The scream came from beyond the canyon walls that loomed over the campsite, splitting the night silence in two. Nick was already seated when Denny bolted up from his sleeping bag.
“Dude, whuu…” Moonlight picked up the silver in his shaggy brown mop. Above them winked a million stars and nothing else. “What was that?”
Nick held up a hand and cocked his head. Nothing but silence after that shriek.
“Bobcat maybe. Or a mountain lion.”
“Something is getting killed.” Denny stretched forward to rummage around in his backpack. “Maybe we should take another hit. I’m sure as shit not gonna be dozing off anytime soon.”
“Yeah, great idea. Then we’ll be too high to care what happens next.”
“Whatever.” Denny rolled back into his sleeping bag.
They'd taken their last hit from the bong a half an hour ago. Trust Denny to carry the damn thing up from Santa Barbara. No vape pen, no gummies but a glass bong, wrapped in a towel and hauled up the trail in his backpack. Nick sighed. A whip-sharp businessman in the body of a middle-aged retro-hippie--that was Denny.
"I'm good," Nick shook his head--and he was, because he wasn't really very high. He didn't want to be. Tonight he was going to kill his closest friend of twenty-five years--in cold blood, without remorse. A spark of adrenaline ran up Nick's spine, making him shiver. He looked over at Denny, who was smiling.
"Maybe we should just book outta here before Sasquatch gets us." Denny said with a chuckle.
"No decisions tonight, Den—-we’ll deal with it tomorrow."
They were miles from any human. They'd hiked into this canyon today the better part of six hours without as much as seeing or hearing a fellow member of their species, caramel -colored granite rising high around them, splashes of deep green from scrub oak and vegetation and the ground below spotted with the bright yellow of tiny petals, daisies in a miniature kingdom.
Though they’d camped here many times in their teens, in the twenty-five years since the trips had dwindled, at least for Nick, as work responsibilities took over. It was Nick and Denny's first trip together in thirteen years. The school year was in progress, which meant no teenagers or crazed college students running around destroying the peace and quiet--at least until that scream.
Denny grunted and turned in his sleeping bag. In a few moments his breathing slurred into snores, and Nick was left alone again with the cool night, the bright stars, and his dark thoughts.
You could always fall asleep anytime, anywhere. Concerts, keggers, 24/7 workweeks getting your construction business off the ground—Denny, master of the quick forty winks.
Sleeping the sleep of the innocent, the bastard. No guilty conscience for him. Nick looked beyond the campfire.
He’d placed several rocks nearby, ostensibly to surround the fire they’d built earlier. But these rocks had a different duty. The rounded one a few feet away had a flat surface and surprising heft.
The perfect weapon to crush a skull.
Nick couldn’t believe he was going to do it. But circumstances had played so perfectly, so smooth it was almost preordained.
A chance meeting at the gas station. The suggestion of a hike together, or better yet, a backpacking weekend. A quick get-away, no worries, let me know. Denny’s laugh, him saying sure, sure, been a long time, I’ll see you at eight on Saturday. He had thrown some stuff together and here they were. No one knew about the trip, or that Nick and Denny were even together. Den’s impulsiveness was legendary. He thought nothing of taking off for a week to follow his favorite band, or to drive to Vegas on a whim. He’d be dead long before anyone even realized he was missing.
As for Nick--now that Lisa had left, nobody paid attention to his comings and goings.
Vanish. That would be the end of Denny.
“Wouldn’t wanna be on the receiving end of that,” Denny had mumbled before dozing off. “Once they smell blood..”
Nick pictured Denny’s crushed skull, blood and brains on the canyon floor. The same Denny who was best man at Nick and Lisa’s wedding. Who, in his favorite Hawaiian shirt, toasted them, “the two people who belong together.” Who lived at 324 Shoreline condos--where Lisa’s car was parked, that first morning after she left Nick.
Slowly, quietly, like a beast of prey Nick worked his way over to the rock pile. Picked up the rounded stone with the flat top and hefted it. From somewhere beyond came the girlish yip-scream of a lone coyote, calling its brethren. Calling for the blood hunt.
I can’t do this Nick. I can’t live with your distance anymore, Lisa had said the night she left. No tears, no emotion. A packed suitcase leaning against the living room door. I can’t reach you. We’re so far away, what difference does it make if I’m here or not—you’re not here.
Nick had driven to Denny’s condo the next morning, colossally hung over. Hadn’t seen him in a couple of months, but some impulse had pushed Nick to contact his old friend for something--a hike, a sail, beers at the condo--something to pull him out of the dark hole he’d fallen into.
