Ghost Reaper Episode 1
Page 2
It didn't explain him being able to leap tall buildings with a single bound.
Failed to account for why this uphill trek seemed to not affect him.
And was completely at a loss to help him understand how great he was feeling.
"I feel freaking great," he shouted.
The sound of his voice fell hollow on his ears. It lacked depth, resonance; felt almost as if he had only whispered. He shouted out again. The same flat tone failed to impress his inner ear. Expressionless, without power. Again, freaking weird.
The rock in his hand didn't feel heavy, just awkward.
To the rear an engine hummed. A car appeared from the bend behind him — a BMW convertible racing up the incline as effortless as he was.
Only faster.
He moved to the center of the road, the rock in his hand ready.
This one will stop!
The car loomed larger, engine hum louder.
I'm not moving!
Chad could make out the driver and someone in the passenger seat. He raised the hand that held the rock, held the other out signaling the driver to stop.
Close, getting close. No sign of stopping.
With a grunt he hurled the rock-holding hand forward. The rock seemed to slip through his hand, falling to the ground beside him.
The grille of the BMW roared at him, teeth flashing.
He dived to the left, but not enough to clear the fender of the raging auto.
It spun him like a top, more than 30 feet and against the sharp cut granite walls.
The BMW disappeared around the curve.
Chapter 3
Chad got up and dusted himself off. No obvious injuries, no pain.
"I really would have like to have seen my horoscope for this weekend," he muttered.
Twice he had escaped death, on the other hand, there appeared to be only assholes on the road. It was as if they didn't even see him. He attempted to pick up the rock he had dropped on the road. His fingers closed around it, but couldn't grasp it securely enough to pick it up. Getting bad, he worried. Some brain injury seemed the only possible explanation. He planted his feet towards the bend ahead and resumed his journey. Someone would stop, or he would throw himself under their tires.
No one did. An hour and a half of walking at a pretty good clip, not a single car passed, just a brisk breeze and buzzards circling above. He wondered what unfortunate creature had captured their attention. An eerie feeling crept into some distant cache of his psyche. Foreboding currents of mysterious dread had stalked him since the accident.
Wonder why? It wasn’t like you nearly got ground to hamburger meat and charbroiled.
Another curve bit the dust and relief flooded out the gloom. Ahead, a hundred yards or so, a shack in every sense the word conveys, stood carved out of the woods. One car parked on the side, and a flashing neon sign with several missing lights gave Chad hope that Charley’s Grill was open.
The door was scarred and showed layers of all its previous paint jobs. Chad grabbed the doorknob but failed to turn it. A second, harder attempt yielded little movement. A deep breath and maximum effort and the knob turned.
The door wouldn't open.
He put his shoulder to it and pushed.
Now he was on the other side of the door. It was still closed and Chad wasn't sure if he had opened or closed it.
The inside looked much like the door. Scarred grease dulled paneling skirted the diner's perimeter walls. Six booths flanked the door, with three tables covered with red-checkered tablecloths filling the space between them and the counter. A man sat there with a newspaper spread out in front of him. He had looked up briefly when Chad entered, but returned his focus to the newspaper.
"How you doing?"
The man didn't respond, he picked up the last piece of bacon from the plate in front of him, and put it in his mouth whole. Chad walked across the room and sat on a stool next to him. He leaned close to the guy, seeing his jaw muscles work on the morsel he'd stuffed in his mouth. A swallow, a grunt, a swipe across his mouth with the back of his hand, followed by wiping that hand on a stained apron that might once have been white.
"Sir...excuse me."
Nothing. It was as if he wasn't in the room.
Chad clutched his shoulder and shouted. "EXCUSE ME!"
No effect. The chill he had been feeling intensified.
The door busted open. The dude turned, and then lurched from his stool, sending the plate crashing to the floor. He raised his hands, backing up along the counter until he bumped into the next stool.
"What do you want?" the man said. His stare towards the door, gray eyes wide with fear. Chad followed them.
They were both looking at the business end of a sawed of 12 gauge. Holding it was a young man, maybe a man, maybe a teenager, not important, what he was pointing in their direction demanded respect.
"Money...all of it." the kid spoke, matter of fact like, no emotion, no negotiating, simple like his weapon.
Really, Chad thought, really? When would it end? How much was enough? Maybe it was his time. Maybe he had cheated death and death was determined to have him. He tried to look at the kid’s eyes, find some measure of mercy, but his eyes were drawn back to that black ominous piece of steel.
The kid waved it towards the cash register. "Now...fast."
The man moved towards the machine, his legs faltering, threatening collapse with each step. He raised a hinged part of the countertop and stepped behind the cash register.
The kid stepped forward, raising the shotgun. "Open it," he demanded.
What happened next was a blur. Chad thought he glimpsed a handgun in the man's hand. What he was sure of was the blast of the shotgun, the explosion in the man's chest, and the certainty that he was about to die.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Drew Adams has been writing suspense thrillers with paranormal edges in some form since childhood. A variety of careers from driving 18 wheelers across America to 12 years patrolling the corridors of Texas prisons tempered by his current profession taking care of the ill as a registered nurse leads him to his latest frontier: Storytelling. He lives in Texas with Trina, his wife of 42 years and his dog Petey.
Follow him on Twitter @drewadamsauthor and on Facebook.