Into the Light

Chapter 30

Chapter: 30

Prospero: I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicate to closeness, and bettering of my mind with that, which, but by being so retired, O'er prized all popular rate, in my false brotherhood awakened an evil nature: and my trust, like a good parent, did beget of him a falsehood, in its contrary as great as my trust was; which had, indeed, no limit, as confidence sans bound.

The Tempest: Act 1 scene 2.

Through a pass in the Appalachian Mountains, Darius jams on the gas as they reach the route that leads north-east to RichmondVirginia. The over-inflated tires shriek on the slippery hilltop road as it echoes in the dense thicket as the small woodland creatures scurry away from the unnatural noise. Blake gives him a look from the passenger seat so cold that it will steal the slither from a snake, and he goes into a meditative state blocking all outside sounds. Stiggy knows not to bother him.

"So what will you work on when this is done?" Stiggy asks.

"Excellent question. I guess we'll have to survive first and when are you going to let me in on the plan?"

"That's not up to me."

Darius spots a roadside gas station and tavern that teeters on the rock ledge of the slope. A tilted sign on clapboard siding reads The Hawk's Nest in scrolling letters.

"You guys want to stop?" Darius asks.

Blake nods and they pull in Stiggy thinks what a curious architecture. Black Forest cabins, like Hansel and Gretel. Sort of Swiss Alps too.

"I could use a drink," Stiggy says.

The rickety screen door barely holing on to its hinges squeaks with the breeze and inner door, plywood and duct tape, flaps open. A shiver comes over Blake, something that hasn't happened in a while, and almost scares him. The little girl's voice, the voice of the orb, whispers "Beware" in his ear. After the threshold a sign mounted on a brass ashtray points to the left and reads Store and on the right reads Bar.

As they enter the bar, each trucker hat, bald head, unshaved chin and diesel burnt eye turns to examine the trespassers. The bar sullied black by grease has three stools open by the sink. They sit and an old cash register obstructs their view of the window at the other end of the slanted room clad with exposed beams and sawdust floors. Blake sees tiny pokes of horns on the heads of a clutch of bald men, shaved clean, in the corner huddled around a pitcher of beer.

Drinks are lifted and heads are latched back straight onto the truck drivers and locals. A white sign on the plank wall with a window view of the rolling hills reads Hippies pay triple above a blood stain. The smell of diesel and grease permeates the bar. An operation held together by chicken wire Darius thinks as he puts his hands in his dark blue jacket pockets

"Stiggy, this place is infested," Blake says with a slither in his raspy tone.

"Yes it is," Darius says as he clears his throat and pulls his jacket tighter around his torso.

"I mean infested Darius. Minor ones. Shadows that taunt the open skies but run when it rains."

"What? Of all places and I have to take a shit," Stiggy says.

"We need supplies and this is the only place for miles. These mountain roads are tricky and I need food. But don't worry. No problems," Blake says and heads to the store.

The skinheads in the corner tilt their chins up to display their Maltese cross neck tattoos. The gruff bartender/station attendant with braided ponytail limps over and wipes his thick hands on his dark blue Dickies.