60. Spending the Night

The weather was clear, with not a cloud in the sky.

The Bronco kicked up swirls of dust as it sped down the endless, wide, and straight I-15 interstate, while the soulful refrains of “Mama” by Uncle Teeth echoed in the car from the tape deck.

Soft breezes slipped through the window, gently caressing Dean’s face as he squinted slightly, stealing glances at the passing scenery. The occasional wind turbine or lamp post added a touch of novelty to the monotonous journey. Beyond the lamps stretched vast, flat plains—by late July, they shimmered golden under the sun. The distant mountains were generally low, their slopes covered with dry yellow grass, here and there punctuated by solitary shrubs or clusters of small trees.

Over an hour out of Las Vegas, they crossed from Nevada into California.

The landscape shifted, with more gathering spots and gas stations, and sometimes warehouses with triangular roofs appeared by the roadside. The warm-toned vistas, stunning at first glance, soon grew desolate and repetitive.

In the back seat, Abby and Gretchen clutched the tape player, lost in their music, barely speaking.

Dean couldn’t help but yawn. “Where are we camping this time?”

“Somewhere along the Sierra Nevada,” Gretchen replied softly.

“I heard there’s a Yosemite National Park nearby, perfect for sightseeing and camping. Why not go there?”

“You get the best views in spring,” Gretchen said, shaking her head. “Now it’s a bit late, and Yosemite only allows camping in a few designated areas. I’ve been there several times—it’s nothing special.”

“This time we’re trying somewhere new—canyons, forests, lakes. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

“Sounds good.” Dean glanced out at the monotonous sandy expanse and yawned again.

“The I-15 is a bit boring,” Abby chimed in. “On the way back from Santa Monica Beach, we could try Route 66—the ‘Mother Road.’ The scenery’s better.”

Dean nodded, his gaze catching on a clumsy-looking bus outside, its side painted with a sprinting greyhound. “What kind of bus is that?”

“That’s a Greyhound coach, probably the one leaving from Las Vegas,” Abby explained. “It runs between Los Angeles, San Diego, and San Francisco. If we weren’t stopping to hike and camp, we could’ve taken that bus.”

“But you’re better off not taking it,” Gretchen interjected. “Those coaches are spacious but usually empty, so there’s plenty of privacy. The journey’s long, and if some creep tries anything, you could scream your lungs out and nobody would help.”

They all laughed.

The two girls were easygoing. Once the conversation started, they didn’t hold any grudge for Dean’s earlier misunderstanding, and their chatter soon dispelled the awkward silence in the car.

“So, ladies, you’ll be seniors next semester. Have you picked your dream colleges?” Dean asked, just as the car passed a vineyard sprawling over a thousand acres. On either side of the dusty yellow road, grape leaves rippled like green waves, and the air was sweet and refreshing.

“My grades aren’t great, and I’m not athletic,” Abby said a little shyly. “I don’t plan on going to college. After high school, I’ll just go back and take over my family’s supermarket.”

Dean’s eyelid twitched—so she’s a hidden heiress.

“Oh, don’t say that, Abby. You have plenty of talent. Aren’t you always submitting to magazines?” Gretchen shook Abby’s shoulder, proudly telling Dean, “Abby’s a contributor to a well-known Las Vegas literary magazine—she’s published five stories, all well received.”

“That’s impressive. What are they called? I’ll buy them ahead of time and have you autograph them. Once you’re a famous writer, those will be worth a lot.” Dean grinned at Abby.

Abby blushed, her acne standing out even more.

“Sharp eye—you’re right,” Gretchen nodded approvingly at Dean.

“You two are really close.”

“Of course. We’ve been best friends for over a decade, neighbors since birth,” Abby said with a smile. “If she weren’t going to college, I wouldn’t want to be apart.”

“Which college, Gretchen?”

“I love sports and dream of wearing a badge and fighting crime.” The lively girl straightened with pride, the swell under her blue t-shirt catching Dean’s eye in the rearview mirror, making him dizzy. “I’m preparing to apply to the Nevada Police Academy.”

