I glance over, suddenly recognizing the awkward position this might put Noah in. We talk about this stuff a lot, but in tonight’s context the whole thing has taken on a bizarre new light.
Fortunately, my friend seems totally fine with the subject, and given his outlook I suppose that makes sense. Noah is dealing with cancer in a way I’ll hopefully never be forced to strive for—fighting for his life while also displaying a sort of uncanny, meditative gratitude.
“What about mom’s treatments?” Marlo asks from the back seat. “Exfoliating whatevers. All that stuff you put on your face.”
I give myself a quick glance in the rearview mirror. “I don’t think those are gonna help us.”
Marlo shrugs. “You always say ‘never underestimate the power of a daily moisturizing cream.’”
I want so badly to trade a silly grin with Marlo, but again I stop myself. I’m not quite ready—at least not while my face looks like this, and it’s gonna take a lot more than moisturizer to pull the mess back together.
A jolt of inspiration suddenly rips through me—thoughts of my former beauty routine abruptly snapping something into place.
“Your cream!” I erupt, punching the steering wheel.
Noah flashes me an awkward look. “Mywhat?”
“From the medical trial!” I shout. “Nobody else would have access to that stuff. When did you last rub it on your scar?”
“I put it on every day.”
“And from the looks of it, a single layer almost killed Eddie,” I continue, my excitement growing. “Do you have any with you?”
“I just ran out at home,” Noah replies. “There’s a container in my locker at work, though.”
I take a sharp left turn, my tires squealing as I slam on the gas and rocket up the road with a newfound purpose. There’s finally a path forward: a next step, a way out.
* * *
Seven days a week, morning till night, the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway provides scenic trips up and down the San Jacinto mountainside. It’s an incredible experience, though often overlooked.
The tram is a hanging gondola, suspended from a long, thick cable. It soars up the rocky crags at an incredible pace, more like taking off in an airplane than casually meandering in a trolley. The ride to the top is approximately ten minutes long, often bringing passengers from scorching desert to frosty snow in this short time. Atthe top, there’s a visitor’s center, a dining area, and several quality hiking trails through the thick forest of Mount San Jacinto State Park.
Marlo and I have come here plenty of times during the day, and the location has generated its fair share of Instafeed content. I’ve never dropped in at night, though. Noah, on the other hand, has worked evening shifts as a tram operator. He’s used to seeing the canyon shrouded in darkness, the cliffsides rising on either side to swallow any vehicle trekking up the long, winding road on its way to the base station.
I press my foot down a little more, picking up speed as we cut through the night. In the daytime, these rolling desert hills would be a vibrant yellow, but right now there’s nothing but a vast, black abyss and the sense of something much larger waiting out there in the void. Behind us, the lights of Palm Springs are starting to reveal themselves, our small change in elevation just barely enough to offer a view.
Eventually, however, the gentle hills give way to towering cliffsides, and as we push deeper and deeper the landscape below is once again obscured.
Noah’s been on his phone looking up tonight’s news and expressing his shock at just how little concrete information there is. Yes, there are bizarre deaths and disappearances happening across Palm Springs, but Eddie is ruthlessly efficient at cleaning up his mess. Either there’s no more evidence to be found or the evidence thatdoesshow up points folks in some random, confounding direction.
“What are we gonna do once we get the cream?” Noah eventually asks, putting his phone away.
“I haven’t figured that part out just yet.”
Despite my best efforts to plan ahead, I remain uncharacteristically focused on the object itself. Right now, our goal is tangible and singular—a small, plastic container stuffed to the brim with soothing medication and tucked away in Noah’s locker.
It’s hard to think about anything else. All night, Eddie has been an unrelenting force, his physical strength matched only by the uncanny might of his verbal commands. I’ve seen him shot, bitten, and stabbed, and while a few of these things gave him momentary pause, the efforts to stop Eddie have only made him more ruthless.
Now, however, there might be a way to fight back.
There are no streetlights on the twisting road behind us, no way to see if a giant pink haze is taking shape in the distance, but that doesn’t matter. I know he’s coming, and it’s only a matter of time before we’re face-to-face again.
Granted, both of our faces have changed quite a bit since the start of this evening.
The vast darkness breaks as we round a bend, revealing the luminous glow of the Aerial Tramway Valley Station. The road is outrageously steep here, opening into a narrow parking lot that fills the entirety of this rocky crevasse. Massive boulders are strewn about, some of them built into the landscaping in an effort to blend the structure with its natural surroundings. On the left side, a river runs steadily along, fed by the upper peak’s melting snow and carving its way through the cliffs.
The station itself looms before us. This structure feelsvery hip-and-modern-parks-department-remodel, despite the hints of brutalist architecture that shine through its cement-block design. It’s illuminated with the usual upward glow this town adores, plumes of warm yellow dotting the structure’s exterior, but the inside is notably dark. What minimal indoor lighting there is feels government mandated, a safety precaution to avoid lawsuits.
