May 5, 2011
Situated between a two-lane coastal highway and an ordinary stretch of ocean resides a community of thirteen happy individuals. Happy because they can go all day without speaking a single syllable to another person, and their survival relies solely on their own wits. Their trailer homes line a narrow dirt road like a ghost town in the wild west. Sheets on a line snap in the sea breeze, and shallow waves lap on the beach of polished rocks.
At the top of the road, a slender angel in black boots, her face concealed under a hooded jacket, focuses on one lot in the trailer park.
An abused Baja Bug with exposed engine, stinger tail pipe, and more lights than any situation would ever require, sits on oversized, all-terrain tires beside a decommissioned shipping container. The faded remains of a ShIELD RACING logo decorate the container’s chipped paint and rust-blemished side. Inside, a shop has been set up with tools, a small lift, and work benches. Peeking out from the other side of the open doors, a single-room sleeper trailer tilts slightly towards the ocean as the cinder blocks it sits on sink into the sand.
The woman raises her left hand. With a snap of her fingers, every pigeon in the park scatters and vanishes into the woods on the other side of the highway.
A kid in his mid-twenties hops out of the shipping container with a six-foot ladder and a rolled-up sheet of plastic, which is just as long, under his arm. He kicks the legs of the ladder out and sets them in the carpet of weeds taking over the ground around the container.
With one end of the plastic clenched tightly in his fists, he tosses the roll into the air and lets the wind unfurl a billboard. The words ShIELD MOTORCYCLE REPAIR scream off its blinding white face. A dream catcher-style logo in a black circle punctuates the company name. The crisscrossing stings in the logo form a stylized ’S,' with five white stars and one red star positioned at the intersecting points.
The hooded woman taps the tip of her left thumb with her middle finger.
“Go,” a gruff voice commands through a liquid-based microphone and speaker painted on her thumbnail.
“Leo,” the woman reports, “It’s Ryna. I’m here.”
“The asset?”
Ryna struts down the middle of the dirt road as if it’s a fashion show catwalk and enters the trailer park.
“He’s on a ladder right now hanging up his own death notice.”
“What!”
“A banner on the side of his shop for Shield Motorcycle Repair.”
She steps up onto the porch of the trailer park’s manager’s office and watches as the young man hangs the sign across the road.
“And the symbol?”
“A cropcircle would draw less attention than this thing. Especially here.”
“We might be too late anyway.”
“Why?”
“We’re not the only ones to have seen that photo.”
“Chak!” Ryna sighs in frustration. “Do whatever you can to contain the situation until I get this place splintered.”
“When will that be?” Leo asks.
“I’ll be in the water with everything we need by end-of-day tomorrow.”
“Sounds good,” Leo responds, “and I’ll let Ed know he’s getting a new recruit.”
Ryna spins on her heels and faces her reflection in the windowed door of the manager’s office.
“And have someone prep my daughter’s room.”
“Copy that. Out.”
Ryan taps her thumb, ending the transmission.
+++
A cowbell looped over the brass knob clangs against the door.
Ryna slides the hood back onto her shoulders as she enters the wood-panel–walled office. Her black hair pulls back with the hood and reveals she hasn’t aged a day.
Fluorescent lights buzz over a young woman in her twenties sitting behind the counter. Her straight black hair drapes over her face as she types out a message on her cell phone.
“Can I help you?” she asks without looking up from the screen.
“I have an issue with one of your tenants.”
“Mother. You should have called.”
“You know me better than that, Adi. I prefer to show up unannounced.”
Adi sets her phone face down on the counter and brushes her hair back. The family resemblance is undeniable — Same pale blue eyes and tan skin, just no sparkle.
“As always. So, what brings you here?” Adi asks.
“Trevor Beron.”
“You’re pulling him in?” She shoots up from her seat.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t involve you.”
“But he doesn’t even know.”
“He will soon enough.”
“It might be nice to prepare him for what’s coming.”
“His ignorance will keep him alive longer than the truth.”
“So, typical Boundary Patrol protocol?”
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“We’re not the only organization that has recently learned about Trevor and his past.”
“What past?” Adi asks.
“Listen. The Knox are probably preparing to strike this location in the next couple of days. I need you to take care of a couple of things before that happens.”
