Beyond the first bridge the Old Ridge Route steepened. Valley farmland was left behind. Tall oaks became the road’s borders. Power poles with broken lines, a reminder the area was once inhabited, became fewer and farther between each other. All barns and houses were deserted. It was if the people, like pieces in some giant chess game, had been removed, leaving only the board. Maybe one of the players had been losing and decided to end the game; can’t lose if you don’t play.
We’d ridden for an hour when Larry stopped on a turnoff overlooking the foothills. Taking a small screwdriver from his bag he proceeded to adjust his bike’s carburetor.
“Radial engine’s carburetor has a diaphragm that contracts or expands to atmospheric pressure, leans or richens itself the higher or lower we ride in elevation just like it did when it was part of the crop duster I salvaged it from. Checking now to make sure everything’s working, won’t be but a minute. Speaking of which, you might want to check out your Wide Glide; and while you’re at it, ask the imp how far it is to the second bridge.”
Walking around to the front of my bike I made a point of not looking directly into the imp’s eyes, “How much further to the second bridge?”
“About three maybe four more miles,” said the imp as he tried to roll his left eye around to see me. “Startin’ to get cold; gonna get a lot colder the higher we go, maybe too cold to go on.”
“Rumor is an imp’s head is made of grease, should give us at least an hour’s worth of light,” said Larry who’d walked up behind me. “Light enough to find wood for a fire when it gets dark.”
Twisting his head around to look at Larry, an act I would have thought impossible, the imp responded, “Just stating the obvious. No need to make threats. Next bridge is high enough up on the ridge to be icy this time of year, but there are other ways to get there.”
I had to ask even though Ma had warned us not to get off the Old Ridge Route, “There’s another way to get to the Styx Diner?”
For the first time the imp smiled. I wished he hadn’t. Rows of sharp teeth filled in a grin that told me he’d up to that point not known where we were going.
“Styx Diner is it?” said the imp. “Didn’t tell me you folks were heading to the Styx Diner; Charon never told me that was part of the deal. Hell, if you’d told me that I wouldn’t have put up such a ruckus. There’s a shortcut, may’ve mentioned it before, an alternative to crossing the bridges. Be happy to show you.”
“We’ll stick to our original plan,” replied Larry, “and besides, if you haven’t noticed, we don’t trust you.”
“Just trying to be of help,” grumbled the imp.
Larry was right, neither of us trusted the imp; let alone his idea of taking another route to the Styx Diner. Ma n’ Pa had been adamant about following the Ridge Route, catching up with Hilts and meeting Charon at both the first and last bridges. Our guide’s motives were, I’ve no doubt, to either escape or lead us into a trap.
“Let’s chuck the imp; catch up to Hilts, take our chances.”
“Not yet, he may still be of use,” replied Larry.
The imp was right about one thing; as cold as it was at our present elevation, riding higher made it more so. Parts of the road, many sheltered by overhangs, didn’t make it warmer. Larry and I would speed through those shadowy sections where temperatures dropped as much as ten degrees, then slow down for sunlit ones. On the sunlit stretches we’d take our time, savoring the heat from above and what radiated up from the road below. This little dance between being cold or colder came to an end just beyond the last turn. Fifty yards ahead was the second bridge.
WHAT TANGLED WEBS WE WEAVE 
Fifty yards ahead was the second bridge
Larger than any we’d seen, it reached across a dark canyon. Tall columns rose from far below holding two arches that in turn gave support to a series of smaller columns that in turn supported the road above.
Relieved to see no obstacles, I said, “Maybe Ma was mistaken, looks clear to the other side; maybe Hilts already crossed?”
“Look closer, across the bridge, strung from guardrail to guardrail, beginning near the middle there are webs; you can see the strands.”
“Can’t see anything, can’t compete with your eyes— I say we….my God!
“See them now?” said Larry.
What Larry was pointing at, and what I’d missed seeing until the light hit them at the right angle, were three huge webs with strands so nearly invisible most people would have ridden into them.
“Black Widows weave webs like these,” continued Larry. “Erratic, not symmetrical; they’re designed for one thing and we almost became that one thing.”
“At the far end of the bridge, near the last buttress, looks to be a sleeping bag hanging about five feet from the ground?”
“Looks like but isn’t; it’s gotta be Hilts,” replied Larry.
