Passage to Zarahemla Read online

  Cover image ArtMachine © 2007

  Cover design copyrighted 2007 by Covenant Communications, Inc. Published by Covenant Communications, Inc., American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2003, 2007 by Chris Heimerdinger

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author, Chris Heimerdinger, [email protected] The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of any other entity.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real.

  First Printing: 2003

  For Liahona,

  I dreamed of you, I knew you were coming, and now you’re here. Welcome to the world!

  CHAPTER 1

  The hunter squeezed the trigger of his Winchester 30–06. The blast shattered the dawn and stirred the mist in the sleepy morning meadow. The kick of the rifle against his shoulder unleashed a warm rush of adrenaline.

  He lowered the rifle scope from his line of vision, tipped up the rim of his No Fear sports cap, and focused on the object of his aim—a stunning white-tailed deer. For a moment he held his breath and watched. If his bullet had missed, the deer surely would have bolted. But the deer did not bolt. After raising its neck, it held still for two interminable seconds. And then, at last, it staggered and collapsed.

  All at once the Hunter’s heart dropped. He focused on the rack of antlers and realized what he had done. But had he realized it even before he fired his rifle? He truly wasn’t sure.

  The Hunter turned as he heard the whoop of his two companions, Clacker and Beaumont, who came up behind him, running excitedly through the woods. They hadn’t seen him pull the trigger, but they could plainly see the russet-colored mound of hide fifty yards distant, partly obscured by mist.

  “Swwweet!” said Beaumont, his voice squealing. He was in his late twenties, but his voice still had the strain of a boy of thirteen.

  Clacker and Beaumont ran past in earnest, but the Hunter hesitated. Finally he walked forward, the dew from the meadow grass saturating his pant leg, soaking through his sock, and chilling the flesh of his shin. He arrived to find his companions kneeling circumspectly over the deer like detectives at a murder scene. They were no longer whooping. The Hunter let out a long, weary sigh.

  Beaumont glanced up at him, one of his molars black with chewing tobacco. “Did you see the rack?”

  The Hunter half shrugged, half shook his head.

  “Your license is for a doe, right?” asked Clacker.

  He nodded.

  Clacker huffed, “Musta thought it was your ex-wife in those sights!” The heavyset man snorted with laughter, like a turkey gobble.

  The Hunter bristled slightly and sent him a look that transformed the laughter into a clearing of the throat.

  Beaumont whistled as he admired the rack. Six-point. Impressive by any standards, especially here in Southern Utah where deer were somewhat smaller than their cousins farther north. He cursed, shaking his crop of bright red hair in disappointment. “That’s a cryin’ shame, is what that is!”

  The Hunter leaned forward to see the place where the bullet had entered the animal’s ribs. The hole was small. Very little blood. If it was any consolation, it appeared that the deer hadn’t suffered much pain. “Well,” he began, “let’s back up the truck and haul it out of—”

  Clacker interrupted, saying bluntly, “You don’t wanna do that.”

  “We can’t just leave it,” the Hunter protested.

  “Sure we can,” said Beaumont, rising to his feet. He grabbed a tuft of weeds and tossed it casually over the carcass. “We just cover it over with brush, then—”

  Unexpectedly, the deer’s legs kicked. Animation electrified its silent body. The men let out exclamations of surprise, hurriedly backing away as the buck rose up onto all four hooves.

  “Careful!” Beaumont squealed, almost as if the animal might seek revenge, try to skewer them with its antler tips. But it only scampered out of their midst, fleeing into the brush at the meadow’s edge.

  Clacker, who’d fallen onto his hind end in the fracas, was laughing hysterically. The Hunter, however, was not laughing. He looked frantically for the deer in his rifle scope, finding only a blizzard of branches and brambles, underbrush and leaves, much of it yellowing with the advent of winter. The white-tail had disappeared.

  “Problem solved!” Clacker announced, clapping his hands in triumph.

