Skorpio

by Mike Baron

  The squiggly lines were snakes.

  How had he failed to see it? The outer points consisted of rhomboids. The inner a series of perpindicular lines meant to indicate rattles.

  The Empire of the Snakes.

  A bone-dry rattling issued from the far end. Beadles backed toward the floor opening eyes riveted on the ground. It took a minute before he saw the rattler in the corner, eight feet away. It was coiled like a fat garden hose, thick as his wrist. A rattler can strike the length of its body. It that were a seven footer Beadles had nowhere to go but down.

  He did so, lowering himself quickly through the vent and dropping to the stone ground. Beadles exited and found Summer seated on a rock hugging herself. Shadow had begun creeping up the rock face.

  "Come on," he said, offering a hand. "There's a fucking rattler up there. We'll go back tomorrow. Maybe it will leave. Let's figure out how we're going to spend the night."

  They'd left the tents and the sleeping bags in the Jeep. They'd expected to get in and out on the same day! They returned to the western rim and checked on Vince, who sat in the shade between the Hummer and the butte. Beadles looked around for a big rock. Maybe he could break the fucker's neck. Summer saw what he was doing and immediately ran off, returning with a boulder the size of a soccer ball. A series of tooth-like rocks formed a jagged crown around the butte.

  The butte tapered toward the top. If Beadles were to drop the rock straight down it might strike a projection and go off course. It would be better if he heaved the rock six feet beyond the rim so that it came straight down on Vince's head.

  If he could do it.

  Beadles picked up the rock. It must have weighed forty pounds. He ran toward the rim and heaved the rock over like a free throw. He rushed to the edge in time to see the rock strike a protrusion and angle off to the SW. The rock landed with a thud.

  Vince jumped, turned around and backed away from the butte.

  "NICE ONE HEY!" he yelled through cupped hands. He got in the Hummer, started it up and backed fifty feet away from the butte. He got out of the truck. Shadow reached the desert floor.

  ***

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  "Witching Hour"

  They gathered dead leaves and branches from the cottonwoods and made a sort of nest laying out their two sweatshirts as bedding. The temperature could fall into the forties in the desert at night. Beadles pulled out his lightweight cookpot and suspended it from a branch stretched between two rocks. He built a fire beneath the pot in a natural stone kettle. He boiled enough water to fill their canteens and then made soup from dry mix. They ate from a bag of trailmix and a sack of peanuts.

  Night fell. They clung together for warmth and that led to sex. They put their clothes back on and lay in each other's arms gazing at the sky. In Creighton on a clear night you might be able to see a couple dozen stars. Light pollution hid the rest. The desert sky looked as if God had tossed up a barrel of diamonds. The stars were uncountable and the half moon lit the desert floor like a stage set.

  Summer burrowed in. "Do you think there's life on other planets?"

  Beadles barked. It was unexpected. He liked this girl. "Speaking as a scientist, I gotta say yeah. I mean look at that. We can't even count the stars we can see. There must be a hundred thousand stars that we see tonight. All those stars, all those planets, how self-absorbed would we have to be to conclude that we're the only intelligent life in the universe?"

  "Mr. Spaceman," Beadles sang in a spot-on falsetto, "won't you please take me along, I won't do anything wrong."

  Summer giggled and snuggled closer. It was cool verging on cold. "Do you believe in God?"

  "I don't know. My folks were Episcopelian and dragged me to church every Sunday but I don't think it took. I think maybe I'm part of a generation that's too sophisticated and self-aware to believe in God, which doesn't mean God doesn't exist! It just means I lack faith."

  "You're smart enough to know what you don't know," Summer said.

  "Exactly."

  They lay in each other's arms swapping heat. "I believe in God," Summer said. "I don't know if it's that old white guy with the beard, but there's got to be a higher power in charge of all this. I mean, humanity, civilization, love, it can't just have sprung forth from the void! There's too much order--the seasons, the birds and the bees."

  "The way the sunlight plays upon her hair…" Beadles sang.

  "Huh?"

