by Bryan Dunn
Maybe it was time for him to move on, too.
Chapter 77
Like the rest of Furnace Valley, the Rainsford Ranch looked like a bomb had been dropped on it. The main house was still standing, but the barn and tack room were gone, reduced to a pile of sticks.
The palms were still there, too—well, the trunks, anyway. But everything else that resembled a palm tree had been stripped. It looked like someone had planted twenty acres of totem poles.
Sam and Curley made a sweep through the ranch, picking up debris, saving what was useful, and stacking the rest in a pile to be burned at some later date.
Sam straightened a fence rail, grabbed a shovel, and then walked to edge of the compound, the spot where the palms started, and stared out at the trees, wondering if they’d come back. Wondering if he really cared.
Curley stopped what he was doing and watched Sam, noticing how he looked at the palms. He was worried about him. Sam seemed so… sad.
“Don’t worry, Sam. They’ll survive. Palms is scrappy things.”
When Sam turned to look at Curley, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
A Highway Patrol SUV rolled up, lights flashing, and pulled to a stop in the middle of the compound.
Inside, Laura turned to the driver. “Thank you, officer. I’m sorry about the confusion.”
The officer smiled, killed the flashers. “No problem, ma’am. You sure you don’t want me to wait? Just in case?”
“Yes, I’m sure. But thanks.”
Laura grabbed her bag, waved goodbye to the officer, and walked to Sam.
As she walked, she passed her Honda. It looked like it had been in a wreck, like it was ready for the junkyard. Then she noticed the neat piles of stacked wood.
“Looks like you’re already cleaning up.”
“More like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic,” Sam said, letting go of the shovel. Then he walked towards her, hardly able to contain his excitement.
Laura dropped her bag. Then she was running. They were both running. And as they came together, Sam swept her into his arms and they kissed. Again and again, Sam holding her up off the ground now, turning in a slow circle.
“Okay, that’s it!” Curley said, watching. Then he threw his rake down in disgust. “I’m through. This time it’s for real. I’m leaving.”
Sam eased Laura to the ground, looking over at Curley.
“Curley, what are you chipping your teeth about now?”
“As if you don’t know,” Curley said, clumping up to them. “You’ve gone and ruined everything. You broke our number one rule. No women.”
Laura looked at Sam, then gave him a wink.
“Sorry, Curley. I didn’t know the rules. I guess I’ll have to go now.” She went up to him, gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’m going to miss you, Curley.”
“Aww…” Curley said, blushing. “You’re as bad as Sam. Now I got both of you to look after.”
“Looks like you’re stuck here, Curl.”
Curley waved him off with an arm, angled over to what was left of the tack room, and began to kick the debris around.
Sam looped an arm around Laura’s waist, pulling her close.
“Did I ever tell you about the idea I had for seedless dates?”
Chapter 78
A ’74 Camaro swayed around a bend and dropped onto a straight section of blacktop that cut through a corner of the Mojave Desert. Triple digit heat bent and twisted the road like a licorice whip.
As the car accelerated on the straight, a beer bottle sailed out the passenger window, bounced on the shoulder, and tumbled into desert scrub.
Inside the car, two Kurt Cobain lookalikes rocked to the Meat Puppet’s grunge hit, Backwater.
“Yo, I gotta take a squirt,” the passenger said, reaching into a cooler and grabbing a fresh beer.
The driver glanced over, then shook his head.
“What the fuck? You went like ten minutes ago?”
“I gotta go.”
The driver reached over, yanked the beer out of his hand, and twisted off the cap.
“What a douche.” He took a swig of beer. “Shit, we’re never gonna get to Vegas.”
“Just do it, bitch. Pull this shitbox over.”
The driver flipped him off, but moved his foot from the gas pedal to the brakes and rolled to a stop at the side of the road.
“Hurry the fuck up. Then tie a knot in it, ‘cause I’m not stopping again.”
With the Meat Puppets hammering away, the passenger got out, walked behind the car, and stood next to a sign that read: Furnace Valley 20 Miles, Summer Population 16, Winter Population 150, No outlet.
He unzipped his pants and began to urinate, taking his time, looking around.
Just as he was finishing up, an empty beer bottle flew out the car and the horn began to honk, the driver still pissed he had to stop.
“Fuck you,” the passenger said, zipping his pants. Then he walked back to the car and climbed in.
As he reached to close his door, the driver revved the engine and dumped the clutch,
slamming the door shut. Rooster tails of sand shot up from the rear tires as the Camaro fishtailed onto the road and then rocketed down the highway in a cloud of exhaust and tire smoke.
* * *
Next to the sign, a grasshopper lay in a circle of wet sand—the place where the passenger had relieved himself—its body ruined and palsied.
The grasshopper twitched, then contracted violently. Then its thorax ruptured—and a baby creeper stalk shot up, flashing back and forth as it sniffed the air.
A moment later, a scorpion wandered onto the wet sand and angled hungrily towards the grasshopper. It lumbered up, raised a claw—and just as it was about to seize the grasshopper, the creeper lashed out, struck the scorpion, and coiled around its body.
The scorpion’s tail struck the creeper, its venomous tip flashing down again and again. It arched its back and twisted up, trying to free itself. But the creeper held on—constricting and squeezing—tighter and tighter, pulling the scorpion to its death.
Finally, all movement stopped. And then, if you’d been there with your ear held close, you would’ve heard a tiny sucking sound as the creeper drained the life from the scorpion’s body.
Thank you!
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