning off the engine, Dan and Nicole waited as the approaching lights grew brighter, appearing more frequently through the trees as they danced ever closer.

“They’ve passed the fire trail,” Dan said, prematurely. The vehicle stopped on the primary side road, its tail lights visible through the trees, and began to back up, much as Dan and Nicole had done twenty minutes earlier. Turning into the cabin trail, the vehicle, now clearly identifiable as an extended cab pickup, crept passed their hiding place, continuing up the road until it reached the cabin site and began shining a spotlight into the cabin yard. Dan and Nicole were close enough to hear voices through Nicole’s open window as several men got out of the pickup and headed for the house.

“It’s too much of a coincidence,” Dan said softly.

“That’s an understatement. Hide or run?” she said.

“If we’re trapped in this side trail, we’ve no escape. I vote we cut and run-then try to outdistance them on the mountain trail. I know that road pretty well.”

“You’re the guide. Let’s go,” Nicole replied.

The sound of the Chevy Blazer engine started the men near the cabin shouting to one another. Dan spun the tires, grabbing traction toward the fire trail. In his rearview mirror, he could see the men running through the headlights of their truck. Dan turned left onto the fire service trail, covering ground quickly and reaching Highway 53 in minutes. Turning south, he sped toward 29 and the entrance to the mountain trail that led back over into Rumsey Valley. A mile or two behind them, Dan could occasionally see the headlights of a vehicle.

“If we reach the mountain road, I think I can outdistance them. It’s about four miles farther on.”

Reaching the mountain road, Dan bounced the Blazer over the cattle guard and started the steep climb up toward the narrow pass on a road that became more of a switch-back the higher they went. He could still see the headlights behind them, sometimes across a canyon as they continued to outdistance their pursuers.

“We’ve got two choices. I can probably outrun them over the mountain, or we could take one of the side roads and lose them in the dark. They’d pass us, and we could retrace our steps back down toward Highway 29 and run on down to Calistoga.”