by K. F. Baugh
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Desert of the Damned Chapter One
Valley Of The Broken
K. F. Baugh
Contents
Also by K. F. Baugh
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Untitled
Desert of the Damned
Desert of the Damned Chapter One
Appendix
About the Author
Also by K. F. Baugh
Miss You Once Again
Granny Bob's Homestyle Cooking:
Recipes With a Southern Flavor
Copyright © 2017 by Kelly Baugh
In association with Garden City Productions and Publications (gardencityproject.com).
Cover design by Damonza (damonza.com).
ISBN 978-1977673046
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
- Hamlet (1.5.167-8),
Hamlet to Horatio
Acknowledgments
This book nearly died several times and owes its existence to a fantastic group of rescuers.
My special thanks to the Here Be Dragons Writing Group: Andy, Ben, Joe and Josh. The flame was almost dead when I joined up with you guys; thanks for bringing it back to life. Your expertise and encouragement has been my writing salvation.
Thank you Chris Bassett for helping me understand what trauma victims go through in the aftermath of their experiences. Thank you Dominic Henry and Jaci Wells for reading through my manuscript for any cultural insensitivities or inaccuracies. Thank you Teresa Schuemann for explaining the complexities of small town law enforcement and rescue operations (although I’m sure I still didn’t get it quite right). Thank you Kerrie Flanagan for your support and advice on publishing; you are a fountain of wisdom.
Thank you also to the members of my family (both natural and naturalized) who have supported me in a plethora of ways: Mom and Dad, Katie and Dave, Joey and Lauren, Jon and Laura, Dave and Sharilyn. Also, Jennifer Kutzik, Jeannine Davison, Lesley Bodley, Jenny Sundstedt, Chuck Harrelson, and April Moore. Thank you Haddie for reading through the final(ish) draft and giving it to me straight up. Thank you Gideon for always making me laugh. And thank you Jim for everything--you make all this possible.
Lastly, thank you Gothic, Colorado for being so quirky that you spawned the imaginings of this book. And are you really sure it’s just the marmots … really?
Chapter One
None of them noticed it at first, as the noise wove itself into the fabric of normal night sounds. Emily heard the rustling of sleeping bags and the sighs of Gus, her bearlike, shaggy dog, as he cuddled next to her and her brother Daniel. From outside the tent came the murmur of her parents’ voices while they drank their beers by the flickering campfire.
Slowly the sound worked its way into the tent, a strange guttural grunt followed by a snarl. Gus tensed and answered with a growl of his own.
“What’s that?” Daniel sat up in his sleeping bag. “A wolf?”
“No, there aren’t any wolves here.” Emily struggled to roll over in her child’s sleeping bag. It was almost too small for her lanky nine-year old frame.
“But it sounds like a wolf.” Daniel inched closer to her.
Emily sighed. They went through this every time her parents took them camping, even though Daniel was seven now and should have known better. “Remember what Dad said? That all the animals are more scared of us than we are of them.”
“But look at Gus. He’s really angry.”
“It’s probably just a—”
Hackles raised, the dog scrambled to his feet and crept along the edge of the tent, eerily illuminated by the campfire light. Despite the increasing intensity of Gus’s growls, Emily also noticed her parents had fallen silent.
“Get in the tent, Sara.” Her father’s voice cut through the darkness, loud and sharp.
“Oh my God,” Emily’s mother gasped. “Where’s the gun? No, NO!”
Her mother’s screams twisted around the terrible roars until Emily could no longer distinguish one from the other. Gus launched himself through the rainfly, zippers ripping aside at the force of his leap.
“Mom, DAD!” Emily struggled to escape the tight cocoon of the sleeping bag, her fingers searching frantically for the zipper she couldn’t see.
“I’m coming, Mom!” Daniel cried, and Emily saw his backlit form scramble through the billowing tent opening. Emily found the zipper and jerked hard, but it jammed. She thrashed and writhed, trying to escape the material that held her in its unyielding embrace. Her family’s wails of pain and fear tore through the air, and the light of the campfire suddenly vanished.
“Daniel, where are you? Come back!” Emily cried, but Gus’s barking drowned out her fear-weakened voice. Something battered the side of the tent, then leapt up barking. Emily finally kicked the sleeping bag free, and Gus’s barks ended in a high-pitched squeal, followed by the popping sound of the tent p
oles giving way. Silky nylon smothered Emily’s face, and a heavy weight landed on her chest, crushing the breath from her lungs.
