LIGHTS, CAMERA, HORROR!
by Norsebard
Contact: norsebarddk@gmail.com
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DISCLAIMERS:
This humor/horror mashup is to be categorized as an Uber. All characters are created by me, though some of them may remind you of someone.
The story contains some profanity. Readers who are easily offended by bad language may wish to read something other than this story.
All characters depicted, names used, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons is intended nor should be inferred. Any resemblance of the characters portrayed to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
The registered trademarks mentioned in this story are © of their respective owners. No infringement of their rights is intended, and no profit is gained.
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NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:
Written: May 8th - 26th, 2022.
- Howdy, Phineas! :D
This is the thirteenth story about Wynne Donohue and Mandy Jalinski - all stories are available at the website of the Royal Academy of Bards.
As usual, I'd like to say a great, big THANK YOU to my mates at AUSXIP Talking Xena, especially to the gals and guys in Subtext Central. I really appreciate your support - Thanks, everybody! :D
Description: Something positive finally happens in Goldsboro, NV., when Padded Cell Productions - the makers of such fine genre fare as I'll Dig Your Grave, Freakazoids and Cannibal Dawn - comes to the desert town to film a horror Western. Several of the locals are even given small background roles to sweeten the deal, including Wynne 'The Last Original Cowpoke' Donohue who gets to play an outlaw gunslinger. Despite Goldsboro's reputation as a disaster-magnet, the mood in town is upbeat for a change - after all, what calamities can possibly strike on a film set?
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CHAPTER 1
Monday, April 25th was off to a bad start for Sheriff Mandy Jalinski. The brand new city limits sign at the southern entrance to Goldsboro - that proudly proclaimed Welcome to Goldsboro, NV! Where Magical Things Happen! - sported half a dozen bullet holes that hadn't been there the day before. That someone had seen the expensive sign as a good opportunity to show off their skills with a hunting rifle hadn't been in anyone's script and caused the sheriff to cast a dark glare at it.
She let out a disappointed grunt as she drove her Dodge Durango past the vandalized sign and into town. The trip from the trailer park eight miles south of Goldsboro had already been an adventurous one: although the hands of time only showed eight in the morning, a stronger breeze than usual had coated the two-lane State Route - not to mention the official vehicle - in reddish desert sand.
The gusty weather manifested itself in Goldsboro by blowing reams of sand across Main Street. Swirling around like snow flurries, the reddish dust formed dunes in front of the stores and offices lining the near-deserted street. Only two vehicles braved the inclement conditions: Mandy's Durango and Kenny Tobin's white Dodge truck that turned off Second Street at the traffic lights to head north on Main. The white pickup truck hauled a handful of large canvas bags of filler soil and chipped gravel that the Tobin family used in their endeavor to rework the abandoned gas station a few miles north of Goldsboro into a Bug-o-Rama.
Mandy came to a halt in front of the office of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department and switched off the engine. She let out another grunt at the sight of Deputy Sheriff Beatrice Reilly swinging the broom inside the office. Horrific images of sweeping - or in some cases, shoveling - buckets' worth of dust and sand off the cracked linoleum floor came back to haunt her.
Sighing, she vacated the official vehicle and strode across the sidewalk in her usual, purposeful gait. She had already clamped a hand onto her expensive Mountie hat as a pre-emptive measure, and a gust of hot wind that raced north on Main Street proved it had been a good choice to do so.
She waited for the worst of the gust to die down before reaching for the door handle. Stepping inside in a hurry, she closed the door at once so the sand and dust already inside the office would not have time to call for reinforcements from the battalions lined up outside. "Good morning, Deputy," she said as she strode over to the wall behind her desk to hang her hat on the designated nail.
Beatrice - still categorized as a junior deputy although she had been at the Goldsboro office for the better part of a year - let out a sigh and carried on sweeping the floor. "Good morning, Sheriff. The weather's pretty awful today, huh?"
"I'll say," Mandy said as she unzipped her jacket to reveal her regulatory black-and-dark-gray uniform. As always, her pants wore creases sharp enough to slice baloney, and her shirt and necktie were pristine and fresh. "The State Route south of here is nothing more than a sandy trail. I hope people will treat the conditions with respect. We don't need any accidents."
"We sure don't, Ma'am."
"Any calls?"
"No, Ma'am," Beatrice said and glanced at the ancient Bakelite telephone on the watch desk. With all the sweeping she had needed to perform after reporting for duty at seven AM, she hadn't had time to clean up the watch desk after her colleague Barry Simms' late-night shift - he had left behind a filthy coffee mug, a paper plate featuring enough crumbs to create half a sandwich if anyone would care to do so, and an ashtray sporting a cone of ash and cigarette butts the size of Mount Helena before it had gone sky-high.
Mandy nodded as she moved over to the full coffee machine to pour herself the first of countless mugs of the black gold. "Good. Let's hope there won't be too many dramas today," she said as she sniffed the contents just to be sure of its strength.
"Let's hope there won't be any!"
Chuckling, Mandy moved back to her desk and put the mug on a coaster. "This is Goldsboro, Deputy. Drama is a given. A good day is when the town is still standing at sunset," she said before she opened the day's first folder to study the case report inside.
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Half an hour later, a sedan that used to be dark-blue drove up to the curb just outside the sheriff's office - like all other vehicles using the State Route to get through the desert that day, it was covered in red dust.
Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez soon stepped out of the sedan and walked around to the driver's side door; leaning down, he gave the lady behind the wheel a goodbye-kiss before she drove off. Once he had made sure his girlfriend was well on her way north on Main Street, he straightened his uniform jacket and stepped inside the office.
The jaunty tune whistled by the deputy sheriff with the movie-star looks only lasted until he clapped eyes on the amount of dust on the floor. Despite Beatrice's best efforts with the broom, the red devil sand insisted on creeping through every crack and crevice in the old woodwork which made walking over to the watch desk a noisy affair.
Mandy continued to read, sign and file the paperwork produced the previous day, but she had time to look up to cast a disinterested glance at her second in command. Rodolfo smiled at her as he took off his Mountie hat and his jacket and put the latter over the backrest of the chair at the watch desk. "Good morning, Senior Deputy Gonzalez," she said before she concentrated on the next folder.
"Good morning, Sheriff," Rodolfo said and sat down at the watch desk. "How was your weekend? Dolores and I had a fabulous one, that's a fact."
"Nice and quiet for the most part," Mandy said before she doodled her signature on the final case file. Retracting the ball point pen she had used, she stored it in its plastic holder before she leaned back on her chair. "Did you happen to see Deputy Simms out on Main Street? He's late."
"I didn't, Sheriff."
"Mmmm," Mandy continued. She weighed the pros and cons for a few moments before she reached into her pocket to find her telephone. Barry Simms' home number was soon found and contacted.
'It's Barry,' a croaking, frail voice said from the other end of the connection.
"This is Sheriff Jalinski. Did you forget to set your alarm clock, Deputy?"
'No… I can't come to work today, Sheriff. I'm sick as a dog… my throat's all raw and knotted up. I think I got the flu or something. Aunt Mildred is here and she's making me some hot soup… you wanna talk to her?'
"No, never mind."
'Okay…'
"Have a speedy recovery, Deputy. Call me with an update later today."
'Will do, Sher-' Like a bolt from the blue, one of Barry's legendary coughing fits assaulted him and made him unable to carry on the conversation. Sounds of hacking, coughing and spluttering were soon interspersed with a wide variety of moans, groans and utterances of 'Ohhhh, Gawd…'
Rolling her eyes, Mandy terminated the connection and put the telephone away. "Deputy Simms won't join us today. He's under the weather."
"Oh, what a crying shame," Rodolfo said with a grin.
At the same time, Beatrice exited the restrooms at the back of the office. She made a beeline for the smallest of the three desks and soon donned her jacket and her Mountie hat. Once her service firearm had been checked, she went over to the rack and took one of the portable radios that she turned on. She tested it by tapping the transmit key - the radio on the watch desk responded by squawking to show they were on the same frequency.
"Sheriff, I'll be out on patrol," she said as she attached the radio to her utility belt and strode over to the door.
"Very well, Deputy. You better tie down your hat," Mandy said and looked up from the papers she had been reading to offer the rookie a brief smile.
Beatrice nodded a good morning to Rodolfo before she stepped outside; holding the door open, she popped her head back in to say: "I think you're about to get company. A gentleman in a business suit's walking this way. He's carrying a small briefcase… looks like a lawyer-type to me."
"Oh?" Mandy said and got up. Beatrice's assumptions proved correct as the man in question soon moved past the waiting junior deputy to step inside the sheriff's office.
The gentleman had already put out his hand to offer the traditional greeting when he looked down at his feet to work out where the crunching sounds had come from - he let out a grunt at the sight of the small quarry that had been distributed all over the cracked linoleum.
A sly smile graced his distinguished features as he carried out his original plan and moved over to Mandy with his hand stretched out ahead of him. "Good morning, Sheriff Jalinski."
"Good morning, Sir," Mandy said as she shook hands with their guest.
"I'm John Bernard Carter, legal representative of the Distant Horizons Film Group. I'm here to-"
Mandy pointed at the swivel-chair that stood in front of the sheriff's desk. "Please have a seat, Sir."
"Ah… thank you, Sheriff," the gentleman said before he reached into a pocket to find a white handkerchief that he used to dust off the chair's seat. Sitting down, he put his briefcase across his lap but didn't yet open it.
Mandy's experienced eye only needed a moment to take in the sights: in his late forties or early fifties, John Bernard Carter had a well-groomed full beard that had turned grayish near the temples. The facial hair concealed the man's chin, but the angle of his lips and mouth in general suggested he had grown the beard to overcome a weak profile.
Square, steel-framed spectacles protected his pale-blue eyes. Like his beard, his eyebrows appeared to be plucked and even shaved to give them a uniform appearance. A very dark bowl of hair sat on his head like it had been thumb-tacked onto his skull, but there was too little evidence at hand to prove that it was a hair-piece.
He wore Italian leather shoes and a Navy-blue, three-piece business suit that looked out of place in the rural surroundings. Gold cufflinks and a tie-pin that seemed to feature a diamond graced the white shirt and the blue necktie, respectively.
All of this had only taken Mandy five seconds to see. Sitting down, she crossed her legs at the knees and assumed an interested expression. "Please go on, Mr. Carter," she said after a short while.
J.B. Carter smiled as he opened the briefcase and pulled out a thick wad of papers. "I represent the Distant Horizons Film Group and its subsidiary company Padded Cell Productions who are presently in the process of filming a motion picture. Please have a look at these documents, Sheriff," he said as he leaned forward to put the wad of papers on the desk - Mandy took them at once and began to study them.
