The Guardian

grave where an old biker was laid to rest. You could tell by the seven various rims and rusted old gas tank from what may have been his bike or one like it.
    As you looked around, all you saw was wooden crosses, faded, aged and weathered. Most of them you couldn’t read what had been put on them years before. The burial sites, each one encircled with stones that had been scattered about, were sadly uncared for. Some had gravestones detailing who they had been in their life. It told of a mother, father, son whom ever. Most of them, unfortunately, said nothing.
    There were many graves for the dead soldiers who had died defending their country. Either World Wars I, II or Korea. One young man, Ronald Hulse, Jr’s grave was the exception. Across the top of the grave was what appeared to be a handmade throw. It consisted of eight, large Marine Corp emblems. The cover had been carefully covered in plastic to protect it from the weather. There was a bench with a full color picture of the young man in his dress uniform. As you stood and looked upon it, you could not help but feel a sense of pride and sorry for the loss of such an obviously much loved young man.
    For the most part, the graveyard here in Chloride was ghostly looking. The graves unmarked or poorly marked. There was no grass, just stony, desert ground everywhere. There was no caretaker to keep it up, so it just weathered away as though all these souls had been buried and forgotten. Some of the stones and markers were leaning, some had fallen over completely, and just forgotten.
    The Guardian would visit the site often, particularly the children’s graves. He had painstakingly found each one and remembered where each one was. He would try to make sure that they were clean and kept up as best he could. He felt that someone needed to look out for them, even after death.A higher power took care of their souls. Down here, someone needed to show them the respect that they would never know.
    Chloride was nothing more than an old ghost town. They even had an old street set up across town specifically for their gunfight show. Every first and third Saturday at noon, they’d put on a show in their make shift western street of the old west. A lot of tourists would find this place. And even with that, with all the attraction to this small, idealistic, quiet heaven in the middle of nowhere, it just never seemed to change very much.
    Yes, he liked it here. He liked it just the way it was. He feared that one day it would all change and go away. That it would become what he hated most. It would become another Vegas or LA or some other town that had grown too fast. The people who were running away from the large, over grown, over crowded cities would come to the solitude and turn the places like Chloride into exactly what they were running from. What a sad, twisted way to live.
    Chapter 16
    Charles was beginning to wonder if his captor was ever getting back. He had already had to pee in his pants. He didn’t know what he would do about the other.
    This sitting in the dark, muscles cramping, his shoulders, neck and back aching so badly.
    For the next several hours, Charles sat there in that chair, against his will, the dark and total silence, weighing on his mind. He started to think. What else could he do but think. This stranger had planted the seed. He couldn’t help but think, what was it he had said, “Think about the things you’ve done”, he couldn’t help but trace his memory back over the things that he had done.
    Charles sat there, remembering the young boys he’d taken advantage of, sexually abused, fondled, sodomized, all the things that had happened to him as a young lad. The difference was he was abused by his own father. This was different. He was simply showing the kids love and affection. That wasn’t so bad was it? He didn’t deserve this. Christ, they’d get over it, he did.
    He was deep into his thoughts when he heard a car pulling up. There was a car door slamming, then keys in a lock. The stranger was back. He didn’t know whether to be scared for his life or relieved that he might be cut loose.
    The stranger entered the room. The dark, ominous silhouette stood in the doorway, just looking at him.
    “Have you thought about what I said?” He asked.
    “Yes, yes, oh yes, but I haven’t done anything wrong, really, I haven’t.”
    The stranger just looked at him, shaking his head in disbelief. All of this, and still he doesn’t have a