“A couple of things? Kind of sounds like I’m involved, and should maybe know why Trevor and why now.”
“Why do you care so much? You and he haven’t… You know. Together?”
“No, Mother!”
“Good. I don’t want you getting any closer than friends.”
“Why? Even if we had, our kind mixes with humans.”
“Trevor isn’t human. He was just raised as one.”
Adi looks out the window. Across the road, Trevor lashes the fourth and final corner of the banner to the shipping container.
“Whatever,” Adi sighs, “What do you want me to do?”
“Tell everyone we’re splintering this site.”
“When?” Adi asks.
“As soon as you complete the second thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Get Trevor in the water tomorrow morning,” Ryna says.
“Checkpoint?”
“They’ll know you’re coming.”
+++
The walls of the shipping container reverberate with the sounds of Credence Clearwater Revival as Adi steps into the frame of the open doors and pounds her fist on the rusted metal.
“Trevor!” she shouts to be heard over the music.
The young man, tightening a bolt in a lift, jumps. He turns only to see Adi silhouetted in the doorway.
“Adi,” Trevor cranks the volume down and tosses the socket wrench he was working with on a workbench.
“I’m impressed,” she says, looking around the inside of the container.
“Hey, I’m taking this new venture seriously.”
“I can see. Everyone can with that banner you put up.”
“We’ve got hundreds of bikers rolling past us on the highway; I should be able to pull some of that business.”
“Well, looking good so far. Last time I saw inside this thing, it was packed with junk.”
“I was introduced to the power of shelves,” Trevor smiles. “The stuff I might need is in the back, what I will need around the bike lift, and what’s irreplaceable in this section here. Mostly my Dad’s stuff from his racing days.”
Adi points to the framed picture of a young boy and a statuesque man seated on a mean-looking race motorcycle. “Is that you and him?”
“Yeah, it’s the only picture I have of us together. Actually, it’s one of the few photos I have of him without his helmet on. He hated the camera and didn’t like his picture taken in public.”
“Was wearing a glove on his left hand also a superstition?” she asks, pointing it out in the photo.
“His hand and forearm were burned in some accident before I was born. The scars were pretty gruesome, so he kept them covered up.”
“Ouch,” Adi flinched and rubbed her arm.
“He was fearless.”
“And so are you. I think he would be proud of what you’re doing now,” Adi says with a bounce, “and to celebrate, we’re going surfing tomorrow.”
“I just opened shop,” Trevor gestures to the wall of tools, “I can’t go on vacation already.”
Adi looks back down the dirt road between the mobile homes, up the empty highway, and around the container’s entrance.
“I’m not seeing a line of customers,” she says, “so how about we have a blast on the water for a couple of hours before you’re too busy to do it in the future.”
Trevor glances up at the two surfboards stashed on a high shelf.
“Fine. It’ll give me a chance to put up some posters at rest stops along the way.”
“Good! I’ll meet you at the bug at six am.”
“I’ll have everything loaded up and ready,” Trevor says with a smile.
Adi turns and hops out of the container.
Up where the dirt road meets the highway, a dust devil dissolves into the winds.
She looks back at Trevor with a more serious expression on her face.
“Hey, you ever hear of the Knox?” She asks.
“No,” Trevor shakes his head. “They a band?”
“Kind of.”
“Bring some along for the drive.”
“What about the logo on your banner, what does it mean to you?”
“It’s based on one of my dad’s good-luck charms — A medallion he used to have me wear while he raced.”
“Really? Do you still have it?”
Trevor places his hand on his chest.
“Can I see?”
“Sorry. Dad was extremely superstitious about a lot of things — had a whole list of rules. The number one being, don’t let anyone, no matter who, see it.”
“Not even me?”
“I’m not superstitious, but I still follow his rules.”
“I can respect that. My mom and I have similar secrets,” Adi steps up to the section of the shop displaying all of Trevor’s irreplaceable items. “What are some of the other rules?”
“Nothing crazy, normal things like don’t talk to strangers. Don’t believe everything you’re told. The only weird thing was that he had this thing about pigeons. He hated them.”
“I’m with him on that one. You said the medallion was one of his good-luck charms.”
“He had an old, silver belt buckle he used to wear. It had the logo of my dad’s cowboy band, Jupiter In Sagittarius, on it.”