She tried to scream as pain collapsed the left side of her body, but no sound escaped her gasping mouth. A dark chuckle echoed in the haunting silence. When the nylon slipped from her face, Emily blinked, trying to make out the towering form before her, but her blurred vision made it impossible. An opaque mass came closer and closer. Lights exploded in her eyes before blackness overcame them. She was blind.
The pain that had raged along her left leg, arm, and rib cage ebbed, now replaced with a gentle warmth. A strange detachment enveloped Emily, and the terror of moments before waned.
Even though she couldn’t see, her remaining senses took over. She heard a blast of wind whip through the pine trees. Tent fabric tickled her forehead and tucked around her. Shivers of heat tingled through her dead-weight limbs. Whispers came from behind, then moved to surround her. Emily felt weightless; up, up she floated, leaving the carnage of the campsite far below.
The whispers dimmed when howls of rage echoed from far away. The layers of nylon untangled from around Emily’s face. Something soft like feathers or petals brushed her cheek and then gently tugged her mouth open. When a ragged breath stabbed through her lungs, Emily blinked, and the faint white light of the moon slowly came back into focus.
Silvery figures, pulsing with internal light, danced along the edge of her vision. The wind gusted over her face, and Emily’s eyelids grew heavy. The light of the broken half-moon faded, and darkness overwhelmed her.
Ten Years Later …
“Stop, Gus.” Sage tried to push the dog back to the foot of her bed, but he nudged and strained against her outstretched arms until Sage finally slumped back against her pillow and succumbed to his frenzied licking.
“Enough.” Firmly tugging the dog to her side, Sage reached down and pulled the threadbare blanket up from where it had tangled around her ankles. As it settled around the two of them, the shaggy dog finally gave a contented sigh and relaxed against her.
“Did I wake you up? You don’t have to be my sleep guardian, you know. The dreams always pass.”
Gus replied with something halfway between a snort and a growl.
“Fine.” Sage rolled over and plumped her pillow. Feathers strained through the worn seams and pricked at her fingers. She swallowed, then winced at the pain in her raw throat. “Was I screaming? Is that why you woke me?”
Gus didn’t answer this time, and Sage tried to remember the dim images. They flashed like snapshots in her mind, then disappeared, as they always did. The color and terror were already starting to fade away, like those brightly colored prayer flags the tourists left on the mountain tops. It only took a few weeks of the altitude-intensified sun for the things to look like washed out rags.
Unable to keep the images from vanishing, Sage gave up and tried to focus instead on Gus’s regular breathing. Perhaps its comforting rhythm would lull her back to sleep as it so often had in the past. It wasn’t long, however, before murmuring voices and the occasional childish squeal pulled her from the squeaky, narrow bed. Sage rose and peered through her window. On the street beneath her, she saw people dressed in bright colors pulling out folding chairs and opening portable coolers.
“A parade. But it’s not—” She dropped the dingy plastic blinds and walked to the faded calendar hanging next to her closet. She flipped through several outdated months and smacked her hand against the wall.
“The Fourth of July? Already?” She returned to the window and peered at the expanding crowd of onlookers. Even more of them had set up folding chairs along the parade route. Children and dogs wove excitedly between the clumps of red, white, and blue revelers. Sage checked the clock. Before long the first float would appear at the east end of Main Street.
Sage sighed and turned away. She’d have to slip out the back alley before the day’s festivities grew more elaborate and the tourist-saturated holiday crowds completely clogged any escape route from town.
Gathering her tangled, dark hair in a ponytail, she nudged the quilt-covered dog with her foot. “Hey, wake up.” Gus moaned, but did not move. “I’m serious. We’ve got to get out of here while we can.” Sage pulled on a pair of worn jeans and dug through a pile of clothes on the chair. After smelling the armpits, she settled on an old ski team T-shirt for her base layer and a soft flannel shirt for the outer one.
Gus finally slithered from his place under the blanket and stretched his long, mutt-mixed limbs with languid grace. After his doggie yoga, he shook out his shaggy, gray and cream marled fur and sat before Sage with a petulant glare. Despite his unnatural longevity and other impressive abilities, the dog still had a stubborn streak. He was especially protective of his sleep schedule.