Captured, cocooned; Hilts hung like a sack of ripening fruit. His nearness to the end of the bridge said he’d almost made it across.
“Your sleeping bag just moved.”
“Moved?”
“He’s still alive,” answered Larry, “and if we’re going to save him it’s got to be now.”
“Too late,” interrupted the imp. “Guardians gotta be paid and your friend’s payment. Think of him as bridge toll. You two get to cross but he gets stuck with the check. Gotta leave the bikes, toll’s just for your passage, nothing else; no personal items. Leave ‘em with me. Better hurry while the guardians are busy taking care of business.”
Still talking, the imp’s head had twisted completely around my head-lamp, allowing me to see for the first time that its neck had grown legs that looked like tentacles and in seconds it would have the strength to free itself. Had the Raggedy Man parasite that infected Andy and then hid in the wrecked cars looked like this?
Before I could think of an answer Larry grabbed the imp’s head, ripped it free from the front of my bike and stuffed it into a burlap bag.
“This isn’t,” yelled the imp, “part of the deal. Charon’s goin’ to hear about it!”
“Not from you,” said Larry as he lit the bag on fire.
“I’ve a deal!” screamed the imp.
“That you broke by not telling us about the webs,” yelled Larry starting his bike, spinning his rear tire and looking over at me. “You ready?”
Picture an Old School chopper built around a V-twin cut from a radial aircraft motor, revved to its max, its rear tire sending clouds of smoke into the air and held in place by an Old School chopper builder holding a burning burlap bag with an imp’s screaming head inside. Picture my Wide Glide joining in, spinning its rear tire, its engine near redlined. Our own rebel yells were drowned out.
Had my ancestors felt the same before they’d charged down a hill in Scotland at an English army, probably, and did they likely have an English tax collector’s head in a bag and did they know they’d lose the battle, probably, and did we know when we released our front brakes and roared out over the bridge into the awaiting webs we’d most likely never rescue Hilts let alone make it to the other side, probably.
Larry hit the first web; wobbled, then broke free, the flaming bag having burnt a path. I followed, feeling the strands grab at my bike’s wheels. What momentum Larry had brought with him wasn’t enough to break through the second web. He stopped, his chopper held upright, stuck in a standing position. I skidded up beside him. Something black and about the size of a basketball hoop moved from the left part of the bridge towards Larry. Larry waited until it was next to him before he swung the bag around, setting fire to it. The imp’s screams had stopped, replaced by the crackle of burning burlap.
Handing me the bag, “Burn the rest of the web off, hurry; these little critters,” pointing at the scorched spider, “you can bet have friends.”
Before I could move I felt a tap on my neck followed by a firmer more persistent touch, as if someone was trying to cut in on a dance. But it wasn’t the prom and so I swung the bag over my shoulder hoping I wouldn’t catch my hair on fire. Spinning around found me looking down at an even larger spider writhing on the ground.
“Two down one to go,” said Larry as I freed him, “and from the size of the web you can bet it’ll be big.”
“Big” didn’t do the spider justice. As large as a coffee table, it scuttled over the side of the bridge and headed straight for us. At the same time our burlap bag burnt through, dropping the imp’s cooked head at our feet. Our fire was out.
Now free, Larry started his bike, “Keep it away with your guitar; work it around behind me. It’s trailing web from its spinnerets, see if you can get the strands to cross over my back wheel.”
My guitar in front, pointed at multiple eyes that never stopped staring, I kept the monster at bay. Not really a weapon, the Fender must’ve appeared to the spider as a sword. Back to back with Larry, I made three circles before the web dragged across the chopper’s tire.
Yelling, “Get clear,” Larry released the clutch.
Had Pratt and Whitney known their engines were being used to reel a giant spider ass-first into whirling wire spokes they would’ve issued a disclaimer. Amazingly, the spider’s resistance was lugging Larry’s V-twin down. Was it the accumulation of wound-up web, the spider’s determination not to be pulled or a combination of both? The engine was slowing. Soon it would stall. But it didn’t because Larry pulled in the clutch, revving his engine to maximum power, and I jumped in front of the spider. At the same time the spider reared on its hind legs to strike, Larry popped the clutch pulling it backwards into his spinning rear wheel. Gopher into a rotary lawn mower, Jimmy Hoffa into a wood chipper, whatever the mental picture the effect was the same.
