I AM MOVING THIS TO ROYAL ROAD

(C) Heather Farthing, 2022, all rights reserved

Chapter one

Angler County.

The words on the sign pass by like so many trees. It’s a strange name for an interior, land-locked region. Maybe there’s a lot of lake and river fishing.

The scenery drones by, monotonous and green. The only thing that changes is the roiling stormclouds above, angry steel gray, split by lightning. Rain spatters on my windshield as a storm warning plays on the radio.
My fingers grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. The road spreads out before me, empty and desolate, trees on each side. There’s old signs about some sort of defunct resort, faded and cracked, depicting smiling antlered animals in forest ranger costumes, “Angler’s Ridge Woodland Getaway.”

I bet it was nice. I bet scouts spent summers there, learning to tie knots and finding arrowheads. I never got to go camping as a child. It was no big deal, never saw the appeal, really, but I guess now I can see the appeal of disconnecting from everything and seeing the world as it originally was.

One of the signs passes by, probably used to be a turnoff. It’s old and overgrown, the paint faded and peeling, just barely showing the ghost of a yellow park ranger uniform and formerly white buck teeth.

I turn my eyes back to the road just in time to see the antlers smash into my windshield and the limp, gray body roll over my roof. Slamming on my breaks, heart in my throat, I stop so quickly my chest slams painfully into the wheel.

All is quiet as a grave for what feels like an eternity. The large body in the road casts a shadow in the rain, my eyes drifting from the figure to the road ahead of me and the damage to my hood. Nothing moves except smoke rising up from my engine.

And then it staggers to its feet in an unnatural, bone-popping way, like a puppet on strings. It snaps pieces of itself back together, twisting bones and joints, realigning limbs, until it’s standing on two legs, white eyes like headlights cast into the rearview mirror. There are more lights rising up over the hill, and the thing drops to all fours and bounds deer-like into the woods.
The car crests the hill and slows to a stop beside me, rolling the window down.

“You alright? You hit a deer?” the man asks.

“Yeah,” I mumble, shaking and not sure he can hear me. “Yeah, I hit a deer.”

Before I can stop him, he’s on his cell phone and calling someone. I unlock the car and clamor out of my seat, fighting against the belt, but by the time both feet hit the pavement I’m sitting down, leaning up against my car, the world spinning.

“I think she might have hit her head.”

The eyes burn into my memory, like flashlights held in both hands. The antlers spread wide and proud, but the long, tufted tail twitches cautiously, like a dog meeting a stranger. It stands on two legs to look at me, but bounds away on four.

The other car is gone. No, not gone, pulled over to the side. The man watches both was cautiously as he jogs to my side and sits down beside me.

“I need you to stay awake, okay?” he insists, putting a hand on my shoulder. “An ambulance is coming, but you need to stay awake.”

“No, no,” I mumble, trying to stand back up.

They can’t find it. They can’t see what’s in the trunk.
The man grabs at my arms to keep me from getting up, but I’m determined to get back in my car and drive away. Once I’m standing, my body begs to differ, swaying as the ground pitches beneath me like a ship in a storm. I fall into the man’s arms and he whispers soft platitudes to hold me steady.

“I have to go,” I protest. “I’m…I need to go.”

The man guides me to a seat in the driver’s side. My hands are shaking, my palms sweaty.

“Put your head between your knees,” the man instructs gently, helping me lean over.

By this point, the ambulance’s sirens are echoing painfully through my ears. I barely see the EMT as little more than black boots when he walks up to me.
“Something the matter, miss?” he asks as I look up at them.

“I’m fine, just...shaken,” I tell him dismissively.

“What happened here?” the EMT asks as his female partner brings a bag up to me and starts looking me over.

“Nothing,” I insist. “I just…hit a deer. Or wolf. Or something.”

The energy gets sucked out of the area like a deflating balloon. The look they share with one another is as troubled as if I had admitted to deliberately running down a kid chasing a ball in the road.

“I don’t see no blood,” the woman calls from the front of my car. “Front end’s pretty messed up, though.”
The good Samaritan swears under his breath.

“A deer?” the EMT asks. “Are you sure?”

I try to hold the image in my mind. It had the strong antlers of a buck, but the swooshy tail of a dog. The eyes are what I remember clearest, like headlights in the dark.

“I…don’t know,” I admit, wishing they’d leave me alone so I can drive out of here. “I…I didn’t see it.”

The EMT looks up at the oncoming storm as his partner goes back to checking me over.

“No sign of a head injury,” she reports grimly. “Probably just…shaken.”

“I’m fine, really,” I insist again. “I’ll…I’ll just be on my way.”

I turn away from them and twist the key in the ignition. The engine moans and gurgles and then collapses, spewing smoke. I groan loudly and put my head against the wheel. Not now, not now.

The man and the EMT are on the other side of the road, chatting softly. After a few minutes, they walk back over and ask if I have a place to stay the night.

“No,” I shake my head. “I’m…in a hurry. I can’t stop for the night.”

“We already called Ed to come get your car,” the man explains. “You ain’t going anywhere tonight. Listen, I’ll ride you up a-ways to the motel, and Ed’ll call in the morning when your car’s fixed. You got money?”

“Yes,” I blurt, trying not to look at the trunk.