“You’ll make it—great grades, athletic, outgoing, everyone likes you.” Abby, with her blushing, acne-covered face, pressed her cheek to Gretchen’s stunning beauty. The contrast was so stark that Dean felt a bit out of place, wondering how girls so different on the outside could be so close.

“And she’s following in her father’s footsteps,” Abby told Dean. “Gretchen’s dad is an LVPD officer—Thomas Allen. She’ll apply to LVPD and continue her studies at the police academy.”

“Thomas Allen?”

A smiling, chubby officer licking cream off his finger flashed in Dean’s mind.

“You know my father?” Gretchen caught on.

“I met him recently at LVPD. He made quite an impression—warm and friendly.”

Gretchen grinned, showing her gums, and launched into a lively discussion of police work with Dean. Drawing on a month spent in a hospital room studying volunteer information, Dean kept up a convincing conversation.

Four hours after setting out.

The three-car convoy passed a massive wind farm, then left I-15 for a state road, arriving at a gas station at the starting point of their camping route.

They got out to rest, bought lunch, and checked their gear. In the convenience store, Gretchen left their itinerary—if they didn’t return in 72 hours, the owner would alert the authorities.

Then they changed into their hiking gear and set off into the plains beside the road.

…

By noon, the golden sun hung high overhead.

Nine figures, burdened with large hiking packs, made their way through the wilds on the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada. Dressed in matching boots and breathable technical wear, they moved at a steady pace—not fast but unwavering. Even Ashley, who seemed the most delicate, kept up with ease.

Gretchen, their guide, led the way, with Dean and Abby close behind… Baker and Jenny brought up the rear.

Near the end of July, temperatures on this side of the mountains were still high, and even in light jackets, they felt the heat.

Once immersed in the wilderness, Dean found it wasn’t as barren as it looked from the highway. Low shrubs, Joshua trees, golden yucca, and even cacti dotted the land, while all sorts of small creatures lived among them, giving this seemingly desolate place a vibrant life.

Slowing his pace, Dean caught sight of a lizard no bigger than his palm, green patterns swirling across its skin, crouched under a cactus and staring at the group like a little statue.

“Look over there,” Gretchen pointed to the left.

Twenty meters away, beneath a cluster of green bushes, a rabbit with gray-brown fur nibbled at grass roots, its ears alert and quivering.

“Desert cottontail,” Abby whispered. “The tail looks just like a little cotton ball—cute, right?”

Dean nodded solemnly, wondering if he could sneak a few steps closer and have “Shadow” take that little creature out with the planchette, all unnoticed.

Rust quietly pulled a Nikon F3 from his pack and handed it to an eager Britney.

Click.

The camera captured the animal’s antics perfectly.

But the sharp-eared rabbit, startled by the shutter, glanced at the humans and then bolted in a flash of gray, vanishing into the brush. Its fur was perfect camouflage—even the best hunters would struggle to find it.

“That little thing can run,” Baker laughed. “Next time I’ll bring a gun and try some rabbit stew.”

“Don’t forget night vision,” Gretchen replied. “You can only hunt cottontails here at night.”

…

They pressed on, the terrain rising and falling with hills and valleys. Gretchen would pause, hands on hips, to introduce the local wildlife—wary jackrabbits, bumbling gophers, elusive bobcats, and crows circling overhead, cawing curiously.

She also shared tips on wilderness first aid—what plants to mash for pain relief, which ones you could nibble on when desperate, and hiking tricks, like choosing firmer ground to save energy.

Abby gazed at her best friend in awe.

Everyone grew fonder of their lively, capable, and striking guide.

Three hours slipped by unnoticed. The sunlight softened, the air cooled, and as they stood on a ridge, green began to overtake gold. Shrubbery rolled across the land in ribbons of emerald, lush as silk.

Up ahead, the terrain rose sharply, giving way to dense, verdant forest. At last, they were leaving the yellow plains behind and climbing the mountain’s other side.

“Rainwater passes through here.”

Gretchen led them to a patch of green shrubs, where she found a pile of black droppings beneath the leaves.

