Sam just waved and kept walking.
"Man. I really want french fries now, and didn't somebody say something about a keg? I'm getting mighty thirsty."
"We can't drink if we're going to be on the road."
"No. You can't drink if we're going to be on the road. I will be in the passenger seat, and a good buzz might just help the time pass by. It's a long ass ride."
"Maybe one or two beers won't hurt."
Chapter 6
"Dude. Wake up. You're drooling on me." Sam heard Shells say, but the fog in her brain prevented comprehension. Everything seemed to be moving. "Seriously. Aw, man. C'mon."
Just then Sam managed to pull herself up and wiped the drool from the side of her mouth and face. "Sorry," she managed to say. When she looked down and saw duct tape again, she just moaned. When would she ever learn?
Others slept on the floor, and it looked as if the sun was only just rising. Sam walked over the people who either slept soundly or were passed out on the floor. Shells moved more quickly and ducked into the bathroom. She emerged a moment later shaking her head. "There's someone passed out in the bath tub."
"Male or female?"
"No idea. Who can tell these days," Shells said.
Sam did what she could to freshen up in the poorly stocked bathroom, and tried to ignore the snoring figure in the bathtub. She couldn't tell if they were male or female either, and decided it really didn't matter.
Dew lay heavy on the cars in the horseshoe driveway, and Sam grimaced when she saw a car parked behind her, blocking her in. The parking arrangement was less than ideal, and Sam didn't relish the idea of waking up everyone in the house to see whose car it was.
"Is it locked?" Shells asked as they moved closer, and she peered into the windows. "Damn. Locked."
"You two are up early," came a deep voice from behind, and Sam turned to see a guy they called Oak, because he was as big around as a tree and tough as hardwood.
"We need to get on the road," Sam said. "Headed south today."
"I heard that. You hunting ghosts and all that?"
"Yeah," Sam said, never knowing who would laugh at her and who would wish they could join her. Oak turned out to be one of the latter. "That must be cool. I hope you find something. I've seen some shit." He said the last part as a whisper only for Sam's ears, and she could understand. It wasn't the kind of thing you wanted everyone to know about you, or they might start calling you things like ghost girl. "Looks like you're blocked in. You want me to move that car for you?"
"You know whose car it is?" Shells asked.
"No," Oak said. "But I can move it."
"Sweet." Shells said. "I'll help."
Sam watched in silent amazement as the two of them lifted the front of the car and moved it into the grass beside the driveway. Then they did the same for the rear end. Once more on the front and rear and there was enough room for Sam to squeak by.
"Thanks, Oak." Sam said after shutting her car door and rolling down the window.
"No problem. Peace … and good luck."
The Camaro's exhaust echoed off the side of the house and the neighboring house. It sounded healthy and there were no leaks, but she bet it had woken at least of few of those inside. Down back roads, some barely wide enough for two cars to pass side by side, and not another car to be seen, Sam soaked in the familiarity and the feeling of knowing exactly where she was and exactly how to get where ever she wanted to go. All that would be behind her soon.
"I need food," Shells complained. "What are we going to pass on the way?"
"Not much," Sam said. "I'm taking the scenic route, but we'll pass the truck stop before we get to the bridge."
"No way, man. I need something that's not gonna come flying back out of both ends."
Sam couldn't argue.
In the end, they stopped at another WaWa not far from the bridge.
"Condoms and whipped cream?" Shells asked.
"Don't forget the batteries and duct tape."
This stop was otherwise uneventful, though Sam really felt that both of them were stalling, not wanting to take that first step on a new journey. After they finished eating, Sam fired up the Camaro, and with The Steve Miller Band Fly like an Eagle entirely too loud, she worked her way to the Delaware Memorial Bridge. Dual olive green spans crossed the Delaware River, and it stood like the gateway to the rest of the world. Whenever Sam crossed over the spans, she felt as if she were leaving the security of home. And, as she always did, she gave a silent nod in memory of Buddy, her friend who had died on that bridge. The thoughts were painful, and the memories evoked were often unpleasant; it grated against Sam's already raw feelings. For years she had wanted to communicate with those she'd lost and had no success, yet perfect strangers were reaching out to her from beyond the grave.
