Chapter 44 - Bullshit Magic
Canyon drove north out of town toward Morning Bluff.
Traffic was light, the air was smoky, and a few fires still burned, but no sirens wailed.
Serenity was calm again. He drove over the bridge and turned left onto Morning Drive, where traffic dwindled to nothing and houses and businesses gave way to tall red and white oak trees.
Canyon floored it, enjoying the speed, glad to be outside and working.
When all this is over, I don’t think I’m going to want to go back to working in the bunker so much, he said.
“Fuck no, bro. Me and you are going to find our mates and move out to VF.”
You would live at VF?
“Well… at night, no.” Timber said. “Too much grab-ass, sweating, and funky sounds going on over there. We’ll stay in our place, and our mates will move in with us. They’ll love it.”
Our house is small.
“We’ll build onto the back and during the day we’ll work out of VF.”
Canyon was silent, thinking about it. He yearned for a mate—for his mate, and he wondered often what she would be like. Perfect. Soft. Responsive. Beautiful. Powerful. She would be his and he would be hers.
“All the rest of ‘em’ll be jealous of my mate anyway,” Timber said.
Canyon snorted. Why’s that?
“She’ll have the best power possible—the power to find hidden snacks.”
Canyon laughed out loud.
“—And she’ll be a billionaire.”
She could pay for us to build on to the house.
“Or we could go live with her in her mansion.”
I want my own wing.
“You got it, bro—my mansion is your mansion. I’ve got your snack room with built-in snow cone machine all planned out.”
They fell silent, scanning the road and trees. There were no houses and little signs of civilization other than road markers and speed limit signs.
“How come we don’t have a substation up here? We could use one.”
I think it’s strange that you and I never came up here when we were growing up.
“Hey, you know, you’re right. We owned Serenity in the 90s and the double zeroes.” Timber put up a hand and Canyon fist-bumped him. “But we never came up here.”
Not even once, I don’t think.
“We played paintball on ARQ Bluff all the time.”
And we raced snowmobiles on Crimson Bluff in the winter.
Canyon rounded a bend and ahead of them, the road ended at two chest-high boulders.
“The fuck?” Timber said. “This road shouldn’t be blocked here.”
Timber grabbed a brochure from The Morning Wood Inn out of the center console.
“This says the turnoff is two miles down farther.”
Canyon grunted an acknowledgement and parked at the boulders. He clipped Predator to his belt and got out.
Guns? Timber said.
Nah. Teeth. They fist-bumped again.
Their guns were locked up tight in the vehicle gun safes.
Canyon locked the truck, and they headed for the boulders.
Canyon touched one, just to make sure it was real.
The unyielding coolness convinced him it was.
Past the boulders, the road continued on as far as they could see.
Canyon stepped through the threshold, walking down the empty road slowly, senses on high alert.
He pulled up Sebastian’s investigation notes on Predator, examining the Google Earth images, which showed the road fully open—no boulders.
The road led to the top of the bluff, then looped around the two-mile-long sinkhole, with no sign of buildings or tents or anything that could be called an inn.
Canyon stopped in the middle of the road and told Predator to find a satellite in low earth orbit that he could commandeer. Predator binged.
:Communication blocked—
“Blocked how?”
:Technology unknown—
“Which communication is blocked?”
:All
Canyon told Predator to list all the network towers in the area, legal or not.
:Communication blocked—
Fuckshitdamn, Canyon said. He scanned the log files while Timber looked over his shoulder. Timber tapped the screen at a line of code.
“Right here. It’s definitely blocked and I can’t tell by what or who.”
I see it, Canyon said. But I don’t like it.
“Uh oh.”
What?
“Your truck’s missing.”
Canyon turned to look. His muscles tightened and his stomach swooped as forest seemed to fall in around them on all sides. The road under his feet disappeared and became trail, with trees all around, close enough to touch, when just a minute before, they’d been ten feet away on both sides.
Canyon growled, his mind reeling. My truck better be the fuck where I left it.
He smacked Predator into Timber’s hands, then broke into a run back the way they had come. He ran twice as far as they had walked in, and found no road, no truck. He stopped and Timber caught up with him, his eyes on Predator’s screen.
“Seb came up here several times. Listen to this—'I went in on foot, but any trail I entered seemed to close off behind me and spin me into some perpetual forest-maze. I spent two days lost, and I heard things I couldn’t see or find, like people calling for help and big animals fighting.’”
Canyon chuffed in disbelief. No wolf could get lost in this forest—
An eerie noise cut through the forest, like a foghorn, cutting Canyon off. Someone cried out. A woman screamed, “Help! Help—somebody help me!” The crack of a gunshot split the air, then two more shots.
Canyon and Timber exchanged a look and then they took off running toward the sounds.
They left the trail and split up, Canyon to the left, Timber to the right.
Canyon bobbed and weaved through the underbrush, avoiding branches.
The metallic smell of blood hit his nose, then burnt gunpowder, whipping his wolf into a frenzy.
He ran faster. Another scream came, desperate and terrified.
The woman called for help again, this time from behind them.
“What the fuck?” Timber growled, turning and running that way.
Canyon followed. After twenty minutes of chasing the sound, they met near a downed tree. The screaming came again, this time off to the north.
Timber shook his head. His face was red and sweaty. “Fuck this,” he said.
He undressed quickly, piled his clothes and boots on a downed tree with Predator on top—then he shifted into his dark wolf and loped off.
Canyon shoved the clothing into Timber’s boots, tied the laces together and tossed them over his shoulder, then clipped Predator onto his belt, and followed his brother.
