The Omega Factor(86)

That was a long climb.

But what the hell?

He could handle it.

Or could he?



“Come on, Nick, let’s go,” Charlie Minter said.

They were on an adventure. Nick, Charlie, and Marvin Royster. Three twelve-year-olds in the hills outside Colorado Springs. Hiking. Packs on their backs. Boots on their feet. They’d done it many times before, one of the perks of living in such a wonderful place. The three had grown up together, their parents close friends. Today they were explorers, following a trail above the timberline, jagged layered peaks capped with snow in the distance, only sunshine and green valleys in between.

A beautiful Saturday afternoon.

They were headed to the tunnels. Originally carved out to transport ore through the mountains, most were boring and unimportant. But one carried a legend. It was said that a wagon full of children had once been trapped there when the tunnel collapsed. So much damage had occurred that the entrance had been sealed, leaving the wagon where it sat with the bodies, trapping the spirits inside for all of eternity.

A good ol’-fashioned local ghost story.

“My brother told me,” Charlie said, “that hikers have heard laughing inside the tunnel. He swears ghosts are there.”

Nick had heard the same thing from his older brothers. But he wondered how much of that was true, and how much was just them trying to scare him.

“My dad told me,” Marvin said, “that some people who’ve gone inside have been scratched by the ghosts. There are voices and all kinds of weird things goin’ on there too.”

They’d heard so many stories that they decided to go see for themselves.

Hence the adventure.

The hike took about half an hour, the trail more like a narrow dirt road, well defined with directional signage. No danger of getting lost. He spotted Beaver Lake off toward the west, its mirrored surface a shiny silver blue. Ghosts were said to dwell there too. He’d read about a battle between the Cheyenne and Utes near its shores. Indians fighting Indians. Women and children had taken to rafts trying to escape the carnage by floating out on the lake. A storm had struck and they were all lost in the water. People said the lake was haunted by those who’d drowned, but he’d never heard or seen anything there.

They were following the trail ever upward, the inclined path passing right by the haunted tunnel entrance, large and wide, plenty of room for a horse-drawn wagon to go inside.

Nick had not expected that.

“My dad told me that they opened this up years ago,” Charlie said.

Nick was not as sure as he once was about the stories being false. Maybe there was something to it? “You think we ought to go inside?”

Marvin shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

Charlie slipped his backpack off. “You’re not scared, are you?”

“I’m not scared,” Nick felt compelled to say.

And Marvin agreed. “Me neither. Let’s go in.”

“Not yet,” Charlie said. “I brought some protection.”

His friend unzipped the pack from his back, reached inside, and removed a gun.

“Wow,” Marvin said.

Nick’s eyes went wide too. “Where’d you get that?”

“My dad. He keeps it hidden, but I know where. I figured we might need it.”

“Against a ghost?” Nick asked.

“We don’t know what’s inside there,” Charlie said.

Nick had never touched or seen a gun up close. His family was not into them. This one was big and black, and looked heavy.

“It’s a Colt,” Charlie said, gripping the stock with both hands. “Like in the westerns.” Charlie raised the gun and pointed it at a tree. “We’re ready now for whatever’s in there.”

It happened fast.

So quick that Nick never realized until it was far too late.

Marvin reached for the weapon, saying he wanted to hold it. Charlie resisted, swinging the gun around and yelling no. The arc of his pivot pointed the barrel, only for an instant, straight at Marvin, but long enough for the trigger to accidentally be pulled.

The bullet plowed into the young boy’s chest.

Then exploded out from the back.



Nick could still see the blood spray from the exit wound and the look of fright in his friend’s eyes, then the body folding to the ground, as if in slow motion. Charlie had stood there, in shock, before tossing the gun aside and running away. Nick had been in shock too, but quickly ran over to Marvin, hoping he might be okay. He’d shaken his friend, trying to rouse him, but nothing happened. Color drained from the face. No breathing. No movement. Nothing. Only lots of blood. He’d seen only one dead body before that day, his grandfather’s at the funeral, and the ashen shade that quickly appeared reminded him of that corpse.

Marvin Royster was dead.

The gun had been an M1911, more popularly known as a Colt 1911, a single-action, semi-automatic, recoil-operated pistol, chambered for a .45-caliber cartridge. Standard issue for the US armed forces from 1911 to 1985. Widely used in World War I, World War II, the Korean and Vietnam Wars. Charlie’s father had served in Vietnam and kept the weapon both as a memento and for protection. He’d also filed down the trigger, as was common with those who’d served, reducing the amount of pressure needed to pull it. Something his twelve-year-old son would have never known, or understood.