"You all right?" Shells asked after turning down the music.
Shaking herself from the melancholy she'd been feeling, Sam turned a somewhat sad smile to Shells. "Yeah. I'm all right."
"Some things never really stop hurting," Shells said. "I get that."
Uneasy silence hung between them for a moment until they approached the toll. "Three dollars? Unbelievable. Three friggen' dollars to cross a bridge. I mean, what the hell? Let's create a traffic jam and make people pay us to get out of it."
Sam had heard all this before and didn't bother to enter the conversation.
"I mean, it's not like they're not going to stop us in like five miles and ask for five more bucks, and then stop us again and ask for six more bucks. What the hell! That's like twelve bucks to drive twenty miles. I mean, shit, man. Do you know what that is in cheese? That's a friggen' fortune!"
Cracking a smile, Sam handed the toll taker a twenty and waited for her change.
"Have a nice day," he said when he handed it to her.
"Thanks. You too."
"What the hell?" Shells asked while Sam looked left and right to see if anyone was going to race her to the merger. She wanted to be in the left lane, and needed to move over a couple lanes; the way was clear. "Why do you thank the people who cause the traffic jam and ask for your money?"
"It's not that guy's fault," Sam said. "How would you like to stand in a box in the middle of a highway and have people blow exhaust in your face all day; and I doubt he's getting rich doing it."
"I remember when it cost seventy-five cents to cross that bridge and you could just throw some change in the bin and go. That rocked."
Sam remembered it as well; her first time through she had missed the bucket with the last of her change, and she'd had to get out and find the missing quarter. She remembered very clearly the man in the Corvette behind her giving her the finger. Ah, the good 'ol days.
"We're just a couple toll booths away from being in the south baby!" Shells said. "I'm gonna say y'all and howdy, and I'm gonna have me some biscuits and grits and shit. This is gonna rock, yo."
Sam had to agree. She had always wanted to explore the south more than just driving down I-95 on the way to Disney World. From Sam's memory the air was always warmer and things smelled different. There was an ethereal quality to the memory, as that had been a long time ago, and the memories of her childhood were hazy. She saw that all the magic and mystery of her childhood had only been a matter of perspective, and in her adult years she discovered how ordinary and uninteresting all of those memories really had been.
Each tollbooth brought a new litany from Shells, but manning the radio kept her busy most of the time. If she wasn't looking for tunes, she was rocking out to whatever it was she found. Soon the beltway gave way to smaller highways, and Shells became the navigator as they moved into unfamiliar territory, the road narrowing down to two lanes.
The road took them along a ravine and over a bridge that spanned a sprawling river with massive sections of rolling white water. The waves were not violent, but appeared to be enough to provide an enjoyable ride, as the water was filled with rafts, tubes, and kayaks. Smiling vacationers walked up paved
walkways that lined the road, and Shells eyed the crowd. "Nice ass!" she yelled to a girl in a skimpy bikini, and Sam had to agree. The girl obviously didn't mind, since she gave it a little shake for their benefit. Shells gave a triumphant shout. "This trip rocks, girlfriend."
There was a festive feel in the air, and it raised Sam's spirits. Something about seeing people enjoying themselves and being stress free reminded Sam of easier times; times when she would never have believed that there would be darkness in her life, but darkness there had been. Unwilling to feel sorry for herself, Sam looked over to Shells. "What about some tunes, maestro?"
"As you command, my liege. I give up on the radio, though," Shells said. And, after popping a contraption into Sam's tape deck, she hooked the other end to her smartphone, and did some things that might as well have been magic to Sam. The end result was Whitesnake's Here I Go Again cranked up loud. Mountain valleys gave way to rolling farmland and eventually dropped them onto I-81 southbound. It was a beautiful ride with mountain views in the distance. The setting sun cast the world in reds and blues, and the threat of rain cast a greenish hue as well. The sun still shown through gaps in back clouds and part of a rainbow could be seen springing from the menacing clouds, disappearing into a craggy but green-coated valley.