  "'Good Vibrations.' The Beach Boys!"

  "Oh. I couldn't tell. Do you believe the universe just happened? Like what do they call it, the Big Bang?"

  "I try not to think too big."

  "Well that's the beauty of God," Summer said. "You can trade your doubts in on faith."

  Beadles shifted to relieve irritation from a stick that poked him in the back. "What kind of God created scorpions and rattlesnakes?"

  ”The same God who created violets and sunny days. We can't know His purpose."

  "Or Hers."

  Summer giggled. "That's right. Don't they derive some sort of syrum from rattlesnakes?"

  "Yeah. For rattlesnake bites. I might be able to see a case for the rattlesnake, but the scorpion? What possible purpose does it serve? Just looking at it makes most people queasy. What kind of god would make such a thing?"

  "The Lord works in mysterious ways. We should try and get some sleep."

  "I'm going to need your gun."

  Summer got up on an elbow and looked at him. "Why?"

  "I'm going to go down there in a couple hours and take care of Vince."

  "Really? How are you going to do that?"

  "I'm going to sneak up on him, stick the gun in his ear and blow his brains out."

  Summer laughed. "Have you ever killed anyone before?"

  "There's a first time for everything."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Of course I'm serious."

  Summer turned away and rustled around in her backpack. She handed the tiny pistol to Beadles. It didn't even feel like a real gun, it was so light. "It's got a really hard loading mechanism but if you push this button the barrel pops open." She did so. "And you can load a cartridge directly into the firing chamber. After that it works just like any other automatic."

  She handed the gun to Beadles who ratcheted one into the chamber, dropped the magazine, and ratcheted the cartridge out. "Got it."

  "You sure you're up for this?"

  "Do I have a choice?"

  Summer sighed and laid down. "Try to get some sleep."

  Gradually her breathing relaxed and she slept. But Beadles could not sleep. He was entirely focused on the task at hand. In a way he was pleased. Vince had left him no choice but to prove himself as a man. Most things in life came easy--his athletic prowess, women, the climb up academia. He didn't kid himself that he was special--no more than hundreds of thousands of other young men fortunate enough to be born into wealthy, white nuclear families. It was better to be lucky than good.

  He would move as silently as the scorpion. He would catch the thug asleep and blow his brains out. They would avail themselves of Vince's largesse and when they had the proof he needed they would drive out in Vince's Hummer.

  Beadles checked his watch. It was only eleven-thirty. He tried to sleep but it was no use. This was the place where his storylines and ambition converged. This was the nexcus of all his ley lines. Shipapu. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the gold medallion, easily visible in the bright star light. He ran his finger over the embossed snakes. It might as well become his family crest. If he survived he would make it so.

  A healthy fear prevented him from sleeping. He lay on his back and feasted on the galaxy of stars, spotting familiar constellations, wondering about those tiny stars that lay at the very edge of his sight. There must have been a million.

  He thought about good things. The rewards, the book, the TV show, wealth, women. He told himself not to count his chickens. Beneath it all beat the steady pulse of healthy fear at what he had to do
.

  The hours dragged by like a garbage truck. Finally it was three a.m. The Witching Hour. The hour which studies showed most people were most deeply asleep. Careful not to disturb Summer Beadles rose and headed for the rim.

  ***

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  "At the Hop"

  The chimney was black as pitch. Not even the half moon and a million stars penetrated its serpentine path. Wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up Beadles shivered in the desert night. It was in the low fifties. He gripped his tiny halogen flashlight between his teeth and carefully lowered himself, sliding his feet along the rims from catch to catch. He turned the flashlight off as soon as he was confident that he could feel his way down. There were enough kinks in the tube for him to brace himself and rest from time to time. His eyes adjusted and he could make out the general contrours.

  Any snakes still in the tube would be asleep or sluggish. He'd brought the snakebite kit just in case. He didn't think about the scorpions. He didn't know whether they were diurnal or not.

  He thought instead about the book deal, the tour, the fame, the fortune.

  He would sue Betty for custody of Lars and he would win. She'd only emasculate the poor bastard like she'd tried to do to him.