“Get Hilts,” said Larry looking back at what was left of the spider. “Take one of these rags, dip it into your gas tank, burn his cocoon free from where it’s hanging then drag it into those trees away from the bridge. There’s an open space off to the side. I’m going to clear the rest of the webs off the bridge.”
“What if there are more spiders?”
“Pretty sure this was the last; three webs, three spiders. If there are others, setting fire to the webs should discourage them.”
Burning the cocoon free was easy; dragging it into the trees, which turned out to be the beginning of a bamboo forest, was harder. Behind me the bridge glowed in crisscrossed lines of orange. Larry must have set every strand ablaze, making me think I’d be wise to start a fire in the clearing in case there were spiders in the forest.
“Good idea,” said Larry, coming up to look at my newly started fire. “Cocoon’s tough, problem is how to burn it off without cooking Hilts; maybe if I melt the strands?”
Holding his knife over the fire until it glowed; Larry then began melting through strands. Except it wasn’t Hilts we freed.
“Name’s Aaron,” said the tall stranger whose face, but for his lips and eyes, looked to have skin the color and texture of tarpaper. “Can’t tell you how grateful I am; few more minutes and I would’ve been dead.”
“We were expecting to see our friend when we opened the cocoon; but glad we could help. Didn’t happen to see a tall guy ride through here on a motorcycle?”
“See him, I met him; found him tangled up in the webs in the same place you found me. Guy would’ve been dinner had I not freed him before the spiders came back. Spiders like to bite you, cocoon you, then go away; after you tire yourself struggling they’ll come back, lay their eggs or have you for dinner.
“Your friend, once free, just jumped on his bike then skedaddled up the road. Got bit from behind by a spider, should’ve never turned my back on the bridge.”
“You were coming down the Ridge Route, down the mountain?” I asked.
“Yep, couldn’t stop what was happening at the Styx Diner; so came to warn others, maybe get some help,” answered Aaron, already starting to walk across the bridge.
“We are the help,” answered Larry looking at me a little awkwardly, “or at least we’re here to help the help. The fellow you set free, we’re pretty sure, is heading to the diner. We’ve been trying to catch up with him since we left Ma n’ Pa’s.”
Aaron stopped abruptly, “Ma n’ Pa, they’re the folks I’m headed down the mountain to warn.”
“Then we won’t detain you; oh, and tell Charon when you get to the next bridge,” continued Larry, after kicking what looked like a cooked coconut over the side of the bridge, “the guide he gave us won’t need his body back.”
Aaron watched the coconut Larry and I knew really wasn’t a coconut disappear into the canyon below, “Was that what I think it was?”
“Our guide, or what’s left of him,” answered Larry, “he was supposed to lead us across; instead he led us into a trap. Now we’ll have to make it on our own.”
Aaron pointed into the bamboo forest, “Just so you’ll know; you don’t have to cross the third bridge to get to the Styx Diner. There’s a much shorter way, an alternate road and it begins on the other side of this grove.”
I knew the answer before asking and at the same time I noticed Aaron didn’t have a shadow, “You ever use the alternate road?”
“Nope, too dangerous,” replied Aaron, pointing into the forest a second time. “Forest’s shadows don’t take kindly to travelers on foot, however the two of you on your motorcycles shouldn’t have any trouble, especially in the daytime. Bamboo grows right to the edge, hangs over in spots most all the way; road’s surface seems to resist anything growing on it. Oh, and one more thing, when you get to where the forest ends, there’s a fork, be sure to go right; it leads to an old house. Knock at the gate; owner’s a friend of mine and will let you cross his land. From there you’ll be able to catch a road that bypasses the third bridge.”
Larry stared for a long time at the wall of bamboo then walked over to where Aaron was standing, “We’re in a bind; we’ve no choice if we’re going to catch Hilts before dark, so we’re going to take your shortcut knowing you’ve warned us it’s dangerous. Anything else we should know?”
Aaron looked over the edge of the bridge where the cooked coconut he now knew was the imp’s burnt head had fallen, “Everything I’ve told you is the truth, especially the part about taking the right fork to my friend’s house and avoiding the forest’s shadows. If you want I’ll ride,” pointing at my bike, “on the back with you.”