And there was Lisa’s car. A red curtain of fury rose up before his eyes but before he could ram her car, ram the building, he drove on. He drove for what seemed like hours but when he circled back to the condo, Lisa’s car was gone. The anger subsided, replaced by a dead calm that obliterated all thoughts but one--payback, somehow. And a couple weeks later, like a gift delivered, the unexpected meeting at the gas station.
He stood over his friend of twenty-five years and looked down at the snoring lump that was Denny. Raised his arms up, held that stone tight. One motion would do it.
One motion.
Sweat beaded his forehead. His hands gripped the stone. His arms shook, every muscle, every sinew ready. He raised his arms higher while the coyote yipped its blood song amid the howls and screams of its brethren. The stars got brighter, blindingly so, against the bottomless pitch of night.
Then it was over.
Not this night, not any night. Not any day either. He was no killer.
He lowered his arms, walked to his bag, pitched the stone and sat, wondering how he could have been so stupid.
He was a loser whose wife had left him. Who was camping with the man who’d banged her. He was no killer, he was nothing. Nothing but a loser.
Time slowed and collapsed. He watched the light glow from stars that might no longer exist. Some kind of irony in that.
A loud snort made Nick jump. Denny grunted and rolled forward, awake now, facing Nick. He took in Nick’s expression for a moment then settled back in his sleeping bag. After a long moment of silence Denny finally spoke.
“Nothin’ happened bro,” he said.
Above them, a cloud passed over the moon, creating a web of shadows on the ground. Denny stretched, stared into the dark.
“She was drunk, out of her mind drunk, crying. Shit, she parked sideways in the parking entrance. I re-parked her car and took the keys, making her stay the night. She talked all night about how much she still loves you.”
Denny sighed. “She hurled a couple times. I made her coffee, set her up on the couch, and she finally went to sleep.”
He turned to face Nick. “She left the next morning, made me swear not to tell you. Denny reached towards his backpack, pulled out a can, popped the tab. “Didn’t see your drive-by.” He took a sip, paused, then passed the beer can to Nick.
“She still loves you, bro.”
After a moment’s hesitation Nick took the can from Denny. Something passed between them in the exchange—an underlying trust. Something fell away from Nick as well--the lump of ice he’d been carrying around inside. The warm bitter brew went through him just as a cool breeze blew against his face. He took another swallow and considered this still, remote place, untethered to the world of meetings and quotas and all the crap he thought so important. He set the can down.
Den smiled. “That’s the last one.” He reached over again and pulled the bong from his backpack, unwrapped it, and gave Nick a side-eye grin.
To his own surprise Nick laughed. He couldn’t help it. Crazy Denny. The same unpredictable, undomesticated Denny of his school days. Same madman—and same loyal friend.
He thought about Lisa. If she still loved him he would make it work. Counselling, “the talk”, whatever. Whatever it took. He might be an idiot, he might be the biggest loser that ever lived, but he wouldn’t throw away another chance with the only woman he’d ever really loved.
Whatever had been building inside him was gone--gone as those dead stars. There was only this night, this canyon with his crazy friend, the quiet and the breeze and a glass bong, like you were fifteen again with the future stretched out before you.
“Yeah,” he said.
They had another hit, a good one this time. They laughed about the stupidity of carrying a big piece of glass up the rocky trail. They finished off the rest of the beer and agreed that yes, dark stout was best drunk from the pressurized can, at room temperature.
After a while they drifted into sleep.
Nick dreamed of a darkness so black it robbed him of physical dimension. His hands reached into emptiness, touching nothing. A beast with glittery eyes stood over Nick. He felt its wet muzzle graze his face, whiskers prickling his chin. He tried to touch the beast but he had no strength or substance. He lay immobilized, while darkness washed over him.
The first thing Nick heard the next morning was the tumultuous riot of birdsong, even before he opened his eyes. The second thing he heard was Denny's voice.
"Uhh…Nico." Denny's usual cadence, but with an unfamiliar quaver. Morning sunshine streamed into Nick's face and he squinted, rubbing his eyes to adjust. Denny sat rigid in his sleeping bag, shaking his head in dazed wonder. He whistled softly under his breath.
Nick followed Denny's gaze to the ground around him. At first he didn't recognize the mounds in the soil. Then his eyes focused, and while his heart lurched he scanned the mountain lion tracks that went up to, over, and away from their sleeping bags.
"Time to go home," he said.
THE END
Bio:
Barbara Stanley loves exploring the dark side and wants to take you with her. Her dark fiction has appeared in print and online in several publications including Mystery Tribune, Killer Nashville, Literally Stories, and Flash Fiction Online. A collection of previously published work--Bitsy and Other Dark Tales--is available at Amazon.com.