So Marty took another pull on his joint instead, and he didn’t even look back.
They drove for another ten minutes. The ledge wove upward, turning back on itself and zig-zagging them up the mountainside. The view that was revealed alternately to their left and right was staggering, opening up across the ravine to expose miles of wooded countryside, hills peeking above the trees here and there, and dark green valleys hiding their secrets from view. After a short climb they reached a ridge, and then the track weaved them into a forest of towering trees.
Curt drove, Holden and Dana pretended not to notice where their skin touched, and Marty smoked. He was thinking about dynamite and digging machines, and men working with shovels and picks, and just how long it had taken to forge that tunnel around the end of the ravine, following the natural contours of the land except deeper inside. And the road that had twisted and turned its way up the mountainside; that wasn’t an easy build, either. He thought about stuff like this a lot. And sometimes, such thoughts ended with a simple determination to smoke some more.
He lit another joint and leaned back in his seat, dozing.
Curt startled him awake with a shout.
“Behold! Our home for the weekend.” Holden and Dana went first, squatting between Curt’s and Jules’s seats, and then Marty stood behind them, one hand on each of their shoulders to hold himself up. Dana gasped, Holden hummed in appreciation, and Marty had to admit to himself that, yes, this was quite a sight.
The lake lay to their left, surrounded by trees that cast stick-like shadows across the water from the southern bank. Elsewhere the sun glared off of the water, rippling here and there where fish or frogs jumped, shimmering with a million diamonds of light. There were a couple of small, bare islands sprouting low shrub growth, and on one a solitary tree cast its shadow over the water. A wooden jetty stood out into the water, a rough but sturdy-looking structure. There were no boats moored there, and taking a cursory look around the lake Marty could see several possible hiding places among the reeds at the lake’s edge.
It wasn’t huge, but the plant growth around its edges was lush. The stretch where the Rambler was now drawing to a halt must have been artificially cleared, and Marty found his attention drawn to the right to see why.
The cabin stood maybe a hundred feet from the lake, in a clearing that probed deep into the woods. For a few seconds Marty thought, Right, that’s like a timber store or something, and the real cabin’s behind it in the trees, because if that’s the place where we’ve got to sleep. But then he looked closer and saw net curtains in the building’s windows, and its allure slowly grew on him. They weren’t coming out here for a hotel visit, after all. No room service or gourmet restaurants here.
It wasn’t the most attractive building he’d ever seen, but it could easily be home. For a couple of days, at least. Single-story, with large eye-like windows on either side of the door. Several rickety steps led up to the wide decked porch area, where a small pile of firewood was stacked beneath the overhang to dry. Tall fir trees skirted the rear and both sides of the building, hiding it away from anywhere but where they were now parked. Curt killed the engine and opened the door and, without speaking, they all climbed slowly from the Rambler.
Bird song, a gentle breeze through the trees, their crunching footsteps, something splashing out on the lake… there was no other noise. No traffic grumble or roaring of aircraft high in the sky.
Nothing.
It was, Marty thought then, idyllic.
“Oh my god, it’s beautiful!” Jules said, leaning into Curt and adding quieter, “One spider and I’m sleeping in the Rambler. I mean it. Uno spider-o.”
“This house is talking a blue streak,” Marty whispered.
“So let’s set up camp,” Holden said. “And the most important feature: keg.” He clapped Marty on the shoulder and grinned, and Curt accompanied them back into the Rambler to get the beer. They maneuvered it from the confined space and manhandled it from the vehicle, and by the time they’d deposited it on the cabin’s porch, Dana already was there, turning the knob.
The door swung open with a deep, grinding creak. You’re velcome to stay zer night, Marty thought, but as the others followed her inside he held back, appreciating the sky above him and the sense of space he still felt all around. In there they’d be… confined. He didn’t shiver—not quite—but something felt askew. Had felt that way since meeting that weird old coot at the tumble-down gas stop, then coming up through the tunnel and winding track. Shit, maybe his batch of weed was contaminated with something. He’d heard about it happening before.
Once inside and settled, maybe he’d think about switching stashes.
The main room beyond the front door was living room and kitchen combined, and Dana was walking around slowly, touching nothing, as the others entered. To the right was a dining table and chairs, and a kitchen counter featuring poorly crafted wall and floor cupboards with a retro-fitted sink, the single tap dripping steadily. At the end of the counter stood an antique wood-burning stove, probably built before Marty’s grandparents were even born. Its bulk and solidity seemed somehow out of place beside the rest of the kitchen, as if it was the only part that bled quality. “Oh, this is awesome!” Curt said.
“It is kinda cool,” Jules replied. “You gonna kill us a raccoon to eat?”
“I will use its skin to make a cap.”
To the left in the huge room was the living area, with mismatched sofas and chairs arranged around the large stone fireplace. It looked comfortable, but strangely unloved, as if it were a place used for necessity rather than desire. Hanging back in the doorway, Marty spotted a wolf’s head on the wall—courtesy of the old guy at the station, perhaps? It had been stuffed growling, and was just about one of the most vicious looking things he’d ever seen. That would get a shirt thrown over it before dusk, he was damn certain of that, by him if no one else. Its eyes seemed alive. Directly opposite the front door a bare, wide hallway ran to the rear of the cabin, with two doorways leading off from either side. Between it and the kitchen there was a rectangle in the floor that appeared to be a way into the cellar. A few worn rugs littered the floor. The window at the hallway’s end was obscured by nets and dust, and whatever lay beyond was dark, as if the woods back there cut out all sunlight.
Dana paused before the stuffed wolf’s head, then moved on. Her footsteps were soft and gentle, hardly heard, and Marty wondered what lay beneath the timber-boarded floor.
Jules strode confidently along the hallway to check out the bedrooms. She grabbed a doorknob and twisted.
“Dibs on whichever room is—OW!” She jerked her hand back and stared at the bubble of blood welling on her fingertip.
I’m still not inside, Marty thought. The others are and they’re fine, they’re at ease with the place, but I’m still not…
“Curt, your cousin’s house attacked me,” Jules exclaimed with mock severity.
“I smell lawsuit,” Curt said.
“When was your last tetanus shot?” Holden chuckled, and Marty noticed how close Dana had drawn to him. Not quite touching.
“Thanks, that’s very comforting,” Jules responded.
“Jules is pre-med,” Curt said sadly, stroking his girlfriend’s hair. “She knows there’s no coming back from this. I’ll miss you, baby. I’ll miss your shiny new hair.” Dana glanced around then and looked at Marty, drawing him into their group again. He blinked, a little startled. He’d been off in his own world again.