Deep and Dark December

by Paul Cave

  Ben hit the brakes.

  The rig hissed in reply as compressed air leaked from pressurised pipes.

  “Jesus H Christ,” Ben proclaimed, the sight before him drawing out this blasphemous response.

  Ben’s raised voice brought Cal fully awake. The mutt looked at his owner with a somewhat perplexed look on his furry face.

  Ben turned to his small companion and shook his head in silent amazement. His attention returned to the obstruction outside.

  The bear was still stood on hind legs, snapping and snarling at the thing before it. It dropped to all fours - its front paws stomping into the wet asphalt.

  The rig had stopped – only 20 yards or so separating the two. Headlights pinned the beast against the black downwash, massive now, almost seemingly as wide as the highway itself.

  Ben could not move. Surprise had rendered him immobile. He thought for a moment, unsure what the hell to do. His hand slipped slowly off the steering wheel, and he cut the engine.

  This sudden silence seemed to confuse the bear. It snorted a couple of times, and its lips pursed in an almost comical display.

  Ben nearly laughed.

  Almost.

  The beast turned away at an angle, its flank coming into view clearly for the first time. Bones protruded from matted fur. Broken into splintered shards, ribs could be seen, glistening brightly under the glare of the headlamps.

  Ben shuddered involuntarily.

  “What the hell . . .” he whispered.

  The bear was rocking its shoulders and head side to side. And those terrible, exposed bones flashed intermittently as they came in and out of view.

  Inside the cabin, Ben felt suddenly cold. Chilled even. The bear’s sudden appearance had rocked his senses, but this behaviour, and fluid movements seemed somehow wrong.

  The thing should have been writhing in agony. Bones and all. Not out here. Upright and alert.

  The chill worked its way towards the nape of Ben’s neck, and then reached out with elongated fingers to poke icy digits of warning into his ears.

  Get the fuck out of here the warnings whispered.

  Ben nodded.

  His fingers closed around the ignition. He was just about to turn the key when a sudden noise exploded just to his side.

  Cal was up on the dashboard, heckles raised high, his tail between his legs. Another yap of aggravation burst from the mutt’s lips.

  “Cal, what the hell?” Ben hissed.

  Too late.

  The bear had focused in on the noise.

  It roared in response.

  Cal whimpered. Dropped from the dash before jumping into the rear of the cabin.

  “Great. Just fucking great,” Ben cursed aloud.

  Movement, as the bear took a step forward. Its head dropped below shoulder height, and huge paws thudded along the highway as it picked up speed.

  Trapped between indecision, Ben watched on in terrified wonder.

  The beast was barrelling towards him.

  He had a moment of thought, fear piecing together an image, a jigsaw of horrific pictures, of a highly likely and immediate future that was about to happen.

  Ben watched as the beast drove onward, huge and menacing, and unstoppable. Large paws, with razor-sharp talons reached upwards, and they crashed through the windscreen as if the glass was little more than a paper barrier.

  Those oversized claws clamped themselves around his head, eyeballs bursting outward under terrible pressure, blood spewing forth in a bright red spray, and his skull fragmented into a thousand pieces of shattered bone.

  Ben blinked and the terrible image evaporated from his mind.

  The bear was at full speed – a 1000 pound killing machine.

  Ben shut his eyes. Reached up. Prayed.

  A sudden nerve-jarring wail filled the night.

  The noise sent the bear skidding sideways. Still, its momentum carried it into the path of the rig. An almighty crunch of twisting metal sounded. The force rocked the cabin violently, and the occupants inside were thrown about.

  Ben was almost tipped from his seat. Yet he managed to hold on, one hand raised above his head, bone white knuckles bent into a tight fist.

  Ben continued to pull on the Airhorn. The shrill sound blaring out in great waves of noise. Eventually, Ben could no longer tolerate it. He released the horn, and the deafening wail died instantly.

  His ears continued to ring, sounds slowly returning to fill in once the buzzing stopped. The hollow drumming of rain beat out a constant tattoo against the cab.

  Ben chanced a look outside.

  Steam bellowed from the hood. Waves of heat carried the expelling gases upwards. The radiator was shot to hell. The smell of burnt oil filled the cabin, and a wave of heat wafted over Ben.

  Nothing moved.

  Only the constant falling of rain marred the view beyond the hissing hood.

  Darkness and trees framed the highway.

  And, mercifully, nothing else to be found.

  The beast was gone.

  Chapter Four

  Jake Rivers was starting to lose hope. This highway seemed to go on forever. A few miles back, the forest had started to thin, giving him the sense that some sort of habitation would present itself.

  But no.

  It was just a mocking suggestion. Trees had become deep again – almost impossible to tell when one started and the other finished. Just a solid slab. A wall that was guiding Rivers deeper and deeper into the unknown.

  He was almost out of gas. The needle had worked its way lower and lower, ticking incrementally like the hand of a clock, heading towards a time when Jake’s luck would run out no doubt.

  Something flashed in the distance. Not the lightning above, as the storm and rain had mercifully stopped - for now.

