The Purgatorium

Chapter Eleven

Daphne jogged behind Stan down a hill covered in grass and yellow asters in the sprinkling rain. Down below were two white buildings separated by a hundred yards. Near the smaller and closer of the two buildings was a deep ravine with a bridge stretched across it. Another fifty yards of flat land lay between the two buildings and the sea. The orange glow of the setting sun cast pinks and purples and oranges on the clouds above it and the waves below it.

"Aren't we going the wrong way?" Daphne asked. "We should be running away from the sun, not toward it. We should be going east."

"It's faster than climbing Sierra Blanca. We have to go around the mountain. There's a road up ahead by that bunkhouse." He pointed to the smaller of the two buildings, the one by the bridge.

As they neared the bunkhouse, Stan tumbled to the ground and hollered out.

Daphne bent over him. "You okay?"

He grabbed her hand and climbed to his feet, but then winced. "My ankle."

"Can you walk?"

He took a couple of steps forward, limping off the right ankle. "It's twisted."

She came up beside him and took his arm. "What'll we do?" She glanced around nervously for signs of the crazy rider. "Can you make it back to the resort?"

"I don't think I can hike that far tonight. We'll have to camp here, unless we get lucky and find someone from the Nature Conservancy with a jeep."

"But won't the crazy rider recognize our tent?"

"We'll have to hide in the bunkhouse. Can you carry my pack?"

His pack was huge and heavy, as heavy as the old television she once carried back into her bedroom when her parents upgraded the family tube. She helped Stan lift his arms free of it and had to rest it on the ground before slinging it onto her own shoulders.

"Shoot, Stan. What's in this thing?"

"Everything we need to survive, so be grateful," he said, half-teasing. "Take the pack down to the house. Then come back for me."

"What about the rider?"

"What are you waiting for? Go. I'll lie down and hide." He fell down into a pushup in the grass and flowers as Daphne took off down the hill.

So this is Haunted Bridge, she thought as she stashed the backpack near the house. The narrow bridge stretched forty feet across the ravine with wooden braces crisscrossing from its base. Pedestrians and horses only, she thought. A ladder in the middle of the bridge leading up from the deep crevice below seemed curious. She supposed there must have been spring water down there at one time. The wooden railings along the side were reinforced with a steel beam.

Running uphill, even without the pack, took more of Daphne's strength. She was breathing heavily by the time she reached Stan and helped him to his feet. Together, they made their way through the grass and yellow asters to the bunkhouse of Christy Ranch as the sun hovered, ready to set, in the distance.

The white paint was peeling off the old wooden door. Three two-by-fours were nailed across the front of it, but had come loose and hung useless, inches from the frame. The door stood ajar. Daphne was suspicious as they entered the old kitchen, feeling more and more certain she and Stan were being toyed with. Even if the rider weren't a deranged mad man, not knowing what would happen next filled her with anxiety.

The bunkhouse had a square table in the middle with two wooden chairs. A wood-burning stove against one wall was flanked by a sink and cabinets and an old white conventional stove. Further back were the frames for six bunks, three stacked on each side. Beyond the bunks, another doorway led to a screened porch facing the sea. On the opposite side was a bathroom. She opened the faucet, but no water came out. The commode was also empty. There was no sign of anyone else inside the house.