God Stones: Books 1 - 3 Page 2

  Garrett pressed for the trailhead as dim light filtered through the foliage, casting long rods of fading sun onto the forest floor. Evening was beginning to give way to darkness, and shadows moved as if alive. Slow, crawling creatures stretched out from dark cracks of the forest that light could not reach even on the brightest of days. Soon sunset would be upon him, the streetlights in town would be on, and if he wasn’t home, he would be in deep shit.

  That was one rule Garrett’s stepfather, Phillip, would not budge on. Forget the fact that no other sixteen-year-old on earth had to be home by the time the streetlights came on. It didn’t matter. “You will be in this house when the streetlights come on, or I’ll blister your ass! You understand me?”

  When it came to the rules, Phillip didn’t mess around, and although Garrett had been too little to remember the abuse he suffered from his biological father, what little he did remember was enough. He would take the strict rules of his stepfather any day of the week. Garrett’s real father had been an alcoholic who beat both Garrett and his mother. When Garrett was five, his mother had summoned the courage to leave the drunk. After that, his father disappeared, never to be seen again. By the time Garrett was in sixth grade, he was told his biological father had died from a failed liver. One year after the divorce, his mother married Phillip, who was probably the grouchiest man alive. But most importantly, he had never beaten his mom, nor had he beaten him. But Garrett was about to test his stepfather’s resolve in the worst possible way. He was about to break the streetlight rule, and not for the first time.

  Push, damn you. Faster still. Faster than you ever have! he commanded.

  Garrett had heard stories from his older stepbrother, James, about Phillip’s razor strap. According to legend, when James was younger, around Garrett’s age, Phillip began using the strap with extreme prejudice to issue otherworldly discipline. “You just wait, Garrett – you mess up, break the rules, and it will be the strap for sure. You’re too old for him to use his hand. It will be the strap just like I got. Then you can forget sitting, not even on the toilet. You just better plan to hover.” James seemed to relish seeing the blood draining from Garrett’s face as he paled. For a long time, Garrett wasn’t sure it hadn’t all just been a bullshit story. An older brother messing with the younger.

  Then one evening he arrived home late, after the streetlights were good and warm, and saw it for himself. The image was still charred deep in his mind, unable to ever be unseen. The razor strap sat coiled on the kitchen table. Its dark-brown leather was almost black from age, and it was twice the width of a regular belt, only shorter. Dull brass clasps adorned both ends. He remembered thinking there was no way he could survive it… no way. He knew then, despite James being a real dick, all those stories he told were arrow true.

  What came next was the lecture of a lifetime. Even now, running to beat all hell, he could remember Phillip’s hot breath washing over him as his chest lit with the sting of a poking finger. Then Phillip picked up the strap by one of the clasps, allowing the weight of it to uncoil with a rattle and a snap. Garrett hadn’t heard much else after, shut in by the fear of it. But he didn’t need to hear to be sure of the message. It would be the last time he broke the rules, or he would suffer the strap.

  Now just look at what he had done. Once just wasn’t enough, was it? You got to go and push it again. He should had been off work plenty early to get home before the streetlights lit, and he darn well knew it. Phillip would know it for sure.

  He pushed even harder to increase his pace, but the mounting shadows made the jutting rocks and gnarly roots even more difficult to distinguish. Suddenly, his toe catching on a protruding tree root, Garrett fell headfirst down the trail. With a resounding oomph he landed hard on his shoulder and continued sliding forward, arms sprawled out to the side as if making the game-winning headfirst slide across home plate.

  He slowly picked himself off the forest floor and rolled his shoulder, first forward, then backward. Everything still worked. He brushed away the dry dirt and leaves from his clothes.

  He picked up the pace, pushing the limits even for him. He broke from the forest trail, snatched his backpack from its hiding place, and sprinted out onto the shoulder of the highway as if chased by an unseen pursuer. He was clear of the woods now but still had another two miles along the highway, followed by one mile across town before he would step onto his porch.