  Rivers felt some relief in the fact that the downwash had faded. If he were honest with himself, he would have to go all the way and admit that he was somewhat frightened of the rain. Yes, frightened. It was not an irrational fear – not Ombrophoia, yes, he had looked it up – but a healthy understanding that the rain was not always the harbinger of life.

  The lights ahead blinked again, drawing Rivers’ attention towards it.

  What were they? Too radiant to be natural. Not the moon reflecting off a clear surface. But something that had a human touch.

  There it was again.

  Rivers’ heart quickened.

  The colours flickered again, not too far, somewhere just off in the distance.

  He tilted his eyes to the fuel gauge – just fumes.

  With a push of his arms, he willed the Ford to go that little bit further.

  Another splash of bright neon and, this time, it took shape. Letters. Familiar in shape and design.

  The word – MOTEL – bright red and magnificent broke from the tower of the trees.

  Rivers almost cried in relief.

  A sudden break in the tree line presented itself, and the highway broke off to one side, as a secondary road cut away from the main blacktop.

  Rivers steered the Ford away from the highway. As he drew closer, the trees became less and less, and a clearing, impressive in size, opened out.

  The sign that had brought Rivers here was a bright affair. The main body of each letter comprised of a deep, neon red, outlined by a lighter bright orange.

  It looked somewhat alien in its surroundings.

  Rivers was not complaining.

  Now, he understood how the sign had been visible from the road beyond.

  The motel sign sat high, perched on the rooftop of a two-story building that housed an impressive number of rooms. White fencing, almost colonial in design, ran in parallel, top and bottom, and doors with numbers stencilled on were dotted at regular intervals.

  A secondary building, not connected to the main, could be found just adjacent, and the bright interior lights were almost as impressive as the motel sign itself.

  Rivers parked the Maverick but left the engine idling. He sat there for a
moment, indecisive.

  The smaller building had a glass exterior, lights and familiar shapes, coming from within, and from his vantage point Jake could see people milling around inside. The diner looked like a throwback from the 50s. It even had a couple of gas pumps outside, hopefully still in working order, with an overhang reaching out, as an extension from the main roof.

  Rivers counted the patrons within: A cook, waitress, and one sat seated at a table. He scanned around the parking lot. A single, tan coloured VW Beetle, old and pitted with rust, was parked outside one of the ground rooms. The light within on – a sliver of white running vertically between parted drapes.

  Rivers twisted around in his seat. The wound at his side impeding his ability. Awkwardly, he did his best to fully survey the area around him.

  No other vehicles present.

  Just the old VW.

  A few more minutes ticked by. Eventually, Rivers made his mind up. He rolled the Ford over to the front of the main building and parked it a half-dozen or so doors away from the VW.

  He cut the engine.

  The Ford’s headlamps were reflected from the window directly in front, and they lit up the interior in a clear fashion.

  The injured man in the back offered a soft murmur, as if in agreeance with the sudden glow that embrace him.

  Rivers turned towards the slight noise of his wounded companion.

  “Easy,” he soothed.

  A thick blanket, one that Jake had used to keep his friend warm, had slipped away, gathering in a crumpled mess in the rear foot well.

  Ignoring the pain at his side, Rivers reached out to gather the blanket. He did his best to cover the unconscious man up.

  “I’ll get help,” Jake promised.

  He pulled the blanket up under his friend’s chin. His hand flattened the material, and he felt the protrusions of bones underneath.

  Lieutenant (Rtd.) Tomas Meadows had been reduced to skin and bone. Once a man of considerable size and bulk he was now a living skeleton, eye sockets clearly outlined, and dark veins visible like the blue lines of a tattooist’s pen.

  Jake turned away from the sad submission in the back. He took a deep breath. Considered his, and Meadows’, options.

  Meadows was in dire need of medical treatment – for sure. But Rivers could not simply drive up to the nearest hospital and drop his sick and injured friend off outside the emergency room.

  What would the staff do if he did?

  Carry Meadows in on a gurney, wheel him through the stark white corridors, all the way to the back, and then dump him outside like a piece of trash.

  Indeed, it was the goddam health services that had led him to this point. This awful predicament.

  Rivers loved his country – he truly did, but he was not ignorant to the fact that his country didn’t necessarily love him back.

  The land of the free.

  And the rich, he thought solemnly.

  The poor were likely to suffer for being just – poor. A lot of his brothers – Vietnam veterans, had come back to a country, and population, that simply did not want them. They were the unwelcome ones. Men that had returned from a foreign country, thousands of miles away, after upholding the belief that they had been fighting a just war; only, the world had changed whilst they were gone.

  Public perception had swayed from the notion that the USA government were doing good – protecting the democratic beliefs that so many upheld – and the veterans that had returned were seen as an unwelcome reminder that America had not won the war, and in not doing so, had also lost a deeper notion of national self-respect and righteousness.

  A lot of the men returning had found it difficult to adjust to such hostilities. Many had turned to drink and drugs as an outlet – a comforting blanket of alcohol and opiates.

  Most of the ones that had managed to stay away from such damming self-destruction had struggled to find employment.

  It was a vicious circle of circumstance.

