The Burden of Darkness Read online

  She set her GPS tracker and started jogging. The air chilled her, but she would warm up soon enough. She ran a few blocks to an intersection that crossed Prince of Wales Drive. Her route would take her two more blocks through a parking lot to a combination boardwalk and dirt trail along the Rideau River. Hints of snow remained in the parking lot. The trail hadn’t yet opened for the summer, but she had ignored the posted warning before. Below average temperatures remained cool enough that the dirt path would still be hard from the remaining frost, and the little snow left had not melted to flood the boardwalk.

  The early morning sun glinted off the cars on the highway, and every exhale expelled visible vapor clouds. A white 737, brilliant against the clear sky, coasted over the rooftops on its final descent to the airport. She arrived at the parking lot with her arms pumping and her large leg muscles straining, and as she lengthened her stride, the still fresh air echoed the rhythm of her running shoes slapping on the frozen ground. Holly took no notice of a new model red Dodge pickup with a white camper on board as she glided through the parking lot, her attention focused on the barrier straight ahead.

  The man standing behind the vehicle watched as she ran past.

  A barrier made of a 2x4 board hanging between two posts supported a bright yellow sign warning in bold black lettering that the trail was closed for the winter. Holly stopped and climbed around it before continuing her run. She saw the half-moon shaped Vimy Memorial Bridge a little over a mile in the distance. She might even continue past the bridge this morning.

  Her shoes thumped on the frozen earth as she ran up a small incline and back down the other side. Her athletic strides carried her across a small wooden bridge and onto the boardwalk. The boards sagged under her weight as she ran. She had to be careful now not to catch her toe between the boards, but it didn’t slow her down. As she left the boardwalk and back onto the dirt path, a buzzing noise broke the silence behind her. The sound was new to her and getting louder. She tried to think what it sounded like. Maybe a power drill on steroids or a thousand bees that had overindulged on honey flying drunkenly back to their hives. She chuckled to herself at the thought, but now the sound was getting closer, forcing her to look.

  She stopped running and turned with her hands on her knees, her head surrounded by vapor clouds rising from her short bursts of breath. When she tilted her head, she saw the source of the persistent noise. A drone about the size of the top of an end table emitted the intermittent sound as it erratically dipped and regained altitude. She hadn’t seen one flying before. An awful thought occurred to her. Technically, she was trespassing since the trail was closed. Were the police monitoring the trail? She paid little attention to news about drones, but she knew some carried cameras. Holly self-consciously mugged, smiling, shrugging, and raising her hands in the air as if to surrender. She pointed in the barrier’s direction where she entered the trail and jogged at half-speed back the way she came.

  She sensed the drone swoop to about ten feet above her head and a few feet behind her. A glance over her shoulder revealed the blinking eye on the end of the silver bullet-shaped body staring at her and the four propeller blades shredding the air. Holly stopped and turned. Maybe they can hear me through a microphone on the machine. She shouted to make herself heard above the annoying buzz of the hovering craft, “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m getting off the trail. I admit I shouldn’t be here. Give me a ticket if you want, but I’m leaving. I’ll see you at the parking lot, okay?”

  She ran again, picking up speed as the drone remained suspended in the air at the spot where she yelled at it. She wondered if the people operating it were having a laugh watching her butt as she ran. Maybe they were even recording. It angered her. She wouldn’t put it past some perverts to do that. The pitch of the propellers grew louder, and it relieved her to think the drone was leaving. But the sound didn’t seem right. She glanced over her shoulder just in time to duck as it buzzed past her head. The close encounter aided by the draft from the whirling propeller blades chilled her as it sped past.

  Holly looked up, shocked to see the drone stop on a dime and spin back towards her. Still shaken from the alarm incident, a jolt of fear danced down her spine. The drone just sat about twenty feet down the trail at head level, its single eye glaring at her, accusing her of...what? It was like it was daring her to make a run for it. It didn’t matter which way she moved – it seemed as if one solitary drone had her surrounded.