Shells danced in her seat, and Sam looked over with a smile, but then her attention was called back to the roadway. Smoke rolled off the tires of an eighteen-wheeler up ahead, and the moving truck along side it weaved back and forth; the two nearly touched, and Sam's heart leapt to her throat. One glance at the speedometer showed that they were still doing seventy miles per hour, and the front end shook as Sam slowed, all the while watching her rearview mirror and hoping the truck behind her would stop as quickly as she did. A terrible sound assaulted Sam's hearing; smoke and bits of debris filled the air. The moving van stopped far too abruptly; its back tires almost leaving the roadway as it was jacked into the air by the impact.
Jerking left and cutting off another tractor-trailer, whose driver was now laying on the horn, Sam looked for a clear route. The right lane was completely blocked and when her eyes returned to the center of the left lane, she panicked. Before her disbelieving eyes stood a little girl, no more than six or seven years old. She looked at Sam and her eyes begged for reassurance. Though she had no children, Sam felt a maternal pull. It all happened in a fraction of an instant, and her foot jumped hard on the brake. The ululating cry of her tires rose over the continued sound of twisting and grinding metal.
"What the hell are you doing?" Shells shrieked. "Go, dude, go. Now. Go, go, go!"
A glance at her mirror showed a chrome hammer heading straight for them, still at speed. The driver of the truck laid on the horn, and the bark of his tires was far deeper than the scream of hers had been. Grabbing a gear and dropping the clutch, Sam slammed Shells back into the seat and kept her there until they were clear of the wreck and could pull into the right lane and out of the way of the truck, which was just now starting to show signs of slowing. Sam could not blame the driver, there were flames pouring from his brakes. It takes a lot to slow down that much weight moving at that kind of speed.
"Oh, shit. Shit. What just happened back there?"
"Somebody just died."
"What? What the hell are you talking about?"
"A little girl just died," Sam said, her eyes tearing. All of her life she had hated death. It was something that had been a problem for her in her years on the force. Sam had always wanted to save them all, to make everything OK, and she couldn't do that. The world, reality, wouldn't allow her to do that, and the rest of her life seemed like a quest to find a way to save others from the pain, to keep others from having to feel what she had felt.
Getting out of the car, Sam could hear the screams. Quicker than she would have imagined, sirens could be heard approaching from both directions. Sam kept moving toward a tractor-trailer that was now almost on its side, laying at an angle, partly propped up by the guardrail, and partly propped up by, Sam now saw, a silver minivan. Two canoes lay across the roadway, the trailer that had held them almost completely crushed under the tractor-trailer. Sam felt frozen, and Shells stood silent behind her, but training kicked in, and Sam looked for ways to help survivors and ways to stabilize the situation.
Soon though, EMS arrived and urged everyone else to go back to their cars. Feeling more than useless, Sam walked back to the car in a state of shock. What was happening to her, how could she continue to live like this? She had almost made it worse. She had almost added her name and Shells' to the list of those who died that day.
"Did you see what happened," a police officer asked when they got back to the car.
"No," Sam said. "It all happened in front of us, and we were just lucky to miss the tail end of it."
"Any damage or injuries?"
"No, sir."
"You may go. Drive carefully and buckle up."
"Yes, sir."
Not much was said for a while, and they had the highway to themselves.
"I'm here for you, dude," Shells said after a while. "I know you've got some serious shit going on, and I'm here for you."
Sam didn't say anything.
"Do you think, maybe, I should drive?" Shells asked, her voice betraying her hesitancy to ask the question.
"I'm not crazy," Sam said with too much conviction, as if it was herself that needed the most convincing, and she admitted that perhaps it was. What else was she supposed to think?
"I know," Shells said, her hands raised in a defensive posture. "I was just checking."
