MAGÛS

The Rio Derras

The full moon and star lit sky illuminate the high desert town of Birchwood, creating an other worldly landscape. The bold, but naughty Rio Derra winds back again from their eleven month hiatus, split through a minor gap in the Devil’s Canyon over looking and maybe even guarding the historic desert town. The seasonal zephyr howled and whistled in a way only mother nature could pull off as it squeezed through more cracks and crevices of the rocky landscape, creeping ever closer towards Birchwood’s county line. Sheriff Callahan holds the phone to his ear. His black steel-toed boots resting atop his desk as he reclined in his worn leather chair inside the solemn station. Small, petite, anything but cute. Wood paneled walls from the seventies still remain, a friendly reminder from the station’s last major remodel. Native pine trees continue swaying outside, dancing with one another. The tender beginnings of the Derra’s week long wrath, already unfolding. “Hell, I’d like to see him try it. The old prick. He can’t just leave that old rickety and busted RV there. For God’s sake, this ain’t the same town he grew up in anymore! There gonna think he’s cooking meth or something else inside. You know how much those houses are going for up there now?” Callahan complained into the phone. A violent bang and a tumble announced itself placing a period on the sheriff’s comments. “What the hell was that?” With his free hand, two fingers split between a space in the window blinds revealing a trash can rolling into the parking lot followed by loose papers and chip bags hovering and swirling in the wind. Not quite the culprit or rabble rousers he was expecting. “No...yeah, yeah, it was nothin’. Just the Derra’s kicking up again.” The sheriff plops back into his worn seat before leaning into the phone gain. “Yep, it’s about that time.”

A scattered voice erupts from the station’s CB radio. Surges of static interference from the Rio Derra’s constantly manipulate the incoming call, halting any chance for the sheriff to make out a clear message. “Get ....hel..now....please...LEAVE...com...” Sheriff Callahan works hard mentally, attempting to fill in the gaps of static in-between the urgent message. “What was that?...Repeat! This is sheriff Callahan, I said please repeat your message.” A combination of white noise and dead air was the only response. Callahan, with a slow, but consistent aggravation growing realizes his quiet night dissolving away. He leans back into his current call with Deputy Tom Weiser. “Tom I got to go...no...yeah...maybe...I don’t know. It’s probably some knuckle heads bored out of their minds who’ve got nothing else better to do but to ruin my last week.” The sheriff rubs his face attempting to swipe the frustration away. “And tell old man Meyers that if he doesn’t move that ole’ rusty camper it’s gonna end up in the junk yard along with him in it.”

Ending the call before Deputy Weiser could respond created a little tension relief in the veteran Callahan. With a sudden moment to himself, the irritable sheriff gazed at the CB radio anticipating another mysterious and shoddy SOS call, but really hoped for silence until his retirement party kicks off. “Tick-tock, tick-tock.” The hands on the wall clock offered a friendly reminder of the sheriff’s fast approaching final shift. With only two more days before the retirement curtain drapes over a glorious three decade career serving Birchwood, his beloved hometown. While his body rested on the edge of his leather chair, frozen with indecision, Callahan couldn’t help but distract himself with a mental dream board of picturesque retirement plans. A quiet cruise line vacation with Ms. Callahan as they cut through dark teal waters before docking, another flash before the mind’s eye of Callahan cold water fishing while enjoying his favorite six pack of Glacier Ice, and finally the desirously pure and satisfactory vision of falling asleep in his favorite lawn chair in a sprawling backyard full of freshly laid sod along with his favorite, crisply, cold six pack of Glacier Ice. “Sheriff? WAKE UP CALLAHAN!” A slightly clearer voice erupts form the radio. Calm and confident in demeanor; precise at who and what it’s addressing. Immediately snapping out of his fantasy, Sheriff Callahan snatches the hand mic. “Who in the hell is this, dammit? If this is one of you kids from St. Charles pulling some kind of dumb ass prank, I’m going to find you and ream your ass!” Static began to intervene the incoming call of the consistently calm voice. “Listen to....Callahan...this...not... joke.....you need....evacua.....the...it’s coming......” Drawing into the dispatch radio with more intensity then ever, he becomes increasingly eager for clarification, expecting more information to arrive with less interference. Yet, he received nothing but empty white noise. “Listen...whoever you are, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about but,” WHAM! The old door of the station blasts open with the Rio Derra’s rudely intruding on Sheriff Callahan. Swirling its way inside the tiny waiting area, howling like the bey of a hound and just beginning its tumultuous reign, the vortex sprayed loose trash, leaves, and chaos in all directions. “Son a bitch.” The sheriff battled through devilish debris, staggering toward the open front door like an old dinghy battling through choppy waters. Finally catching the rattling door by the handle, and holding on for dear life he pushed it closed. Suddenly, Callahan froze at the sight of Birchwood’s, dark, night sky above. A small ball of a venomously green, luminous light, was sighted descending exponentially against the backdrop of the high desert’s midnight sky. With an unusually dark new moon and the growing trend of street light pollution, the drowning out of a once beloved tradition of stargazing comes to a close. This night’s only spectacle is a moving target bellowing faster towards Birchwood and its new twinkling, halogen infused street lights lining a rapidly growing suburban housing plan ranging in the six figures. “What the hell is that?” The sheriff, caught in a stasis, working hard through squinted eyes to identify the un-identified descending object. Stepping further out into the vacant parking lot of Birchwood station and away from the continued emergency dispatch. “Sheriff? Can you understand me?....Get...of there...mediately. It’s not safe for you. Sheriff?....." Fully in awe of what now appeared to be an anomaly. A meteor descending to earth. Much rarer, plummeting into Birchwood. Callahan turned to shock and wonder, resembling a kid in a candy store; consumed with the feeling and ecstasy of his retirement arriving two days early. Eyes growing wider and filled with immense splendor, the sheriff’s head reclined all the way back with a gaze aimed at the incoming celestial force. The martian like terrain of Devil's Canyon became engulfed by the meteor's immense and luminous teal glow. Finally, crash landing, the impact created a magnitude tremor rocking all across Birchwood, from the foothills reaching into old town.

