Offspring

by Liam Jackson

  The man chuckled, then snapped his fingers. "I got just the thing for that little problem. Come with me."

  Michael protested, saying that he didn't want to put the man to any trouble but Stubby wouldn't hear of it. He turned and headed back to his truck with a reluctant Michael close behind.

  Michael stood beside the running board as the man crawled back into the cab and began searching. While he waited, growing colder by the second, Michael read the blue-and-gold lettering on the door panel: Minchew Liquid Gas. Propane for Home and Business.

  He chuckled and shook his head at the irony. Here he stood freezing his ass off in the middle of a blizzard, with a propane tanker right under his nose. If only Pam could see me now. If only Pam...

  Michael saw the oncoming headlights just in time and leapt onto the running board. A godawful ugly station wagon crested the hill behind the propane tanker and swerved to the left just in time to avoid a rear-end collision. It missed Michael by even less, leaving him flattened against the side of the cab. He stared dumbly as the wagon fishtailed its way past the tanker, and then the Jeep.

  Stubby leaned out of the cab, took a quick look at Michael, then cut loose with a string of drawling obscenities aimed at the fleeing station wagon. As the wagon disappeared from sight Michael dropped to the ground and let out a long sigh of relief.

  "You okay, feller? That damn fool didn't sideswipe you, did he?"

  "No, he missed me... I think," replied Michael with a nervous laugh.

  "Damn fool! If he'd hit Old Betty in the ass-pockets"— Stubby slapped a meaty hand down on the hood of the tanker. "Well, let's just say that I'm a haulin' a full load of propane fer early-mornin' delivery and leave it at that. Damn fool!"

  Michael only heard a portion of Stubby's tirade. He was still staring after the station wagon, a peculiar feeling in the pit of his stomach. It had all happened too fast for him to catch a look at the driver. Still, he felt... something. Had he seen that car somewhere before? He didn't think so, or he would have surely remembered. Hard to forget something that butt-ugly.

  "Well, we'll probably see that damn fool again in about thirty minutes. You'll get the last laugh, then."

  Hearing only a portion of the comment, Michael turned to Stubby, "I'm sorry. What was that?"

  "I said we'll probably see him again in about half an hour, when we reach Pole Bridge. You'll have a good laugh then."

  "Why is that?" Michael asked. For no apparent reason, he had an uneasy feeling at the mention of the bridge.

  "I didn't think you wuz from around here. I know just about everybody 'round these parts. Born and raised here, myself. Looky here, I'll show ya something." Stubby stepped back from the tanker and pointed at the running boards. Upon closer inspection, Michael could see that the paint was scraped completely away along the entire length of the steel walkway.

  "See that? Now, I ain't sayin' that Pole Bridge is narrow, mind you, but the other side of Old Betty is identical to this one... not a speck o' paint left on my runnin' boards. I've been making this route for about fifteen years, and I still scrap the sides of them damned old girders every time I go over that blasted bridge."

  Stubby pulled a tin of Goldroy snuff out of a hip pocket and tapped a knuckle against the lid several times before removing it. He took a large pinch of the ground tobacco and placed it inside a reddish cheek, and then offered the tin to Michael. Michael politely declined.

  Stubby placed the lid back onto the tin and stuffed it back into his pocket. "Now, as I wuz sayin', Betty ain't exactly a big rig. She's just a two-and-half-ton tanker... ain't much wider than yer Jeep.

  "If that wagon fishtails into Pole Bridge, there's gonna be one hell of a mess, friend. It's a good fifteen- to twenty-foot drop down to the creek. Ain't no tellin' how deep the creek is, considerin' all this snow and rain. Yes, sir, if that wagon don't slow down, it's gonna be one hell of a mess."

  "I see." Michael had spent a couple of years patrolling a suburban residential area with a bridge similar to the one Stubby described. Those old WPA relics just weren't designed to accommodate modern automobile traffic.

  "Well, let's hope that the driver decides to slow down before they get to the bridge. This is a bad night to be dragging a swollen creek for bodies. Say, is there another route into Abbotsville?"