“Coyote scat.”

“Wait—there are wolves here?” Ashley’s face blanched. “Are we in danger?”

“Don’t worry. From my hunting experience, coyotes are more afraid of a group than you are of them—unless they’re starving.” Baker puffed out his hairy chest. “And with us guys up front, you’ll be safe.”

“I’ll protect you, darling.” Long slung an arm around Ashley’s shoulders and patted his scrawny chest, looking ready to sacrifice himself for love.

Ashley, touched, hugged his arm tightly.

“Coyotes aren’t the worry—cold is much deadlier,” Gretchen said, pulling a thick, warm coat from her pack. “Change into your warm clothes.”

“I think I can tough it out,” Baker said, spreading his arms to feel the air.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abby said, annoyed. “Once we go higher, it gets colder and damper. You won’t notice, but your clothes will wick away your body heat. Add a breeze, and you’ll be hypothermic before you know it. If your core temperature drops below 28 degrees, not even God can save you.”

“Is it really that serious? Are you just trying to scare me?” Baker grumbled, but quickly shrugged into his thick blue down jacket.

A few minutes later, everyone had changed, grabbed their trekking poles, and headed into the forest. Instantly, the open view was replaced by a dense, enclosed world.

The rising ground was springy and hard to get a foothold on, draining their strength.

Dean, with a 11.6 physique, was far above average. He felt the hike was a breeze—barely enough to burn off the energy he’d built up recovering in the hospital.

He strolled along, admiring mushrooms at tree roots, berry-laden bushes, sparkling spiderwebs, and birds chirping in the branches, observing the teeming forest from a god’s-eye view.

The forest brimmed with life, the air fresh, and animal scents—musky, territorial—lingered everywhere.

“This would be a good hunting ground.”

“How much farther?” Ashley complained, sweating, lips pursed. Long nodded, face stiff.

“Hang in there—a couple more hours till sunset. We need to reach the halfway shelter before dark. There are cabins for hikers.” Gretchen encouraged them.

“Once it’s dark, there’s more than just wolves out here.” Baker and his girlfriend Jenny made monstrous faces at Ashley. “There are legends—wendigos, werewolves. They love tender little girls like you!”

“Ah!” Ashley screamed, face pale.

“If you scare us again, I’ll sew your mouth shut!” The group joined in berating Baker and Jenny, who raised their hands in mock surrender.

…

Halfway up the mountain, a shabby cabin appeared beneath fir trees. Its wood walls were covered in ivy and moss, the windows dusty behind heavy curtains. It looked decades old.

“Freedom! I’m going to lie down for a day—I’m not moving another inch!” Ashley tossed her pack to her boyfriend and dashed ahead.

“Wait, there’s someone inside.”

Dean, dropping his god’s-eye view, called her back.

With a creak, the door swung open, and a man in denim overalls and a wide-brimmed hat stepped out. He was rugged, with a thick reddish beard and bright eyes that swept over the group like rifle scopes.

“Hiking?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. We climbed up and hoped to rest here, not knowing someone was inside.”

“This isn’t a private cabin—come on in if you need shelter.” The man waved them in, his hearty smile instantly putting them at ease. “If you don’t mind squeezing in. Night’s coming, and tents and sleeping bags won’t keep you warm enough.”

Gretchen caught his eye, then looked around at her friends. Except for Dean, everyone nodded eagerly, Baker flexing his biceps with confidence.

…

The forty-square-foot cabin had no partitions—just one big room, simply furnished, lit dimly by a kerosene lamp.

A fire crackled in a stone-and-clay hearth, sending the scent of simmering meat stew wafting through the air.

Ravenous from hours of hiking, everyone looked tempted.

Another man sat inside—dressed all in black, his features as hard-edged as a gunslinger from an old Western, silently perched at the bed’s edge, polishing a Winchester M1897 shotgun, ignoring the visitors.

The atmosphere grew tense.

Dean quietly summoned “Shadow,” just in case.

Long eyed the black shotgun nervously and gulped audibly.

