The Last Place on Earth

by Carol Snow

  At last, we made it to the base of the mountain, where blackened trees told a stark story of an earlier season’s wildfires. Not that that would keep people from building more houses. Or traipsing around the forest on hot, dry days. But it’s good to be reminded that yes, when it comes to man versus nature, nature wins every time.

  The scorched trees gave way to dry grass and thirsty vegetation. Our radio station fizzled out. I played around with the dial till I found something else.

  Before long, the dense, dark forest enveloped us. We forgot about fires and even, for a moment, why we were here in the first place. The second radio station sputtered out. After twisting the dial from country to Latin music and back to country, I gave up and turned it off.

  I rolled down my window, and clean, almost-crisp air rushed inside and chased out the lowland heat. “I love mountain air.”

  “We keep going on this road for how long?” Peter asked.

  Since the car lacked GPS and we didn’t have smartphones (not that there was reception up here anyway), I’d printed directions before we left home. I’d also checked the address on Google Maps, but the tree cover was so dense, I couldn’t see what the building underneath looked like.

  “Five-point-three miles. Then turn right.”

  The narrow road twisted and turned in the dark hush of the towering pines. We passed country stores, a café, a gas station. We were going up, of course. Otherwise, it was hard to get any sense of direction.

  At last we reached the turnoff.

  “You sure this is it?” Peter eyed the rutted road.

  “It’s what it says.” There was no street sign, but I’d been following the route on my printed directions. This had to be right.

  We turned onto the road. Peter watched his speed. Still, the car lurched and bounced. This could not be good for the Civic’s shocks.

  We passed one cabin set far back from the road. Then another. And then … nothing. Just lots of trees. And more bumps and ruts.

  “I wish I had a smartphone,” I said. “Then I could double-check the directions.”

  “I wish I had a pony,” Peter responded.

  We passed a cabin set close to the road. It was all roof, shaped like an upside-down V. A painted wooden sign out front said 1135 HEMLOCK ROAD—THE MURPHY’S (which, by the way, is an incorrect use of the apostrophe).

  The Shooting Star Society was at 1137 Hemlock Road. “It should be next.” My pulse raced.

  We passed an empty lot before coming to the next cabin: 1139 HEMLOCK ROAD—THE JONES’ (also wrong). Where was 1137? Did the numbers go out of order? We traveled down the road, checking the house numbers, and they all went up. We turned around and parked in front of the lot. Perhaps the building was set too far back to see from the road.

  I opened my door. The air smelled of pine trees and wild grasses. Around us, birds chirped and branches clicked with the sound of little critters hopping around the canopy. Cute little critters. Like squirrels. Or raccoons. Or rats or snakes.

  I was going with squirrels.

  The dry ground crackled underfoot. It was much cooler up here than on the valley floor, but still the air felt heavy. And also, there were bugs. I swatted at the air and worked my way around the brush. The trees grew thick and tall. A pricker stabbed my toe. It stung again when I pulled it out. And I’d thought flip-flops were the perfect shoe for every occasion.

  Peter, in sneakers and basketball shorts, strode ahead of me. When I finally caught up to him, I saw what he did: a vista opening onto wilderness. There was no headquarters building here. There never had been.

  “You sure you got the right address?”

  “Positive.”

  “And there’s no other Hemlock Road in Big Bear?”

  “Nope.”

  Peter wiped sweat off his brow. “Well, this blows.”

  I was all set to agree. Instead, I burst into tears.

  “Oh, Daze. It’s gonna be … Henry’s gonna be … I’m sure we’ll…”

  “I’m hungry,” I sobbed.

  “That’s why you’re crying?”

  “No-oh-oh.” I sobbed a little more. Peter looked majorly uncomfortable. I don’t cry all that much, and when I do, it’s almost never in front of anybody. Besides, Peter had had very little human interaction over the last few months, so he really didn’t know how he was supposed to behave in the face of human emotion.

