Cowboy Necromancer 2: Infinite Dark: (A Post-Apocalyptic LitRPG Fantasy), page 35
“I’m all ears, amigo,” Sterling called over his shoulder, the tiny roar of the dune buggy’s engine something he was used to by now.
“Well, for one, the Hole ‘N’ the Rock is actually a rock, in case you didn’t know that tidbit. It’s a huge entrada sandstone that is standing all by itself in front of a backdrop of orange and red cliffs. The rock itself, believe it or not, is a quarter of a mile high and a mile around the base…”
“Wait, how do you know all this?” Sterling asked, finally looking over shoulder to see that the Chronicler had a pamphlet in his hand.
He waved the pamphlet at him. “They made these for tourists back in the day, and I happened to acquire one. Long story sort of short, a guy named Dick Hooten is the one who turned the rock into a home in the early twentieth century. He originally carved out a series of rooms to serve as bedrooms for his five sons, who later got into the swing of things and began carving rooms as well. Fourteen rooms in total, one with a natural fireplace vented through the rock.”
“So it’s a cave, a comfy cave,” said Sterling, remembering Joel the Troll, how the cave dweller had adjusted to life deep within the Earth.
“Not exactly, but I would suspect living at the Hole ‘N’ the Rock back in the day would be as difficult as living in a cave, especially with their food situation.”
“Not a lot of hunting here in Nomadland, right?” Sterling gazed out at the rugged landscape, assuming that there were things like jackrabbits and other little critters running about, the hunter in him knowing that they wouldn’t be easy to kill and also well aware that they would have other predators.
“I highlighted this part,” the Chronicler told him, “just in case I ever got lost out here. When Hooten and his kin first arrived, they ate dandelion greens, new thistle, watercress salad, and wild berries. So there is some foraging to be had. But eventually, Moab began to take shape as a mining town, which gave them a place to trade and get in trouble with the law.”
“The law, huh?”
The Chronicler laughed. “Hooten’s sons definitely kept the authorities on their toes, especially during prohibition, when they became bootleggers.”
“Can’t blame them; a man has got to drink.”
“One of them even went to jail for it, the one named Albert. He did some time in Leavenworth.”
“Don’t know that name.”
“Sounds like a prison,” Paco said, causing Sterling to smirk.
“Good observation, son.”
The Chronicler closed his pamphlet. “Well, there are few other details that I found interesting, mostly involving the one I mentioned, Albert, who continued to have issues with the federal government. While he was in Leavenworth, he, ironically, became acquainted with sculpture, something he brought with him once he got out. He carved the likenesses of President Franklin Roosevelt and one of his presidential rivals on the big sandstone cliff not far from their home. The Bureau of Land Management didn’t like him doing this, so they dynamited it.”
“I guess that makes sense,” said Sterling, even though it still didn’t seem right.
“He claimed it was his property, they said otherwise. Lots of disputes around these parts with the Bureau of Land Management, at least from what I have uncovered.”
Roxie came around a bend, Sterling spotting a natural sandstone arch connecting to smaller hills.
An uncanny landscape…
“So if you’re wondering why there’s the head of President Roosevelt carved near the home’s entrance, that’s why. This is what originally sparked my interest. I saw that head and began asking questions. The people that live there now, the Christiansens, had a bunch of the gift shop materials left over and happened to have this little book.”
“Ain’t that something,” said Sterling. “Them fools were living the post-apocalyptic life before it was fashionable.”
The statement caused the Chronicler to laugh again. “Something like that, yes, but that seemed to be the fate of many of the early Utah settlers. And as always, a tale truly as old as time when it comes to this country, the natives helped, but they also warned them about the climate, how hard it was to survive, and not everyone turned out as lucky as the people with Dick Hooten.”
“I reckon.”
The Hole ‘N’ the Rock was visible from a mile or two away, white letters painted across the surface of the giant, pastel orange stone. There was an RV out front, as well as several other frontward facing structures that had been built into various portions of the rock, the gift shop clearly demolished for parts, the only thing standing in its place being a statue of a bull made of old leather saddles and metal.