  Twenty-one minutes, I can do it in twenty-one minutes – if I push. But would that be enough? Dammit, this is going to be close, he thought, glancing down at his watch.

  With the park behind him, he sprinted north down the shoulder of Route 97. Finally clear of the woods, he noticed the late-March evening breeze. He sucked in deep, closed his eyes, and ran blind along the shoulder, just for a second. Just long enough to let it wash over him. Oh, and it did. It blew gently off fields separating 97 from the Sangamon River as it snaked horizontally to the east. Garrett’s skin, fevered from blood pumping too fast, found the cool stroke of an evening spring breeze a welcome relief. He opened his eyes, now looking to the left up the steep embankment of the Lake Petersburg Dam. But the lake itself was out of sight, poised high atop the bluffs to the west. Town would soon be appearing.

  Garrett tried to control his breathing as he bounded into town, tried to slow his heart that now felt like an alien pounding wildly from inside his chest, threatening at any moment to burst from him. His muscles began to twinge ever so slightly, an unwelcome sign of oxygen-starved muscles, a foretelling of cramps to come. Cramping with a mile to go would spell complete and utter doom. If he cramped up now, he would be forced to Frankenstein the rest of the distance home while trying to run through locking legs and seizing hamstrings and calf muscles.

  Water, he thought. When was the last time I had a drink of water? As he made his way into town, he passed the auto-repair garage on his left, then ran up and over a small hill. It wasn’t much of a hill, but it felt huge now. Once clear of the hill, Petersburg opened up before him with its steep, tree-covered hills to his left, dotted with historic homes covered in slate roofs. To his right the river continued to flex and bend, a powerful serpent forever slithering its way along the hidden edge of town. Garrett paid no mind to either. He held his course to true north, not daring to allow his vision to stray as he barreled towards the heart of town. Quickly he descended, picking up speed as the National Bank flashed by on the right and the Dairy Queen on the left. Nearing the center of town, he approached the county courthouse.

  “Garrett! Oh, Garrett!” The voice was that of an elderly woman.

  Garrett cracked his brow as he glanced toward the town square. There, outside Double D’s Dollar Store, he saw Ms. Pennington holding a small bag of groceries. Not now! he thought. He knew instantly he couldn’t ignore the woman. She was a friend of his mother’s, and he simply wasn’t raised to disrespect his elders. Besides, maybe she would offer him a ride.

  “Be a dear and help an old woman with her groceries,” she said as she pushed a paper sack of what might have been toiletries into his arms.

  Garrett took the bag and quickly placed it in her trunk. Okay, it was going to be okay. That took, what, thirty seconds?

  “My, my, you are sure sweating, Garrett. Are you out for a run?” she asked, adjusting her kerchief.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Garrett turned to leave.

  “Oh, honey, I have three more bags inside. Be a dear and help me grab those too. I’m running late for bingo.”

  Garrett’s eyes went wide as he screamed inside. “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a forced smile. So much for a ride, he thought. Then he hastily crossed the sidewalk in three strides, shoving open the door to Double D’s. The small bell clacked against the glass door.

  “Easy with my door, Garrett!” a short, balding man growled as he looked up from a magazine and frowned from across the counter.

  “Oh, sorry, Mr. Douglas,” Garrett said, snatching the three bags from the counter and turning back to the door.
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br />   Mr. Douglas shook his head with a smile as his eyes fell back to his magazine.

  Garrett rushed back to Ms. Pennington’s car and placed the bags in her trunk. Smiling politely, he said, “There you go, Ms. Pennington.” Still out of breath, he tried again to make his escape.

  “Now just hold on, young man! Let me give you something for your trouble.” She began digging around in her purse.

  Please, please just let me go. “It’s okay, ma’am, really. I need to be getting home now.”

  “Oh, nonsense. Hard work deserves compensation!” she said matter-of-factly, continuing to dig, nearly elbow deep now, in the oversized purse.