"These are the appropriate application forms for the various permits needed to film certain location scenes in and around the town of Goldsboro," Carter continued while he closed the briefcase. "As you will see on the last page, the permits have been issued after being approved and signed by Senior Councilwoman Skinner and Councilwoman Saunders."
Mandy furrowed her brow before she turned the wad over to look at the final page. "This is all news to me, Mr. Carter," she said as she let her eyes skim the endless paragraphs of 100-proof legalese.
She needed to go over it twice to understand the implications: a full film crew would arrive Wednesday to prepare for a two-day shoot of several exterior scenes for a motion picture. The actual filming was to take place Thursday and Friday in Goldsboro and the old, abandoned mining camp of Silver Creek several miles south. Every filming permit the studio had applied for had been approved - even one that meant the squad of deputies from the Sheriff's Department would be in charge of on-set security at both locations.
Grunting, Mandy studied the signatures at the foot of the page before she put the papers on the desk. "Mr. Carter, I'm afraid that Mrs. Skinner and Mrs. Saunders have been premature in issuing these permits. We don't have the manpower to provide security for your film crew. Even at the best of times, I only have three deputies at my disposal. I'll only have two the rest of today and possibly for the rest of the week as well. MacLean County is large and we are bound by law to cover all of it… not just Goldsboro and Silver Creek."
Rodolfo glanced up at the mention of the old ghost town. He locked eyes with Mandy for a second or two before he returned to his crossword puzzle.
John Bernard Carter took off his spectacles and began to chew on a side bar. While he did so, he shot Mandy an unreadable look. "Can't you ask for additional help from some of the other towns in the area?"
"For emergencies, yes, but not for something like this. Not even on two days' notice. The red tape alone makes it impossible."
"Sheriff Jalinski," Carter said and put his spectacles back on; his voice had turned colder, "do you really want me to return to Senior Councilwoman Skinner and tell her the Distant Horizons Film Group has been forced to relocate to somewhere else?"
Mandy narrowed her eyes at the threat that couldn't even be called veiled. What J.B. Carter couldn't know was that such threats only made her more determined to stand her ground. "Don't bother, Sir. I'll tell her myself," she said as she reached for her telephone. Mary-Lou Skinner's number was soon found and selected.
A few moments went by before the councilwoman's familiar voice could be heard at the other end. As always, her asthma made her short of breath as she spoke: 'This is Mary-Lou. Sheriff?'
"Good morning, Mrs. Skinner. A gentleman representing a movie company has just presented me with a piece of paper that lists a slew of permits issued by the Town Council-"
'Oh, you've already spoken to Mr. Carter! Excellent! Yes, by allowing a movie to be filmed here in Goldsboro, we'll generate revenue for the citizens providing overnight accommodations and perhaps even catering for the cast and crew-'
"Mrs. Skinner-"
'Even better than the mere financial gains, we'll generate goodwill that may help us attract similar… or perhaps even larger, who knows… projects in the future. Goldsboro can't be counted among the most exciting places-'
"That's all very well, Mrs. Skinner-"
'-in Nevada, Sheriff. You know that. We need to grab these opportunities when they fall into our lap. And that's to be taken almost literally.'
"Mrs. Skin-"
'Apparently, the movie's producing company… or whatever it's called, I'm no expert… only became aware of Goldsboro through someone's web-based travel diary. Isn't that exciting? We must have made a fair impression on the person, whoever it was.'
Mandy rubbed her brow. She didn't even need to glance at John Bernard Carter to know that his expression was nothing short of smug. "Yes, Mrs. Skinner. I just wish you had asked me first. We don't have the manpower to deal with the level of on-set security expected of us."
'Oh, I'm sure there'll be plenty of volunteers, Sheriff. If you hand out those garish fluorescent vests you use for emergencies at night, I'm convinced you'll-'
"We only have a handful of those, Councilwoman! And we'll need them in case of-"
'Well, some other incentive, then. Think out of the box, Sheriff. Have someone create commemorative plaques for volunteers, perhaps. Or how about offering them gift vouchers for some of the town's stores? This is a golden opportunity for our little community. Let's not squander it. All right?'
A long sigh escaped Mandy's lips. "All right, Councilwoman Skinner. I'll be in touch," she said and closed the connection. After dumping the phone on the desk, she tapped her fingers on the writing pad. "You've certainly made an indelible impression on Mary-Lou Skinner, Sir," Mandy said in a sour tone - as she had expected, the gentleman's expression was a study in smugness of the highest order.
"It's a gift, Sheriff," J.B. Carter said and got up from the swivel-chair. He pushed his spectacles higher up onto the bridge of his nose to have room for a large, disapproving crinkle at the sorry state of affairs in the run-down office. "A casting agent and one of the film's producers will arrive at noon on Wednesday to hold an introductory meeting with the residents of your town. I'm sure the locals will find it much more exciting than you seem to. I'll see myself out. Goodbye, Sheriff. Deputy."
Rodolfo answered the gentleman's greeting with a grunt and a brief smile. As soon as he and the sheriff were alone in the office, he jumped up and went over to the coffee machine. "So… they're gonna shoot a movie here? Sounds pretty cool. Actually, it sounds awesome!" he said as he poured himself a large mugful of fresh, warm coffee.