  “Sorry.” I wiped my hand across my face and sniffled. “Even though I knew he probably wouldn’t be here, I kept hoping.”

  “He’s got to be somewhere,” Peter said. “People don’t just disappear.”

  “I never thought so before, but—”

  “We’ll find him.”

  Peter turned around and headed for the car, and I followed him, not even stopping to pull out my prickers.

  * * *

  After grabbing a snack at one of the little country stores, we wound down the mountain, past the burnt-out trees, and down to the flatlands that led back home.

  Nothing made sense. Nothing. Why would Henry’s family run away like that? Who were they hiding from, and what was the Shooting Star Society? Were they in the federal witness protection program or something? I thought stuff like this only happened in the movies.

  Now that we were off the mountain, I had service again. I had a text waiting from an unknown number.

  I pushed a button and there it was:

  34.451431

  -119.347873

  HURRY

  Eleven

  WHAT DID THOSE numbers mean? Were they some kind of code? Or a math puzzle I was supposed to solve? I was more confused than ever.

  The text was from Henry; I was certain. It didn’t come from his old cell number (which was still out of service; I had checked every day), but the area code, 714, was right.

  I thumbed a quick reply—Where are you?—before calling the number, only to receive an automated voice mail recording. The phone was turned off.

  “How can you be so sure it’s him?” Peter asked. “It could be anyone. Or even a wrong number.”

  “Because he’s telling me to hurry. Just like he left me that note saying ‘Save me.’ It’s him. I know it.”

  “If you really think he’s in trouble, we should call the police,” Peter said.

  “No. Henry would have called them himself if he wanted their help.” I stared out the window as the brown, flat landscape whizzed by. “If only we knew where he was. I feel like these numbers are some kind of puzzle that only I can solve.”

  “Let me see the numbers,” Peter said.

  “I already told you what they were.”

  “Yeah, but I need to see them.” He looked away from the road and over at me.

  “You’re driving!”

  “Would you just—”

  “Fine.” I held up the message and let him look at the text for a full second before taking the phone away. “Like you’re going to be able to figure out this math problem—or whatever it is—just like that.”

  “They’re coordinates.”

  “Huh?”

  “Latitude and longitude. He’s telling you where he is.”

  “Oh my gosh, you’re right! But … how did you know that?”

  His smile was small but smug. “Video games. It’s amazing how much you can learn from them.”

  Now that I knew what the numbers were, the message made sense, at least sort of. But I still didn’t understand why Henry had left in the first place. What kind of trouble were the Hawkings in?

  * * *

  At home, I raced to my computer. A quick search on the phone number only told me that it was an Orange County mobile: not very helpful. I dialed the number again and got automated voice mail.

  It was easy to find a website that matched latitude and longitude coordinates to a location. I typed in the numbers, not really sure what to expect, and hit return. In response, the website connected me to Google Maps and a spot deep in the Santa Ynez Mountains.

  Baffled, I stared
at the dark green image, trying to figure out how we would possibly get there without a helicopter. Or a Sherpa. But zooming in, in, and more in revealed a narrow, twisty, possibly unpaved road. No problem for an Expedition, but Mom’s Civic wasn’t going to like this.

  “What time you want to leave in the morning?” Peter asked, looking over my shoulder.

  “Why wait? Let’s go now.”

  “No way,” Peter said. “This place is going to be hard enough to find in daylight.”

  He was right. It was already almost dinnertime (frozen burritos were in my future), and even the easy part of the drive—if you can call getting through LA, up the coast, and into the forest easy—was going to take us a good three hours. Maybe more.

  “Six a.m.?” I suggested.

  Peter scratched his stubble. “Let’s say nine.”

  “Fine.” No point arguing. If we got out of here before eleven, it would be a miracle.

  * * *

  The next morning, I got up, showered, and dug through my closet for the kind of thing I’d wear if I ever went camping. In the end, I went with cutoff denim shorts, hot-pink sneakers that only clashed with my hair a little bit, and a My Little Pony T-shirt with the sleeves chopped off.