Roxie pulled the dune buggy into a paved spot about a quarter-mile away from the structure, and once they were out, Beep back in Sterling’s inventory list, she encouraged the others to keep going while she stayed back ‘just in case.’
“Just don’t shoot my hat,” Sterling told her, a joke.
“It’s not you I want to shoot,” she said in a grim way.
“I’ll, um, be sure to relay that to Don Gasper.”
What followed was a quick walk along the highway through the high desert, Sterling at the front, the Chronicler at the back, Zephyr, Paco, and the Sunflower Kid somewhere in between, the aeromancer floating just a few inches off the ground as always, her form sometimes providing shade from the sun.
Sterling had teased her before about actually using her feet to walk. Every now and then, the Sunflower Kid would stop walking as well, resorting to hovering for a spell. Personally, Sterling didn’t get it. Solid ground, that was his thing, that was the kind of guy he was.
They were just coming to the rock when a voice reached Sterling’s ears.
“Who are you?” the voice asked, Sterling looking at the enormous entrada sandstone rock and seeing that it had come from a hole drilled in the side, a hole that could easily have the barrel of the weapon pointed through it.
“I’m here to see Don Gasper,” Sterling told the voice.
“Who’s here to see Don Gasper?” the voice asked, one that belonged to a male teenager as far as Sterling could tell.
“Tell him it’s an old friend from Las Cruces, one with a bone horse. He’ll know.”
Had Sterling been closer to the rock, he probably would have heard a little bit of scrambling as the teenager got down from whatever perch he was on to deliver the message. But standing on the cracked highway, the sheer expanse all around them, had a way of suppressing any sounds.
“I’ll see you guys at the front,” Zephyr said as she began to float forward.
Sterling looked at the others and shrugged. “Not a bad idea.”
The front door of what was once a roadside diner built into the rock shifted open, Sterling spotting the carved head of President Roosevelt above it, just like the Chronicler had said.
Sure enough, Don Gasper shambled out, the old shaman draped in multifarious robes as if he were auditioning to become the Elder of Nauvoo, rabbit fur draped over his chest where suspenders would be, his beard braided in portions, his eyes that odd shade of brownish blue that Sterling always found a bit off.
“¡Vaquero nigromante!” Gasper lifted his hands, gesturing like he wanted a hug, and puckered his lips.
“Put your goddamn arms down. I ain’t fixing to hug you, Gasper,” Sterling said, not able to hide the smile on his face. “And I definitely ain’t kissing you.”
“Ah, come on, amigo…”
“You old son of a bitch, what the hell have you been doing to these here folks?”
“The Christiansens?” Gasper motioned to the door behind him. “They have embraced me, and have become my disciples. My people. I am a man of the people, no?”
“Gasper, I don’t got time for this, and just so you know, Roxie’s out there with a bead trained on you. I’m not saying she’s going to shoot you, but she did mention that was something she would like to do. You and I both know that you ain’t no Messiah for these here people. Whatever narcotics you’ve given them to convince them that you’re some sort of Southwest warlock, stops now. We got things to do.”
Don Gasper’s eyebrows furrowed as he offered a wave to the others. “Yes, we need to find him…”
“See?” Sterling asked the person closest to them, which just happened to be Paco, who had a curious look on his face as he examined Gasper. “He already knows what needs to be done. I told y’all. That’s why he is part of this group, as much I hate to admit it, and why I keep having to defend him to Roxie.”
“Roxie hates everyone,” Zephyr said as she lowered to the ground in front of Sterling. “Aside from you, and the Sunflower Kid. Hey, Gasper, got some weed for me to smoke?”
“Sí, of course, Zee, of course…”
“Don’t…” Sterling shook his head. “Y’all, we got shit to do.”
“I don’t think Roxie hates me,” said Paco, even though that conversation had already moved on. “She hasn’t said anything bad about the Chronicler either.”
Sterling made a gesture as if they needed to wrap this up. “Gasper, you and I got plenty to talk about, as I’m sure you know. So don’t go getting our aeromancer high, we just may need her.”
