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Hallelujah Junction… my salvation.
God blessed me the day he found me the job of being a ranger for the infamous ghost town hidden in the hills of Nevada. An old mining town long abandoned by the residents for an unknown reason. The 1800s town’s current popularity centers around the fact that every ancient resident left with only the clothes on their backs and what little supplies they could carry. They left everything behind in a hurry to flee. All the furniture, dishes, books, handcrafted items, family heirlooms, hand-stitched clothing, and the hidden secrets of why they deserted their homes remained. It makes the haunted town a living museum of a time long ago. An eerie place turned to stone as if touched by Medusa. Tourists would come from all over the world to see history paused. They wanted answers. Why? Why would the people build a life here, and then vacate so quickly without taking what meant everything to them and what they had worked so hard to gain? Reasons were rumors and speculations only. Plague? Dangers from the daily mining and plundering of the earth such as poisoned water or toxic gases? Impending attack from nearby Indian tribes? No one knew.
I don’t care why they left. I’m happy they did. The town is mine. They left me a gift. Yes, I have to share the bottom half of my utopia with the common folk, even though I despise each one of them. But regardless, Hallelujah Junction is my paradise before I reach Kingdom Come.
But the truth remains…
They stink.
An odor of money and materialism.
A redolence of false promises and fake smiles.
They are walking misery cloaked in designer clothes and shoes.
I loathe the air around them.
But I have a job to perform if I want to remain in my paradise. I have to watch over them and enforce the rules that my boss handed me in a weathered pamphlet when he offered me the position. Health codes, environmental mandates, dictates from the government and all the laws I have to not only abide by but guarantee are followed perfectly.
But the upper half of the town is where I live. I was given a house so that I can live on-site. It is the only piece of property that had been outfitted to meet modern day needs. I would have gladly accepted one of the historical houses and live off the grid, but I was handed the ranger’s house that has indoor plumbing and electricity. Being a ranger is comfortable, and it pays well—not that I have any real need for paper money other than my monthly run into town for supplies. My wealth comes from the land and my solitude.
And the tourists only come during the warmer weather months. The winter brings snow so severe that the dirt road leading up to Hallelujah Junction is often closed down until the melt. I plan for those months and stockpile my goods. I look forward to those months.
Alone.
No one around me. No one but one other man who lives in isolation even further into the hills.
Scarecrow is like me. He needs no one and chooses to leave society behind. It is because of him that I know so much about the land I thrive on. He’s a one-legged bastard who hates everyone but the Lord, and maybe tolerates me. Refusing modern medicine to receive a prothesis for his missing appendage, he chose to stuff the bottom half of his pant leg with straw and call it good. Scarecrow showed me the secrets of Heaven shrouded in the sagebrush-covered hills.
This city I drive through, however, is a Godless city on a flat, dried land. Desert filth all around with no hope of salvation.
And then I see her… again. Poor little girl sitting in her own filth cross-legged in a field of weeds in front of a dilapidated trailer.
Spawn of white trash.
Forsaken.
Every month, I see her. Every month she appears to be alone. Today is no different except that this time I slow my truck so I can get a better look. She’s dirty. Dirtier than normal. Her blonde hair isn’t brushed and may have never been. Her clothes are too small, and she wears no shoes. Her wide eyes are blue as they look up at me as I lurk by. They scream desperate to me. They holler hunger and need. They shout for help over and over, so accustomed to never being heard. Her eyes. Her sad little eyes.
I drive on. I have to. I can’t stay. Sorry, little girl. I can’t listen to those eyes. Not today. Not ever.
I get my supplies and drive home. Home. Focus. Get the hell out of this pit of sin. But then I see the little girl again. She hasn’t moved. I suppose she has nowhere to move to. So, I stop. God help me. I stop.