“No need,” Larry said, seemingly satisfied with Aaron’s answer. “Better get going, neither of us wants to be caught on the road at night. Oh, and be sure to stop at the first bridge; you’ll be safe with Charon, he’ll heal your injuries in the river Styx.”
Larry waited until Aaron was out of sight before turning to me, “He’s lying. Hilts wasn’t caught, he avoided the webs by riding his Road Warrior across the top of the bridge’s guardrail. Should’ve seen the tracks sooner; my fault I wasn’t looking in the right place. This whole rescue was a charade with our imp guide and Aaron having starring roles. Our guide played the Siren and Aaron the Trojan Horse; both were part of a plan to lure us into the webs. Knowing it isn’t of value now; if we’re to catch up with Hilts and fast, we’ve got to take Aaron’s shortcut.”
Larry’s acute vision came to our rescue again by finding a path wide enough for us to navigate down to the alternate road. Ten minutes and a lot of scratches later we were both parked on its shoulder. Giant bamboo arched over us providing a cathedral of interlacing limbs. Ground level shadows mirrored those arches in shades of gray, showcasing what we suspected; nothing was able to grow on the surface either. Neither this road, or the bridges or the Ridge Route, starting from the Crossroads, had the slightest blemish.
“This road’s fused like the Ridge Route and the bridges; and if you knew Aaron was lying why’d you let him go?” I said reaching down and running my hand across seamless pavement.
“This’ll only be a shortcut if we don’t waste time, which we would’ve fighting Aaron; who if you didn’t notice, looked pretty damn strong and had the eyes of a spider,” Larry answered, riding his chopper up and onto the road, “so let’s get going. Charon will deal with him.”
Flickering sunlight shining through the upper branches quilted our way with silhouettes of what was above, giving us off-and-on glimpses of what was ahead. Trusting there were no surprises we were soon beyond what would’ve been considered a safe speed. Blind leading the blind might have best characterized our ride except for the fact that Larry’s acute senses seemed to know what was behind each turn.
Built to be ridden, his chopper set a fast pace. Fall too far to the rear and you’d lose sight of it, lose sight of it and you’d lose the confidence to go fast enough to catch up. So I’d hang my Wide Glide’s front tire thirty feet from Larry’s back tire knowing if I fell behind I’d be left behind.
Stalk to stalk and growing to the edge of the road, the bamboo always surrounded us. At times I’d glance to the side and see roads leading to clusters of old houses and abandoned buildings. We rode that way for an hour until we came to the fork.
MEET MR. FEMUS 
Giant cactus grew beside the adobe wall The right part of the fork began next to an adobe wall. Giant cactus grew beside it. Behind the wall was a rundown house with a turret roof; between the house and the wall were rows of neglected fruit trees. The bamboo forest ended abruptly where the wall began. Sunflowers bordered the beginning of the left fork.
Larry looked first at the right fork that went through a locked gate and then back at the left fork, “The left fork, after about two miles, goes straight up the mountain in the granddaddy of hill climbs. Not quite as steep as Utah’s Widowmaker, but much longer; and with no turnouts or places to stop, a stall or missed shift will give you a one-way ticket back to the bottom. The good news is,” continued Larry, “I can see the third bridge. The right fork, the one Aaron told us to take, doesn’t even go towards the bridge. In fact, every little voice in my head’s telling me it’s the wrong way. If he lied about the spiders, odds are he lied to us about taking the right fork. I say we take the left fork.”
Idling over to within a foot from the wall, “House looks lived in; can’t hurt to say hello. Could be the owner might have information we could use,” inching my front tire closer. “May even have some fresh water?”
“Don’t touch the—”
Larry’s warning came at the same time my tire touched the gate and the temperature dropped as if we’d stepped inside a meat locker, and at the same time the smell of a meat locker blew over the wall and our bikes quit running.
“Should we make a run for it?”
“Too late,” replied Larry jumping off his chopper. “Whatever’s on the other side is already here.”
The gate moved slowly outward.
“You fellas weren’t goin’ to leave without sayin’ hello were you?” said the deep voice belonging to the giant hand working the gate’s latch. “Don’t get visitors anymore; that is unless they’ve been sent by Aaron. You two sent here by my friend Aaron?”
At the sight of the gate moving outward Pa’s face, actually his electric blue eyes, flashed before me and I found myself pulling my guitar around from where it hung on my back.
