Lakebed

By Chris Coppel

We've all visited places and dreamt of moving there. Kris and Ryan don't just settle for the dream. Life has become difficult in Los Angeles. After receiving a surprise invitation to visit an animal sanctuary in Southern Utah, they drive 500 miles and enter an entirely different world surrounded by natura

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Coppel
• Release date: Mar 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781914078842

Chris Coppel

Chris Coppel was born in California and has since split his time between the USA and Europe, living in California, Spain, France, Switzerland and England. Chris taught advanced screenwriting at the UCLA film school and has been writing for over thirty years. He is the author of Far From Burden Dell, Luck, The Lodge, Legacy and Liner.

Book preview

Chapter 1

She didn’t know how to swim yet she knew she had to somehow stay afloat. The water was freezing cold and she was finding it harder and harder to breathe normally. It felt as if her chest was being compressed by the dark icy liquid.

She was able to keep her new baby afloat on the black water as he was strapped into an interwoven reed carrier. The wood was just buoyant enough to stay on the surface with only an occasional lift from her.

She could sense the others surrounding her in the blackness but she could see nothing. None were speaking. They couldn’t. They knew that making any sounds could reveal their position in the lake to the evil ones.

She heard the sound of hands paddling the water to keep their bodies afloat. She had no idea how long they could stay that way. Between the cold and the weakness of their chilled limbs, she was worried that they might have to try and reach the shore without being seen.

She didn’t know where the evil ones were. She hadn’t seen them since they’d rained fire down on their settlement in the slot canyon. Once they’d forced her and her people out of their shelters and into the dark waters of the mother lake, the marauders had been invisible.

She knew they were there, waiting for something. She just didn’t know what.

Her baby turned in his carrier and let out a gentle cry. She turned it in the water so his tiny head was close to hers. She quietly told him to be still, then sang, in no more than a whisper, a verse of the sleep song. She kept her voice low so that none of the melody could reach the shore and the waiting ears of those that wished them harm.

For a brief moment, there was no sound anywhere. No one paddled. No child cried. There was nothing.

The starfield above usually provided enough light to see what was needed to be seen in the dark hours. On that night, however, a cloak of low clouds shuttered the luminous heavens.

Instead, there was blackness.

She heard the distinctive sound of a match striking a rough surface. A flame rose from the shoreline of the lake. It gave enough light for her to see the shadows of the evil ones.

She turned and saw the vague outlines of her people as they paddled in the water trying to stay above the surface. Their eyes were tiny pinpricks of light as they grasped what illumination they could from the single torch.

A strange smell reached her nose. It was the smell of oil. It grew stronger and she could feel its greasy clinginess as it eddied around her body. The smell was overwhelming. Her eyes began to sting, then tear.

She sensed movement from the fiery torch onshore. As she turned to look, she saw it rise high into the air, sail through a short arc then drop onto the surface of the lake.

Then all she saw was fire.

Chapter 2

Ryan hadn’t slept well. The helicopters had been performing their nocturnal aerial ballet with extra gusto throughout the night. He had no idea why, but their rental condo in West Hollywood seemed to be the epicentre of each of their overhead searches. First came the whop, whop, whop of the police helicopter. If that didn’t manage to wake you, the piercing beam of searchlights dancing across the horizontal blinds was bound to finish the job.

Living on North Havenhurst had a lot of advantages despite the alarming increase in crime which gave the LAPD justification to fly just above rooftops where they could use their onboard searchlights like Jedi lightsabres. It was as near as a police officer could ever get to galactic warfare. Ryan was sure that it was quite a thrill for them, but that did little to help the few innocent residents who were only trying to sleep.

West Hollywood was as close as you could get to a ‘village feel’ within a city that was known for its dispassionate aloofness. WH was a melting pot of B-list actors, starving artists, displaced Russians and those who wanted to be near the west side but could really only afford the east side or the valley.

Ryan and Kris fell into the latter category. They were willing to put up with the foibles of living in ground zero of L.A.’s non-stop party zone, just to be able to walk to the stores and know their proprietors by name. You had to be prepared to not notice things like the S and M store at the end of their street. If you didn’t want to see the men’s metal-studded leather ball hugger shorts in the display window then it was best not to look. It was a sadomasochistic store in the middle of boys’ town. What else would they have on sale?

When they began their search to actually buy their first home, they had started in the San Fernando Valley. It was the poor third cousin that one tried to avoid, yet which always seemed to embarrass everyone at family gatherings. The valley was hotter in the summer, colder in the winter and, despite its two hundred and sixty square miles of eligible space, couldn’t seem to muster any charm if its life depended on it.