Mandy sighed and moved over to the windows overlooking Main Street. The strong winds continued to blow in from the desert - as a result, impressive eddies were formed on the street which sent reddish sand everywhere. There was nothing out there for her to look at, so she let out another deep sigh and returned to her desk. "It'll be awesome, all right. An awesome disaster," she mumbled as she picked up her trusty ball point pen and went to work designing a new and more flexible watch plan for the following days' events.
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Meanwhile, in the small trailer park eight miles south of Goldsboro…
The open area between the cluster of trailers set up at the edge of the vast, beautiful desert was anything but quiet - for a change, the noises weren't made by young Renee Tooley playing mini-soccer or singing her favorite toy commercial theme-songs at the top of her lungs.
Instead, the epicenter of the barrage of noise was a pair of speakers that had been hooked up to a smartphone that streamed a web-based radio station - the online version of the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack that operated out of Lansingburg. The noise-making combination had been put on a piece of cardboard so the surrounding grass wouldn't leave any green stains on the plastic casing.
Lightnin' Joe Craig's Gotta Get Home To My Good, Li'l Mama blared out of the speakers at near-maximum volume. The truck-driving song from the 1970s was a good match with the 1979-vintage Chevrolet K10 parked up against the wall of the nearest trailer.
The old vehicle could only be described as being less than the sum of its parts. Standing on three wheels and a jack stand because one of the right-front suspension members had cracked in two, its rusty frame, cloudy windows, dented panels and clashing colors on the bodywork failed to create an endearing image. The pile of oily components from the engine bay that had been put in plastic buckets and spread around on the lawn around the front of the truck only compounded its misery.
A pair of safety boots that nested under the vintage Chevrolet wiggled back and forth in perfect time to the truck-driving song that continued to play from the telephone's external speakers. The somewhat threadbare lower hem of a pair of blue jeans were visible above the boots, but no further details were available to provide any clues as to the identity of the hobby mechanic - until:
Ca-lonkkkk!
'Ahhhh-owch! Sombitch, mah poah knuckles! Ohhh, ohhh, ohhhh… why, dat smarts like a dirteh, rotten piece o'… good shittt almighteh! Ah need-a beah som'tin fierce! Beah… beah… da bag be he' but dere ain't no beah… beah? Ain't no beah dere, neithah… shoot. Ah be all outta beah alreddeh… whaddindahell? An' wheredahell did that there dang-blasted monkeh wrench end up, anyhows?'
Right on cue, a fierce-looking, all-black German Shepherd came around the corner of the trailer carrying the strap for a small cooler bag between her strong jaws. A far less fierce-looking Golden Retriever followed hot on the heels of her black-furred companion - the trailing dog had a goofy grin on her doggy lips.
'Lawwwwwwwwwwr-die! That's mah Blackie an' Goldie!' the hobby mechanic said as she pulled the cooler bag closer to her once it had been dumped on the grass. After a zipper had been manipulated, the familiar psshhht! followed as the first of six cans of H.E. Fenwyck's Double-Zero non-alcoholic beer was opened and chugged down. A belch followed in due course.
'Haw, that wus nice an' all. Yuh. Ya sure can't go wrong with of them Dubbel-Zerahs, nosirree,' the mechanic said as she threw the empty can over to rest near the top of an existing nine-tall pile of similar cans - a resounding belch soon brought the whole thing down with a series of hollow clangs.
While the two dogs made themselves comfortable on the grass, the music parade on the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack gave way to a block of commercials. An arm clad in a sweatshirt - that used to be white but was now oil-brown - stretched out from underneath the truck to do something about it, but the buttons that needed to be manipulated were just too far out of reach.
The next commercial was just a jingle away: 'EverFresh antiperspirants and deodorants proudly presents the brand new range! EverFresh Fighting Spirit and Winning Formula! EverFresh! Join the winning team! Hey race fans, you can meet-and-greet last year's dirt-track stock car champion Phyllis O'Connell and her number eighty-four EverFresh Chevrolet at Thunder Park Raceway near Goldsboro, Nevada on May the twenty-eighth. The Fighting Spirit Two-Fifty is sponsored by EverFresh Corporation. EverFresh Fighting Spirit and Winning Formula will never let you down!'
'Whaddindahell? Ol' Phyl 's gonn' be at that there Thundah Park come May? Whah, it sure sounds lack it, yessir!' the hobby mechanic said before she moved her legs to push out the rolling board she rested on underneath the truck.
As the early-fifty-something Wynne Donohue came into the sunlight, she sat up and moved a stray lock of hair out of her bright-blue eyes. The woman otherwise known as The Last Original Cowpoke looked more like a long-suffering apprentice of a chimney sweep: greasy residue stained her chin, cheeks and forehead, and her dark hair had countless flakes of rust embedded in it. Her hands and arms were filthy up to her elbows save for the bright blood that continued to seep from the skinned knuckles on her right hand.
"Haw," she said as her arm worked on autopilot to get another can of beer from the cooler bag. "Yuh, it sure been a while since me an' mah sweet, li'l Mandeh wus out there… mebbe ol' Phyl could get us some free passes or som'tin. Whaddaya say, girls?"
Blackie and Goldie shared a brief look before they added their two cents' worth with an excited Woof! and a more hesitant Yap!
"Yuh, huh? Ya ain't too hot on that there no-shun 'cos it be hella loud out there at Thundah Park, Goldie-girl? Aw, it sure is loud, that ain't no lie." Another psshhhtt! soon followed. Once the beer had been cracked open, Wynne was far too busy to speak.