Taller than Charon and with a body that more than matched the giant hand, he smiled, “Would’ve been impolite not to greet visitors, especially ones,” turning to look at me, “that knock. Name’s Paul Femus and this is my place.”
His smile highlighted he was wearing sunglasses with thick coke-bottle lenses set so close together they joined in the middle, and when he turned to look at Larry I’d have sworn the two lenses were really one large lens.
“Name on the gate says Paul E. Femus,” said Larry. “What’s the E stand for?”
Dressed in stained overalls, Femus bowed. “My bad; Paul E. Femus, and the E is for else.”
“Else?”
“Yeah, like you two,” and Femus moved fast for being a Cyclops, “should’ve chosen somewhere else to stop.”
Had his glasses not fallen off revealing his one eye and making him miss grabbing me, I wouldn’t have been able to roll backwards off the Wide Glide in time or know he was a Cyclops.
Scrambling to my feet I remembered Pa saying I’d know when to play and so I played the G chord, but it sounded dead, as I knew it would without power; but when I struck it a second time followed by an F then an A my guitar began to sound as if it had just been plugged in, which should’ve been impossible as there were no nearby electrical outlets. Femus staggered.
“Keep playing!” shouted Larry. “He can’t stand it.”
I’ve been booed off stage before but never because of bad playing. Usually it was because I was opening for a big band and the audience was impatient. And so I let go with a series of chords and watched Femus grab his throat and heard Larry’s chopper roar to life. Whatever spell Femus used to stop our engines had been broken by the sound of my guitar.
Bleeding from his nose and eye and holding onto both sides of the gate, Femus choked, “How’d you know to play? Pa! Bet it was Pa that told you, or Ma. Ma knows most everything.”
Jumping off his bike, Larry shouted, “Keep it up, walk forward; get him to go back inside.”
Femus seemed to gather strength and was actually pulling himself upright when I switched from playing random chords, pointed the guitar at him and put together a long riff.
Femus let go of the gate. He tried once more to stand but jerkily stumbled backwards.
Slamming the gate shut and pounding a screwdriver through the latch with a stone, Larry shouted, “Get on your bike, I’ll follow!”
“You go. Gate won’t hold him if I stop playing.”
Larry started to argue then ran for his bike. He’d ridden about a hundred feet away and I’d gotten on my bike when my guitar went dead and the gate buckled outward.
Femus seemed taller and was looking swiftly from side to side with a nearsighted squint; so maybe if I didn’t move? But I couldn’t stop myself from moving, throwing my guitar over my shoulder and starting my bike in one motion. Praying it wouldn’t stall I popped the clutch. With the front brake locked my rear tire swung around spraying grass and dirt towards Femus.
“Not goin’ to say goodbye?” bellowed Femus, at the same time lunging forward.
Everything happened in slow motion: Femus reaching, reminiscent of Raggedy Man reaching, my bike unable to get traction; but then it did get traction when I backed enough off the throttle for the rear wheel to get a grip on the road.
“Tell Ma,” shouted Femus from behind me, his voice receding, “that it’s over for her and Pa, things are changin’. Tell ‘em we’ve taken the diner and that we’re comin’ for ‘em.”
Riding virtually straight up the mountain had now become our only chance of reaching the third bridge. Larry’s description of it being the granddaddy of hill climbs wasn’t an exaggeration; no turnoffs made it a deal breaker. There’d be no second chance, no prisoners.
“I’ll lead,” said Larry stopping after we’d ridden about a mile. “Stay to my right; if I fall don’t stop, won’t help either of us and you’ll just end up falling yourself. Bikes have enough power; problem is can they keep traction. So stay balanced, not so far to the front that you spin, not so far to the rear that you’ll go over backwards. We’ve nearly a mile more before we get to the base; carry as much speed as you can.”
From then on things happened fast. Using the tremendous torque of his Pratt and Whitney twin, Larry was able to short-shift quickly up through the gears and was already a football field ahead of me when we hit the foot of the grade. So abrupt was the change in direction my bike completely compressed its front shocks.
Forward, or was it upward; at this point direction was relative. Seconds into the climb and already hundreds of feet above the valley I dropped into fourth. Larry shifted moments later.
