I’m afraid he’s becoming. Not who Nim is.
I hate this place.
My phone rings, making me jump so hard I bang my elbow against the door; dizzying waves of pain shoot up my arm. Josh. Now he calls. I click it to vibrate.
As soon as I park, it feels like something is squeezing on my chest. It’s hard to tell between real and fantasy at the Flats—it’s this area’s urban legend: ghosts, neo-Nazis, devil worshippers, poltergeists, spirits, raves, séances, and death. Always death.
I hike down the hill to the abandoned cyanide mill; the skeleton buildings are bare, graffiti-painted ruins—Nevada’s version of the Acropolis, without the Yanni concert, complete with cyanide residue to make you sick.
And ghosts. I’m pretty sure there are ghosts because even at night, there’s an eerie light out here. Like the place glows. Unless that’s cyanide, too.
Welcome to Weirdville, USA.
The knot that was in my stomach has grown and filled up my entire torso—like I’m a solid chunk of ice inside. I clap my hands against my arms and try to rub off the chill, pulling on my gloves, wishing I’d brought a hat.
Altitude. It’s higher here.
But the chill isn’t the normal kind of cold-wind chill. The crunch of my footsteps on packed-down snow echoes in the concrete corridors. Fear rises in my chest. “Moch?” I whisper.
Maybe I can talk him out of what he’s going to do up here. That’s reasonable. I can just plead with his rational side. I practice, keeping my voice as low as possible. “Moch, please stop all your illegal activities and—”
The wind answers—a shrieking sound that rips through the canyon and burns my face. I walk halfway up the exposed staircase in the main building, slip on a layer of ice, grasping a crumbly step so I don’t fall down. It doesn’t lead anywhere—just half-crumbled, icy stairs to nowhere. I listen. I shine my flashlight on some graffiti. FUCK YOU .
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Moch wouldn’t set a campfire to call attention to himself. Maybe he’s just out here to think about stuff.
He’d want to be inconspicuous since it’s BLM (Bureau of Land Management) property. He’d be fined, possibly sent to jail, then deported if he were caught here. I’ll just be fined . . . and maybe sent to jail.
I can hear voices—muted, lost in the wind. It’s hard to follow where they’re coming from in the emptiness—as if voices are all around me, like I’m stuck in a drum. I turn off my flashlight and follow the path to where Moch used to set off pipe bombs with his friends, hoping he’s there.
I circle around the main building, hiking down a chewed-up ramp that was probably once a staircase, trying to keep my footing when I slip, fall down a few stairs, tearing my jeans. A jagged piece of glass sticks out of my knee. I bite my lip, wincing with pain, pulling out the glass.
Have I had a tetanus shot? I can practically feel my jaw starting to spasm. Stop it.
I pull out the glass and whimper.
“Who the fuck’s out there?”
The voice isn’t Moch’s.
I’m right below them. The moon is bright—full; its light spills down the canyon, glowing blue on drifts of snow, illuminating the face of the main building of the Flats. I tuck myself into the shadows sitting in a puddle, pushing myself against the side of one of the outer buildings, holding a filthy pile of snow to my throbbing, bloody knee.
“Who’s there?” the voice shouts again.
“Can you keep it down, man?” Moch’s voice.
“You alone?” Whoever the guy is, he sounds really nervous.
“I could ask you the same,” Moch says.
“Like who else would wanna come to a place like this? This place creeps me out.”
“Afraid of the dark, huh?”
“Fuck you, man. You got it?” Silence followed by the sound of a plastic bag being opened. “Wow. This is mad good.”
I hear Moch’s monosyllabic grunt. “Yeah, insanely good. You keep dipping, though, you’ll smoke all your profits.”
“C’mon, dude. We
I hate this place.
My phone rings, making me jump so hard I bang my elbow against the door; dizzying waves of pain shoot up my arm. Josh. Now he calls. I click it to vibrate.
As soon as I park, it feels like something is squeezing on my chest. It’s hard to tell between real and fantasy at the Flats—it’s this area’s urban legend: ghosts, neo-Nazis, devil worshippers, poltergeists, spirits, raves, séances, and death. Always death.
I hike down the hill to the abandoned cyanide mill; the skeleton buildings are bare, graffiti-painted ruins—Nevada’s version of the Acropolis, without the Yanni concert, complete with cyanide residue to make you sick.
And ghosts. I’m pretty sure there are ghosts because even at night, there’s an eerie light out here. Like the place glows. Unless that’s cyanide, too.
Welcome to Weirdville, USA.
The knot that was in my stomach has grown and filled up my entire torso—like I’m a solid chunk of ice inside. I clap my hands against my arms and try to rub off the chill, pulling on my gloves, wishing I’d brought a hat.
Altitude. It’s higher here.
But the chill isn’t the normal kind of cold-wind chill. The crunch of my footsteps on packed-down snow echoes in the concrete corridors. Fear rises in my chest. “Moch?” I whisper.
Maybe I can talk him out of what he’s going to do up here. That’s reasonable. I can just plead with his rational side. I practice, keeping my voice as low as possible. “Moch, please stop all your illegal activities and—”
The wind answers—a shrieking sound that rips through the canyon and burns my face. I walk halfway up the exposed staircase in the main building, slip on a layer of ice, grasping a crumbly step so I don’t fall down. It doesn’t lead anywhere—just half-crumbled, icy stairs to nowhere. I listen. I shine my flashlight on some graffiti. FUCK YOU .
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Moch wouldn’t set a campfire to call attention to himself. Maybe he’s just out here to think about stuff.
He’d want to be inconspicuous since it’s BLM (Bureau of Land Management) property. He’d be fined, possibly sent to jail, then deported if he were caught here. I’ll just be fined . . . and maybe sent to jail.
I can hear voices—muted, lost in the wind. It’s hard to follow where they’re coming from in the emptiness—as if voices are all around me, like I’m stuck in a drum. I turn off my flashlight and follow the path to where Moch used to set off pipe bombs with his friends, hoping he’s there.
I circle around the main building, hiking down a chewed-up ramp that was probably once a staircase, trying to keep my footing when I slip, fall down a few stairs, tearing my jeans. A jagged piece of glass sticks out of my knee. I bite my lip, wincing with pain, pulling out the glass.
Have I had a tetanus shot? I can practically feel my jaw starting to spasm. Stop it.
I pull out the glass and whimper.
“Who the fuck’s out there?”
The voice isn’t Moch’s.
I’m right below them. The moon is bright—full; its light spills down the canyon, glowing blue on drifts of snow, illuminating the face of the main building of the Flats. I tuck myself into the shadows sitting in a puddle, pushing myself against the side of one of the outer buildings, holding a filthy pile of snow to my throbbing, bloody knee.
“Who’s there?” the voice shouts again.
“Can you keep it down, man?” Moch’s voice.
“You alone?” Whoever the guy is, he sounds really nervous.
“I could ask you the same,” Moch says.
“Like who else would wanna come to a place like this? This place creeps me out.”
“Afraid of the dark, huh?”
“Fuck you, man. You got it?” Silence followed by the sound of a plastic bag being opened. “Wow. This is mad good.”
I hear Moch’s monosyllabic grunt. “Yeah, insanely good. You keep dipping, though, you’ll smoke all your profits.”
“C’mon, dude. We
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