  Stubby smiled, than spat a stream of dirty brown spittle onto the ice. "No other way to there from here, friend. Now, if you want to drive back to Knoxville, you can take the interstate to the north, then cut back south on Highway Four-twelve. It's a longer drive fer sure, but the road is a hell of a sight better. 'Course, you ain't but ten miles from Pole Bridge, right now. Once you cross the bridge, yer in the township of Abbotsville."

  Michael grinned. "I guess that settles that, uh? I don't think I could drive much more than that tonight."

  "Oh, hell. Before I ferget"—Stubby offered a red aerosol can to Michael—"Deicer. Industrial-strength, so a little bit goes a long way."

  Michael thanked him and took the can. He gave it a quick shake and silently estimated the can to be slightly under half full. "I'll clean the windshields and bring the can back to you."

  As he started back to the Jeep, Stubby called out. "Keep it, friend. I've got another full can under the seat. In fact, I'm a gonna deice my windows and mirrors before I pull outta here."

  Michael spent the next couple of minutes spraying down the glass and scraping away the icy glaze, while catching a slight buzz from the heavy ether. As soon as the last of the ice was removed, he gave Stubby a parting wave, then hurried inside the Jeep to huddle over the heater vents. In another minute, he was moving again, anxious to cover the few remaining miles to Abbotsville. He watched in the rearview mirror as Old Betty emitted a dense cloud of spent diesel into the night air and started forward. "Thanks... friend."

  Somebody put handrails on a sidewalk and called it a fucking bridge! Antique piece o' shit." Sam agreed silently. Looking over the edge of the dented railing to the

  swiftly moving water below, he wasn't sure automobiles had been invented when the bridge was built.

  In addition to its shoddy appearance, Sam thought the narrow bridge was also impossibly long. He guessed the length at well over fifty yards, maybe a bit more. Constructed of rusted iron beams and rough-sawn oak planks, Sam offered that it was doubtlessly sturdier than it looked.

  Mark answered with a loud derisive snort. "It would have to be, Sam! I mean, just look at the damn thing!"

  The sign, if there had ever been one, was missing and the station wagon was on top of the narrow ice-covered bridge before anyone realized the danger. The wagon's natural proclivity for fishtailing on ice severely complicated matters. Before Mark could bring the wagon to a slip-sliding halt, the front grille of the wagon slammed into the iron. After several tense minutes, Mark managed to point the wagon in the general direction of Abbotsville. Another three breathless minutes and the pair was safely across Woeful Creek and inside the town limits of the tiny mountain hamlet.

  Mark steered the station wagon onto the graveled parking lot of a small grocery store and killed the engine. Beneath the eerie yellowish glow of a battered streetlight he finally breathed and laid his head on the steering wheel. Seconds later, as his breathing and heart rate slowed from a critical level, he rolled down his window and peered through the falling sleet at the narrow rows of shotgun homes and occasional stone cottages. The town was both silent and dark except for an occasional porch light or streetlamp. Mark glanced at his watch and saw that it was a few minutes past midnight. Sam also had his window down and sat motionless, listening to the sound of ice falling on more ice.

  Mark frowned. What should have been a peaceful and picturesque scene left a bad taste in his mouth. It just felt... wrong. For no apparent reason, the hair along the back of his neck suddenly stood on end and the muscles in his shoulders knotted from nervous tension. He looked at Sam.

  The boy was staring intently into the gloom beyond the streetlamps. The blood had
drained from his face and his mouth was set tightly into a straight line. "Sam?"

  "Yeah?" The boy continued looking out of the window but answered in a small voice that Mark hadn't heard in several hours.

  Mark coughed into his hand, then asked, "Do you feel it?"

  "Yeah. I can feel it."

  "So, this is it, huh? This is the place where we get our answers?"

  "We're very close, Mark. I think they know we're here."

  "Shit." Mark was positive beyond any doubt that he had never heard a more ominous statement. "What now?"

  Sam sighed, but he continued to peer into the darkness. "I don't know, man. But I have a feeling that we won't have to wait very long to find out."

  Sergeant Tuck Sutherland half-ran and half-slid into the brick wall just to the right of the front door, and to the left of a large bay window. He tried to peer inside the house, but the lack of light and the presence of heavy drapes conspired against him. He leaned near the door and listened. Tuck heard nothing but the constant howling of a stiff north wind and the wheezing rattle in his chest. Despite the short distance from the car to his present position, he was seriously out of breath and more than a little weak in the knees.