“Alright, let me give you Ed’s number,” he continues, pulling out his cell phone. “Irma at the motel makes a mean pot roast. It’ll do you some good in the meantime.”

“I’ll ride with you, Bobby,” the female EMT nods, glancing at me, noticing the way my hand grasps the pepper spray on my wallet chain. “Shift’s almost over anyway.”

I give my car another few starts for good measure, and nothing happens but pained grinding. The road spreads on before me and behind, so I’m about as safe riding into town with these weirdos as I am walking on foot.
Before I know it, I’m in the passenger seat of “Bobby’s” car with the female EMT in the back, my dufflebag protectively in my arms, my fingers twining around the straps. The two of them keep up idle, small-town chatter, about gardens and livestock and children, as the town gets closer and closer.

They seem friendly enough, but I’m not in the mood for friends.

“You’re awfully quiet, hun,” the female EMT observes.

“Consider what she’s been through,” Bobby replies. “Hitting a…hitting a deer. Must be terrifying.”

“Well, I hope it’s not taking you too off course,” the woman murmurs dryly.

“It…kind of is,” I reply, tightening my grip on my duffle. “This guy…he’s your town’s only mechanic? He any good?”

“If he wasn’t, we’d need more than one!” Bobby laughs affectionately. “Anyway, here’s the motel.”

The motel is a standard, two-story roadside shanty, with an ancient sign that reads, “MOTEL: IN-ROOM AIR CONDITIONING, COLOR TV,” like it hasn’t been changed since the seventies. The paint is faded and washed-out, like it used to be a sign-matching garish orange and brown but hasn’t ever been touched up. A few of the orange doors to the rooms have lawn chairs or small grills in front of them, and a neon sign with a failing “e” reads “OPEN.”

I try to stifle my look of disgust. While I could stay anywhere I want now, it’s my fault I had car problems in a literal one-horse town, and unless I plan on hitchhiking, this is as good as it gets.

The office is in its own building, but attached to some kind of greasy diner. It smells like decades of waffles and french fry grease all the way through the parking lot, which makes me wrinkle my nose. A few people are in the windows, nursing slices of pie and mugs of coffee. An older woman in a 50s-style waitress dress looks up as the car passes through the window, her mouth forming the word, “Bobby?”

Bobby pulls in at the main entrance, getting out of the truck as the waitress, probably Irma, comes around the diner to the main desk, taking her place at check-in. The bell overhead jangles noisily as Bobby pushes the door open and ushers me inside, the EMT waiting outside, leaning against the car.

“Morning, Irma, how is it?”

“Weather looks bad, Bobby. My knee’s been flared up all morning.”

An apologetic look crosses Bobby’s face as he gestures at me.

“This here’s Mya. She…hit a deer, ‘bout nine o’clock.”
Irma winces and nods.

“Mr. Bobby here had my car towed for me,” I tell her politely. “Then drove me here.”

“Oh, I see,” the older lady replies. “Ed’s best mechanic in town, he’ll set you up good. You need a place for the night?”

“I…um,” I mutter, shifting the heavy duffle over my shoulder.

“Main house is full, but got some cabins down by the lake,” Irma continues. “We’ll do…fifty off because I ain’t heartless, and another twenty-five for the walk. How’s that sound?”

“Very kind,” I agree, wondering how she stays in business if she just gives away rooms like that.

“Alright,” Irma mumbles, turning around to a rack of keys behind her, selecting one and a map. “Path to the cabin’s orange. Go out past the main house and look for the posts. Payment due at checkout.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer quietly, taking the key.

There’s a bit of an awkward silence as I make sure the conversation is over, and then slip out the window. The female EMT waves at me with a cigarette in her hand, and Bobby slips out the door shortly behind me.

“A deer, Bobby?” she asks him as I cross the parking lot. “That ain’t good.”

The trail is easy enough to find, marked by weather-worn wooden posts with tops spray-painted orange. There’s a faded map on the motel’s outermost wall, showing the path past the hotel down to a good-sized pond or small lake. The font and colors are a bit out of date, but at one time this might have been a family resort with the water feature as its main draw.

The path is lined with markers that show local plants and animals, scientific names, and a bit of trivia. Certain plants that grow wild here were used as food or medicine by the early settlers, like dandelion and nettle. Deer, rabbits, and hawks are common around here, and upon request the head office can provide carrots and celery to leave out.

The woods back here are thick and a bit overgrown. It’s hard to step over all the twigs and branches lying in the muddy path. There’s some preserved footprints in the mud, some deer tracks, what according to the signs might be rabbit, and a large dog.

I’m hot and sweaty and the sun is getting high by the time I see the line of cabins curving around the banks of the lake. Mine is, of course, farthest to the back, but it doesn’t look like I have any neighbors, which is good. Naturally the key sticks and needs to be wiggled and the door pounded before the door creaks open.

The air is musty and a bit dank. There’s a kind-sized bed with a flannel quilt thrown on top, but the floor is clean and no dust rises when I drop the duffle onto the bed. The toilet and sink have age stains, but seem to have been recently clean and smell like bleach. There’s bottled water in the fridge and the stove has all its dials, but the television is one of those ancient behemoths with a knob and a large, square remote control.

At least it’s quiet.

Chapter two

Chapter three