Sage opened the bedroom door. “Go grab a drink,” she ordered. “I’m almost done packing.”
Sage surveyed her crowded closet. The sleeping bag and moldy tent were still in the back of her Jeep from her last trip, but Sage quickly gathered the rest of her camping supplies. Most of them were second-hand or scavenged from departing tourists: a propane burner, freeze dried noodles and granola bars, matches, a water bottle, sunscreen, a rusty hatchet for firewood, and a game knife. Each item was quickly organized into its proper place in an ancient gear bin. Next, she shoved a few changes of clothes and a waterproof shell into a battered duffle bag.
She snuck down to the mudroom at the back of the house and set the gear bin and duffle bag by the backdoor. Gus’s dog food was the only thing she still needed to pack. The dog came and laid down at her feet while she scooped several cupfuls from the bag in the laundry room and dumped them into a plastic container.
“You can eat in a minute. But first I need to check if Liddy’s here,” Sage whispered and crept to the large bedroom at the front of the house.
The steady tick, tick of the kitchen clock was the only sound Sage could detect as she crept across the musty, creaking floorboards. Dirty dishes filled the sink and threatened to overflow onto the countertop next to it. Scattered papers and files lay in a confused heap on the kitchen table, along with an overturned wine bottle. Liddy must have been doing the bills last night.
At the threshold of Liddy’s bedroom, Sage stopped to listen. A rattly, irregular snore sounded from behind the door, and Sage gently pushed it open. Liddy lay sprawled across her bed, still fully clothed. Sage pulled down the shades and covered the older woman with one of her gypsy-like blankets—ragged and colorful, just like her foster mom.
Sage scribbled a quick note on a piece of scrap paper and set it on Liddy’s night stand. After a moment’s hesitation, she put a bottle of aspirin on top of it. That would increase the probability of Liddy finding it when she woke up.
Returning to the back of the house where Gus guarded her things, Sage shouldered her gear and pulled the rickety door closed behind them but didn’t bother to lock it. Neither she nor Liddy ever did. The dilapidated 1800s home was the block’s eyesore, and no one was down enough on their luck to break into it. The only thing of any value was the red and black patterned Navajo rug next to Sage’s bed, probably disguised as it usually was by the pile of dirty laundry that lay on top of it. Despite this, the rug, a parting gift from Grandfather Benally, was one of her most treasured possessions. The other was her new name, also a gift from Grandfather, the kindest man she’d ever met.
Tears clouded her eyes, and Sage roughly wiped them on her flannel sleeve. “Let’s hit the road, Gus,” she snapped, louder than she intended, but Gus didn’t seem to notice. His tags jingled as he danced around her, reveling in their familiar routine of escape.
They walked to the small detached garage, Gus nosing his way through the door. He leapt into the front passenger seat of the battered, topless Jeep as Sage packed her gear in the trunk. Sunglasses and cowboy hat in place, she barely made it out of the garage before she had to slam on her breaks. A toxic-looking pink parade float blocked the gravel driveway.
&n
bsp; For a second she considered ramming it. Surely all that pink needed to be put out of its misery.
“Stay, Gus,” she ordered and hopped out of the car.
Sage walked around the dusty truck then back to the float, trying to find the owner, but her gaze kept being drawn to the strange creation in front of her. Large and rectangular, it filled the entire bed of a trailer. Peaks and valleys, green pipe cleaner trees, and popsicle houses dotted the surface, but it was the dark red stain that slashed through several papier mâché peaks that caught Sage’s attention. When she leaned closer to inspect it, her stomach tightened. It looked like a river of blood.
“What kind of freak makes a float with blood on it?” Sage asked the emptiness around her. She leaned close again, and the river began to flow. Panic pulled her into its embrace, and Sage let out a ragged gasp.
“Hello? Can you hear me? Are you alright?”
Sage flinched and jumped away. Yanking her sunglasses off, she blinked as the backlit form before her blurred into focus. A tall, dark-haired man reached out to steady her, but Sage jerked out of reach.
“So what’s the deal with your float?” Sage said, backing away. “It’s kind of sick.”
“Sick?” He glanced at the float.
“Yeah,” Sage shook her head. “You know, with all the blood?” She pointed at the pink and red monstrosity.