She had just emptied the can of Double-Zero when movement over at the trailer belonging to the Travers family caught her eye. The athletic, forty-something Brenda Travers stepped out onto their porch wearing neon-green flip-flops and a white outfit that Wynne misinterpreted as a pair of loose pajamas.
As Wynne continued to watch from a distance, Brenda unfurled her usual yoga mat, kicked off her flip-flops and stepped onto it barefoot. "Lawrdie, all that energeh at this he' ca-razeh tih-me o' the morn'…" Wynne said and broke out in a hoarse chuckle at the sight of her neighbor going through a brief warm-up to loosen her joints and muscles.
Instead of her usual outrageous yoga poses, Brenda went into some kind of martial arts routine that saw her bounce around like a manic bullfrog: she kicked high, she kicked low, she threw a series of dizzying punches, she jumped up and crouched down, she made a forward somersault and executed a leg sweep that would have brought down a Californian Redwood had any been nearby.
"Holeh shittt… wouldya lookie there," Wynne croaked as she took in the martial arts display. Blackie and Goldie raised their heads to look at the hectic activity as well, but they found it less exciting than their owner so they were soon back to doing nothing. "Naw, I gotta check that out up close an' personal an' all," Wynne continued as she got to her feet and shuffled across the central lawn.
When Brenda noticed she had an interested spectator, she paused her high-intensity exercises and moved off the yoga mat. The belt of her karate-gi had come loose in all the jumping so she tightened it before she put out her hand. "Hi, Wynne! Good morning!"
"Howdy, Brendah. Ain't be doin' no shakin' taday… mah hands be all oily an' stuff," Wynne said and held up her filthy paws. "Lawrdie, y'all sure is full o' spunk this he' fih-ne Mondeh morn'. Tell me, is it that there John Jetson?"
"Jiu-jitsu-"
"Yuh, John Jetson. Lack I done said."
"Uh… yeah," Brenda said and broke out in a smile. "It's not, actually. It's just something I wanted to try. There's a little of everything in it. Some judo moves and a little karate as well."
Wynne nodded with a straight face. "Ya hubbeh done left without ya all over ag'in? How come y'all been workin' from hoah-me so much these he' past couple a' weeks but he still needs-a go ta work down in Cavva-naw Creek ev'ry day?"
"Oh, that's because we're working on different projects at the moment. I'm in the final testing phase of a job we did for Ishigawa Pharmaceuticals in Osaka, Japan. That's obviously all done online. Vaughn's in the middle of second-round negotiations with the IT managers of the-"
Wynne nodded twice more - then she shook her head. "Lawrdie, I ain't got a clue wotcha tawkin' 'bout or nuttin'… an' I ain't got no no-shun ta find out, neithah."
Brenda grinned before she reached out to put a playful slap across her neighbor's stomach. "Say, Wynne… you and Mandy certainly didn't spare your vocal cords yesterday afternoon, huh? Know what I mean?" - She added a series of saucy winks - "If I could get Vaughn to last half that long, I'd be a happy woman."
"Uhhh… uh… nuh, Brendah… uh," Wynne said while an uncharacteristic blush spread across her cheeks. "Y'all, uh… kinda, sorta didden heah wotcha thunk y'all wus hearin'…"
"Oh?"
"Naw… that there racket yestahdy wus me watchin' da Nascah-r Cup race from Tallahdegah an' all… Lawrdie, I wus cheerin' so dang hard fer that there three-car, dontchaknow. Almost worked too, 'cos it done finished second bah inches. Ah jus' coudden shout aneh hardah, yuh?"
Brenda narrowed her eyes and looked at the blushing Wynne; when that proved insufficient, she cocked her head as well. Several seconds went by before she broke out in a wide, cheeky grin. "Oh. Of course. Yeah. Why didn't I think of that? Whatever the cause, it sure rattled my windows."
"Uh… yuh… haw…" Wynne croaked before she cleared her throat and moved on: "But anyhows, I didden wanna disturb ya in yer neat John Jetson there, so… I'mma-gonn' go ovah ta mah ol' truck an' fiddle with it a li'l mo'. Okeh?"
"You bet, Wynne," Brenda said with a grin. Once she had room to maneuver, the athletic woman let out a loud "Sheeeee-ya!" before she went into an impressive series of jumps, leg-sweeps, high-kicks and low punches.
Wynne had just sat down on the rolling board when the ringtone of her telephone interrupted the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack and Peggy Sue Buford's song about finding her long-lost brother among the homeless in the slums of the big, evil city - the caller-ID said Mandy.
The telephone was soon pulled out of the docking station to disconnect it from the external speakers. Putting it to her ear, Wynne got down on her back and rolled in under the old truck.
"Howdy, darlin'!" she said as she looked up at the underside of the engine that had seen better days - the oil pan leaked all over the place because of eroded or brittle seals. Several drops of a brownish substance had already created new stains on her sweatshirt, but it mattered little as it was only used for fun events such as the one she was engaged in at present. "Ya jus' hadda heah mah voice, yuh?"
'Something like that. Hi, hon,' Mandy said from the other end of the connection. 'We may have a situation brewing-'
"Lawrdie, not ag'in!"
'Yes. A film crew is due in town on Wednesday. They'll shoot some scenes for a Western here in Goldsboro-'
"Haw! Now if that ain't awesome, I sure as stink-on-shoot don't know what iz! Who gonn' be in it? Anehboddeh I know?" Wynne said as she grabbed the monkey wrench and got ready to get back to the filthy work.
