Bentley Little - The Burning

"Maybe we weren't meant to find him. Not us specifically."

"That's the thing," Jolene said. "I think we were."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Leslie thought for a moment. "I'll bet those voices from the graves were speaking Chinese."

"But what were they saying?" Jolene ran an exasperated hand through her hair. Her voice was still low so her mother and son could not hear, but there was an intensity there that Leslie had not seen before. "I feel like we're on the Titanic or something here and we can just see this little bitty piece of ice, but there's this big giant iceberg underneath it and it's going to rip our boat to shreds."

It was an apt metaphor and Leslie realized that it perfectly captured the way she felt, too. "But what can we do?"

"Sit tight and wait for it to hit."

"Or read as much as we can and prepare ourselves." Leslie moved onto the couch, scooted close to Jolene and opened the diary so they could both read.

Twenty-two

Canyonlands National Park, Utah

Henry left the burning burger in the frying pan on the stove and stood dumbly in front of the television. It was the end of the NBC Nightly News, the segment that usually featured a semihumorous puff piece in order to make the transition between the horror of world events and the glitzy superficiality of the following entertainment program a little less jarring. Today, however, it was one of those Robert Ripley-ish stories about bizarre human behavior and unexplainable events. He'd missed the first part of the piece, but a shot of Salt Lake City had captured his attention, and he'd tuned in, growing increasingly rapt as the story unfolded.

Apparently, Indian men from all over the country were making a pilgrimage to Utah. By plane, by train, by car, by bike, by foot, they were riding, driving, rolling and walking to the Beehive State from their various reservations. If there was a reason for this migration or a specific destination, the participants weren't telling, and the few men that the reporter tried to interview either refused to answer questions or claimed that they didn't know why they were participating in this lemminglike journey. According to the reporter, several wives in several states had filed police reports, unaware of this mass migration, knowing only that their spouses had apparently gone missing.

Gone missing.

When had the smoothly flowing "disappeared" changed into the awkward and grammatically suspect "gone missing?" Could a person really "go missing"? Henry had his doubts.

The piece ended with a promise that NBC news would keep viewers informed of this story as it continued to unfold.

Smelling the burning burger, Henry hurried back to the kitchenette and moved the frying pan to a cold section of the stove. He took a bun out of the package. Something about the bizarre pilgrimage seemed naggingly familiar to him-or, more correctly, seemed as though it should be familiar to him-and while he saw no real similarities, he was reminded of the strange events that had been happening at the park lately. Healey said there were rumblings of spooky occurrences at a few of the other national parks, though nothing as documented and definitely nothing of this magnitude. Perhaps there was some sort of curse affecting the whole nation, the psychic equivalent of a massive storm that covered vast geographic areas.

Indian blood talking again.

But did he have Indian blood and was it talking? For he felt no compulsion to start on a mysterious sojourn, to hop in his Jeep and take off down the highway or tie on his tennis shoes and start walking the roads.

Of course, he was already here in Utah, the travelers' ostensible destination.

He got ketchup out of the refrigerator, and mustard. Too lazy to slice onions and tomatoes, he plopped the burned patty on the bun, doused it with condiments and stood eating it over the counter. He glanced out the kitchen window, tilting his head to see sideways, looking at the spot where the train had been. There'd| been wind, as usual, before they'd made it out into| the desert to investigate, but not enough to erase the deep grooves that had been carved in the sand and stretched in a straight line toward the horizon.

Whatever the train had been, it was not merely a shade or phantom. It was corporeal; it existed in the physical world.

But what did it mean? What did any of it mean?

According to the news piece, some of the Indians were traveling to Utah by train. Was that the reason the train had appeared? He didn't think so. There --might be a connection, but if there was, it was something much more subtle and complicated, something he probably couldn't even grasp.

And it involved death.

Henry glanced at the television, where the news was over and cameras were recording the arrival of well-dressed stars at a Hollywood gala. He wished he were there ... or in Chicago ... or New York ... anyplace where there were a lot of people and so many electric lights that a permanent bubble of illumination kept the darkness of the natural world at bay. He smiled ironically, looking up at Sarah's photograph on the wall. He'd come around to her point of view after all.

Something passed in front of the television.

He jumped, startled, swiveling his head to look all around the cabin, but nothing was there. Only his furniture.

And a thick fuzzy shadow in the corner by the fireplace.

He sucked in his breath. The shadow moved, separated into two thinner shadows like a single-celled organism dividing in half. He recognized the two halves immediately. They were naked, they were female, and they were moving slowly toward him across the cabin.

The twins.

"No," Henry whispered.

But he had no willpower, and he pulled down his pants, and the shadows swirled around his growing organ, touching it but not touching it, until he was thrusting in the air and spurting onto his own tile floor.

And the shadows licked it up.

And grew darker.

He spent all the next day in the visitors' center, doing busy work. Everyone did. Ranger talks had been canceled, trails closed, and the backcountry declared off-limits to both hikers and off-roaders, who were to be redirected to Arches. All of their outdoor duties had been suspended until further notice. Healey was taking no chances, and Henry actually admired the superintendent for that. For all intents and purposes, Canyonlands was shut down, and it couldn't be easy on Healey with park officials from Washington breathing down his neck and demanding rational explanations that just weren't there.

They were all on edge, short-tempered with each other and frightened by every stray creak in the building's wooden floor. They were like soldiers under siege, trapped in a fort in hostile territory, and though Moab was only a few miles away, with gas stations and stores, fast-food restaurants and motels, it felt to him as though they were out in the wilderness, far, far away from civilization.

After work, to let off steam, he did drive into Moab, meeting Ector at the Boy Howdy for beers. But his friend was churlish and untalkative, the atmosphere in the normally laid-back bar seemed tense, as though a fight might break out at any second, and he ended up leaving after only about twenty minutes. On his way back through town, he glanced at the Chinese and Japanese restaurants, and shivered at the shadows thrown by the bonsai-shaped foliage and the orange setting sun.

Back at his cabin, he felt as though he were going stir-crazy. He'd always been comfortable here in Canyonlands. Ever since he'd started working at the park, he'd felt at home amid the stark beauty of the land, happy within the confines of his little cabin. But now he felt restless and ill at ease, and for the first time he wished he had a bigger place.