Bamboo forest covered the valley floor like green carpet and where Femus lived it looked like a piece had been cut out. I could only glance down for a second; I had to shift again.
The end of the third bridge was hidden in fog
It’d be close but we were going to make it. In fact the road backed off a few degrees of climb the last quarter mile, and then Larry disappeared over the top. Moments later I did too, thankful I’d stayed to his right. Momentum carried us across the Ridge Route; a turnout on the other side provided room for a safe stop. Larry was already off his bike when I skidded up beside him.
“We made it,” said Larry, “no thanks to Aaron’s near-fatal advice. Third bridge’s about fifty yards away and easily the largest I’ve seen. Can’t see the other end as it curves off into the mist, though it looks clear. Can’t see any obstacles or barriers; just a curtain of gray fog covering the last part.”
Snow down to just a few hundred feet over our heads and rocky slopes so steep they’d block the sun for most of the day explained the freezing cold; and where water ran across the road it warned of ice in the evening. We’d arrived at the right time. Our decision to take Aaron’s shortcut, even though it was a trap, might have saved us from sliding over a cliff in the dark.
“Hilts better get here soon,” said Larry, “or this road will be frozen. Where there’s water there’ll be ice within the hour. Temperature’s already dropping; Pa’s ponchos won’t be enough, we need to start a fire. Could be some wood under the bridge; rain washes debris into the canyon, maybe some of it got stuck there.”
Bits of brush jammed under the end of the bridge stuck out indicating dry wood underneath. But as I approached the pile I realized it looked more stacked than washed there from runoffs; in fact it was more than stacked, it was the side of a large hut, and so I swung my guitar around in front of me.
“Back off slowly, don’t turn around, don’t run,” Larry said from behind me. “Whatever’s inside the hut is huge.”
Pointing my Fender at the wood, I got ready to play.
“Don’t! Unless you’re gonna really play; chords by themselves will just piss it off. What we’re going to need is a fire between us and the bridge, but we’ve nothing to burn. Trees and brush around here are gone.”
“Unless,” I replied, “we can get gas out of my tank.”
Larry moved quickly, closing valves and undoing fuel lines below the Wide Glide’s tank while I worked as fast as I could unpacking an empty gallon plastic bag I carry for water. A deep growl from beneath the bridge hurried our work.
“The culvert,” said Larry, at the same time nodding towards the bridge and draining gas from my tank into the plastic bag, “runs towards the bridge, past the brush and into the canyon below. If you’ve enough gas it’ll flow in the same direction.”
“But not from here,” I added. “Got to get closer or the gas will soak into the ground before it gets to the wood. My gas so I’ll go. I’ll get as close to the bridge as I can before I pour.”
I waited for Larry to object or at least come up with a better plan but he didn’t so I started walking. Nearly full, the gallon bag made a sloshing noise as I walked. Halfway to the brush I looked back at Larry, who was giving me a thumbs-up, so I opened the spout and poured the gas into the culvert; but it flowed faster than I would have thought. So I lit a match, threw it into the gas and ran to my bike as the fire followed the trail of burning fuel to the bridge; but the fire also followed the trail of fuel that had leaked from the bag. And so I threw the bag, but it slipped and landed on Larry’s chopper and the fire followed it; and the bag, Larry’s bike and the hut burst into flames at the same time, but not before the hut’s owner jumped clear.
“What’ve you done?” yelled Hilts from behind us, who in our hurry to start the fire we had not heard arrive. “None of this was supposed to happen, and I blame myself. Should’ve listened to Charon and waited for you two.”
Easily eight feet in height, the hut’s owner walked towards us. The good news, it wasn’t a Cyclops; the bad news, it could’ve passed for any troll I’d seen illustrated in a Grimm’s Fairy Tale. With feet that would’ve made NBA players feel like midgets and tree-trunk legs and arms, and hands the size of snow shovels, the troll came to a stop in front of us. His hut and Larry’s bike were burning bright enough to cast his evening shadow over our heads and down the road.
“I can’t believe it,” said the troll with the same deep voice I’d mistaken for a growl. “And Hilts, I blame you for not being with them to stop this from happening.”
The troll was right; I’d acted too quickly and as a result ended up burning Larry’s chopper, the hut and almost the troll to ashes. What could I say; maybe if I hadn’t been in such a hurry?
