The Green Children: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 3) by Domino Finn
Authors: Domino Finn
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bubble of death cutting into the predatory life of Sycamore.
In the center of the clearing, obvious to any curious enough to look, was a faded yellow and brown RV.
Act 2 - Hell on Wheels
Chapter 21
Diego was alone in the clearing, but he instinctively ducked. Something about the surroundings creeped him out. It wasn't the type of thing that was easy to explain—it happened at a subconscious level—but the combination of isolation, dead foliage, and the worn vehicle made his skin crawl.
This was it: Red's RV. The man preferred to live in the wild, just off the tracks, alone but within easy walking distance to town for supplies.
Train tracks weren't like streets. They cut through the wild without civilizing it. No cars pulled over here. No passengers or pedestrians busied themselves in these woods. The iron horse would announce its presence from a mile away and cause the earth to rumble, but it would roar past and allow the land to settle. Until the trees were cleared and man paved over the dirt, this forest would be wild. But, like a lot of Sycamore, it was a national forest. Protected. Conserved. Ruled by a natural order.
Fallen trees were the only natural features of the clearing. The grass was barely there, dry, dead. For whatever reason, the healthy trees yielded a few hundred feet of space before their dense walls resumed.
Diego glanced back toward the tracks, barely visible through the brush. Maybe Red thought this was a good place to park. The clearing allowed the RV easy access to the dirt road. The wheels of the heavy vehicle wouldn't get caught in thick brush. It was possible the clearing even kept scavenging animals at bay.
Taking maximum advantage of the cushion, the old motor home was parked in the very center of the area. It was a large vehicle, once white but now yellowed by age. A brown stripe ran the length of its boxy frame over the wheels. The front windshield and grill was flat like a bus, but slanted at a slight angle. The whole thing looked like a slightly aerodynamic shipping container with windows, all tinted black except for the front cab area.
Spray painted on the visible left side were the words "Keep Out."
Diego didn't know anything about RVs, but he knew this one was old. Its style screamed the seventies, at least. Small sections of paint were chipped away, a tail light cover was missing, and one of the windows had a flat piece of particle board drilled over it. As decrepit as it appeared, however, it was obvious the vehicle was road ready. The tires were fairly new and it had updated Texas plates.
Some of the surrounding items didn't appear as well kept. An old sofa sat against the back of the RV, half of the faded fabric ripped away revealing the wooden frame underneath. There were no cushions except what was built in, and much of that padding was torn open and exposed. Various bottles and gallon water jugs, some filled, some not, littered the area. A stack of wooden pallets formed a makeshift table. A broken-down gas generator sat beside it. A plastic blue rain barrel waited to collect water. Another barrel, this one metal, served as a fire pit. It contained ash enough to evidence a year's worth of heat.
Red was a survivalist, then. An old man who'd had his fill of society. He'd made the choice to break away and live by his own rules. That made the man an outcast, but Diego could understand the outlook. He'd run away from the Commissioned Corps when he couldn't take it anymore. He'd joined the motorcycle club and quit when he didn't belong. Tightly regimented service had a way of squeezing away the excess. Red's sentiment wasn't so far off. As long as he still respected the rules of society.
As long as there wasn't a little girl inside that RV.
"Hello?" Diego called out.
Immediately, he regretted making the noise. His instinct was that, if someone was watching him, saying "hi" would ease suspicion. Now that he thought about it, though, he
In the center of the clearing, obvious to any curious enough to look, was a faded yellow and brown RV.
Act 2 - Hell on Wheels
Chapter 21
Diego was alone in the clearing, but he instinctively ducked. Something about the surroundings creeped him out. It wasn't the type of thing that was easy to explain—it happened at a subconscious level—but the combination of isolation, dead foliage, and the worn vehicle made his skin crawl.
This was it: Red's RV. The man preferred to live in the wild, just off the tracks, alone but within easy walking distance to town for supplies.
Train tracks weren't like streets. They cut through the wild without civilizing it. No cars pulled over here. No passengers or pedestrians busied themselves in these woods. The iron horse would announce its presence from a mile away and cause the earth to rumble, but it would roar past and allow the land to settle. Until the trees were cleared and man paved over the dirt, this forest would be wild. But, like a lot of Sycamore, it was a national forest. Protected. Conserved. Ruled by a natural order.
Fallen trees were the only natural features of the clearing. The grass was barely there, dry, dead. For whatever reason, the healthy trees yielded a few hundred feet of space before their dense walls resumed.
Diego glanced back toward the tracks, barely visible through the brush. Maybe Red thought this was a good place to park. The clearing allowed the RV easy access to the dirt road. The wheels of the heavy vehicle wouldn't get caught in thick brush. It was possible the clearing even kept scavenging animals at bay.
Taking maximum advantage of the cushion, the old motor home was parked in the very center of the area. It was a large vehicle, once white but now yellowed by age. A brown stripe ran the length of its boxy frame over the wheels. The front windshield and grill was flat like a bus, but slanted at a slight angle. The whole thing looked like a slightly aerodynamic shipping container with windows, all tinted black except for the front cab area.
Spray painted on the visible left side were the words "Keep Out."
Diego didn't know anything about RVs, but he knew this one was old. Its style screamed the seventies, at least. Small sections of paint were chipped away, a tail light cover was missing, and one of the windows had a flat piece of particle board drilled over it. As decrepit as it appeared, however, it was obvious the vehicle was road ready. The tires were fairly new and it had updated Texas plates.
Some of the surrounding items didn't appear as well kept. An old sofa sat against the back of the RV, half of the faded fabric ripped away revealing the wooden frame underneath. There were no cushions except what was built in, and much of that padding was torn open and exposed. Various bottles and gallon water jugs, some filled, some not, littered the area. A stack of wooden pallets formed a makeshift table. A broken-down gas generator sat beside it. A plastic blue rain barrel waited to collect water. Another barrel, this one metal, served as a fire pit. It contained ash enough to evidence a year's worth of heat.
Red was a survivalist, then. An old man who'd had his fill of society. He'd made the choice to break away and live by his own rules. That made the man an outcast, but Diego could understand the outlook. He'd run away from the Commissioned Corps when he couldn't take it anymore. He'd joined the motorcycle club and quit when he didn't belong. Tightly regimented service had a way of squeezing away the excess. Red's sentiment wasn't so far off. As long as he still respected the rules of society.
As long as there wasn't a little girl inside that RV.
"Hello?" Diego called out.
Immediately, he regretted making the noise. His instinct was that, if someone was watching him, saying "hi" would ease suspicion. Now that he thought about it, though, he
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