Zephyr laughed. “Boo…”
“Boo me all you want. Now, are you going to invite us into this here rock, or what? Also,” Sterling nodded his chin to the Chronicler, “I got someone here that you might like to meet.”
It was cavernous yet comfy, just as Sterling had surmised, the cowboy necromancer immediately seeing the appeal to living in the Hole ‘N’ the Rock when compared to the damp and dingy cave that Joel the Troll had been holed up in. For starters, there was a lot less climbing here, it wasn’t wet at all, and the way it had been fashioned created perfect nooks for built-in furniture, numerous beds, and plenty of room.
Not a bad place to call home.
The Christiansens, the owners of the rock, were just about as innocent as Sterling imagined they would be, which had made it easy for Don Gasper to dupe them. They were a family of seven, Sterling not knowing their actual relations aside from the baby, which clearly belonged to the older two. It became a side conversation as he got down to explaining to Don Gasper what had happened since they last saw each other outside of Las Cruces, New Mexico, Sterling catching him up.
The old shaman listened intently, his eyes watching Sterling’s fingers as he finished rolling a joint for him. He knew his way to Don Gasper’s heart, the best way to keep his interest.
Once he handed Gasper the joint, the older man motioned for the two of them to step out of the rock while the others got comfortable, introductions taking place and whatnot, Sterling not too interested in any of it. Especially after what happened last night, he was ready to finish this leg of his journey.
Once outside and squarely in the shade of the rock, Don Gasper lit his joint and Sterling did the same to his cigarette.
“So this poco Godwalker of yours, let’s see it.”
“Yep…”
According to what Sterling had already learned, Don Gasper had been in Deseret for about a month, just like Zephyr, which had given him plenty of time to get into the Christiansens’ brains, Gasper doing what he did best. Sterling imagined the older man making a prediction that came true, or giving the father whatever entheogenic drugs he kept in his inventory list.
Sometimes there ain’t much difference between a con man and shaman, Sterling thought as he summoned Beep. Most times.
Don Gasper bit down on his joint and leaned forward, examining the miniature Godwalker. “It’s so tiny, no? Muy pequeño, muy muy pequeño.”
“Small, but useful. As I keep telling people, Beep here has saved my ass more times than I can count. And Beep is the one that brought us here, like I was telling you in there.”
While Sterling had briefed Don Gasper on most things, he hadn’t gone into detail about what they were planning to do once they arrived at the Terminal. This was something they could do later, once the Chronicler was able to show Gasper some of the petroglyph sketches taken from the cave dwelling outside of Morgan. All in due time, Sterling thought as Don Gasper slowly placed his hand on Beep’s surface.
“And the kids, they painted the face?” Gasper asked him. “Or was it you?”
“Shee-it, you know I didn’t paint this Godwalker.”
“They call it Strawberry,” Zephyr said as she floated out of the dwelling. “The Kid and Paco do. Sorry, it’s stuffy in there.” Her eyes dropped onto Don Gasper’s joint. “You sharing that or what?”
“Now…” Sterling didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence as the aeromancer took her first puff.
“Who is Strawberry?”
“Beep has already been given two names,” Sterling told the old shaman, “so don’t go giving it another. Now, I’ve said most of what I need to say; what about you, Gasper? You know who we’re looking for, so let’s get down to it, let’s hash this out. Where’s the technomancer? Where’s Maron?”
“It’s a good question, no? Where is Maron? Hola, Maron, where are you? Personally, I think he is near. Perhaps…” Gasper took his joint back from Zephyr and took a long drag off of it, the smoke twisting around his head, his eyes glazing over to some degree. “Muy buena mota…”
“Gasper, let’s get on with it,” Sterling said.
“I was out, you know. Smoked all of mi mota the first week, and these people here…” He pointed his joint at the dwelling. “They don’t have no mota.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you’re a goddamn pothead. But I have some, so that should do for now. Look, Gasper, we need us a plan. According to the Chronicler, we’re getting close to the Terminal, and I promised the Elder of Icaria that we would relieve these people of your influence. You can clearly help us find Maron, and once we do, we have our team. Well, most of it anyway,” Sterling said, thinking of Raylan the flectomancer and Sierra the pyromancer, both back in Madrid.