  No job. No health insurance.

  No health. No job.

  Worse followed.

  Now over a decade since they had returned from overseas, many were falling ill to serious illness. Dying even.

  Of course, the government were not interested in this alarming statistic, nor were they willing to help these ex-servicemen. Simply put, America just wanted the history of the conflict to go away – along with the men that had fought it. Quite often, Rivers believed that the bureaucrats in D.C. would be happiest if his generation simply ceased to exist.

  Rivers rolled his shoulders to ease the tension that had gathered there.

  Maybe Hope Springs would offer some sort of solution. There, Rivers might be able to get his friend the help he required. Maybe not. Was Meadows too far gone?

  Rivers hoped not.

  Meadows had saved his life. Back in ‘Nam.

  He owed this former serviceman and friend everything. And he had to at least try and repay that obligation.

  Do something.

  Anything.

  He killed the Ford’s headlights. Dropped the interior into near darkness.

  Rivers realised that he had to take it step by step. Would go mad if he tried to tackle this problem in its totality in one go.

  First step: fill the tank with gas.

  He was not going anywhere without that.

  Rivers cracked open the door, and stepped out into the night.

  He took his first step.

  Chapter Five

  Deputy Kelly Anderson was nearing the point of no return. The crown vic had used up most of its fuel consumption. She had meant to fill the gas tank that morning but had been distracted by the sudden rush of excitement.

  Her radio had sprung to life. Voices speaking back and forth, information being spread about a violent bank robbery gone wrong. Up north. Murder they were saying. Look out for fugitives that could be heading in any direction.

  Anderson cursed her luck. Here she was in hot pursuit of rat killers, not bank robbers. Nothing quite as exciting this far south of the border.

  The deputy understood she would be running the risk of finding herself stranded here – on this near-deserted highway, alone, if she pushed the Cruiser any further. That thought did not appeal with the chance of armed killers potentially heading her way.

  She had a map laid out on the passenger seat, and the vehicle was sat idling near the highway embankment. She clicked on the overhead light. Spread the map across the steering wheel.

  She had followed Highway 52 for a little over half an hour, passing little in the name of traffic as she went. Only twice in that time had she encountered the blaze of headlights coming her way. When she had, both times an eighteen-wheeler had roared by, trailers piled high with lumber, or machinery, or a combination of the two, as the rigs transported their goods south and the industries to be found there.

  Not once had she seen the hint of taillights. It seemed she was the only one heading in this northerly direction tonight.

  Nor had she encountered kids on BMXs, or otherwise. She had come too far. They would have never peddled out this far from town. She chided herself then, as she had allowed her own over-eagerness to cloud her judgment.

  The map gave her a couple of options. Do a 90 degree turn and head home. Or take the next branch off the highway, and head in a southwestern direction, and reach the small town of Hope Springs. Only ten or so miles of twisting roadway separated her and the town.

  She decided to do just that.

  Maybe she would still run into the gang of rat killers. She laughed to herself – had her life become so boring that she’d rather be out here on a Friday evening looking for those responsible for rodent mass murder?

  Deputy Anderson folded the map and dropped it into the passenger seat. Clicking off the overhead light, she steered the Cruiser back onto the main body of asphalt.

  She lost herself into the task of reducing the miles for a while, her mind drifting from one thing to another, and the time ticked by as the
sky above went from darkest blue to deepest black. Clouds were rolling in, thick and swollen, and seemingly covering the night sky with an angry boiling miasma.

  Kelly Anderson had not been with the Douglas County Sheriff’s Office for that long. A real rookie to be fair. She had graduated from college with honours but had found herself overly qualified for such a small county that had offered little in real opportunities for her to pursue.

  Months of languishing about with little to do had started to get the better of her. She had lost count of the number of times she had filled in an application form, only to receive a letter weeks later to state that she had unfortunately been unsuccessful.

  She had briefly courted the notion of numbing the disappointment with alcohol and had found herself hitting the few bars in town at regular intervals. However, that had been a short-lived affair, as waking to find herself in a stranger’s bed had brought clarity and meaning to her bout of self-loathing and pity.

  Indeed, she had recognised the potential – within herself – to become an alcoholic. She had that gene. Both her parents had been dependent on the bottle, and Anderson’s experience of that had given her a front-row insight into the destructive nature of such self-indulgence.

  A trip to the county fayre had changed all that.

  A couple of uniformed cops had been handing out flyers – recruitment initiatives – and she had suddenly found her calling.

  6 months later, she was at the academy.

  A year later and she had taken up a deputy’s residency within the Sheriff’s Office.

  Now, she had been given the chance to prove herself. Which was something she was determined to do.

  A splash of colour brought Deputy Anderson’s thoughts back to the fore.

  A motel sign had appeared above the tree line – bright and unmissable, and a mixture of red and orange, which burnt the darkness away.

  Anderson felt suddenly tired. She brought the crown vic to a stop. The road branched off towards the motel sign. A rest and a hot cup of coffee would make the trip back more bearable.

  Deputy Anderson laughed at her own misguidance. Had she really thought that a commission would have been awarded for catching a few unruly kids?