  All Garrett could do was stand there in quiet desperation, held hostage by an old woman and her purse the size of a duffel bag. Panicked thoughts flashed through his mind. Razor strap. Why on earth would anyone need a purse that big? Oh, dear God! How much time have I lost now? Razor strap. What the hell does she keep in that thing, and how does she even carry it around? Razor strap. Is there such a thing as old-lady strength? Razor—

  “Here you go,” Ms. Pennington said with the perfect smile of false teeth. “Garrett?”

  “Oh! Thank you.” Garrett held out his hand, willing her to just drop whatever she had dug out of that carryall of a suitcase she called a handbag into his hand.

  Finally, Ms. Pennington dropped a single coin into his palm. “There! Now, you tell your mother I said hello. How is she doing? And your father, Phillip, how is he?”

  Ahh! For the love of God! he screamed inside. “They are both good, Ms. Pennington. I will tell them you said hello. I hope you win at bingo tonight.”

  “Oh! My, yes. I’m going to be late.”

  Garrett took the opportunity to turn and run. As a final show of respect, he shouted back, “Thank you, Ms. Pennington!”

  “Oh, what a lovely boy.”

  Moments later he was blowing out in short wheezing bursts between gasps of rapid inhalations. A dull stitch intensified into a sharp stabbing pain in his side, as if an ice pick pierced his ribs. He pressed his thumb into his side to try and lessen the pain while telling his mind it made a difference to put pressure on his diaphragm, even though he knew it did not. Hold on, Garrett, don’t lose it, he thought. Only a few more minutes and he would be home. But he didn’t have a few more minutes.

  Rushing past Petersburg’s one and only stop light, his hope began fading with the last rays of sunlight. He stared at the streetlights lining the road and willed them not to come on. But all his hope was not enough. Neither his will nor speed could outpace the sunset, and just like that his worst fear became reality as – one after another, after another – the streetlights flickered to life. The bulbous bastards were dim at first, but as they warmed, they became bright beacons, like that of a great signal fire washing the night sky, the streets, and the neighborhoods in an artificial light for all to see… for Phillip to see. The soft hum of oversized lightbulbs pierced his mind like nails on a chalkboard. The signal had been sent, and he had failed the simplest of his father’s rules – don’t be late.

  He turned onto Fourth Street, the street he lived on, and with four blocks to go, his hamstring began to cramp. Nooooo! He slowed his pace to a stiff-legged limp, the pain overwhelming him with nausea as he dry heaved, but he didn’t stop. He continued to hobble as his stomach wrenched twice more before finally bringing himself under control during the final block home. He wasn’t in a full-on Frankenstein, but he was damn close.

  When he arrived, the old red Bronco was still parked in the drive, which meant his father would be waiting for him inside. The streetlights had been on for a full five minutes, fully warmed and shining at maximum illumination; he noted the light spreading across the front porch and all the way down the south side of the house, easily visible from the kitchen window. He stepped reluctantly onto the old concrete porch and grasped the handle of the dented aluminum screen door.

  Sucking in a deep breath, he let out a long, exhausted sigh.

  2

  Discoveries Ruined

  One year earlier

  Mexico

  “I’m telling you, baby girl, this mountain is beginning to piss me off. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Breanne frowned, watching her father sliding haphazardly down the steep embankment. His hands were still strong from years of working the dirt, but he was no spring chicken. “Dad, please be careful. Maybe you should let me explore this gorge?” But she knew that, even with the sun well into its long arch high across the Mexican sky and the temperature rising just as fast, he wouldn’t stop until he had explored to exhaustion.

  Her father, the world-renowned archeologist Dr. Charles Moore, didn’t know the meaning of the word quit. Apparently, he didn’t know the meaning of the term heat exhaustion either. She worried about her father getting down into the gorge, but it was climbing back out in the heat that really concerned her.