“We’ll rebuild your home,” said Larry, walking around me to look straight up at the troll, “even if it means delaying what we’ve come to do. My chopper’s gone, an accident, but of more importance is the fact no one was injured.”
“A selfless act,” said the troll, having to step back to look down at Larry, “and your friend,” turning to stare at me, “will he also agree to rebuild my home?”
Walking over to stand beside Larry, “Yes,” I replied.
“What do you think,” said Hilts, and when he said that we both turned to face him. “Did they pass your test? They’re impulsive, but selflessness is a virtue you admire.”
“That and honesty,” answered Ma from behind us and from where the troll had stood moments before, “and yes, they’ve passed the test; they’ve earned the right to cross the third bridge as did you, despite your impatience.”
“Me?” said Hilts.
“Yes,” replied Ma. “Traveling here then becoming the troll left me vulnerable; you could’ve taken advantage yet didn’t. Pa and I were fairly certain you’d escaped the city you created without being infected; disoriented, but not infected. After what happened to Andy we had to be sure. You understand?”
“I understand,” said Hilts.
“All of this was a test?” interrupted Larry. “The spiders and Femus; they were all tests?”
“Fighting spiders and burning the hut and your bike wouldn’t have happened,” Ma answered looking sternly at Hilts, “if someone hadn’t been in too much of a hurry; nor were you two supposed to meet Femus,”
Larry telling Ma how Charon’s guide betrayed us by not warning us about the spider webs, and how Aaron’s rescue led to following a shortcut that was really a trap leading to Femus, made Ma look sternly at Hilts again.
“Aaron’s the name Elvis sometimes uses when traveling,” said Ma. “What did he look like?”
“Had shiny button-black spider eyes,” I replied. “His skin looked like tarpaper, and he didn’t have a shadow.”
“Wasn’t Elvis, Elvis would’ve had a shadow and never put you in danger. Charon will find out who or what he is,” answered Ma. “Bathing him in the river Styx will not only heal Aaron’s injuries, if they really were injuries, but reveal his true identity. Most likely Aaron wasn’t human;” continued Ma, “you were smart not to have had a confrontation. Regarding the spiders, you two were never meant to face them alone. Femus, however, is another story. Quite a few years ago Pa and I made an agreement with him. We agreed to give him his own house in an isolated part of our Borderland if he behaved himself and was good to what few travelers stopped. Blinded long ago, he was able to learn by touch where everything was in his compound. In fact, the gardens behind his gate were quite beautiful.”
“Well he’s not blind anymore, nearsighted maybe but not blind; and whatever he’s doing behind his gate isn’t gardening,” I said. “Place smelled more like a slaughterhouse than a garden.”
Ma seemed saddened. “I’m sorry to hear that; Femus once loved growing things almost as much as Pa.”
Thoughts of gardens with vegetables and fruits ripening in a warm afternoon sun underlined how cold it was getting. Dusk had come and gone so quickly only the outline of mountains seen against a near-black sky marked its passage. The hut and chopper were embers casting just enough light to see where we’d ridden up the side of the mountain and onto the Ridge Route and where a huge figure was now pulling itself up and over the edge of the road.
“Ma, watch out!”
That Femus was able to follow us here from the valley seemed incredible; that he immobilized Ma with a shout seemed impossible.
Ma could move her eyes but nothing else. Larry, however, became the opposite of immobile and in one motion threw his knife. Femus was nearly across the road and running directly at us when the blade struck his shoulder, twisting his body enough to make him run past Ma.
Pulling the knife out, “Good aim for a guy missing a finger; you’ll be last. You can watch me rip your friends apart.”
“You’ll have to get by me first,” said a voice from behind.
Still wearing my wool watch cap, sunglasses, and leather jacket and looking much thinner than when Larry and I first saw him on the elevated highway, Hilts walked slowly around to stand in front of us. As if seen through water, he appeared warped and washed away. Contrasting his faintness were two Colt 45s hanging holstered from his waist. So real were the big single action revolvers they stood out in opaque relief next to his lean body. It was as if he were transferring what little life force he had left into creating them. Time slowed. I could see everything, the hand-rubbed leather holsters, the coiled snakes carved into the worn handles, and Hilts’ face. But it wasn’t his face; it was Shane’s or Clint Eastwood’s spaghetti-western face, and I could have sworn just before Femus charged it smiled, they smiled.