  She shook uncontrollably. What would have happened if I hadn’t ducked? It could have given me a concussion...or worse. Why won’t it go away? She was out here alone. She thought of her kids. It was useless to scream because the trail drifted too far away from any houses. She looked for a stick to knock it down if it came for her again. She tugged at a few but grimaced as anything usable lay frozen in the ground.

  As she reached into her pocket for her phone, the drone zipped away. She stared at the vacant spot, thinking it must have left something behind to show it had been there. A vapor trail or something. But nothing. Like it had never existed, except for the terrible buzzing noise imprinted on her brain. Holly recalled the UFO reports she read in the news about people observing alien craft being there one second and gone the next. Her eyes broke away from where it sat and followed the drone’s flight over the treetops beside the incline in the dirt path.

  Holly’s shortest distance home was the direction the drone flew, but she had no intention of going that way. A red truck with a camper was visible through the barren trees that had not yet sprouted their spring leaves. Was the driver of the truck also the owner of the drone? Was it there when I ran through the parking lot? She decided to run in the opposite direction toward the bridge and hide there if she had to. Her rubbery legs wobbled when she ran, but she persevered. She thought the drone’s terrible noise still buzzed in the distance, but it may have been the blood rushing in her ears. The bridge will save me from that terrifying thing.

  She rounded a corner, her phone in her hand, closing in on the bridge and breathing a sigh of relief at the massive steel structure dead ahead. Her tight muscles resisted, but she urged her legs to take her there as fast as they could. I’ll hide among the steel pilings supporting the bridge and call the police.

  But she was too late.

  A silver blur swooped under the bridge with the grace of a blue heron and the speed of a race car. Holly skidded to a stop and watched horrified as it skimmed the remaining chunks of ice in the river and angled towards her. She froze. The drone closed the distance in an instant. It must have been going 70 miles an hour.

  And it raced straight at her head.

  Chapter Three

  Owen Strand gripped the steering wheel of his new red Dodge Ram Big Horn half-ton truck. It was already a year old in vehicle years since he bought it six months after the new models rolled off the assembly line. He didn’t bother to negotiate, and the ecstatic look on the salesman’s face divulged his delight with the commission he would receive. Strand didn’t care. The truck would be his last vehicle.

  It was the nicest truck he ever owned. It handled the camper on the back with no problem. Heated leather seats, voice-activated navigation system, backup assist... He hadn’t discovered all the truck’s capabilities, even after studying the manual. It had just applied the brakes and slowed the throttle to maintain a safe three-car-lengths from a semi-trailer struggling up an incline in front of him. The manufacturers called that feature adaptive cruise control or something like that. Fancy names for fancy features.

  The steel girders protruding from the back of the rumbling 22-wheeler reminded Strand of the bridge he had seen on his tablet a few hours ago when he harassed the woman on the hiking trail. He never intended to hit her. He was just practicing with one of his new collection of drones when the poor woman came along.

  His original plan was to familiarize himself with the controls on the tablet in a quiet place, but when the woman arrived, there was an opportunity to improve his f
lying skills with a moving target. He had flown hobbyist drones many times before. Like his truck, the new models had bells and whistles he hadn’t even found yet. It was interesting when the woman yelled at the machine. A speaker to identify himself to his victims before they died seemed like a nice addition. One thing for sure, the speed and responsiveness of the drone surprised him.

  She dove into the reeds at the last second, so he hadn’t damaged one of his precious fleet. He suspected the obstacle avoidance feature would have saved her and his drone anyway. He had gained altitude with the machine and circled around, watching through the camera lens from a distance as she picked herself up. The experience had shaken her as she stumbled to the bridge with her phone to her ear. He knew she called the cops, so he flew his machine back to the parking lot, gathered it up after a safe landing, and hightailed it out of there.