  Concentrate you moron. He paused halfway down and realized he was only using the top third of his lungs, wheezing and panting like a Chihuahua. He got his breathing under control and listened, The desert was eerily silent. No crickets, no chirping birds, no gurgle of stream. If anything moving out there it was soundless.

  He lowered himself the last twenty feet with the delicacy of a diamond cutter, landing silently on the rock. He waited and listened. Keeping his back to the rock he edged out of the chimney clockwise beneath the natural arch, staying in shadow cast by a series of tooth-like boulders. Within five minutes he came in sight of the Humvee which gleamed in starlight like some chitinous insect. Beadles froze, eyes trying to penetrate the opaque windshield. Useless. But the passenger side window was wide open. If he moved away from the butte he would at least be able to see if someone were sitting in the driver's seat.

  To do that he would have to give up the safety of the rocks. He would stand out like a lead soldier on a paper plate.

  Beadles pulled the pistol from his pocket. Stupid! There was no shell in the chamber. If he jacked one in the sound would carry like a cannon shot. Then he remembered the titlt-up feature. As silently as possible he released the magazine. It was tiny. The bullets were the size of pencil erasers. He squeezed one out, released the barrel and pushed the cartridge into the chamber. He slid the magazine back into place muffling the click with his body. He thumbed back the hammer.

  Good to go.

  Stealthy as a ninja he edged out from the rock radially until he stood twenty feet from the vehicle, the stars casting his shadow to the east. Gun gripped in both hands he zeroed in on the Hummer.

  Someone sat behind the wheel. In a second he could make out the cowboy hat.

  Was he awake? A sleeping man made sounds. Was Vince wide awake waiting for him with a cannon in his lap?

  Beadles stared. The figure was motionless. Beadles considered rushing the vehicle and simply emptying the automatic. But wait. What if it were a ruse? What if it was just a pile of sleeping bags and clothes with a hat on it? If so, hadn't it already served its purpose? Was Vince standing behind him chuckling?

  Beadles turned around. No one. He scanned the rocks for movement.

  He turned back to the Hummer. He felt like part of a museum diorama. The butte, the man, the car. He'd helped set them up.

  He walked toward the vehicle aware of his shadow keeping pace. Ten feet from the window he stopped again. It couldn't be Vince. Whatever sat behind the wheel had a grotesquely swollen head that had snapped the hat band. Beadles walked around the back of the car and came up on the driver's side. He shone his flashlight on the thing behind the wheel.

  It was a carbuncle of cancerous flesh. Orange like a misshapen pumpkin, more pig than man with mounds of swollen tissue surrounding the eyes.. An eye bulged from its socket like a soft-boiled egg. Beadles felt his gorge rebel, turned, bent over with his hands on his knees and breathed rapidly. He stood and inhaled deeply letting it out in a controlled stream through his nose over and over until he had himself under control.

  Gun in hand he grasped the door handle and pulled it open.

  Beadles jerked back shouting as dozens of scorpions spilled from the open door, a river of pale shining poison. Scorpions leaped from the seat and the floor as Beadles ran shrieking, waving his arms wildly.

  Twenty feet away he stopped. He looked. There were no scorpions on him. He watched the flow slow to a trickle as the scorpions fled west. West. Away from the butte.

  He shook like a paint mixer. The heebies left him sweating and exhausted. Gun in hand he approached the Humvee. He shined his light on the thing behind the wheel. It had blown up to nearly twice size. Moist red spots covered the things face, arms and hands. Everyplace the scorpions could reach. Beadles didn't doubt that if he were to remove Vince's clothes his entire body would be covered in stings.

  Beadles played his flashlight across the front seat. A .45 automatic lay on the passenger's seat next to a loaded clip. He shined his flashlight through the open rear passenger window.

  Next to a pile of gear lay a misshapen human skull.

  ***

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  "The Snake"

  The skull seemed preternaturally long with an enormous dome and fang-like incisors. Patches of sand clung to it between the teeth on the lower jaw. The Indians considered it sacrilege to disturb a grave, even one dug by conquerors.