***
Hours later, Canyon stopped at a downed tree for a breather. He leaned against it and listened. The forest was quiet. Timber appeared out of the underbrush and loped close to Canyon, then shifted from wolf to man. Canyon tossed him his clothes.
“This is bullshit,” Timber spat, dressing quickly.
It’s a recording, Canyon said. Gotta be. It’s a recording set to go off at random times and it’s being moved around the forest by a robot—or a drone. He scanned the treetops.
The woman screamed again, off to their right, sounding a hundred feet away.
Timber looked that way and shook his head. “I smelled blood and gunpowder—still smell it when the wind is right.”
Me too, Canyon said. It’s part of the trick. Scents can be faked.
From their left a high wailing sound burst through the forest. It undulated, then cut off, and a low moaning sound took its place. Canyon couldn’t tell if it was person, animal, or machine. It stopped, and then a vicious screeching sound came directly from their left.
Timber kicked a decayed log, sending it flying. “It ain’t Halloween, witch,” he shouted into the forest. “Cut that shit out.”
The noise stopped, but after a moment it started up again from farther away.
I didn’t expect Abigail White to be able to fuck with us like this. I read over Seb’s notes when we were assigned but I thought she drugged him or something.
“It’s messed up.”
What about Sage White? Think she’s involved?
Timber didn’t answer right away. They walked through underbrush, no trail in sight, ignoring the creepy-ass noises that were still peppering the area.
“She could be,” Timber said. “She probably has no idea what she is, or that her mate is a wolven.”
Or a bearen.
“Fuck that,” Timber said. “Sure, Bruin’s fuzzy bear ass got a mate, but his mate is half-human, half-angel. Sage White is half-foxen, half-angel, and her mate is a wolven. It just makes sense.”
Canyon thought it over.
“Gimmie Predator,” Timber said. “I want to read the rest of Seb’s notes.”
Canyon handed it over and they walked on, Timber reading silently.
“We need to get back to where we started—back to where those two rocks were.”
Predator can retrace our steps.
Canyon reached over his brother’s shoulder to tap several commands on Predator’s screen, putting a map back to where they started side by side with Seb’s investigation notes.
“Perfect,” Timber said. He walked in the direction the map said to go, still reading. “This says if you smell burnt popcorn, sprint directly into the smell, and you’ll get out, as long as you’re going fast enough.”
Burnt popcorn? Fast enough? Canyon frowned.
“That’s what it says.”
They tromped through the underbrush, Timber making turns this way and that, Canyon following.
“This is it. The boulders should be right here,” Timber said. He turned and motioned to Canyon. “Turn around. Now turn directly right.” Canyon did what he said. Timber got back-to-back with him, then said, “You go that way, I’m going this way. Burnt popcorn.”
Canyon grunted assent and moving slowly into the forest, scenting nothing but trees and dirt and bugs and—
“Here, I’ve got it!” Timber shouted.
Canyon turned and ran that way. He thought he heard his brother yell again, but it was muffled.
He smelled the burnt popcorn and kept going—SPLAT—until he hit a wall of nothing.
The wall stopped him, but it was pliable and yielding.
Canyon dug into the ground with his boots and led with his shoulder, forcing his way out.
POP.
The invisible barrier popped wetly, letting him through, soaking him head to foot with goo, and catapulting him into his brother.
Timber was standing stock-still, between the rocks and the truck, arms held out like a zombie, goo dripping from face, hands, and clothing, and from Predator, too.
Canyon bounced off him, grabbed Predator out of his hands, and aimed for the truck.
“Holy shit! What the fuck is this, lube?” Timber yelled.
Canyon wiped some from his face and whipped it to the ground.
Ghost jizz, he said.
“Gross,” Timber shouted. “It’s in my nose… I can taste it!”
Shit’s nasty, like boogers mixed with hair gel.
Canyon went for the truck and opened up the back, pulling out towels and water, growling to himself.
He tried wiping his face, then gave up and dumped water straight over his head, then dumped another bottle over Predator and wiped the tablet clean and dry.
It was water resistant and EMP hardened, so hopefully a little ghost jizz wasn’t going to bother it.
Timber crowded next to him, grabbing water and towels.
Abigail White, Canyon growled. She did this.
“We’re going to have to find another way in.”
Agreed, Canyon said. I ain’t going through that again.
Timber hit him in the chest, then put a finger to his lips. Someone’s coming.
Canyon dropped his towel and looked around. From the underbrush they heard someone singing.
“Tiiiiiny bubbles… in my wine… makes me happy…”
A man breached the foliage and stepped out onto the street.
He was bald, with a thick beard and mustache.
He looked in his 50s or 60s, with a hardened expression, wearing green coveralls, holding a liquor bottle in one hand.
He saw them and froze. The word WHITE was stitched over the left pocket of his coveralls, and the word THIRTEEN was stitched over the right pocket.
“Who the hell’re you?” he said.
Timber leaned against the truck like he wasn’t covered in ghost jizz. He casually flipped a hand in the air and goo flew from his fingers. “Who the hell are you?” he replied pleasantly.
The guy’s face went sour. “Get the fuck outta here,” he said. “You’se trespassing.”
Timber grinned broadly at him. He pulled his badge out of his pocket and opened his mouth to say something, but at the sight of the badge the guy’s eyes widened. In one move, he whipped his bottle at Canyon’s head, then turned and ran into the forest.
Canyon swatted the bottle away mid-air and the chase was on.