Beneath The Valley Of The Moon

© astrid young 2002

Chapter II

"Hey Toad, what's your ten-twenty?" squawked Junior over the walkie. Toad was, at that moment, elbow deep in sludge, trying not to inhale the stench of the backed up drain. It was truly foul, and a job he'd been anticipating for days as the main sump continually failed to do its job.

Toad started to extract himself from the muck to answer, but decided against it. He'd already destroyed two cel phones, which was why he was relegated to the two-way radio, a baby monitor, culled from the winemakers' at-home stockpile of alternate communication devices. If Toad wasn't a sociopath by nature, he might have been humiliated. As if the job wasn't shitty enough already.

Junior made it down to the crush pad eventually, a clipboard under his arm. "That's pretty gross," he said, wrinkling his nose. "Kinda makes me wanna puke."

"Jump on in there, Junior. It's pretty warm, once you get in."

"That's all right. You go ahead." Junior then paused for a lengthy moment, and if Toad had seen his annoyance at the obviously unavoidable delay in the program, it couldn't possibly have made it any worse. Or better. "Okay, when you're done I have a couple of new projects for you. Might be a little more interesting than ... that."

Toad pulled himself up to his feet and wiped his dripping arms off on his shirt. "I'm gonna get the porta-sump and drain the fucker."

"Something's gotta be clogging it man; that's the second time this week, isn't it?"

"Third. Yeah, something's in the lower pipe, I think. I'm just gonna reach in and see if I can clear it. Wanna watch?"

"You go ahead. I've got some stuff to do in the lab. I'll just leave the clipboard on the forklift, you can check it out when you're done."

"All right, no problemo."

Where was all his help when he really needed it? The winemaker, Fitzkrankle, had decided to let all Toad's day-workers go, 'cause most of the really intense work was over. So now, instead of supervising a day crew to stomp down the pomace bins, power-hose the crush pad and clean the drains, it was all up to him. All that on top of his being everyone's own personal butt-boy, from Fitzkrankle, who signed his paychecks, all the way on down to the tyrant T. Rox. Teddy Rox was the biggest joke he'd ever run into in the wine world -- but also their biggest client. The one-time rock-star, a one-hit wonder who nobody remembered. What right did he have to be selling wine. Selling wine to people. The way Toad figured, the people wouldn't buy the records, what in hell makes him think the wine is any more valid? It'a living anyway, he thought. The things you do. Or at the very least the things you help others to do. Toad would never drink T. Rox's wine, knowing what he knew. Some things just weren't ... natural.

Junior certainly wasn't any help, unless it had something to do with playing practical jokes on the clients, who were mostly a bunch of stuffy self-righteous winemakers and winery-owners who thought far too much of themselves in the long run. I'd like to get paid bazillions to make wine for one of them schmucks, Toad thought. I could pull it off. I've been watching what they do. It sure ain't rocket science.

A thought crossed his mind, just a stray thought about those unpicked Cab Sauv vines down by Glass Mountain. He could probably pick it himself, without any help at all. Bring all the fruit back here, through the back gate. Nobody'd even know where he got it from. As much as he'd been thinking about it, it seemed like a done deal already. Better make it happen soon, though. If he were to hesitate, the fruit'd be gone for sure. The big grape heist of oh-two. He'd be famous. Even if it was his own dirty little secret.

Toad lowered the portable sump down into the murky depths of the main drain.

•••

Later. Queens of The Stone Age kept the Toad in good company. Cleaning the crush pad alone in the twilight, a wood owl flaps accross the setting sun. Something about the way the shadow moved over his peripheral vision startled him in an odd way. Stepping backwards, away from the pool of light, he squinted to see what he could not. Something sinister. Something . . . not the way it should be. When the sun finally dropped below the pink horizon, it was like a cold wind blew through his soul.

Putting the pressure washer down, Toad walked back towards the winery, turning the radio off.

"Hello?" He called into the tank room. "Who's there?" Silence greeted him for a moment, and he turned back towards the crush pad. "Junior? That you?" and after a moment, the pronouncement "I'm losing my fucking mind." Still, there was that feeling that something wasn't right. Like that feeling you get when you know you've forgotten something, but can't for the life of you figure out what. This time though, it carried with it the feeling of dire urgency. Like if he left and did nothing about it, he'd come back in the morning and the whole place would have burned to the ground in the night. Then he'd really be in trouble - out of a job for sure.

He picked a punchdown device off the wall and crept towards the front barrel room, crouching down and peering under and between all the tanks. A car horn blasted in the distance, back at the road, echoes pinging off the steel tanks like what the the angel's share ought to sound like, the gentle sound wisping back and forth, fading to nothing against the harvest moon.

Hand on the door to the barrel room, Toad slowly released the catch, quietly pulling the door to him inch by inch. When the air compressor fired like a rocket ship beside him he must have leapt four feet in the air, landing with a screech - sounding more like a girl than he'd ever care to. Catching himself, he slammed his palm on the door and cursed aloud. But while gathering his manly grace together once again, he saw a vehicle leaving the property through the back gate. Brake lights, really, but they were moving away with caution, headlights dark.

"Hey!" Toad yelled, and ran a few steps forward, enough to see a truck pulling onto the road and gunning into the dark. "Fucker." He went to close and lock the back gate, and noticed a thin trail of liquid running in the direction the truck had gone. Bending down, he touched the flow, brought it into the light to have a look. "Juice, maybe." He mused aloud. But it was so ... viscous. He smelled. Salty, saline smell. Kind of bad too, dank. Not bad wine smell though. More like it was curdled. "Blood. Blood? What the fuck . . . " Toad stared into the darkening night, where the truck had disappeared. Not much to do about it, he thought. What would I do? Call Junior? Toad supposed that whatever the fuck, it could wait til the next day for sure.

Nothing was more important in that moment than a nice cold beer.