They looked at a lot of condos and found many that from the inside seemed interesting. The problem was that you may have a gorgeous eighteen-hundred-square-foot townhouse on three levels with pool, sauna, gym and parking but outside, the place looked like a Scandinavian prison, sandwiched between two neighbouring piles of stucco shit. Plus, no matter how much you pretended you weren’t, you were still in ‘the valley’.

They decided that though they could get a hell of a lot more for their money, the place would undoubtedly wear them down to raw angry nubs in no time. They ultimately concluded what they’d always feared. They were west-siders and therefore needed to live on the west side. They knew it was going to be tough with most of the nice areas being way out of their price range but they felt that if they were willing to halve the square footage, maybe they could find something they could just about afford.

They girded their loins and restarted the search, this time in West Hollywood. The ‘eastern’ part of West Hollywood. They saw some real dogs. Awful buildings, right on Fountain with its 24/7 speedway traffic; nasty square hovels that they could only afford if they made serious cutbacks in their living expenses.

After a few weeks, the valley was starting to look a little better which showed how dire the selection was on the other side of the hill. Then, thankfully, serendipity took over.

They decided to drown their sorrows in a couple of pitchers of margaritas at Marix Tex Mex. It was an explosion of south-of-the-border fine food and gayness, all squeezed into a tented extension on a residential side street off Santa Monica Blvd.

Ninety minutes later, they stumbled out of the canvas doorway and headed to their rental apartment three blocks away. They decided to go the long way and walk up to Fountain then drop back down Havenhurst. A couple of hundred yards from the main road they saw a small for-sale sign that was leaning to one side and was partially covered by an unkempt hedge. All they could make out was a gravel driveway that snuck between a faded mint-green apartment building and a Pepto Bismol pink modern condo conversion. They had walked that road a hundred times and had never once noticed the mystery driveway to nowhere.

Ryan took a picture of the sign and then continued up the hill.

The next morning neither had any memory of the driveway or the picture. It wasn’t until Ryan was about to access one of his music playlists for the drive to work that he saw the photo of the sign.

As soon as he got to his office in Burbank, he called the number.

Kris met him at the property at 5 pm. It was the latest appointment they could get with the real estate agent. They left their cars on the street and walked up the driveway. They were stunned to find that hidden behind the other buildings was a wooden-cladded, side by side duplex. Massive ficus trees almost completely enveloped the building, shielding it from the torture of the ferocious L.A. summer sun. It felt as if they were in another world. Even the constant barrage of the city’s aural soundtrack seemed to be muted.

The real estate agent was waiting by one of the two front doors. The available unit comprised the entire left side of the structure. Outside, the three-story building looked like a cross between a treehouse and a Frank Lloyd Wright wannabe. Windows were exaggeratedly long. Terraces jutted out randomly between non-matching roof slopes.

Ryan turned to Kris to make a comment and saw that she was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

The real estate agent, a Russian ex-pat with dyed hair the colour of carrots, nodded at the pair as if understanding their interest.

Before we go in, she said in a heavily accented voice, I must again warn you that the reason this is priced so low is not the outside. The inside is the problem. It was the developer’s unit and he designed for his taste with no thought about a re-sale.

Understood, Kris said.

The real estate agent studied their expressions with a knowing look. She’d had too many showings where the people fell for the exterior only to be emotionally crushed when they saw what was inside.

She retrieved the keys from her Gucci knock-off, and, after a number of false starts, unlocked the hammered copper door. She gestured for the couple to step inside.

The moment they stepped across the threshold, they could see that the townhouse was indeed going need a lot of design TLC. The entry hall had black marble flooring and a twenty-foot-high ceiling. A multi-coloured blown glass chandelier hung from what looked like an eight-foot length of unpolished anchor chain.

Directly ahead of them was a metal staircase with upright chrome stanchions supporting a bright red velvet rope bannister. On the right was the living room. It had a fifteen-foot ceiling and one entire wall consisted of nothing but mirror. Not mirror tiles. This was something else entirely. Somehow, the owner had mounted three five-by-fifteen-foot mirrors onto the wall and had joined them in such a way that the seam between them was almost invisible.

Though not exactly a big room, giant windows, massive palms and the mirror made it seem huge. The floor was definitely an acquired taste. It was made up entirely of tiny, high gloss black and red mosaic tiles. The effect was spectacular, though a little wild for a home. A very expensive-looking cream leather sectional took up most of the room.

The rest of the townhouse was just as dramatic and eclectically decorated.

Even the master bedroom was almost beyond hope. The floor was made up of black and white twelve-inch tiles laid in a checkerboard pattern. The walls were papered in black and white vertical striped wallpaper that aligned perfectly with the tiles that bordered it. The effect was almost dizzying yet somehow worked in an Alice in Wonderland way. Above the bed was a six-foot square glass skylight. Across from this was a single framed piece of art. It was a charcoal sketch of a Native American profile. The man was older. His features were sharply angular. His mouth looked severe yet the longer they looked, the more it seemed to be about to form into a smile.