  “Okay, now we’re talking. Look here, Bre.” Struggling to catch his breath, her father pointed towards the back of the ravine where it met the mountain wall. “This ravine has been washed out by Mexico’s rainy season year in and year out. It’s the one I was showing you on the map alright. If we’re going to find that this mountain is truly a dirt-covered pyramid, this is the perfect place.” Breanne’s anxiety must have been visible, because he paused. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Will you just sit down and rest for a minute, Daddy? Let me look around until you catch your breath,” she said, her voice more commanding than even she intended. Daddy was reserved for when she wanted something, and right now she wanted him to just stop before he overheated… or worse.

  Her father smiled. “Alright, alright. You win, baby girl. I’ll radio your brothers and get Paul heading this way with some rope for the climb back up. Shout if you see anything.”

  Breanne cocked a skeptical eyebrow and nodded. “I will, and please… drink some water.” She pushed the canteen towards him before turning her eyes to the back of the gorge. Drawing in a deep breath, she adjusted her favorite piece of archeologist attire, a wide-brimmed papyrus hat. Leaving the chinstrap loose and dangling below her neckline, she bounded off.

  When she reached the back of the ravine, she scanned all along the steep mountain wall and the deep washout. Centuries of rainstorms had done a real number on the erosion of this gorge. It was just like her father had thought it would be, deep – the deepest she’d seen by far – but with nothing to indicate human activity. She searched up the sheer wall at the back of the ravine, along the bottom, and along the sides, but she saw nothing. There were no signs of ruins, Mayan or otherwise. As disappointing as it was, there was simply nothing here. It was hot, so damn hot, she thought. With a sigh, she turned to head back, but then a shadow caught her eye.

  She approached the overhanging ledge of grey rock only a few feet off the ground. A cave perhaps? Or maybe a den? The last thing she wanted to do was stir up a mountain lion. Carefully she eased up to the small opening and pulled her flashlight from the pocket of her green cargo pants. As she shone the light down the dark shaft, it was apparent that the opening was a cave, and it went deep.

  “Bre, what’d you find?”

  Breanne lurched upward, dropping the flashlight and nearly cracking her head on the outcropping of rock. “Jesus, Dad! You scared the life out of me! I thought you were resting!”

  Her father stood behind her, his chest heaving in laughter. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Breanne held one hand over her chest and her other balled in a fist as she gave her father the stank eye. “What, are you practicing to be a burglar?”

  “I’m sorry!” he said again, waving his hands in defense, his barrel chest shaking with laughter.

  Breanne couldn’t help smiling as she retrieved her flashlight. “Look at this, Dad.” She sent a beam of light into the small opening. “I can’t see all the way to the back, but it looks like it might open up.”

  “Oh! There we go! I’ve got
a good feeling about this, baby girl.” Charles rubbed his hands together in excited anticipation. “Alright, look out, I’m going in.”

  “Hold on a second! Did you call Paul? Maybe we could wait and send him in, let him see if it even goes anywhere.”

  “Nonsense. Your brother is like a bull in a china shop. Besides, at last check his ETA was twenty minutes. Daylight is burning, and we still have a long hike back to camp. I’ll just check it out. By the time Paul gets here, we will know if this goes anywhere,” her father said, already crawling into the opening.

  “You’re so stubborn,” Breanne huffed.

  “What’s… that?” he said, grunting as he attempted to wriggle inside the opening.

  She sighed. “I said be careful, Dad.”

  Breanne watched as her father sucked in his gut, doing his best to constrict his belly as he pulled himself into the narrow fissure. Little did he know she was right behind him.

  Within moments, she was forced to her stomach as the space narrowed even further. Lying on her side, she stretched one arm out above her head, her hand grasping at an unseen hold and finding purchase. She pulled herself along, quietly wondering just how in the heck her father was managing to drag his sizable bulk through the dark void.

  In the darkness of the crevasse, a flash of sudden memory halted Breanne in place. She found herself frozen, a sudden prisoner of the past. She tried to push it away, but it took hold, refusing to yield. Fighting back the urge to scream, she felt her pulse rise as panic set in. Her breaths came in short and ragged bursts. No, no, no! she thought. This had never happened before! In her nightmares, sure, but not while she was awake.