Lot's Homestead

Lot's Homestead was Grayson's El Dorado.

He first heard stories of the lost Gold Rush mining town while taking oral histories from descendants of forty-niners. The town was so debauched that it was said God himself made the earth swallow it up, then cursed every road leading to it so that its evil would never touch mankind again.

Grayson decided to find Lot's Homestead. Armed with incomplete maps, transcripts of unconfirmed sightings, and a paltry grant, Grayson left the university with hope in his heart, rickety surveying tools, and an unsuspecting graduate student in the passenger seat.

That's where I come in. I was the graduate student stupid enough to sign up for this.

We bounced through smaller and smaller towns, each one farther away from modern civilization until even the people starting looking as if they were preparing to pose for Dorothea Lange. Finally, one farmer in a shack at the end of what could nicely be called a dirt path mumbled about some tracks “that a ways.”

It took us a day to find what Grayson claimed were wagon ruts. We camped on ant nests and woke to heavy, leaden skies. Grayson skipped ahead as fat raindrops darkened his poncho. I hung back, lugging the surveying equipment and trying not to scratch my ant bites. I mentally drafted a letter to my father, begging him to take into his insurance agency.

I looked up when I heard Grayson scream. Dropping the tripod in the mud, I skidded down to where he lay, clutching his ankle. I demanded that we turn back.

“No, this isn't over yet,” Grayson insisted. “We're on the right path. The curse is obviously at work!”

Selling insurance has been good to me.

And Grayson? I hear he hasn't found his El Dorado yet.

Word Count: 300