This is beautiful, Kris mentioned, gesturing to the drawing. Do you know the history?

The real estate agent gave it a quick glance and frowned. I’ve never seen it before but the house is for sale furnished or unfurnished so if you want it, it might be negotiable.

No thanks, Kris replied. I was just curious.

Not a word was said until they walked back downstairs and reached the entrance hallway. The real estate agent then looked at them with an apologetic expression.

I warned you, she said. Not to everyone’s taste. I shouldn’t really say anything but the owner was a homosexual. As if that explained everything about the house.

Ryan was keeping his face dead-pan waiting to hear Kris’s opinion. She looked over at him and he saw that her eyes had misted over.

I’m sorry, babe, Ryan said.

Are you kidding? she exclaimed. I love it!

Chapter 3

It took them almost a year to get the townhouse to where it felt like it was theirs. They had no budget for any major projects so decided to live with the expensive but ‘unusual’ décor. However, they did soften some of it’s ‘uniqueness’ by adding stabilizing ingredients into the mix.

There was nothing they could do about the world’s biggest mirror in the living room so that made for an easy choice. The mosaic floor, though stunningly beautiful, was just too overpowering. The problem was that there was simply too much of it on show. In a retro moment, Kris found a huge second-hand sheepskin rug at the weekly Fairfax swap meet. They placed it dead centre in the living room, leaving about an eighteen-inch border of mosaic showing. Somehow, the bland beige of the rug toned down the frenetic design of the flooring to the point where it actually looked amazing.

Ryan had thought that the master was going to be the biggest problem, but Kris again found the perfect solution. They painted the striped wall a light matte grey and found some colourful paintings (swap meet again) to bring the room together. Once the stripes were gone, the checkerboard floor looked rather nice.

They loved their new home. There was no doubt that it was unusual. It would never be marketed as ‘the perfect family house’ but they didn’t care. They had done the impossible. They had found a westside home that they could afford to live in and could even imagine never moving from again.

Then Ryan got the email.

Dear Ryan,

Please let me introduce myself. My name is John Shaw. I am the CEO of For Paws Animal Society. I would hope that you have heard of us, but if not, please check out the FPAS website at FPAS.org

I recently ran into a copy of your novel, ‘Paws for Concern’ and was quite frankly moved by your writing. I am usually not a fan of an anthropomorphic narrative but your story managed to weave a subliminal message about the plight of homeless pets in such a way as to be instructional while still focussing on the charm of the story itself.

We would love for you and your wife to visit us at your convenience. I would be honoured to personally arrange for you to have a tour of our Utah animal sanctuary while also discussing the possibility of us being able to harness your gift of wordsmithing for the benefit of our charity.

I hope that you will accept my invitation so that together, we may help FPAS reach its ultimate goal of finding homes for all our homeless friends.

I have copied in my assistant Emily who will make all the necessary arrangements for your visit.

Sincerely,

John

Kris laughed when she finished reading it.

What’s so funny? Ryan gave her a stink-eye look. You heard the man. I’m a wordsmith.

They want a donation, that’s all, she replied. It’s a chain email. They probably sent out millions of them.

Addressed to me, and mentioning the name of my book?

That’s a good point, she acquiesced. It proves that someone must have read it.

Ryan gave her a fake grimace of amusement. He couldn’t really argue the point with her. His one and only foray into the world of novel writing had produced a four-hundred-page epic whose main character was a cat named Pumpkin. The tiny publishing house had run an initial pressing of two thousand copies. The last time he’d checked, they still had more than two-thirds of those held in storage. He’d received an email from the publisher a few weeks earlier saying that if in the next six months, that volume didn’t diminish, Ryan would have to decide whether to take possession of the books, pay for storage himself or donate them to some charity.

Ryan typed FPAS into Google. He scrolled past references for some UK medical program, then found the site he was looking for. He opened it as Kris snuggled against him so they could both see. The home page background was of Southern Utah’s dramatic red cliffs.

They read everything they could on the website and were surprised to see that the charity was very well known and that the sanctuary was immense. It took up an entire canyon and housed over three thousand animals. Most were dogs and cats but there was a rabbit annexe as well as a specialised area for injured local wild animals such as foxes, racoons and even skunks.

It was spread across over twelve hundred acres and all the buildings had been designed to blend into the landscape. The photos of the sanctuary and the surrounding terrain were stunning.

Ryan turned to Kris. What do you think?

What do I think about what?

Do you want to go? he smiled.

It looks like it’s in the middle of nowhere, she voiced with mild concern.

"I know. That’s the great part about going there. The nearest town is ten miles away and has a few hotels and restaurants. We could do a