The Mummies of El Toro (Part 4)
WHEN I FINALLY finished peeing, I pulled up my shorts and turned around to get back into my sleeping bag. That’s when I saw it. Actually, it was more like I felt it blow right through my chest and out my back. The air of the summer night was warm and humid, but there was an instant bolt of something freezing cold that raced right through the heart of me, leaving me breathless and gasping for air. It came through me a second time, entering through my back and shooting out the center of my chest like a thick icicle that had been shot from a bow.
Then came the sounds. A deep whisper in my right ear made words that I could not quite make out. Then the whispering started at my left ear, this time louder and with more force. Although I could not make out the words, I knew that whatever was speaking to me was angry. No, not just angry, but furious. I was being told in some foreign, alien language, that the three of us had no business making our home in what was apparently a sacred dirt field in the middle of our boring suburban neighborhood. The words turned into a deep hum, then a grumble, then the sounds disappeared altogether.
I stood there at the edge of the second floor of our tree hut, shivering and shaking, not from cold or from the rain, but from pure fright. Whatever this thing was, it had meant to scare me half to death, and it had succeeded. I slowly crawled back into my sleeping bag and lied down on my back, with tears streaming from my eyes. Eventually, after a long series of deep breaths, my arms and legs stopped shaking, and I fell back asleep and I did not open my eyes until the sun was burning bright and hot in the morning.
* * *
The first thing I noticed when I peeled myself out of my sleeping bag on that bright Saturday morning was that Houston Storms had been telling us the truth — it was hot and humid and miserable. I had been sweating so much in my sleeping bag that there was wet and slimy streaks of dirt stuck to my arms and legs, and my right cheek had plastered itself to my pillow. I didn’t care too much about that pillow, though. My mom had made me bring it, because it was covered with my Snoopy pillowcase from when I was a little boy, and my mom thought that this was still my “lucky pillow.” Jerry and Chandler sure got a kick out of teasing me about that pillow before we had all went to bed on Friday night. Jerry called it my Snoopy poopy woopy mommy loves me to death pillow, and Chandler asked me if I had remembered to bring my sippy cup with me.
We had not given much thought to what we were going to do that Saturday, but we were sure that we would find at least some adventure.
We skipped breakfast and set out on foot toward the far side of the field, where the dead trees of summer collided with the foothills of the Saddleback mountains. It was farther than it looked, and by 10 AM the three of us were desperately searching for shade.
We found a nice, cool spot under a cluster of eucalyptus trees. Jerry threw down his backpack, while Chandler collapsed onto his back in the dirt, with clumps of sweaty brown hair licking his forehead. Jerry threw warm cans of Pepsi at me and Chandler. I caught mine just in time, while Chandler’s can smacked him squarely in the center of his chest, causing him to cough out a dry and stinky puff of breath.
“All right ladies, let’s have a quick lunch. I’ve got a box of Pop Tarts and some Snickers bars,” said Jerry.
Jerry had elected himself Commander of the Food Supply, and neither Chandler nor myself had the energy to fight him on it. Besides, there was plenty of junk food and candy bars to go around that weekend. I had to admit that my Snickers bar was mighty tasty, and the Pepsi, even though warm, washed it all down just right. Chandler and I really needed that rest, because we were already exhausted. Jerry stuffed his strawberry Pop Tart into his face so fast that crumbs flew all over the place. His Snickers bar was devoured in three bites, and his Pepsi can was empty within 10 seconds. Jerry never even sat down, he just stood there with one fist lodged into his hip, with the other hand being used to drink and gobble every last morsel of food.
After 10 refreshing minutes in the shade, we were back up and on our feet. We reached the Saddleback Mountain foothills in about two hours. Jerry had heard there was a small waterfall and a little pond about 3 miles from our campsite.
When we found it, I was a bit disappointed, even though I was eager to jump in and cool off. The “pond” as Jerry called it, was nothing more than a wet lump of standing water sitting in a 6 foot deep dirt hole. The “waterfall” was green water tumbling out of a storm drain at the edge of the mountain. White and green foam was building higher and higher where the water was dumping into the pond.