'I haven't been told. Wynne, they'll also be filming scenes down in Silver Creek. At the abandoned mining camp.'
"Okeh? So?"
'Where the box is buried. You know… the box of-'
"Aw! Holeh shittt!" Wynne cried and jerked upright - the fact she was still underneath the truck had failed to make an impression, but the leaking oil pan made a square one across her forehead. The hard thump made her drop the wrench and the phone, clutch her face and let out an emphatic "Sooooombitch! Whah, Ah oughttah take mah dang-blasted sletch-hammah ta that there stinkin' piece o'… good shit almighteh, now I got da Chevrolet bow tie stamped on mah forehead!"
'Wynne? Wynne, are you all right?'
"Whut? Who dat dere tawkin'? Aw… da… da phoah-ne," Wynne croaked as she scrambled to retrieve the runaway telephone with her left hand while her right continued to rub her sore brow. "Sheriff Mandeh, Ah neahleh done cracked mah skull wih-de open! Dag-nabbit that there dumb-ass…"
'Do you need an ambulance?'
"Naw-naw, back 'er on down, there, Sheriff Mandeh. Ah need-a beah, tho'. An' Ah alreddeh got me one o' those, thank ye. But anyhows, Lawrdie… Ah bettah hustle down there an'… an'… get rid o' that there box befo' them mooh-vie folks show up an' ruin ev'rythin'. Yuh. Merceh Sakes, that coudda been nasteh. Well, it alreddeh wus nasteh, but it coudda been even nasteh'ah."
'I'm afraid I can't leave right now, so I can't-'
"Naw, dontcha worreh 'bout nuttin', there, Sheriff Mandeh. Ah got this undah complete control, yes Ma'am. Yuh. Thank ye fer the, uh… heads-up. Yuh. Ah jus' need-a hoah-se-down first, then Ah be gone lack that there desurht wind an' all. Lawrdie, speakin' o' which… it sure be blowin' a gale taday, huh?"
'Yes. Oh, I need to go… promise me you'll be careful.'
"Careful is mah middle name! Yes, Ma'am!"
Goldie and Blackie looked at each other and exchanged a few yaps, woofs and barks that all meant: 'I have a bad feeling about this…' - 'Oh, you and your bad feelings. I'm excited!' - 'Well, I'm not.' - 'Why don't you stay at home, then?' - 'Because I want to spend some time with you.' - 'Awww…' - To finish off their conversation, the two dogs moved in close and rubbed furs.
"Okeh, Sheriff Mandeh, I bettah be goin', then. Catch ya latah. Love ya," Wynne said as she rolled out from underneath the old truck. Once she had slipped the telephone into her jeans pocket, she grabbed a beer from the cooler bag. "Girls, I'mma-gonn' hit them showahs… without hittin' the ac-shu-al showah, yuh? But anyhows, once I done that, we be goin' on a li'l road trip tagethah. Ya wondahful dawggies reddeh fer a trip down south?"
Woof! - Yap!
"C'mere an' gimme a cud-"
The dogs didn't need a written invitation, so they jumped ahead at once and took their owner by surprise. As a result of the dogged invasion, Wynne was flung onto her back which made her lose her grip on the can of beer. The Double-Zero flew upward and hit the side of the truck's door; as it rebounded, it showered Wynne and the two dogs in beery suds.
Blackie howled and took off to the left to get away from the unwanted bath. Goldie whimpered like only she could before she stormed the other way - sprinting around the corner of the trailer, she was gone in a flash.
Down on the ground, Wynne scratched her wet forehead and let out a "Okeh… that wussen whut wus saposed ta happen, but yuh… Aw hell, Ah guess a whole lotta lovin' be bettah than no lovin' at all… dang, Ah got beah in mah eye!"
"Wynne!" Brenda cried as she hurried across the lawn - she had stuck her bare feet into the neon-green flip-flops so she could move without worrying about stepping in anything. "Are you all right? Wow, your dogs really caught you off guard…"
"Yuh, they sure did. Dontcha worreh 'bout nuttin', there, Brendah… I be fih-ne," Wynne said and clambered to her feet. Once she was upright, she took the rolling board and put it on the truck's bed so nobody would stumble over it come nightfall. "I jus' be a li'l wet 's all. I wus gonna hit da showah anyhows, so… ain't no big deal. Thanks fer askin, tho'."
Brenda grinned at the soggy appearance of her neighbor. The filthy sweatshirt had already soaked through in places, and a large glob of foam trickled down the outside of the left sleeve. "You're welcome. That's what friends are for. Right?"
"Yuh! Ah bettah…" Wynne said and pointed her thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of her trailer.
At the corner, a mortified Goldie peeked out to see if she had caused long-term damage to the lady who provided her with food, water and the extra-yummy doggy treats she couldn't get anywhere else. When everything appeared to be all right, she let out a series of happy yaps and ran ahead to try the cuddle-thing again - but when her sensitive doggy-nose picked up the strong scent produced by the beer-bath, she changed her mind and hurried back to the open area on the other side of the trailer to play with Blackie instead.
-*-*-*-
Forty minutes later, Wynne and the dogs roared south on the State Route in her pride and joy - the Chevrolet Silverado Trail Boss Midnight Edition she had bought after selling a small part of the valuable coin collection she had inherited from her aunt Martha Fay Donohue.