  The growl of the semi’s large engine in front of him brought him back to the present. Dark puffs of smoke drifted skyward from the shiny chrome exhaust stacks on either side of the blue cab as the driver shifted to lower gears to coax the big vehicle up the incline. A gap appeared in the traffic, and Strand slammed the accelerator down to pass the lumbering truck. His new half-ton responded, shoving him back in the buttery leather seat. The truck slid past the semi and swept back into the right lane. The cruise control settled into a speed just above the posted limit.

  He punched the touch-sensitive screen to change stations until he found news from Ottawa on the satellite radio. He listened as trees and rocks blurred past his windows alongside the highway. A jagged boulder the size of a mini fridge lay beside the road where it must have tumbled from above. He wondered what it would be like if one fell onto the truck. The radio announcer drew his attention from that thought as she covered local and national politics and a fire at a pizza restaurant and then moved on to the weather and sports. A wave of disappointment passed through Strand at the silence regarding the drone attack. He guessed the attack wasn’t dramatic enough for news coverage since no one died, but the knowledge he would become famous after he settled a few scores comforted him.

  He tapped the screen again to turn the radio to a classic rock station and settled in for the drive. His destination for the night was Sault Ste. Marie, a border city of about 75,000 residents just across the river from Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan. Strand had read that the two sides had been one large city until the War of 1812 divided Canada and the U.S. It was a nine-hour drive from Ottawa, and that would give Strand plenty of opportunity to enjoy his truck and ponder his thoughts.

  The traffic was light since tourist season was still a few weeks away. Dark clouds on the horizon signaled an approaching squall, or worse, that he might have to drive through during the day. His truck almost drove itself, so he could deal with whatever weather came along. If he wandered a little, a sharp beep and a vibrating steering wheel would remind him to stay between the lines. The music faded into the background as his mind drifted back to the recent events that changed his life.

  As the skies darkened, so did his mood. Not that long ago, he had received the devastating news. It started with headaches that worsened as time passed. Owen attributed the headaches to being fired from his job by his heartless boss at the electronics firm he worked at for twenty-two years in Tucson, Arizona. Owen’s heart rate increased at his boss’s cruel words. “You aren’t pulling your considerable weight.” It made him mad every time he thought about it. Then he patted his pants pocket, remembering his list, and his mood brightened. His former boss’s name was on the list.

  Owen rounded a corner as the windshield wipers started without warning, fending off precipitation hitting the window. He slowed as ice pellets ricocheted off the glass and tapped on the roof. The squall lasted a few minutes before everything settled down, and Owen hit “resume” on the steering column to re-establish cruising speed.

  Oncoming cars covered in snow provided evidence that more was coming. A sign beside the road told Owen that an ONroute service area would appear 38 kilometers down the road. He calculated that it would take about 25 minutes at the speed he was traveling, and he decided he would stop there for a bathroom break and to check the weather forecast. His thoughts turned again to how his life had changed.

  The headaches became more persistent and severe. Dizziness and nausea followed and worsened until he had to go to the doctor. Owen’s anxiety level grew when a CT scan ordered by the doctor found something suspicious. Based on a biopsy that followed, the doctor sent a referral to a world-renowned surgeon in Phoenix, named Doctor Jonas Young.

  Owen’s palms had sweated as he neared the building housing the doctors’ suites. The surgeon’s grim face greeted him when the receptionist called him into the office. The doctor wasted no time. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you have a tumor on your brain. It’s serious.” Owen had no time to respond as the doctor continued his rapid-fire delivery as if he was about to miss a flight. “We’ll perform a resection of the brain to remove as much tumor as possible. I will send a sample to a pathologist for analysis. We might get lucky and remove all of it, but we won’t know until we do the surgery. Questions?”

  Strand’s mouth felt like he was chewing on cotton balls. He couldn’t muster any words. This was not what he expected. Not at all. The doctor must have mixed up the test results. This diagnosis must be for someone else. Doctor Young interrupted his thoughts. “If you have no further questions, we’ll schedule the surgery as soon as possible.” Just like that, Strand recalled, he was back out on the street, trying to make sense of it all while trudging to his car as if deep-sea diving gear weighed him down.