Femus was fast and nearly upon us when Hilts, or whatever Hilts had become, moved. In a blur the Colt went from being in his holster to being in his right hand. Fire leapt from its barrel, followed by smoke, followed by more fire and smoke. Trigger held; he fanned the hammer successively in an almost continuous roar until all rounds were gone, and there were six holes stitched across Femus’ throat like a black pearl necklace. Femus stumbled to a stop so close he could’ve reached down and swatted us but didn’t. He raised his head to bellow, but couldn’t. Instead he blew blood out the holes in his neck; only it wasn’t blood, it was a thin tar. And then Hilts drew his left-hand Colt and emptied it into the roof of Femus’ mouth.
“He won’t die,” I yelled.
“Because he’s already dead,” shouted Ma, now able to move.
And then Ma did the strangest thing, she reached out and Femus looked down, nodded knowingly as if seeing her for the first time and touched her hand. An arc, just a small snap of blue jumped between Ma and Femus. Femus collapsed, twitched once and was still; and then something hidden in the mist far enough away so as not to be seen screamed as if one of its limbs had been cut off. Following the scream, the mist boiled up with increased intensity from the depths of whatever the bridge had been built to cross, sending out tendrils of gray, first encircling columns then out onto the land.
“He’s been dead for a long time,” said Ma looking down at Femus, then back at where the scream had come from. “Whatever screamed was controlling Femus’ body like a puppet and used it to shout an immobilizing spell over me, luckily for only a short time. This isn’t Femus. It’s his body, animated by some perverted puppeteer, but it’s not Femus. The Femus I knew was, with Pa’s help, learning to live within his garden compound. My guess is someone or something promised him the eyesight he’d lost long ago and in return turned Femus into a slave, worked him to death, and then made him a zombie.”
Stars came out to mock us with million-degree heat we’d never feel, only see as lines of dots; a reminder we’d need a fire to survive the night’s numbing cold.
Femus was disappearing, rapidly decomposing, his huge skeleton beginning to push through the skin, and yet Ma with no sign of revulsion reached over and closed the giant eye. She was silent for nearly a minute and only when the skull showed did she rise to her feet.
“We’re not about revenge,” said Ma staring with compassion at what was left of the Cyclops. “We’re about stopping the destruction of this Borderland, maybe all Borderlands.” “I’m sorry, didn’t know, had to stop him,” said Hilts collapsing beside us.
Creating the Colts, then becoming the archetypal gunfighter had taken what life force he had left.
Ma rushed to his side, “He would’ve wanted you to stop him from hurting others. What you shot wasn’t Femus, it was his body but it wasn’t Femus; you had no choice, he would’ve understood. Hilts will disappear completely if I don’t get him bathed in the river Styx. Hand me his other half, the part you found at the first bridge.”
Larry untied the rolled up celluloid cutout that had been used as a decoy to fool Charon and gave it to Ma. Ma unrolled it then knelt over what was left of Hilts. If you hadn’t known where to look you wouldn’t have seen him. Already the revolvers were gone and his body an outline. Ma laid the cutout over him. For a moment nothing happened, then the cutout’s eyes moved and I realized it had absorbed what was left of Hilts.
“I’ll become vulnerable again changing forms,” said Ma, changing into a huge harpy eagle, “but I’ve no choice. I’ve got to get Hilts back to Charon. You two go on. Spend the night, leave in the morning. Make sure you’re across the bridge before any direct sunlight shines on it. Getting to the Styx Diner will be the hardest part of your journey and I was hoping you could’ve made the journey with Hilts. There’s enough wood nearby so you won’t freeze. You’ve passed the bridge’s selfless-act test and it’s given you permission to cross;” Ma then looked at Larry, “take Hilts’ Road Warrior, he’d have wanted you to have it.”
Larry finished rolling Hilts back into a tube then placed him between Ma’s talons. Grasping the cylinder tightly, Ma hopped to the edge of the road then looked back, “Don’t let your fire go out. Whatever was controlling Femus may still be out there. The bridge will protect you from anything coming from its side, but you’re vulnerable from the road. Keep yourselves between the bridge and your fire and you should be OK.”
Ma then spread her wings and dove into darkness. http://indianlarry.com/store/product.php?productid=16283 