  The Hunter gritted his teeth and started jogging across the meadow.

  “What are you doin’?” asked Beaumont.

  “It’s gonna die sooner or later,” the Hunter called back. “I don’t want it to suffer.” He continued into the underbrush. “Let it go!” Clacker called after him.

  Clacker’s laughter was contagious, and Beaumont finally succumbed. They watched the Hunter vanish into the tangle of scrub oak, elm, and black willow.

  “We’re not waiting!” Clacker cried, though already the Hunter was almost out of hearing.

  The Hunter turned once to confirm that his companions weren’t following, then faced forward again in disgust. He forged deeper into the woods, eyes peeled for any sign of blood or other evidence that would reveal his quarry’s trail.

  He found a track along the path and a tuft of hide on a broken branch, confirming that he was at least headed in the right direction.

  Soon he arrived at a pond that he remembered from his childhood. The place hadn’t changed. The trunks and other deadfall that stuck up out of the water were bleached white by the years, reminding him of images and photographs he’d seen of mass graves filled with old and rotting skeletons. Carefully, he walked around its steep edges, circumventing a rather nasty patch of briars. But as he walked across the muddy bank on the opposite side, he stopped suddenly. He felt something strange, but—

  The ground began to vibrate. An earthquake! The Hunter caught himself as he was thrown off balance; his breath snagged in his throat. The leaves were rustling all around him, many breaking free and floating to the ground. The surface of the pond was agitated, like a kettle on the boil.

  But two seconds later, it ended. The ground beneath his feet became stable. He looked at the pond. Tiny waves lapped against the shore. One of the whitewashed trunks out in the middle of the water slowly toppled over, creating a small splash.

  His mind continued to reel in astonishment. Not an earthquake, he concluded. A tremor. Nevertheless, it had been a long time since he’d felt anything this strong, not since the first year after he moved to California. The Hunter hesitated another moment. Then, at last, he moved on into the deeper woods.

  However, after searching a while longer, he began to feel quite peculiar—even uneasy. Something was different. He couldn’t put his finger on it. It was as if . . . he didn’t know this place anymore. Didn’t recognize the patch of trees on his left, or the taller trees ahead. Odd. He’d have sworn that he knew every inch of this country. He used to explore here every day of his life. Just ahead he heard the trickle of a stream. The sound was reassuring. If he heard a stream, he knew he was very near the middle of the hollow.

  The woods he’d entered were bizarre, spectral-looking, like something gothic or ancient. This hollow had seen many flash floods over the centuries. As a result, the trees were mangled and twisted, growing out of the earth at odd, contorted angles. There were as many dead trunks as living ones, but the living trees tangled themselves around the dead, as if drawing them into the living fold. Or perhaps it was the other way around—the dead trees were trying to suffocate the living. One could imagine any
shape, any pattern, if he studied the misty woods long enough: vengeful ghosts and long-fingered sorcerers, brooding phantoms and tortured corpses.

  The Hunter had heard many stories about this country, and these woods in particular. Tales of weird noises and optical illusions. The Hunter had never experienced any of that, but the stories had never entirely faded from his mind. Some locals believed the hollow was haunted. But such was the tendency, he decided, of any folks who liked to think their plot of earth was more interesting than it actually was.

  All at once, he caught a glimpse of russet-colored fur dashing through the undergrowth. But then it vanished again into a section of woods that were particularly dark and dense. The Hunter grumbled in frustration. Why wouldn’t it just die? Still, he admired its tenacity—its will to survive. Weariness was settling over him. His thirst was mounting. Maybe his companions were right. Maybe it was better to let it go. What if the wound wasn’t fatal? What if the bullet had gone completely through without damaging any organs? He scoffed at himself. He’d seen the wound. He saw where it had entered the creature’s torso. The buck was going to die. It was just a matter of time.

  He forced his way through a tight knot of branches, leaving scratches on his face. The gurgle of the stream increased in volume. This heartened him, and he licked his lips. The water was beckoning.