  His thoughts had eaten up the miles, and he noticed the car ahead signaling to turn into the ONroute station. Snow fell harder now, and he needed a bathroom break. He followed the car into the parking lot. Owen wheeled his truck into a spot that had been vacated moments earlier near the entrance, shut off the vehicle, and took a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. The names became visible as he unfolded the list. He had scrawled three names on the list so far, but he left room for a fourth. Looking at the names calmed him. It gave him a purpose. His life wouldn’t be a total waste. His name would soon be in the headlines. What did Andy Warhol say? In the future, everyone will be world famous for 15 minutes? Well, my future is now, baby.

  Owen descended from the truck, pulling his collar up to prevent the snow from finding its way down his neck. He hoped the weather didn’t slow him down. He had places to be and scores to settle.

  Chapter Four

  Marcie clumped into the room in her ski boots, pulling off her thermal jacket as she sat across from Nathan. Excited, healthy-looking vacationers in bright skiwear occupied all the other wooden benches, and their chatter and laughter rebounded from wall to wall in the chalet. A sign on one wall announced in huge letters, “Welcome to Vail, Colorado” as an inviting, crackling wood-burning fireplace warmed the room. A young couple animatedly discussed their day at the other end of the wooden bench, but it appeared to Marcie that her husband had kept to himself while she skied. He gave Marcie a tight smile.

  She set her toque, gloves, and goggles on the table and held her hands out to him. He grabbed them in his and said in a flat voice, “Your hands are cold. Did you wear your gloves?”

  She answered, “I took them off as soon as I stopped at the bottom of the hill. It’s so beautiful outside, honey. The conditions are perfect. Are you sure you don’t want to ski at least once? Come on, let’s go. You show off on the Double-Black Diamond-Not-For-The-Faint-Of Heart run, and I’ll stick to the beginner hill.” She cocked her head like a puppy, batted her eyes coquettishly, and tugged on his hands.

  Nathan didn’t crack a smile when he replied, “No, I’m fine here. You go again. I’ll wait until you come back.”

  “You don’t mind if I go? It’s so nice; I don’t want to waste a minute.”

  Nathan pushed her hands. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

  Marcie put her pink jacket on again. The sea
sons in Vail were in flux as spring nudged winter out of the way. It was not warm enough for a light sweater, but too warm for a heavy jacket. It was the perfect spring skiing weather, and a recent snowfall added layers of powder to the slopes.

  Marcie grabbed the rest of her gear off the table and hid a sigh as she walked through the door into the brilliant sunshine. She hoped Nathan would follow, but a glance back through the window confirmed he stayed glued to his seat. Perhaps she should go back inside, but he needed to remember she could manage on her own. He had a view of the hill from his vantage point, so she guessed he was happy in the chalet.

  Marcie pulled the helmet onto her head and grabbed her skis from the rack. She lined up for the pommel lift that would take her to the top of the beginner slope. As the lift pulled her to her destination, she watched the people gliding down the hill on skis and snowboards. Skiing was new to her, having grown up in South Carolina with other sports and being previously married to a professional basketball player who she now referred to as “He Who Shall Not Be Named.”

  Skiing was an exciting sport, and it pleased her that she was making progress. Marcie was ready for an intermediate run, but she wanted Nathan with her when she did it. She dismounted from the pommel at the top of the beginner slope and prepared for her run, adjusting her goggles and tugging her gloves onto her hands. The valley was brilliant with snow hanging in clumps from the cedars like cotton candy. She pushed off, gliding, her skis hissing as she picked up speed. She practiced scraping the edges of her skis against the snow to slow herself and change direction. It was a tactic called a parallel turn that she learned when she took lessons. Her speed was underwhelming, but she needed to prepare for the intermediate slope. She sighed a little when two pre-teens sailed past her in full control of their skis.