“Not very cowboy sounding,” Adi comments.
“They were terrible—played a bunch of bad Willie Nelson covers. You’re lucky they broke up before you got here.”
“Where’s that at? The buckle?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping to find it while cleaning up, but my best guess is it’s buried somewhere around his crash site.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, it sucks, but at least I have this one.” He pats his chest. “So, tomorrow — surfing.”
“Tomorrow.” Adi forces a smile, turns, and heads back to the manager’s office.
+++
The Baja bug, its roof loaded up with two surfboards, storage bins, and a red plastic cooler, rumbles over the hills of a narrow, two-lane highway. Dunes roll past on either side. Trevor lowers the driver’s side visor as the sun breaks free from a bank of thick clouds. Adi, in the passenger’s seat, scans through the static on the radio.
“There’s nothing out here,” She reports.
“You bring any music?” Trevor asks. “What was that band you mentioned… The Knox?”
“I forgot, but I think we’re close.”
“Cool.” Trevor leans back in his seat and puts his arm out the window.
“Hey,” Adi slaps Trevor on the thigh, “I’m sorry for asking all those questions about your dad yesterday. I didn’t mean to stir up anything bad or whatever.”
“No, it’s cool.” Trevor flashes a grin her way. “I’ll admit, it was tough going through all of his things while cleaning up.”
“I bet.”
“ I think everything I touched took me back to a good time with him.”
“The irreplaceable stuff you showed me?”
“Yep,” Trevor nods. “And maybe I should talk about him more. He did a lot of good stuff for everyone who knew him.”
“I’d love to hear all about him.”
A two-pump gas station with a tilted awning and a single room cashiers booth appears as they crown a hill. The CHECKPOINT STATION logo rotates slowly atop a rust-streaked pole.
Trevor glances down at the fuel gauge.
“I have a quarter of a tank. Will that get us to this secret spot of yours?” he asks.
“More than enough,” Adi answers. “Take the next right at the station, and we’re pretty much there.”
A lump of a man, his bearded face shadowed by a tattered cap, leans against one of the pumps. He takes a swig of whatever’s in his plaid-printed thermos. Most of it spills down onto his oil-stained overalls as he looks up at the approaching Baja bug. He raises his hand, apparently gesturing to a sign next to the road. The marquee reads, Next Rest Stop 1,046 km.
“Who the hell uses kilometers?” Trevor scoffs.
“Maybe he’s not from around here.” Adi reaches out her window as they drive past the attendant. “Take this right.”
The man tips his hat to Adi as they make eye contact.
Trevor exits the highway and onto the dirt road beside the gas station.
“And that was the last time they were ever seen,” Trevor narrates as he rolls slowly through an open chainlink gate.
+++
Trevor and Adi straddle their surfboards bobbing in the flat, no-waves-in-sight ocean. A hundred meters of still water glistens between them and the Baja Bug staring at them from the vacant beach.
“Spot sucks, Adi.”
“Give it time,” She says. “You see that behind us?”
Trevor paddles with his left hand, turning him and the board around 180 degrees. Towers of black clouds blur the distant horizon with a deluge of rain.
“Perfect,” Trevor complains.
“Yes, perfect,” Adi assures him. “The reports said it would stay offshore until this afternoon, but for us right now, that storm, that wind — just be patient for a minute. It’ll get here.”
“I hate waiting.”
“Where do you have to be? Whose waiting back there?”
“Harsh much?”
“Just hear the chak up.” Adi laughs, but chokes it back after realizing her gaffe.
“Chak?” Trevor asks.
“Look!” Adi points to a rise on the horizon.
“Don’t expect me to open the door for you, lady.”
“No ladies or gents on the waves,” Adi replies.
A massive crest approaches. Trevor’s eyes widen with anticipation.
“Oh, and Trevor,” Adi’s tone shifts to complete seriousness. “Don’t be afraid. Everything’s going to be alright. I promise.”
Trevor laughs, “Later!”
He paddles furiously towards shore as the wall of water closes in. Adi turns the tip of her board towards the wave and lets it pass beneath her.
Trevor glances back to gauge the wave’s distance and adjusts his speed, but just as he’s about stand on his board, the wave wraps around him on all sides and closes down on him — The ocean swallowing him and his board in one gulp.
