[This is the second part of my serialized series of short stories. To start at the beginning of this series, read "The Road Trip-Part 1."]
With a full load of vegetables and canned preserves, Jeb and Myra pulled out of their drive and started their journey to the north in their old Chevy pickup truck.
"How should we go?" Jeb asked.
"If we take the highway," Myra replied. "We'll get their faster."
"If we take 41," Jeb said. "We'll have more options if something happens and we can stop in some of the little general stores on the way up."
"Then 41 is definitely the way to go."
Driving gently, Jeb piloted the '53 Chevy across the nearby interstate overpass and hung a left to head north on Highway 41. In this part of Georgia, it was merely a well-maintained and striped two-lane road. Soon the truck was clicking along at a steady fifty miles per hour through rural Georgia on its trek to market. Farm fields, an occasional house, and small stands of pines broke the monotony. It wouldn't be a long trip and it was a familiar route, but Myra sat mesmerized looking at the arrow straight road and the endless ribbon of railroad tracks to their right.
After a few minutes, Jeb started squinting and looking far down the blacktop. A little ways ahead, a bearded man in an open blue denim shirt and jeans stood in the middle of the road.
"Is that...what is that guy doing in the road?" he asked as he started to slow the truck.
"I don't know," Myra replied. "Do you think he needs help?"
"I reckon we'll see what he wants," said as he pushed in the clutch and brought the truck to a stop alongside the man who stood alone in the opposite traffic lane.
"Hey fella," Jeb hollered in a friendly but booming voice. "Do ya need any help?"
The man turned revealing a two gaping chest wounds and a bloodly torn up ear. A streak of dried reddish-brown blood soaked his denim work shirt, the tee shirt he wore underneath, and his pants all the way to the ground. Jeb recoiled and practically jumped to the middle of the bench seat. Even the old truck jumped as the Jeb inadvertently popped the clutch. In its top gear, third, the old truck lurched ahead about 30-feet and completely stalled.
As Jeb regained his seat, he could hear the dead man moan and see him growing larger in the rear view mirror. His revolver was pinned awkwardly to his hip by the lap belt his kids had lovingly had installed. His only choice was to start the truck.
"Then 41 is definitely the way to go."
Driving gently, Jeb piloted the '53 Chevy across the nearby interstate overpass and hung a left to head north on Highway 41. In this part of Georgia, it was merely a well-maintained and striped two-lane road. Soon the truck was clicking along at a steady fifty miles per hour through rural Georgia on its trek to market. Farm fields, an occasional house, and small stands of pines broke the monotony. It wouldn't be a long trip and it was a familiar route, but Myra sat mesmerized looking at the arrow straight road and the endless ribbon of railroad tracks to their right.
 |
| US Highway 41 in South Georgia (courtesy of Google Maps) |
"Is that...what is that guy doing in the road?" he asked as he started to slow the truck.
"I don't know," Myra replied. "Do you think he needs help?"
"I reckon we'll see what he wants," said as he pushed in the clutch and brought the truck to a stop alongside the man who stood alone in the opposite traffic lane.
"Hey fella," Jeb hollered in a friendly but booming voice. "Do ya need any help?"
The man turned revealing a two gaping chest wounds and a bloodly torn up ear. A streak of dried reddish-brown blood soaked his denim work shirt, the tee shirt he wore underneath, and his pants all the way to the ground. Jeb recoiled and practically jumped to the middle of the bench seat. Even the old truck jumped as the Jeb inadvertently popped the clutch. In its top gear, third, the old truck lurched ahead about 30-feet and completely stalled.
As Jeb regained his seat, he could hear the dead man moan and see him growing larger in the rear view mirror. His revolver was pinned awkwardly to his hip by the lap belt his kids had lovingly had installed. His only choice was to start the truck.
<It looks like Jeb better get it gear or he's gonna be drooling and shuffling. Read on in the next installment - Part 3!>
No comments:
Post a Comment