Featuring mat-black body panels and dazzling chrome everywhere else, the large truck was the mechanical embodiment of Wynne Donohue's soul - it even had Wynne's Truck written on both quarter panels in ten-inch-tall white vinyl letters that she and her great pal Ernest 'Ernie' Bradberry had spent an entire afternoon applying. An inevitable result of the copious amount of beer that had been consumed during the session was that a couple of letters had needed to be re-aligned the following day.
The Last Original Cowpoke had returned: Wynne had changed into cowboy boots, faded blue-jeans, an AC Delco DEjr 1999 Victory Tour sweatshirt and a lined denim jacket. A pair of sheepskin gloves sat pretty in her left-hand jacket pocket while a red bandanna peeked out of her right-rear jeans pocket like Fashion 4 Outlaws dictated it should. Her beloved, battered and sweat-stained cowboy hat sat low across her brow to make her look her best.
Blackie would almost always sit on the passenger-side seat with her head poking out of the window to make the strong headwind give her an impression of the speed they were traveling at, but the red sand and dust that continued to be blown onto the two-lane blacktop from the wide-open desert prevented her from doing so. Instead, she kept her watchful eyes on the road ahead. Her golden companion had rolled herself up into a furball down in the footwell like the scaredy-dog always did.
The constant, reddish haze created difficult driving conditions so Wynne had to go a lot slower than usual - she had even had to put the truck's wipers on their intermittent setting so the windshield would remain clear of the sand and dust. Though she had filled up the reservoir for the windshield wash before they had left the trailer park, she was reluctant to use too much of it too soon into their trek.
"Dang, this he' weathah blows. Blows, get it? Yuh?" she said as she reached over to give Blackie's fur a little rubbing. When all she got out of her attempt at humor was a blank stare and a short woof that sounded like a 'Huh?' she let out a chuckle. "Aw, I prolleh woudden get aneh o' yer dawggie-jokes, neithah. Okeh… this he' li'l dirt road sure does look lack the right one… 'course, the whole dang desurht be lookin' lack this taday… aw, he' goes."
Slowing down to very little, Wynne drove off the State Route and onto the rock-strewn trail that led to the abandoned mining camp. They continued at low speed for close to half a mile before they arrived at the first of the old structures.
They drove on for another two-hundred yards after that; then she stopped in an open section between two rows of ramshackle wooden buildings. "Yuh, this he' be Silvah Creek, awright," Wynne said as she craned her neck to take in the sights. "The ol' ghost town, yessir. Hardware sto' ovah yondah… general sto'. Doctah's surgereh… da law office… an' that there saloon. Yuh. Big Bill's Whisky Warehouse. Blackie, y'all 'member that there box dontcha? Naw?"
Wooooof?
"Okeh, les'go back a couple-a yeahs, yuh? Shoot, I ain't sure I be 'memberin' it all, but anyhows. Here goes-"
Woof-Woof!
"Yuh-yuh, keep yer shorts on, Blackie! Anyhows, A con-suhr-ned citizen or somebodda done called the sheriff's office an' reported seein' a weird fiah or som'tin out he'. Yuh? So me an' mah sweet li'l Mandeh… she wus still a de-per-teh then-"
Yap-yap-yap!
" 's right, Goldie. Mandeh wus the seniah de-per-teh! Gotta give credit where credit is due, dontchaknow!" Wynne said and broke out in a nod. "Anyhows, we done drove down he' ta check it out. It wus jus' a buncha backpackahs from Californi-O usin' the fiah ta cook them wieners so that wussen nuttin'… but I done found a bayu-ta-ful wooden box in that there saloon ovah yondah. I nabbed it 'cos I wanted ta use it fer a Christmas gift fer Mandeh… but I shoudden'ha. Lawrdie, when me an' ol' Ernie done opened that there lid back hoah-me, a giganto buncha them there nasteh, puke-green goblin-crittahs done spewed out an' wrecked Harvick ev'rywhere them buggahs went!"
Down in the footwell, Goldie whimpered and covered her eyes with her paws. Blackie let out a stronger: Woof! Woof-woof-woof-woof! to show that she was now on the same page as her owner.
"Yuh, I kinda figgah'd y'all would 'membah that… but anyhows, instead o' smashin' that there box 'cos it wus so bayu-ta-ful an' all, we done buried it inside that there saloon all ovah ag'in. But Lawrdie, nobodda coulda expected them mooh-vie folks ta show up an' film a Westuhrn onleh a couple-a yeahs latah!"
Wynne's voice trailed off into nothing as she took in the sagging exterior of Big Bill's Whisky Warehouse. Sighing, she reached for her red bandanna to tie it around her nose and mouth so she could avoid ingesting too much dust.
---
Five minutes later, she inched out of the Whisky Warehouse holding the wrapped bundle that contained the dreaded wooden box. When it had been put back after the big goblin infestation, several layers of protective covers had been added to it as well as strong rope to keep everything tied together. The rope and knots were still solid and the covers all looked to be in good shape - the arid climate ensured that none of it had become moldy, but there was a risk the searing heat might make the fabric brittle.
A howling gust of hot wind pelted her with what had to be an entire quarry's worth of fine sand and dust. Though the bandanna caught most of it, grit still ended up between her teeth - and with the bandanna in place, she couldn't even spit it out.