"Yeah, I know," Sam said. "Maybe we should call it an early night and just stop at the next hotel we see."
"Yeah, a good night sleep sounds like just the thing," Shells said, though Sam wasn't convinced.
Ahead the lights of a roadside hotel could be seen, and Sam put on her turn signal, hoping things would look better in the light of a new day.
* * *
Blue skies and a half-stale danish made for a cheerful morning, and Sam had to admit that she felt better than she had in weeks. Waking up without the taste of beer on her breath was refreshing, and she thought she might have to try it more often. The bright light still hurt her eyes, and she donned her shades. Jean shorts and a shirt that showed off her midriff, even made her feel like she was on vacation. The events of the day before seeming like a bad dream, and those thoughts were chased away by sunshine and rock and roll. The Eagle's sang Seven Bridges Road, and Sam sang along, with Shells bringing the harmony. From beside her, Shells pulled out the newspaper that had been lying in front of their hotel room door, folded in half. The white lines whisked by in a constant procession, and Sam noticed that Shells had grown very quiet and had gone still.
"What's going on over there," she asked when her curiosity would no longer allow her to wait.
Shells stayed quiet for a couple moments longer, and when she did speak, her voice was low and conveyed an undercurrent of worry. "That little girl you saw yesterday," Shells said, and Sam stiffened. "What did she look like?"
Sam sniffed but kept her eyes straight ahead, watching the road, just as she had been when she saw the little girl. "She's just a tiny little thing," she said without actually intending to. "Brown hair cut short. Like a bowl cut. Glasses. Plastic. Thick rims." The details kept coming, and Shells looked like she might be sick. "What is it?"
"Maybe you should pull over first," Shells said.
"Seriously? What is it?"
Shells handed her the paper, despite that fact that Sam hadn't pulled over; the front page showed a picture of the wreckage she'd seen the day before. The caption read, 'Family on vacation loses daughter to highway accident.' Next to the wreckage was another picture; it looked like a school picture. The girl was smiling, and it felt like someone was stabbing Sam in the chest. It was so unfair. How could someone with so much light in their eyes be taken from this world too soon and in such a horrible way? Sam felt grief on behalf of the girl's family, unable to im
agine how great their pain must be, but she also felt sorry for herself. Why would these spirits show themselves to her? She could do nothing for them. She was powerless, just an observer, and certainly in no way capable of reversing the course of events that ended their lives, so what then was the purpose for all of this? There were no easy answers, and Sam wiped the tears from her eyes after handing the paper back to Shells.
"I don't know what's going on, dude, but I'm going to do something I thought I'd never do; I'm going to agree with your Aunt Julie. You need to go see a psychic, and a good one at that. Damn, girl. What the hell is going on with you? This is some pretty twisted ass shit."
"I don't know what's going on, but I sure as hell plan to find out," Sam said. Shells made no response. Between them the silence held for some time, and Sam wondered if she would ever find the answers she sought.
* * *
At a construction site, Greg stood baking in the South Jersey sun, the humidity keeping him constantly coated in a glaze of sweat, which seemed to draw the dust so that he went home each night coated in black. The blisters on his hands were starting to harden into calluses, but nowhere near fast enough.
"Helms," came the voice of Greg's coworker Jim, who seemed to think his purpose was to make sure Greg did all of the work assigned to the two of them, while he stood around and ran his ugly flap about things that meant absolutely nothing to Greg. All he wanted was to be back on the force and back in his old routine. Being on the police force had required a great deal from him, and there were certainly parts of the job he didn't miss, but this construction job reminded him just how hard things could be, and he wanted out. Fast.
"What is it, Jim?"
"Boss says you're to carry those rolls of tarpaper to the front of the site and stack them near where the roofers will be staging."
"And what are you supposed to do? Watch?"
"How'd you guess?" Jim said, and he even lit a cigar and sat his lazy ass on one of the stacks of rolled tarpaper.
"How about you kiss my ass, Jim?"
Lure Page 7