“Hey, put the gun away—you’re scaring our guests,” the bearded man barked. His companion silently packed the shotgun, then sized up the group with small, watchful eyes.

“Sorry—Sam isn’t much of a talker, but he’s a good man. The gun’s for hunting—nothing to worry about.” The man doffed his hat, smiling apologetically, wiping his muddy hands on his overalls, and shook hands with everyone.

“Take a seat—it’s not much, but make yourselves comfortable.”

Dean plopped down beside Tom and flashed a smile, scanning their packs and weapons with his god’s-eye view—nothing automatic.

The rest quickly sat down.

“I’m Irwin, and this is Tom—we’re from San Francisco. You folks look like students.” Irwin’s gaze lingered on Gretchen’s striking face, then subtly drifted to her chest.

“Yeah.”

“Which school?”

“Sacramento—Louis High graduates—on our graduation camping trip,” Gretchen replied with composure.

Sacramento lay in central California, not far from their camp.

Long, puzzled by the lie, glanced at Dean across from him and caught a sharp look. He swallowed his question.

“If I’d known you two were using the cabin, we’d have climbed up from the other side with the other students,” Gretchen offered.

“Oh? More students?” The bearded man ladled a bowl of steaming stew from the pot, tasted it, and smiled in satisfaction.

“Sixteen classmates—we’re racing to the top. Losers buy everyone a seafood feast in Santa Monica.”

No one contradicted Gretchen’s lie.

“Young folks have so much energy—just like my nephew from high school. You must be starving after the hike!” The bearded man passed out bowls. “Try some—caught a cottontail at dawn, stewed it just right.”

No time for polite refusals—they watched him eat half a bowl and then helped themselves, gathering around the fire to feast.

“Sweet potatoes, onions, corn—soft, tender, delicious,” Baker praised. “You could open a stew house in San Francisco.”

The man beamed. “Eat up—there’s plenty more.”

The two groups ate together, sharing snacks, drinks, and beer from their packs.

Tom, the hunter, found beer insipid and passed his vodka flask to the boys. Except for Dean, who didn’t touch alcohol, Rust, Baker, and even the scrawny Long took deep swigs, their faces flushed and warm.

Irwin, his beard shining with grease, launched into hunting stories—his tales were vivid and the students listened, riveted.

“Uncle Irwin, you know so much—do you know if there are wendigos in these mountains?” Ashley asked timidly, recalling what Baker had said.

Irwin laughed. “Those only come out in deep winter—right now, they’re sleeping in their caves.”

“For now, it’s just boars, bighorn sheep, American badgers, spotted skunks, bobcats, flying squirrels, hog-nosed skunks… Speaking of which, badgers come out at night.”

He stood, glancing out the window—moonlight spilled like water into the yard.

“It’s been great sharing dinner with such lively young folks, but all good things end—time to hunt. The cabin’s yours.”

The two hunters shouldered their heavy packs, slung a Remington M1100 over one shoulder, an AR15 over the other.

“Goodbye,” the bearded man called, waving as they stepped out without a backward glance.

…

For a long moment, the two figures disappeared into the moonlight outside. Gretchen, hand on her chest, finally let out a sigh of relief.

“Do you all watch too many horror movies? Why assume everyone’s a villain? If they meant harm, why not just use those guns?” Baker, flushed with vodka, protested, Jenny and Ashley nodding in agreement.

“You’re a big guy, but haven’t absorbed a bit of sense,” Rust knocked his head. “No one wears ‘villain’ on their face. Besides, Tom kept sneaking looks at the girls—didn’t seem like a good guy.”

“If you were so suspicious, why did you drink their vodka and eat their stew?” Baker retorted.

“I waited till they ate first.”

“All right, enough,” Gretchen said, staring into the darkness outside. “Safety first. Out here, people are the biggest danger. No camping outside tonight—bring your sleeping bags in, take turns on watch, keep the flare gun and trekking poles ready.”

“I’ll take first watch,” Dean said. He had no intention of being clubbed in his sleep. With his Ironman traits and meditation, a night without sleep after a day’s hike was nothing.

“Sleep tight, everyone.”