  But then he paused. A new and even more unusual feeling coiled up inside him. He swore he heard a breeze, yet nothing stirred. Mist continued to blur the background thirty feet in any direction. A somber whistling began to rise in volume, like a teapot at the end of a long, hollow tunnel. Seconds later the whirring faded, but what replaced it was more curious yet—and chilling. There were whispers in the woods. Faint and garbled, as if the forest were exchanging secrets. For an instant it almost sounded like the chant of a séance, faraway and echoing. His eyes peered into the depths of the foliage, searching for anything that might be moving.

  He turned quickly and looked behind him, but it was impossible to pinpoint a source for the noise. Branches crisscrossed around him like barbwire barricades. Shafts of sunlight cut sharply through the autumn canopies like lights emitting from the long fingertips of holy angels. Or unholy demons. The feeling around him certainly wasn’t hallowed. A shiver ran from his tailbone to the back of his neck.

  “Hello?” he said into the mist, his tone slightly breathless.

  Somehow his voice had a hushing effect. The whispers ceased. Or moved away. His eyes tried to follow them, but failed. The Hunter swallowed heavily, his heart now hammering like a drum.

  “Beaumont? Clacker?”

  Again, there was no reply. Nor could he hear more wind or whispers. The Hunter removed his cap and used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow.

  He tried once more to shake off the creepiness, and then he continued on, pushing past a series of branches with still-green leaves. At last he saw the stream. A crisp column of light illuminated the water like a current of jewels. His eyes followed it a few yards upstream, beneath the brooding branches of a massive oak, where there was a place to kneel and drink.

  After pulling his legs through the last tangle of branches, he stumbled into the open space. His mouth felt as dry as charcoal. Again he studied the forest, his mind stirring with anxiety. Except for the stream, the woods were silent. The water at his feet flowed as clear as glass. Nevertheless, he waited another long moment, feeling vulnerable and wary, like any other animal before it knelt to drink.

  But why was he so frightened? There were no whispers now. No wind. He’d foolishly allowed his imagination to get away from him. He knew this place. Undoubtedly he’d passed by this very spot many times. He wanted to laugh at himself, but couldn’t. Something internal suggested it was the sound of his voice, the pattern of his breaths, that had brought on the last episode of noises. He realized his quest to find the deer had come to an end. He only wanted to get out of these woods.

  He got down on one knee, and then the other. After setting his rifle on the lichen-covered stones, he dipped his hands in the cool current. As soon as he’d washed the dirt from his palms, he splashed some of the water on his face. The feeling revived him, sobered him. Carefully, he cupped both hands into the spring, his fingers attempting to filter any impurities stirred up by the current. Then he proceeded to draw the water toward his mouth.

  But before the drink arrived, his hands stopped. Something splashed into his palms, mingling with the pure water and forming a gauzy pink cloud. His eyes widened. The air was sucked from his lungs like a vacuum. Blood! It had fallen from above!

  After another drip turned the water in his hands an awful red, he flung it away, as if tossing poison or excrement. Dread filled his mind, swirling like a cyclone. He tilted his neck, focusing upward into the branches. A new droplet splattered on his cheek; another hit the blue fabric of his No Fear sports cap.

  The Hunter scrambled backwards, his face contorted with shock. A pair of black, lifeless eyes were staring down at him. The source of blood was a long snout with dark nostrils.

  It was the deer! His deer! He recognized the place in its ribs where his bullet had entered. The carcass hung over a branch four feet overhead. The legs were tethered by a crude-looking rope. Several gaping slashes stretched along its length, as if someone had begun the process of skinning its hide. There was an arrow in its neck. An arrow!

  The Hunter hyperventilated; the questions were flying faster than his mind could grasp them. His fear became primeval, shooting through his veins like cold explosions. But then his attention was wrenched a different direction.