  We left at ten thirty and even remembered to lock the doors since it could be dark before we got back. At my request, Peter drove to Henry’s house. This time, we didn’t bother leaving the car at the pond but instead parked right in the driveway. While Peter waited in the car, I punched in the security codes and slipped into the house. If anyone asked, I’d say I was housesitting. But really, who was going to ask?

  I raced up the stairs to Henry’s room, where the SAVE ME note still lay on the desk. But I wasn’t there for the note. Instead, I got down on my knees and yanked the hard black plastic guitar case out from underneath Henry’s bed, coughing a little when it brought up dust bunnies. I retrieved the guitar from its stand in the corner, secured it inside the case, and clomped back down the stairs.

  “His guitar?” Peter asked when I opened up the backseat and strapped it in.

  “It’s Henry’s most important possession. He’ll be missing it.”

  “But isn’t the plan to bring him home?”

  “I don’t know what the plan is. But there has to be a reason they left. Or were taken. Maybe Henry can’t come back.” I slammed the back door and climbed into the passenger seat. “Let’s get out of here.”

  As Peter drove down the street and around the pond, I checked my phone, but there were no new texts.

  I pulled up the mystery message and thumbed a reply.

  I’m coming.

  * * *

  On the freeway, we made good time until we hit downtown LA, which is pretty much always a parking lot. Beyond downtown, traffic sped up, then slowed down, then started moving at an okay pace. We passed the Hollywood sign, the Scientology center, and the Hollywood Tower. In the San Fernando Valley, traffic slowed again to almost a halt. We pulled off to get a couple of In-N-Out burgers. It’s always hotter in the Valley, but today the heat was so brutal that I had no choice but to add a chocolate milk shake to the order. Mom’s grocery money was going fast.

  Back on the road, we passed through the brown and thirsty Santa Monica mountains. Then it was back to flatland, farmland, and a brief stretch along the ocean. We opened our windows and let the cool, salty air wash over us.

  “You sure those coordinates don’t take us to the beach?” Peter asked.

  “Not even close.”

  “Too bad.”

  We turned onto the Maricopa Highway and drove up and inland, past subdivisions and farmland and chunks of open space. In the other direction, traffic was heavy with recreational vehicles, overstuffed minivans, and cars pulling boats.

  Outside of Ojai, we stopped for gas and Twizzlers. Because sometimes you just need Twizzlers. Back in the car, following my printed directions, we turned off the highway. We passed leafy housing developments and more farmland before reaching Lake Casitas. Powerboats bobbed on the deep green surface, and pop-up trailers half filled the adjacent campgrounds.

  “Take a right on Route 150,” I told Peter. “And then take your first left.”

  The two-lane road was smooth. Away from the lake, traffic was sparse—as were trees. The land shone a thirsty autumn yellow, dotted here and there with defiantly green bushes. Soon we turned again, onto a rougher, narrower lane—a two-car road only if both cars were small. Fortunately, there were no other vehicles in sight.

  We drove in silence until I saw the sign. “Entering Los Padres National Forest,” I said.

  “You were always a really good reader,” Peter said.

  “Thank you.”

  As if knowing nature had higher standards to uphold on forest land (or maybe there was just a water source nearby), the vegetation immediately became greener, denser, taller.

  “All this undeveloped wilderness…,” Peter said. “It makes me nervous.”

  I handed him a Twizzler. “Chew this. It helps.”

  Although it was narrow, the road was nice and smooth, all ready for suburban campers looking to pitch a tent and cook their dehydrated camping food over … whatever campers cook over (not an open flame; warnings against campfires were posted everywhere).

  But the route was high and the curves perilous, and when I looked over the edge, my stomach churned. I closed my eyes. That helped. Good thing I wasn’t driving. On the plus side, worrying about what would happen if the car careened off the edge of the mountain took my mind off worrying about what would happen once we reached the mystery coordinates.