At The Night Owl diner, a twenty-four hour staple, town regulars cover their plates of three-stack buttermilk pancakes, steak and eggs and Caesar salads drowned in ranch dressing; some with croutons, some without. The amber and tungsten ceiling lamps jerk side-to-side, as Barbara, a veteran server and owner loses focus of her perfected coffee pour and begins soaking Hank’s cheeseburger combo. Barbara, still gripping the pitcher, body alert and motionless, lifts her eyes to the ceiling before rolling them around the restaurant, scanning for any more trembling and aftershocks. Hank lifts the coffee from Barbara’s frozen grip, pouring himself another cup liberally, “It’s an earthquake,” he said with confidence and ease. Barbara, not too certain, “I don’t think so. Is it? When’s the last time we had an earthquake in Birchwood?” Curiosity now beginning to wake her from the shock and awe of the violent rocking. An alert Barbara finally retrieves her coffee pot from Hank’s greedy hands. “1974!”, Tee blurts out from across the booth. Scraggly beard and beer stains covering his tattered, white, Hanes t-shirt and wrangler jeans. “I was twenty-five, I remember it well. I was down at Tritch’s Hardware getting some fencing when all of sudden the whole damn aisle started to rock and roll…” Hank interrupts Tee’s historic recall. “That wasn’t an earthquake you idiot. Charles Dudley crashed his truck into the side of Tritch’s ‘cause he was stone cold drunk. And I’ll be damned if you were twenty-five in ‘74!” Confusion engulfs Tee. His mind working harder, struggling to calculate the math in his head. “I was!” His voice immediately trailing into a lower decibel level, mumbling under his breath, “son of a bitch” before taking another sip of his half-empty pint glass of Glacier Ice. “Alright, alright. Neither one of you were twenty-five in the seventies.” Town folk bickering finally forces Barbara to release startled tension from her well rounded shoulders. That many years of serving tables has guaranteed more steps than Fitbit fanatics could hope for. Swooping herself behind the counter, back into serving mode, supplying more coffee refills. With a tender smile towards Tee, “except you”, she follows with a wink. Understanding the ins and outs of her regulars after thirty years of serving breakfast combos and cheeseburger specials. Barbara has become a pro at keeping peace between the bickering and quarreling amongst bitter and partly senile Birchwooders.

Heat and molten earth form a ring encircling the glowing space rock. Brilliant light, green, cosmic, pulses from its rough and slightly oblong egg shape. Sheriff Callahan’s body lay meters away. Bruised while blood seeps from open wounds mixing with earth staining his uniform. Emitting a stubborn will and a military past, he forces himself onto his side. Nurturing a bloodied rib cage while a few winces creep out the severely wounded Callahan. “HELP! Somebody help me!” No response. Only the crackle of the flaming meteorite and the Rio Derra’s kicking up smoke and ash. Yet, another voice is suddenly heard. An echo erupts. “HELP!” Somebody help me!” Identical to Sheriff Callahan’s voice. The Sheriff’s anxiety and panic kicks up. “Who’s there? Help me. I’m hurt pretty bad.” A momentary silence fills the air before another voice is heard. Responding from what appears to be the near distance, yet it erupts with an echo of multiple voices, a collective of Sheriff Callahans in different octaves sounding all at once. Like a choir, “Who’s there? Help me. I’m hurt pretty bad.”