  Maybe it's over. Whatever happened in there is over and done. I'm too late to help anybody. Too late ...

  Despite Tuck's penchant for avoiding trouble, a tear ran the length of his chubby cheek. He was an officer of the law and it was his job to help people. But he was too late to help these people. A young married couple, if he remembered correctly. Newcomers to Abbotsville. What's the name? Henson? Hansel? Henscheid! That's it. The poor Henscheids.

  A crashing noise came from just inside the front door. Tuck let out a muffled squeak and pressed flat against the wall, hugging the shotgun to his chest. It sounded like someone, or something, was still inside and wrecking the place, right down to the last stick of furniture. Tuck knew that bears were often the culprits behind such vandalism, especially during heavy winters. He also knew that bears seldom attacked people.

  Tuck reached for his walkie-talkie, and muttered a rare curse when he realized that it was still in the cruiser.

  "Fine mess, this is!" he muttered. "Okay, okay... easy, now. Gotta think!"

  Tuck prayed that Sissy had understood his earlier transmission and that a dozen deputies were coming to his rescue. Sure. Help is on the way. All I have to do is sit tight. Just sit tight and... Tuck never finished the thought.

  The large bay window to his left exploded in a shower of glass, wood, and fabric. In a rare moment, Tuck reverted to his training. He shouldered the shotgun and swung it toward the shattered window.

  Inside the decimated living room stood... something. The lights inside the house were cold, and the poorly positioned headlights of the cruiser provided the only illumination. Tuck aimed the shotgun at the center mass of the lone figure in the living room.

  Not a bear. Too tall. Too slender at the waist and to massive around the shoulders. A man. Just a man.

  Fear and desperation lent a measure of bravado to Tuck's voice. "Deputy Sheriff! Don't move!" he screamed.

  The creature stared at Tuck for a moment, then leaned over and picked up a large ungainly object in its long arms. Then it lifted the burden high over its head and shuffled forward, toward the window and into the beams of the headlights.

  What the....? Tuck's mind struggled with the imagery. At some subconscious level, he understood what he saw. His conscious mind simply refused to accept the existence of such a monster.

  With a savage snap of its jaws, the creature hurled the broken body of Leland Henscheid through the window. At least, Tuck thought it was Leland.

  Tuck turned away from the window, but slipped and fell. Landing hard on his back, the shotgun discharged, sending a three-inch Magnum slug high into the creature's chest. Tuck had no chance to witness the effect as the body of Leland Henscheid came crashing down on his head and shoulders, pinning him to the front lawn.

  Tuck let loose his hold on the shotgun and wiggled out from under the limp weight. His heart pounded from the exertion until he was sure it would soon burst, and then he was free.

  "OhmyGod... OhmyGod..."

  Without a backward glance, Tuck made it to his feet, staggered to the cruiser and squeezed in behind the steering wheel. Any thoughts he may have had of waiting for backup were gone, right along with Leland Henscheid's face. Tuck slammed the shifter into reverse and stomped on the accelerator.

  The studded snow tires whined atop the icy glaze, then suddenly found traction and lurched out of the driveway and onto the blacktop. The cruiser fishtailed violently, then straightened out. Tuck moved the shifter to overdrive and again nailed the accelerator pedal to the floor with a heavy boot.

  "OhGodohGodohGod..."

  Driven by instinct and abject terror, Tuck nearly missed the turn. Halfway through the intersection he gave the steering wheel a hard jerk to the left, sending the Caprice sliding sideways across the highway and into the parking lot of Godfrey's Grocery. Only luck and a stack of creosote cross ties prevented Tuck from ramming the lone car on the lot, an old beater of a station wagon.

  "The bridge... gottareachthebridge... safe, then, safe..."

  Staring at the distant rusted iron and oak framework of the bridge, Tuck took a deep breath, backed out of the parking lot out onto the blacktop. This time, he forced himself to ease up slightly on the accelerator. While he was still scared spitless, he knew from years of experience that he would have to be very careful in crossing the old one-lane bridge.