"Lawrdie… I feel… jus' lack… John Wayne in that… there ol' Westuhrn…" Wynne croaked as she tried to maintain a gliding, untroubled gait to keep the box level. "When he done… carried that there… nitroh… shoot, whut wus it… Eldoradah? Naw… McLintock? Naw. The Alamoh? Naw. War Wagon! Aw-yup, it sure wus-"
Wynne's boot found an unsighted rock at the worst possible moment; although she came close to losing her balance, she managed to stay on her feet by thrusting the box ahead of her to work as a counterweight.
Blackie and Goldie - who had remained inside the truck to stay out of the dust storm - barked like crazy and hopped up and down on the seat, but Wynne had no time for any of that. Gulping hard, she got a grip and carried on at an even slower tempo.
The howling winds upgraded the slow trek from being a perilous journey to being a death-defying one. At one point, she needed to turn around and walk backwards to avoid getting dust in her eyes, but that meant the winds grabbed hold of the corners of her bandanna and threatened to rip it clean off her face.
After walking forty paces into the desert, she came to a stop and looked toward the heavens. "An' where da hell am Ah even gonn' put this he' dang-blasted thing?! Lawwwwwr-die, Ah shoudda thunk 'bout that soonah! Good shittt almighteh… Wynne Donnah-hew, ya dang foo'! Ain't no way Ah'mma-gonn' take them goblins back with me, nosirree… Ah gotta dump 'em somewhere 'round he'. But whe'?"
Another strong gust of wind surprised her and coated the parts of her face that weren't covered by the red bandanna - that her hat managed to stay on her head was nothing short of miraculous. "Aaargh… somebodda up dere hates mah guts! Whaddahell Ah evah do ta de-suhr-ve this he' kinda bull crap?! Wait… that be it! Haw! Them ol' minah folks prolleh had a latrine or som'tin! Aw, ain't no way they didden. All I gotta do is find it an' dump this he' piece o' nastehness down among the rest… o'… the… shoot, Ah ain't got no clue wheredahell the latrine is… an'… an'…"
Coming to a gliding stop, Wynne performed a slow three-hundred-and-sixty degree turn. Not only did her face get pelted with even more of the red dust, the clouds kicked up by the storm obscured her black truck and all the nearby wooden buildings - it left her with very little to work with. "Fer cryin' out loud… Ah ain't got no clue wheredahell Ah am, neithah! Awwwwww-shittt!"
---
So much time went by that Blackie had begun to plot a procedure for gnawing through the carpet and the metal floorboards underneath so she could search for her long-lost owner. The black German Shepherd tried to have a woofing conversation with her golden companion to keep their spirits up, but the incessant whimpering that came from the footwell made it a one-sided affair.
When the driver's side door was flung open and slammed shut in the space of a few heartbeats, Blackie drew a deep breath to let out a thunderous bark at the intruder - but the Woof! that was produced as she clapped her doggy-eyes on her dusty owner was a happy one, and it was soon joined by several just like it from down in the footwell.
Wynne coughed and spluttered hard to spit out the grit that had become lodged in her throat and between her teeth. Just when she thought it was safe to greet her dogs, a sneeze tore through her with the same strength as the gusts of wind that did their worst outside the Silverado. "Gawd… I done coated that there dang-blasted windshield…" she croaked as she looked at the myriad of tiny droplets that had been flung onto the inside of the dust-covered pane.
Woof? Woof-woof-woooooof?
"Thanks fer askin', Blackie! Sure, I be fih-ne. I done took care o' that there box o' goblins, too… yessir. Y'all wanna know whut I did? I done put it in one o' them there minin' galleries. Wussen that clevah? Eh? I thunk it wus clevah, anyhows. Yessir, I wus lookin' fer that there latrine o' theirs, but I coudden see nuttin' so I didden find nuttin'. Aw, but it don't mattah 'cos nobodda evah gonn' find that there box where I done put it.
Woof…
"Yuh. Yuh, Ah be sure o' that, Blackie," Wynne said and reached for a can of H.E. Fenwyck Pale Lager that had been resting in one of the cupholders. She cracked it open with great care just in case it exploded, but it behaved itself and she was soon engaged in the delightful pastime known as can-up-and-head-back.
A moment later, her eyes bugged out on stalks. The long swig she had taken remained in her mouth, and since she had very little interest in either swallowing it or spewing it out all over herself, the upholstery and the dashboard, she needed to come up with a plan that could avoid either calamity - in the end, she yanked the driver's side door open all over again so she could lean out and get rid of the horrid mouthful.
"Whaddindahell…" she croaked as she slammed the door shut and began to study the can's familiar label. Sniffing it proved that something was wrong, so she poured a tiny amount out into the palm of her free hand. Not only was the beer murky and cloudy instead of pale, fragments of something unidentifiable swam around in her palm. "Yuck! Yucketeh-yuck-yuck-an'-anothah-yuck! Whaddahell's them things? Lawrdie, that don't look too good… nosirree."
Woof?
Finding a rag, Wynne wiped the weird fragments off her palm. "Whazzat, Blackie?"
Woof!
"Y'all reckon it wus them goblins alreddeh? Yuh… woudden surprise me a dang bit. C'mon, les'getta hell outta he' an' go hoah-me befo' furthah disastahs find us," Wynne said as she reached for the ignition key.
Much to Blackie and Goldie's astonishment, the black Silverado started at the first attempt; they soon left the abandoned mining camp behind to begin the dusty trek home.
*
*