  Beadles didn't know if it was the skull beneath the wagon wheel but he thought it was. What else could it be? Vince had followed their tracks closely, probably dug it up and tossed it in the back seat for his "collector's market."

  A priceless curse.

  Vince's death was beyond abnormal. It was freakish. Scorpions did not attack en masse. They were not hive animals and too elemental to train. At least a hundred scorpions had poured from the Hummer. How had they gotten in? Leaped through the open windows? Could scorpions leap that far?

  Did they come up through the floorboards?

  It defied nature.

  Beadles opened the rear passenger door behind the driver and leaped back. Nothing came out. The interior was as still as the desert.

  Beadles released the rear hatch via a lever next to the driver. He pulled out a loaded backpack. He opened the front passenger door and took the .45 and its clip. It already had one in the butt. Finally, he helped himself to full canteens that lay in the passenger footwell and shut the doors.

  He looked at the skull. The skull grinned back.

  He recalled a passage from Hampton Sides' study of Manifest Destiny, Blood and Thunder. Speaking of the Navajo, "But the ghosts of the dead were devilish enough. They were vexing and malicious and unimaginably frightening--and they were everywhere. They could even invade a person's dreams."

  "No sir," he said. "Ain't gonna touch it."

  He took a long drink and headed toward the pipe. The waning moon illuminated the butte a pale ivory. He mounted the backpack on his chest. Halfway up his muscles screamed and he longed to let go but the thought of that grinning skull and the leaping scorpions urged him on.

  Dawn broke as he dragged himself up into the bowl, flopped on his back and lay there panting. He shrugged off the heavy pack and drank deeply from the canteen. He got to his knees, dragging the backpack behind him by the strap and trudged wearily back to the camp where Summer lay on her back, one arm across her forehead, sawing away.

  He flopped down on the rocks and dug the pistol out of his back. Must have weighed a pound. Like most members of academia he'd always considered guns vulgar and faintly louche, and had gone along with all gun control measures. He didn't hate gun owners or wish them ill. He didn't have any guns. Like most people he knew he couldn't visualize a scenari
o in which he would ever need one.

  And here they were. The gun felt heavy and reassuring in his grasp. He wondered if the same principles applied. He ratcheted the shell from the chamber and Summer woke with a start.

  "What/" she barked. She saw him.

  "Are you all right? What happened?"

  "Vince is dead. The scorpions got him."

  Summer put a hand to her throat. "What do you mean?"

  He told her. Summer stared with her mouth open. "What if they come up here?" she croaked.

  Beadles handed her the canteen. She drank deeply. "I don't know why they would. There's nothing for them up here."

  "There's us," she said.

  Beadles pulled out the .25 and passed it over. "Here."

  Summer looked at the .45. "That's Grampa Ned's gun. Aw shit."

  She turned away and covered her face with her hands. Beadles put his arm around her shoulder and held her to him as she sobbed, gasping. The sobs gradually subsided into hiccups. She held her breath and the hiccups went away.

  She pointed at the backpack. "What's that?"

  "Let's see." Beadles unlatched the straps and pulled out the contents. There was a box of crackers and a summer sausage in its plastic skin. They cut the sausage and had that for breakfast along with the crackers. The backpack contained a black nylon windbreeaker, medical kit, maps, socks, and a good Zeiss binocular.

  Stuffing the .45 in his belt Beadles stood. "Let's go check out the ruins."

  "I'm not going in there," Summer said.

  "Well come with me anyway. What else you got to do?"

  They crossed over to the ruins which lay in shadow, back to the sun. There was enough ambient light for Beadles to see the length of the ground-floor room, light shining down from the second floor. He was determined to take a closer look at the glyphs. The rock face was cool to the touch but that would soon change. They could already feel the promise of heat where the sun struck.

  Again, Beadles boosted himself up and onto the second floor, scanning all around for snakes. It was still cool in the rocks and whatever snakes remained would be sluggish. Or so he hoped.. He watched for a long time.