  "Steady, now... Almost there... almost th..."

  A quick glance through the right driver's window and the thought was lost forever. In the distance, shrouded in swirling fog and silvery ice, the thing loped toward him at a deceptively fast ground-eating gait. Like some great two-legged wolf, it run parallel to the highway and Tuck realized that it was coming for him.

  Nearly blinded by panic, Tuck pointed the nose of the Caprice at the distant bridge and again stomped on the accelerator.

  Four hundred yards... three hundred... "Almostthere... almosthere..."

  Tuck tightened his grip and the steering wheel and focused on the bridge ahead. He knew that should he glance out the side window, he would see that... that thing.

  One hundred yards...

  "Almostthere..."

  Suddenly, the dim beams of a midsize SUV appeared at the mouth of the bridge, headed directly for him. Tuck slammed on the brakes and felt the Caprice lurch hard to the left, then to the right. The driver of the SUV had better luck, or skill, or both, and managed to clear the entrance to the bridge just as the cruiser skidded past.

  Tuck glanced over his shoulder in time to see the SUV slide to a halt on the shoulder of the highway. When Tuck turned around again, he was blinded by the head-high headlights of the oncoming two-and-a-half-ton fuel tanker. Safe now! Sa—

  CHAPTER 40

  Abbotsville, Tennessee

  That crazy bastard is gonna kill somebody!" sputtered Mark. "Give a guy a badge and he thinks he belongs on the NASCAR circuit."

  Sam silently agreed. The cruiser had narrowly missed the station wagon and was now racing toward the single-lane bridge. From the top of the hill, Sam could see a pair of vehicles making slow progress across the bridge. If the cruiser didn't slow down soon...

  "Man, he's gotta stop! He's gotta..." Sam felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach as the cruiser picked up speed.

  Michael slammed on the brakes and spun the steering wheel sharply to the right just as the Jeep came off the bridge. The police cruiser, red and blue lights flashing, fish-tailed by, narrowly missing him. He felt the Jeep's brakes lock up, and watched helplessly as he slid toward a steep ditch.

  Damn, can't anybody around here drive? The Jeep nosed into the ditch just as Tuck Sutherland met Stubby Minchew, head-on.

  CHAPTER 41

  Kansas City, Missouri

  Pam Collier drew on a heavy oven mitt and set aside the hissi
ng teakettle to cool. A quick glance at the wall clock told her that it was 10:18 p.m. or exactly seven minutes since she last checked the time. Why hasn't he called again?

  Earlier a patrolman had dropped by saying that Michael had called the P.D. and asked that someone check in on her. Apparently Michael had called the house several times, and became worried when he got no answer. Pam was puzzled by this, as she had been home all weekend.

  She assured the officer that everything was fine, and asked him to pass along that message to Michael should he call the P.D. again.

  As the evening wore on, Pam's puzzlement took a slow turn toward worry. She knew that Michael had planned to check out of the hotel around midday, and most likely set a course for Abbotsville. Under normal conditions, he would have made the drive in an hour or so. However, the current conditions in Tennessee were anything but normal. Weather reports indicated that the freakish snowstorm had abated temporarily but was intensifying once again.

  Pam removed the mitt and laid it upon the kitchen counter then walked upstairs to the bedroom. It was time for her medication. She hated the nightly ritual, gulping down the handful of assorted pills, but there wasn't much of an option, not if she wanted to live to see thirty-five.

  The doctors told her that a heart attack during childbirth had taken her baby's life and nearly her own. Now, if she wanted any semblance of a normal life, she would have to take the medication, without fail. She told herself that the physical lethargy, the sluggish heart rate, and dulled senses were small prices to pay for another forty-plus years with Michael.

  Pam collected the pills, then walked back down to the kitchen for a glass of juice. As she took a glass from the cabinet, the doorbell rang. She quickly swallowed the pills and chased them with a mouthful of chilled apple juice. Walking to the front window, Pam drew aside the curtains and looked out.

  A white, older model Lincoln Continental sat idling in the driveway. The lights were off, but a thin trail of exhaust spiraled up and away into the chill night. The car was unfamiliar, but immediately Pam felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She turned and started for the kitchen and the cordless phone, then stopped.