  The whispering returned, louder, more distorted and angry. And with the whispers came shadows. The forest in all directions was crawling with shadows. Not bodies—not living souls—but indistinguishable wraiths with bloody, blackened faces and piercing white eyes. The whole forest had become a vortex of chaos and aggression.

  An echoing twang rang out at his right. Simultaneously, his shoulder felt a nerve-shattering pain. His body twisted around, crashing into the trunk of the oak tree. The No Fear hat fell off his head. He collapsed to his knees. He’d been shot! His focus fell on the shaft of an arrow, protruding from his right shoulder. The feathers were blue and exotic, the wood banded by colorful designs, like something from another age. He reached back and felt the arrowhead sticking out behind his shoulder, so sharp it cut his finger. Panic avalanched through his soul. The whispers had escalated to screeching, like a swarm of ravens. The shadows from the woods were descending on him like wolves. His uninjured arm flew up to shield his face.

  The Hunter screamed.

  CHAPTER 2

  Kerra mcconnell watched solemnly as the morticians and cemetery workers lowered her mother’s casket into the earth. Her eleven-year-old brother, Brock, stood beside her, frowning a bit, but otherwise it was an expression that she couldn’t discern. The casket was cheap—pine with a lacquer finish, the cheapest on the price list. Such was the going rate for funerals paid for by the State of California.

  Just across the rectangular grave that had been dug into the earth stood their social worker, Mr. Paulson. He was a mousy-looking man in thick, silver glasses. On his head was a dark crop of black hair that he’d tried to comb over a conspicuous bald patch. Kerra didn’t like him much. What was worse, she didn’t trust him. Her life was in his hands, as well as the life of her brother. The concept made Kerra shudder. Yes, they were orphans now. But somewhere in this universe there had to be a better plan than this—placing the fate of two people in the hands of a man who smelled perpetually of body odor mingled with Old Spice aftershave.

  Four days earlier her mother had died from an overdose. The event wasn’t really a surprise to Kerra or her brother. Delia McConnell had been a heavy drug user, smoker, and drinker for as long as they could remember. Seventeen-year-old Sakerra had done all that she could to help her—as much help as a teenager could give in such circumstances. But in the end, Kerra’s efforts had proved futile. Now she and Brock were a
lone in a world that was trying desperately to tear them apart.

  Kerra realized now that all they had left was each other. Of course, in many ways, this was all that they had ever had. Their father had abandoned them early on. Kerra had been only five years old at the time. Their mother had made a meager effort to raise them, but for the most part Kerra had been the acting mother in their family. She’d taken care of Brock, taken care of Delia, and, to the best of her abilities, taken care of herself.

  Despite it all, Kerra McConnell had grown into a remarkably beautiful young woman, though this was not the image that she saw in the mirror. She really didn’t spend much time in front of such things. Her long, blonde hair hung lazily, almost poetically, around her shoulders. Her eyes were a sweltering blue sea, full of passion and determination, though of late that passion was only for one thing: to survive. In other circumstances—“normal” circumstances—Kerra might have been a cheerleader, a class president, or a prom queen. But she had no such aspirations. By necessity, she was already an adult by the time she was five. Things that other seventeen-year-old girls considered matters of life and death, Kerra saw as frivolous and weak. After all, she’d always had her mother to take care of, and her brother’s soul to save.

  Brock was, in the words of some at the office of Welfare and Family Services, a typical product of his environment— angry, rebellious, and antisocial. Most felt his chances in life were slim. What was worse, Brock knew what they thought of him. He didn’t have to hear them say it; he sensed it instinctively. However, he also had a nasty habit of eavesdropping. Because no one had much hope for him, he honestly didn’t have much hope for himself. As with Kerra, his life’s passions were dedicated to survival. But unlike Kerra, he’d adopted his own methods to achieve this. He would gladly take and scrounge and manipulate whenever he could—wherever the opportunity presented itself. Strangely, only his sister seemed to view him as anything but a parasite, a waif, or a future Public Enemy Number One. But what did she know?