  Henry must have sent the text. Right? I’d received no reply to my last message. And now that I was up here, deep in the forest, I’d lost all cell phone reception.

  And then it hit me: If there was no reception up here, how had Henry sent the text in the first place? Either he hadn’t been in the middle of nowhere when he’d sent it, or someone else had sent it for him.

  Or maybe the text wasn’t from Henry at all. Maybe it was a wrong number from some outdoorsy type giving directions to a camper friend. That would be bad. Also embarrassing.

  Slowly, carefully, we bumped along and up, navigating curves and switchbacks. The road’s surface went from smooth to rutted to barely paved. It had been over four hours since we’d left Henry’s house. It would still be a while before we hit the coordinates. We definitely had to get out of here and back to civilization before darkness fell.

  “Thanks for doing this,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

  “Huh?” Peter glanced away from the road.

  “Thanks for driving me here. And up to Big Bear. And … everything. I know you have better things to do.”

  Peter snorted. “No, I don’t.”

  “Yeah, but it seemed like the thing to say.”

  Just when I thought the road couldn’t get any worse, it gave up any pretense of being paved. At least the dirt was packed enough to drive on without too much risk of a flat tire. I examined the map I’d printed out, but without street signs or landmarks, I couldn’t tell how far we were from our destination. There would be a clearing off to the right, at the very curve of a sharp turn; I could see that in the satellite pictures. We couldn’t possibly miss it. Could we?

  The terrain lurched and curved too much to see far ahead. Every once in a while, I checked my phone on the off chance that I could get a signal, but of course there was none.

  And then, finally, it was there, to our right—the small dirt clearing. Peter pulled off the road. There was no one waiting, not even some random camper who had mistakenly sent the coordinates to my number.

  “Um,” Peter said.

  “You can say that again.” My voice cracked.

  “You’re not going to cry again, are you?”

  I shook my head, trying hard to keep it together.

  “You can cry if you want to.” Peter sounded unsure.

  I laughed (with, okay, a tiny sob thrown in). “Might as well look around.”


  I got out of the car. The air was warm and sweet, with an undertone of decay. The forest here was prettier than in Big Bear—the trees less dense and more varied, with some wildflowers peeking through the underbrush. Ahead, a stand of trees loomed like something out of a fairy tale, sunlight dappling bark, twisted branches reaching out to embrace you. Or abduct you. One of those.

  There was no path, no way anyone could wander into the trees without getting hopelessly lost unless they left …

  Pebbles.

  I blinked. Surely I’d imagined that they had been left there by design? But no: A trail of ghostly white pebbles led around a bush, through a dried patch of wild grass, and to a tall oak tree.

  Something fluttered against the tree. I ran to get a better look. It was a folded note, nailed to the trunk. I pulled it down and read.

  D—

  You came! I knew you would. My parents enrolled me in a wilderness education program. So boring, but they said you could visit. My dad has to go to work later in the week, so he said he’ll drive you home.

  I’ve marked some trees ahead. Just follow them till you reach me.

  H.

  My laughter came so fast and high, I sounded like a crazy person, even to myself. I ran back along the pebble path to the clearing, where Peter stood leaning against the car, arms crossed over his chest.

  His face and posture relaxed when he saw me, but when I showed him the note, he said, “Daze, this is weird.”

  “Henry is weird. That’s why I like him. This is his handwriting. He’s here.” I opened the back door and unstrapped Henry’s guitar.

  Peter squinted at the note. “Are you sure this is Henry’s writing?”

  I hauled the guitar case out of the car and shut the door. “Positive. Tiny and spiky. No one else writes like that.”

  Henry was going to be so happy when he saw his guitar. Hopefully, he’d be happy to see me, too.

  Peter shook his head. “Who takes their kids out of school to learn about wilderness?” My shoulders tightened with irritation. Here I was, all relieved and happy, and Peter was still looking for a conspiracy. I said, “Henry’s parents are weird. They don’t trust normal schools. They let Henry miss class all the time.”