The Grave Shadows

1. Fragile

On the plain of rocks and dust, the afternoon rays glazed a red pickup truck with lurid gleams. Wild winds whistled through the fur of dried grass, the aroma of baked soil sneaking inside the behind brand-new used-Toyota. Cyan squinted while her fists stuck around a steering wheel. Glaring six car lengths ahead of her was a crystal teddy bear. John bought this decadent figurine from a convenience store near George Washington and Jefferson National Forest, and it had been swaying earnestly against his truck's rear window for days. Through all conditions of this spontaneous voyage, the fragile little thing remained shiny and whole.

Twenty minutes after the convoy left Interstate 20, the landscape began to change. For five days on their unnecessarily lengthened route from South Boston to the grasslands of Texas, Cyan and John had plummeted in many notable tourist traps, chasing brusque sunsets, crashing the carnivals and ghost towns, sampling the hyped-up flavors, and collecting whimsical memories in photographs. They even splurged on New Orleans, where they stayed in a four-star resort, indulged in the spa treatments, and made their money back on two sumptuous seafood buffets. But a wisp of bliss faded before the terrain of crumbling hills and golden savanna. In this land, Cyan was one grass blade, small and insignificant, and that was what everyone should think.

Cyan clawed a yellow hand-held radio from a charger and pressed to talk. "Guile to M. Bison." She released the bulky button on the device, and a shrill beep made her whole face twist. This model of walkie-talkie put a stop to John repeating Over or Roger that in every transmission, but this additional feature might be as annoying.

"Go ahead," John replied. Beep.

"I saw what you did there," Cyan said with a mature voice. She had learned this tone from her new patron, mimicking his powerful gaze on the glittering spot on the truck's rear window. She wondered if John noticed the effort in the message. But had Cyan echoed the grace correctly, her father would pay attention.

"Cyan, sometimes I wonder if you're my grandmother." The munching was John being rebellious. "And by the way, you can't possibly see me in here." Beep.

In this scenario, Cyan had a specific approach to deal with him. "Snickers," she said with her own voice, the one he liked and pitied, "and yes, I'm a mature one." Beep.

"Okay, then tell me, Grandma." John chewed noisily, which meant the radio had muffled the sweetness of Cyan's real voice. "Why is a candy bar evil?" Beep.

"Because." Cyan peered at the delicate twinkles in the truck's rear window. "If it weren't, you wouldn't hide it." She released the PTT button.

Sinister things existed, and they should stay out of sight. Evil was why the town of Colt was perfect for a shovel. Something in Cyan was malicious, and nobody should find out.

"You heard?" John said after a crunch. Beep.

"I did." Beep. Cyan assumed that John's new treat was an apple as the sea of emptiness drew her attention to the indistinct horizon ahead. Gray, gold, and a little blue melted together far away. Soon, the scenery would shift again, dominated by the inevitable darkness.

"Proud?" John asked through his enthusiastic gnawing. Beep.

"Yeah yeah..." Cyan breathed out her weary response. This pitch always choked a chuckle out of John. "We should take a break at the next gas station." With a slow growl, her stomach agreed. "I'm hungry."

Starvation could kill.

"We're in the middle of nowhere, ma'am." The wholesome laugh lingered. "But we can stop by the rocks to catch those shaky snakes, eh?" Beep.

"Rattlesnakes." Cyan released the PTT button after a long sigh.

Rattlesnakes kill.

"It's our last chance, then. There won't be rattlesnakes in Colt." Beep. She turned on the stereo, proud of her wise come back and supposition. Her lips crinkled up as the radio picked up a race call.

"You're right. No snake there. Only wolves."

"Horses," Cyan objected. The caller's booming and fervent energy spat adrenaline all over her skin. She stomped on the gas pedal, shortening the length between the truck and the Toyota. Gasping, she relaxed her foot.

Speed could kill.

"Hmm, yes, those, too." John chuckled.

"You're not concentrating. Let's take a quick rest. We could get pulled over, you know." Beep.

"Grandma, driving under the influence of sugar isn't illegal." Beep. "Actually, let me look it up." Beep.

"You're pushing it." Beep. Cyan frowned. John's humor was unimpressed when he delivered it on the road.

Everything could kill. Hours, minutes, and seconds deserted anyone when the devil grasped his throat. Even a piece of apple in John's mouth could choke him to death through his mirth. Snakes possessed deadly venom and wolves terrifying teeth and claws.

Could any of those kill me?

"We should know these things." John cackled as he did when his character M. Bison beat Cyan's Guile in the Street Fighter arcade. Amusement was John's thing. It was never Cyan's. "Law and order, I mean. Don't be ignorant." Beep.

Ignorance was Cyan's expertise. After all, she was John's daughter, born without a proper brain, deprived of a danger detector. Misfortune and disaster easily seduced both of them.

"I'm having a good feeling about this, you know." When John talked without a hint of joy, he meant every word. His finger lingered on the PTT button, allowing Cyan to hear his measured breathing—hope. "Despite all this." A pause cruised between their vehicles. Beep.

The Toyota slithered up to the truck, and Cyan muted the radio. Over the stunning animation, John swished through the thin prairie. His silhouette centered a bright window, a free black stallion heading home to the frontier. Cyan liked it when John forgot about her and sneaked in his dreams.

"With wolves and horses as our customers," said John. The chuckle was back. "Tell me his name again. I can hear it all day long." Beep.

"Bill..." Cyan's finger slipped from the PTT button as one signage bloomed with an explosion of glory. Grand. Marvelous. There was no town sign like the one of this land.

Colt. Nothing else. No welcome. No description. Colt! And everyone knew that they should bow.

The Toyota fell behind the truck so Cyan could relish the transcendent monstrosity a few seconds more.

"Bill Watts," John said without a chuckle. The rectification was crucial. "Nobody called him Bill. You know... like Bill Gates, like Queen Elizabeth, like those politicians. You don't just say their first names like Bill, Liz, or George because they're exceptional."

Cyan wanted to point out that the Queen Elizabeth example was inept, but she only added, "Like Cyan Cooper." She rolled her window down, and so did John.

The perfect song blasted through his gorgeous truck. The lyric spoke of her deepest curiosity, comparing being in love to a death. The wind of Colt seared into her skin, hot and arid like summer, flowery and reminiscence like dreams. Cyan experienced a dozen deaths, but never once a love.

"No, you're just Cyan." John giggled around a mouthful of apple, the objection distorting in the grassy winds. "You're special, but you're not Cyan Cooper."

I'm not Cyan Cooper?

But John's assessment was clumsier than he was. If Cyan were just Cyan, she wouldn't need a burial site. Mistakes that couldn't be erased had to be hidden. And perhaps the land of wolves, speed, and heat—Bill Watts's kingdom—would scare the hunters of truths away. Strange solace let Cyan make peace with her devilish anomaly. For the first time in a long time, Cyan wasn't afraid of being this alive. In Colt, nobody cared about how tenacious one grass blade was.