James Axler – Road Wars

“Smell panther,” J.B. said, hesitating in front of the shadowed center.

Ryan sniffed, catching the bitter scent of feline urine. “Yeah. Mebbe we don’t want to go in after all.”

The idea of going into a ruined and desolate building, with its linked rooms, like a maze of black caves, that was used as a lair by pumas seemed triple stupe.

“Back to the wag,” J.B. urged.

THE TWO OLD FRIENDS stood together in front of one of the great marvels of the world, the red ruins of what was called Pueblo Bonito. Six hundred rooms, spread over four stories, were once home to well over a thousand of the old people. Deserted, said the carved information slab in front of Ryan and J.B., with inexplicable haste, leaving pots on tables and cloth on looms.

The shadows of Fajada Butte fell clear across Chaco Wash as the day crept toward its ending. The only faint sounds were those of naturethe wind through the dry grasses and the whispering of a lizard scuttling across a stretch of exposed stonework. High clouds skated from north to south, against the pink-purple sky.

“I don’t get it,” J.B. said, his voice unexpectedly loud in the stillness.

“What?”

“Says they had this culture here, way before any white men came to the place. Roads and stuff. What I don’t get is where the water was. There wasn’t a sign in this whole canyon that there was ever any water here at all. It’s got to be a good forty miles or more to the San Juan.”

Ryan looked around at the emptiness. “Quakes and stuff could easily have changed the land,” he said. “Can’t have houses holding a thousand people without good regular water. Wouldn’t make any kind of sense.”

J.B. scuffed at the dust with the toe of his combat boot. “Sure isn’t any here now.”

“Good job we got plenty in the wag.” Ryan shuddered suddenly, hunching his shoulders. “Somebody must’ve just walked across my grave.”

“Kind of creepy, isn’t it? That guy, Lam, had good camp fire stories about the witches that the Navaho believe protect some of the ancient sites. Might be some of them around here, watching us, waiting for us.”

Ryan grinned. “Thanks a lot, friend. Just what I need before settling down for the night. Still, take more than a few witches to move us on.”

They stopped at three different places throughout Chaco Canyon to try to find a good campsite for the night.

But at each of them one or the other of the men found something to object to too close to the overhanging butte, too far away from the cover of the cliffs, not enough scrub for cover, too much scrub for cover.

In the end, despite the failing light, Ryan and J.B. agreed that they would drive farther, taking the other dirt road north and then cutting west over an undulating dusty highway, until Chaco Canyon and all of its ghosts and witches were left safely behind them.

They found a long-abandoned farm trail cutting steeply off the old blacktop, following it for a mile until it reached a narrow stream set among a small grove of delicate tamarisks and stunted live oaks.

Neither of them said anything more about whether the place might be haunted.

Ryan started a camp fire, using only dry wood to minimize the risk of smoke being spotted. But there hadn’t seemed any sign of life for a hundred miles around them.

The Armorer went down to the water, topping up their canteens and cans. He then checked over the engine of the wag, filling both gas and oil, so that they’d be ready to hit the road again, first thing in the morning.

Once the fire was crackling merrily, Ryan took the Steyr and walked away into the evening gloom, reappearing in less than a quarter of an hour with a brace of rabbits dangling from his belt.

“COULD’VE DONE with a pinch more salt,” J.B. commented, leaning back expansively against one of the wag’s huge wheels.

“I’m sorry that old Loz isn’t here to do the cooking for you, partner.”

The Armorer laughed. “Loz! Best cook that War Wag One ever had. Just about the only cook that War Wag One ever had. Only man who could burn a boiled egg”