Dastardly Bastard(13)

Mark nodded. He grimaced when he felt his chin quiver with the action.

Five… six… seven… eight…

Mark raised his camera and turned around. He took several pictures of the way they had come. The beginning of the trail was out of sight. He supposed his banter with Donald had served a purpose other than irritating him. He’d gotten pretty far, and though his breathing was still labored, he didn’t feel as if he’d been walking all that long. His knees weren’t even bothering him yet.

When he turned back around, Jaleel was leading the group around a soft curve. Mark took a deep breath, his stomach rising and collapsing with the effort, then put a foot forward. He’d catch up with them eventually. No need to hurry. There seemed to only be one way in or out of this place, so it wasn’t like he was going to lose them.

Nine… ten…





8


MARSHA NOTICED HER CALVES BEGINNING to burn just as the path widened into a clearing about thirty feet in diameter. By her estimate, they’d been walking for about twenty minutes and hadn’t seen anything but trees and scrub. She kept wanting to check her watch, track the time they’d been gone from the car, but she knew Lyle would notice. If he assumed she was bored, her plan might be ruined.

The tour guide stopped in front of a tall posterboard with a map pinned to it and did his best Vanna White impression, all stylish hands. “Here we are, folks. Fairchild Lookout. Sponsored by—”

“Yeah, we know. Cheapo Cola,” Trevor interrupted. Justine elbowed him in the side.

Marsha had to laugh. The couple reminded her of the way Paul used to go back and forth with her.

“Fairchild Lookout is named after Waverly Fairchild,” Jaleel said. “Waverly was the first person to stumble across the chasm back in the 1930s. While exploring with his son Scooter, he—”

“Wait!” Lyle burst into guffaws. “He named his son Scooter?”

“Shush!” Marsha pinched the back of Lyle’s neck with her thumb and index finger. Lyle screeched as he rubbed at the already reddening welt.

Probably used to interruptions, Jaleel just smiled before continuing his spiel. “Waverly was allowed to name the spot after the state claimed it as a park. Back then, all of this was public land, and loggers frequented it looking for free timber. When Carringer-Cummings realized the harsh winters at this altitude had caused severe rot over the years, they abandoned the forests for stronger wood. In 1933, the state swooped in and gobbled up most of the land for a new park.”

“What happened to Waverly Fairchild?” Lyle asked. Marsha was glad he hadn’t asked how the man had died, even if that was probably what he meant.

“Waverly lived to be a hundred and four years old. Though after naming the chasm, he never returned to it. He moved to Florida, where he died of natural causes.”

Lyle pushed. “Why didn’t he ever return?”

“Well, Scooter disappeared. He fell into Waverly Chasm, and his body was never recovered. Waverly said the chasm just brought back too many memories, or so the stories tell.”

“I knew it!” Lyle gushed. “I knew someone had to of died out here! You lied!”

“Not really, Lyle.” Jaleel smiled. “No one ever found out what happened to Scooter. Like I said, a body was never found.”

Lyle furrowed his brow. “But he fell.”

“Just drop it,” Marsha said. “Let’s just enjoy this without all the death talk. No one has died under Jaleel’s watch, and that’s all that matters. Right, Jaleel?”

“Exactly. Now, if you folks will gather around the map here, I’ll show you the course we’ll take to Scooter’s Dive, the lowest point on the tour of Waverly Chasm.”

With that, the group settled in around Jaleel. Mark, the man with the camera, pushed his way to the front, snapping photo after photo of the large map.





9


MARK SIMMONS CLICKED THE SHUTTER release six times before he caught an image he liked on the screen of his Nikon. The picture was a high-definition snapshot of the map on the poster board. The creases of the folded map had softened and could barely be seen. Those little things, the bits no one else noticed, were what Mark coveted. There was a story in those folds. Someone had brought the map there, unfolded it, and pinned it to the board. Which way had they come to do so? The same way his group had come? A secret path through the sparse woods that surrounded them? Mark didn’t know, but he wanted to; he wanted to know so bad.

The questions were a welcome reprieve from the thoughts that clouded his brain. Being fully involved in his new story would help with forgetting the phone call he’d received from Willy and Julia. Mark was almost certain the conversation had happened post-coitus. Mark knew Julia had fucked her way into his position. The thought had occurred to him that he could just quit, but with the state of print publications and the current economy, a bad job was better than no job at all. He might have to take up blogging for an eZine before long, a concept he didn’t want to think about too hard.

“There is another place we will be stopping that isn’t on any map,” Jaleel said. Mark perked up as he turned his attention back to the guide. “Just short of Scooter’s Dive is a place I like to call Flat Rock. On our way down the trail, the pathway is kinda narrow until we reach right around… here.” The guide traced his finger along the dotted lines of the map to an unmarked area. “Right here, the path will open up to a flatter, wider section where we can rest before moving on to Scooter’s Dive. Now, when we get there, I will ask you to please stay away from the ledge, as the guard wire stops here…” He demonstrated on the map. “… and the chasm’s cliff-edge is open. The wire begins again after this section, and the trail will be safe for the duration of our journey down.”