Red LbNA # 19935 (ARCHIVED)
|Placed Date||Jan 9 2006|
***NOTE THIS BOX IS MISSING! I will recreate the box soon, possibly in a new location.****
Kyle Fincher’s eyes snapped open. The sun was directly overhead, and it burned off the top layer of his cornea. He brought his sleeve to eyes, and rubbed them to comfort. He lay flat on his back, and he realized the small of his back was extremely sore, as if a knot the size of his fist was embedded in his spine. Slowly, he sat up and looked at the warm spot of pine needles where his frame previously sat. There was a smooth rock; semi covered by dirt and Douglas fir needles. “That explains it” Fincher thought to himself. His teeth them began to chatter. Even though it must have been high noon, it felt like it must have been just above freezing. He wasn’t wearing much, just a beat up old pair of jeans, some old off white Adidas, and a long sleeved Colorado shirt, his alma mater. He scratched the 3-day growth on his somewhat chubby face. Looking down on his right hand, he couldn’t believe how filthy with dirt and oil it was. “What is going on?” he thought, somewhat panicked. He began to rub his rough, scaly hands together, as they were fairly clammy. Then he noticed something. Looking at his hands, he saw that the inner part of his left hand was discolored. Pulling his left hand from his right, and twisting his wrist towards his face, his mind began to race. His entire left hand palm was bright red. He rubbed it a little, as if to rub ballpoint ink off. Except that nothing happened. Kyle spit a good quarter sized blob of saliva on his left hand, right in the middle of all that red. He then rubbed furiously, to no avail. Frustrated, he swabbed both his hand on his ragged and stained jeans.
Kyle then just sat there. He put his hands on his temples, with his fingers strung through his thick, black, and dirt filled hair. “What happened after that?” Kyle was referring to the Green Briar restaurant, where he worked. The restaurant was just north of Boulder, where he went to school on the intersection of North Foothills Highway (which is the same road as Broadway in Boulder), and Lefthand Canyon Drive. He worked the weekend shift as a kitchen manager. Kyle was recently feeling lost with his life, even though he just graduated with a geology degree three years ago. Last Friday was the last thing he remembered. He was chatting with the kitchen staff during a loll period of the night, just after everyone ordered desert. He and the two cooks were outside, grabbing a fresh breath of air. He was dreading going back in to begin the clean up process. He and the cooks chatted about nothing, what their plans for Sunday were. After about 15 minutes, the cooks got cold, and went inside. He wanted to stall for just a few more minutes, so he told them he would help them out with the dishes in a bit. Looking around, he took a deep breath in. It was a crisp night, but very clear and calm. Then, an old Ford Bronco roared around the corner of the building. The jacked up 4x4 kicked up a dust storm coming hard and fast in the dirt back lot. Kyle just starred at the truck as two men got out, and walked quickly towards him.
“Can I help you two?” Kyle said to the driver of the mysterious truck.
“Are you Kyle Fincher?” the man that appeared from the passenger side said. Both men were wearing hunting gear fatigues, except something didn’t look right.
“Yes, what’s this all ab…” were the last words Kyle remembers saying. The driver had somehow produced a dart gun and fired off a shot into Kyle’s inner right thigh.
Kyle sat in woods, shaking his head at his recollection. He was on the east side of large pile of rocks, facing the sun. Just to his left was a steep hill going to a small creek. From where he sat, he could see a two-lane paved road. Kyle stood up, his right leg felt like an old rubber band being stretched for the first time in years. “Damn that guy with his dart gun” Kyle grumbled to himself.
“I have to remember what happened after that!” Kyle thought. He closed his eyes and felt a slight breezed go through his shirt.
He then began to remember his car ride. It was still dark out, and Kyle sat in the back of that old Bronco. His face was pressed against the right side window, and he saw through the darkness a sign. It read Heil Ranch. Kyle then closed his eyes again; his eyelids were too heavy to keep open.
About 4.8 miles from the Green Briar, the Bronco suddenly jerked to a halt. He noticed he was on the left (east side of the road) in a dirt parking lot.
Kyle then opened his eyes again, he was mind was back in the present. He looked around, and looked more closely at the large grouping of rocks, and noticed something intriguing. On the rock, just about 5 feet from the ground, was an asterisk on the face of a rock. The symbol looked to have been etched in by a small rock, definitely man made. It was odd, though, the symbol was fairly difficult to distinguish. Then, just above the marking was a pile of rocks. “Looks intentional,” he muttered to himself. He climbed up the rocky outcropping, moved some of the rocks piled up and found small, plastic box. The box had a red lid. “What’s this?” Kyle questioned. He gingerly walked over to the box, careful with his footing, as the rock face was somewhat steep. Kyle brought the box with him and pealed the lid off. Inside the box was a notebook, a rubber stamp, and a small trinket. He opened the notebook, and began to flip through it. “Empty!” he thought. Just then, he could hear a grumbling coming up the road. He heard a car park nearby and people getting out! He followed the dirt path back to the dirt parking lot, and counted off about 100 paces to the trailhead. “Now what?!” Kyle thought.
NOTE TO FINDER:
This letterbox on a fairly steep rock outcropping. I suggest careful maneuvering when finding the box.
If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask me.