While Chandler and I stood there with our jaws open just staring at this post-apocalyptic swimming pool, Jerry had already ripped off his shoes and socks, and was starting to peel off his sweaty shorts and T-shirt.
“Come on ladies. Do you guys want to cool off, or not? What are you afraid of? A little bit a green water won’t hurt you. It’s just algae,” said Jerry.
It might be hard to believe that Chandler and I agreed to swim in this outdoor toilet bowl, but if you had been standing under that brutally hot sun, you would have done the same thing. I sprinted toward the pond and dove in head first, while Chandler tiptoed in one itsy-bitsy step at a time.
Once we were in the water, I had to admit that it was not that bad. Chandler was swimming like a little old lady, doing a doggy paddle with his arms, while making sure to keep his head and neck completely above water. Jerry snuck up behind him and then disappeared underwater like a great white shark. Two seconds later, Chandler’s arms flung up toward the sky as if he were praying, then suddenly his entire body disappeared underwater. When he came back up, he was choking and coughing up green foam, and Jerry was laughing himself almost into a coma.
“What are you doing, man? That’s not cool. I have asthma and I could have drowned,” said Chandler.
“It wasn’t me, I swear. There must be pond sharks out here, and one of them must have thought that you looked mighty tasty swimming around in your underwear like a grandpa,” said Jerry.
* * *
Once we slithered our way out of the filthy pond, that cruel orange sun dried us off almost immediately. We slapped our dirty clothes back onto our grimy bodies, and started the long hike back to the tree hut. It’s funny how short a hike can seem on the way there, and how horribly long that same hike seems on the way back. My ankles and knees were so sore that it felt like God had waved a magic wand and turned me into an old, wrinkly grandpa while I was splashing in the pond that afternoon. Even Jerry seemed wiped out on the way back to the tree hut. None of us said much as we made our way back to camp, but I noticed that Jerry had this intense stare, as if he knew we were walking back to something that might be the end of us all.
As we approached our camp in the disappearing light of the setting sun, I stopped for a moment, to admire what we had built. Our tree hut was quite a sight, all right. Ladders and ropes and pulleys and sleeping bags, all slapped together by three scrappy kids. But the air was thick and the dirt smelled ancient on this afternoon. I noticed that the wind had completely stopped, yet the trees seemed to be swaying back and forth just a tiny bit. I figured that I was just tired and hungry and that I was seeing things, but I knew deep down that it was all too real.
Jerry made us a great big raging fire that night. He had brought us three cans of chili for dinner. Jerry whipped the top of the cans open with a can opener, then handed me and Chandler each a set of pliers. He showed us how to use the pliers to hold the cans of chili over the fire. Jerry’s little plan actually worked pretty good, except that the little hairs on my fingers got burnt off from the heat of the fire. The three of us ate our chili with great speed, and it was hot and spicy and good. We washed it all down with a six pack of Cactus Coolers, which is a soda made of pineapple and oranges, but for some reason they lie to you on the label and say that it is from a cactus.
* * *
I had no trouble falling sleep that night. In fact, I don’t even remember taking off my shoes and crawling into my sleeping bag. I just remember gobbling up the chili, guzzling a few cans of Cactus Cooler, then suddenly being unconscious in my sleeping bag under a humongous canopy of twinkling white stars.
That night was quiet and still. There was not a single gust of wind, nor did a single leaf on any tree around us wiggle. The air was thick and hot, and I suddenly woke up with my pajamas drenched in stinky sweat. Jerry was lying to my right, and Chandler was lying to my left. The two of them were snoring at the same time, creating some sort of synchronized song together. Chandler’s snore was a high-pitched squeal, like an opera singer, while Jerry’s snore was dirty and low, like an angry grizzly bear protecting her cubs.
But even louder than Chandler and Jerry’s snore fest of a concert was a low humming sound coming from the other end of the field. I sat up in my sleeping bag and looked to my left, to see where the humming was coming from. I noticed a dark purple light at the far end of the field, as if something were buried deep within that cluster of trees.
Stay tuned for PART 5…
J.S. Lender’s new book They Are Here Now (Short Tales) is available in paperback on Amazon.