Then again, maybe they weren’t supposed to be part of this after all…
“Down in Las Cruces,” Don Gasper began, “I had a very spiritual connection with a beautiful mujera…”
“Nope, I ain’t going to hear it. Don’t you start in about Magdalena,” Sterling told him, referring to the telemancer who had betrayed them.
“Don’t smoke it all,” said Zephyr, the aeromancer sending just a small gust of wind in Don Gasper’s direction, which rippled through his beard. He handed the joint to her and she took another puff, a haze settling over her dark eyes.
“No, no, Magdalena is…” Gasper waved his hand in the air. “Terminado para mi. Done. Más o menos… I’m talking about someone else. You remember the trailer we stayed in when we were in Las Cruces? The one with the peyote drying inside?”
“Vaguely.”
“That peyotera had a connection with a man who sold the seeds of a South American plant called cebil. The seed, that’s where the power lies, amigos. You can see anything with this seed and…” Don Gasper turned his hand around, a small plastic bag materializing in his palm. The plastic bag was filled with dark brown seeds that reminded Sterling of what a coffee bean would look like if it had been flattened yet had maintained its shape. “Magical, no?”
“So you’re going to smoke it?” Zephyr asked.
“No, no, Zee. That’s not how you use this.”
“Then…?”
Don Gasper rubbed his grubby finger against his nostrils and made a snorting sound. “You sniff it. And not you, me,” he motioned toward Sterling, “and him. We. We sniff it.”
“Come again? Why the hell do I need to be part of this? You are the one that knows how to use it.”
Zephyr nodded. “I agree with Sterling. Why does he get to be part of it? If anything, I’m interested and likely more capable. Someone needs to be in charge… what is the term?”
“Trip sitter works.” Don Gasper took the joint back from her and finished it. Rather than toss it to the ground, he sent the roach to his inventory list. “You can be the trip sitter, Zee. I need to be there to be the guide, but I can also partake just a little. This one is best performed with two people, in my experience. So I will guide you, vaquero nigromante, because you don’t know how to guide someone on a bufotenin journey.”
“Bufotenin?”
“The active ingredient, amigo. This is a very old entheogen, perhaps one of the oldest forms of hallucinatory medications, keep up.”
Zephyr playfully lowered her shoulders and hung her head. “So I don’t get to snort seeds? Shucks. That sounds like fun; better than sitting around this rock watching Roxie time herself as she assembles and disassembles her weapons. Of course you guys don’t include me in the fun.”
“No, Zee, not exactly fun,” Gasper told her, a hint of sorrow to his eyes. “But you will make a great trip sitter with your wind powers. Make it very nice and comfortable for us, no?”
“Ugh. I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this…”
Don Gasper puffed his cheeks out. “Later tonight, after supper. I’ll explain everything in the meantime. Let’s figure out where this technomancer is.”
“Now before I agree to any… shaman business, you promise to go with us tomorrow, to leave these people be?”
Don Gasper shrugged off Sterling’s question. “If you insist, I go. But first, a ritual.”
Rather than have the Christiansen family provide most of the food, especially because Sterling felt a little guilty about the way that Don Gasper had exploited them up until that point, a meal was made from rations and some of the goat byproducts they had taken from the farm outside of Morgan, cheeses and milk, what was left of the honeycomb, and some dried bison meat courtesy of the Chronicler.
The Christiansen family kept pretty quiet, the children well-behaved, Sterling never getting any of their names aside from the husband, who went by Buck and seemed like a nice enough man, albeit one easily influenced by Don Gasper.
Sterling couldn’t blame them, not after the things he had been through with the old shaman, and how much he himself put into Gasper’s visions. But even with this in mind, he was heavily skeptical of what Gasper planned for that night, Sterling still not certain how he felt about consuming some hallucinatory seed.