Sheriff Callahan reaches for his nine millimeter Desert Eagle finally being awoken from its thirty year slumber except for those weekends of target practice at the gun range and drunken nights on hunting trips with the boys. This was the moment he always mentally prepared for yet never fully experienced until now. His arms, like he mentally rehearsed, were stiff and erect as they firmly held out his gun with hands gripping the handle and index finger hovering over the trigger. “Answer me! Show yourself you sick coward!” Standing in the midst of the Rio Derra’s devilish winds, Sheriiff Callahan stood their full of tension and paranoia waiting for a response from any one. Anticipating a shadowy figure revealing himself from the distant wall of darkness just beyond the reach of the station’s sensor lights or at least a drunken lackey stumbling all the way from any one of Birchwood’s infamous dive bars. Nothing, but silence and the howl of the Rio Derra’s intensifying. The Sheriff quickly lifts his hand away from the pistol, capping the crown of his campaign hat firmly. His trigger hand, gripping firmly the family heirloom of his forefathers, preventing it from blowing up and away and into the abyss of desert darkness just behind him. Callahan clenches the relic over the crown of his head protecting from what seems to be the strongest and boldest winds yet experienced in his thirty plus years of law enforcement. Vapors of such volatility emitting from the meteor’s off-gassing create subtle announcements of demonic hissing and wincing. Suddenly the cosmic rock’s green glow begins to ooze out and slowly approach Sheriff Callahan. The Sheriff’s eye’s wincing to gain the clearest focus on what appears to be an anomaly. The animation of an inanimate object. What’s happening?” His winces evolve into roars of pain, then transitions into a madman’s laughter. “Son of a bitch. This is how it happens, huh?” He fires a few rounds as the blasts echo off the canyon’s harsh terrain. A spew of bullets pop off with fire power only to disappear into the mysterious sludge creeping ever closer to Callahan. “Help me. I need he-“, Sheriff Callahan’s calls suddenly fall silent. Only ambient sounds of whistling and howling of the Rio Derra’s announce amongst the otherworldly terrain of Devil’s Canyon.

The Night Owl

The three o’clock hour. A slower time for the all night diner and Barbara’s favorite. A deeper calm and silence pervades the whole town during this period. When all residents lay fast asleep, with bars finally closed, and even fewer businesses in operation during the town’s gentrification. For lease and for sale signs tag almost every other mom and pop shop that made Birchwood what it was back in its prime. A bustling desert town nestled right-in-between the larger metropolitan, St. Charles and a three hundred mile drive before the next state. Birchwood was the best place to stop for all your road tripping needs. Food, lodging, camping, drinking, and much more. The town thrived off its tourists and the tourists fulfilled their needs from the town. But all things change and Birchwood’s glory days began to descend into foreclosures and bankruptcies until the good ole’ days became more distant and forgotten than Tee’s selective memory. Yet, Barbara, one of the few natives left, still ever youthful even after seasons of dedicated service to her hometown. While many of her friends were exploring options in larger cities like St. Charles and beyond, when her generation was the cream of the crop, a hopeful light for Birchwood’s resurgence to her previous financial stature and fame, the mistakes of their ancestors hung over Barbara’s generation until they all fled to distant cities and lands to make better lives, more affordable investments, and families for themselves. Her serving hand rested under her chin, as she enjoyed this rare moment of her shift. The coffee break. Seated at her favorite booth looking through the single pane glass window. They don’t make them like this anymore. Solid glass. Solid wall. A direct view of the historic intersection where Hope street and Historic Rte. 76 crossed. A sight she enjoyed as a young girl watching many a traveler cross that path, turning, stopping, going. All the motorcycles, Boss-Hosses, Harley’s, roaring and thundering through town. Leaving trails of chaos and excitement. The rich family on vacation the poor family moving, all passed through that corridor. Worlds she saw. People she experienced. Yet all remained quiet during the three o’clock hour. Steam still rising from her hot coffee, specially brewed for this moment. A low whining sound begins to creep into her quiet time. Something consistently approaching from the distance and increasing by the millisecond. Suddenly it grows louder until it evolves into full sirens. First a Birchwood fire truck plows through the intersection and red traffic lights. Not soon after, three Birchwood police vehicles blast through with sirens blaring and blazing into the still night air, one after the other. Sam takes off his apron, holding his hands on his hips with a defeated curiosity. “Maybe it was that earthquake?” Barbara, still adamant on enjoying her rare, quiet, coffee break, calmly takes another sip. Full of precision and measure. Zen like. Perfecting each sip followed by the brief pause after swallowing her dark roast with steamed almond milk. Placing the mug on the booth table, she absorbed the heat from the ceramic with cupped palms. She focused her gaze through the large pane glass window. “There’s no fault lines in this town Sam. I’ve experienced thunder storms here, sand storms, floods, fires, but never an earthquake. Sam, scratching his five o’clock shadow. He encroaches on Barbara’s booth hoping a closer view will lead to solving this mystery. “They’re going up into the canyons. Maybe it’s the wind. Those Rio Derra’s looking mighty strong tonight. Never seen ‘em this strong before,” he said, struggling to gain a good sighting through the black night. The two stare out into the desolate streets with lights illuminating the town litter. Trash blown out of dumpsters along with twigs and tumble weeds from desert debris swirl around before cutting through the intersection. Trees continue swaying back and forth, while hanging street signs whip against the breeze. Barbara takes another calculated sip. “Whatever it is, it ain’t good. I can tell you that.”