The Beginning (Whispering Pines Book 1)

by Charles Wells

  Chapter 16

  Chuck Veal was on the ground with one side of his face lying in soft sand. His shirt was soaked and sticking to his back with something tapping on it softly every now and then. Each tap felt cool and refreshing but the irregular rhythm was irritating and keeping him awake. He didn’t want to be awake right now. “Shut up and go back to sleep” his body screamed.

  “Okay. Tap... tap tap... Tap… I can’t sleep with all this commotion going on. Will you people quiet it down out there? Knock it off? Where am I?”

  It was the first question that cleared his mental fog. The next question answered the first. “Why am I lying in the woods, on my stomach in sandy dirt with drops of rain falling on my back?” Oh, that explains the cool taps, its rain, but not falling fast.

  Chuck opened his eyes and blinked several times until some semblance of sight returned. He looked upward and saw a set of red glaring eyes staring down. They weren’t threatening eyes, just huge and out of place. Everywhere else he looked, there was nothing but shadows or total darkness. His attention returned to the eyes. “They’re not eyes; they’re tail lights, your tail lights, the rear tail lights on your Jeep.” Did I check the oil before we left North Carolina?

  North Carolina? Yes, and Gail, Matt’s missing, Edie Pary, somebody snuck up behind me with a sledgehammer or something.

  Like a tiny leak in an earthen dam that grows faster and wider, the mental dam blocking Chuck’s consciousness suddenly burst and a wall of memories flooded his thinking. “I’ve got to get up and get out of here.”

  Pulling his arms beneath him, he tried to push up but the effort caused a stomach-churning wave of pain that rippled up and down his upper back and neck. His head felt as though it was ready to explode, but he had to move. He had to get up, to go find Gail and Blake and tell them, tell them… and tell them something. Wasn’t there something he needed to tell them?

  The dark world around him suddenly exploded in blinding white lights followed instantly by a pistol shot crack of thunder. It was a storm, a thunderstorm and he was lying on the ground in the middle of the woods. All around him were thousands of tall trees, and the parking lights of his jeep were on and killing the battery.

  The next flash and ensuing cannon report shook the ground beneath him. He decided he was entirely too close to nature and needed to get out of there. Another lightning burst held the world in view for several seconds and he could see his car, driver’s side door hanging open. He had to reach that door and get out of the storm.

  Ignoring the pain, he pushed and pulled his unresponsive body up then toward the car. The pain was blinding and there was no strength, no energy, to make his body respond. His knees buckled under the weight and he went face down in the dirt again. The sand felt cool and good next to his hot face so he relaxed and let his mind fade away saying “I’ll just sleep a while right here.”

  Lightning struck a tall tree close by that shook the ground beneath him, jarring him back awake. The air filled with the sharp odor of ozone from a close lightning strike. Chuck said, “I’m in serious trouble here.” He raised his head and the sand stuck to his face. Struggling once again to his feet, he touched the front of his shirt with the palm of his hands to wipe away the dirt and felt something sticky and warm. “It’s Blood? My blood?”

  With the other hand, he reached out for the rear section of the car to steady himself. He waited for the dizziness to go away. Another prolonged lighting flash lit up the area well enough for him to see his destiny. A huge sweet gum tree had fallen and its trunk lay sprawled across the road behind him, blocking the way from which he had come. God is pouring gas on my predicament fire, isn’t he?

  Since that direction of the escape was blocked, his next option would be to drive forward, but the bridge? The old bridge was that way, wasn’t it? Please Do Not Exit Using The Entrance Door.

  Glancing sharply ahead, he waited for the next lighting flash. When it appeared, he saw the dark outline and tracks of the old 60-foot long wooden bridge. No way, Jose! Maybe he’d better just walk out back to the highway. Was it three or four miles? Yea, right Chucky. You can barely walk ten feet to your car so what difference will another short three or four miles make?

  He could also stay and wait for rescue. Gail, Blake, and Bill knew where he was and why. They would surely come looking in a few more hours and in the meantime, he could get some sleep. “Wake up boy, you’re bleeding to death,” his father’s voice said sternly.

  “Dad am I going to die?”

  Some unseen hand suddenly pushed him and he stumbled and staggered down the side of the car using both hands on the metal for support. “So far so good.” he laughed as delirium started to set in. A sharp flash of lightning and instant, pistol crack report of thunder exploded in the woods close by, too close by, so close that he panicked and made a lumbering jump for the open door of the Jeep. With a loud grunt and cry of pain, his hands grabbed it and held on for dear life. He twisted sideways, and collapsed onto the front driver’s seat.

  Inside the car, there was some protection from the lightning and rain... the rain? Why was the rain still hitting him? He looked around, with a shaky hand, reached, and pulled the door closed and the rain stopped.

  “Unusual weather we’re having, aint it?” the cowardly lion proclaimed.

  With his left hand, he felt the top of his scalp; it was moist, tender, and there was a huge bump there. He pulled the hand away and looked. It was soaked in blood. “God?” he cried. “I’m bleeding. I’m gushing, big time. I don’t want to die, not here, because...because that’s what somebody wants me to do.”

  “Then let’s get out of here,” his father said from the seat beside him.

  Chuck looked over at his father and cried, “Dad? If I go that way, the bridge will fall... London bridge is falling down... falling down... falling down.

  “Chuck? If you stay here, you’re going to die. Now crank up the car and let’s get moving. Half the day is already wasted...”

  Chuck reached for the ignition key and twisted. The engine starter was slow to crank. The battery was weak from the drain of operating the parking lights for such a long time. “How long have I been out?”

  He spoke to the car, “Come on, and get me out of here, will you?”

  As the last possible amp of current flowed from the battery, the engine caught and sputtered to life. Gentlemen, you have started your engines.” Chuck cried.

  “Hey, pop? Why didn’t you call before coming? I’d have gotten us some tickets to the Braves game for tomorrow night.”

  “Let’s go, Chuck. Half the day is wasted already.”

  Chuck’s hand found the headlights switch and pulled. The small knob clicked under his fingers but the world outside the car remained dark and empty. He leaned forward in the seat, peered through the rain-spattered glass, and saw nothing rain-spattered glass.

  “Chuck? That was the hood release. Pull the light switch, son, and let’s get out of here.”

  Chuck located another switch and pulled. The dark narrow world in front of the car came to life and he stared out at the black, ugly mouth of the bridge. Some voice from his childhood cried out “Ladies and Gentlemen; in the center ring, performing a death defying feat of unparalleled bravery is “Chuck and his flying Cherokee.”

  The design of the bridge, made with strength in mind and not beauty, had nothing built in so far as safety because there were no side rails. Through the fogged windshield of the car, Chuck peered out through fogged thinking at the black and rotted timbers that made up the road track section of the crossing. Didn’t Burt Reynolds and Sally Fields jump over a bridge like this in Smokey and the Bandit?

  A heavy plank laid across the frame from right to left, or was it left to right, with long, thicker planks about a foot wide at right angles and running across the lower boards and forming a tire track frame. The boarded tracks were spaced wide for huge log trucks. In other words, the wheelbase spacing of the planks would be too far apart for his car to
fit safely. The Jeep’s tires could slip off the intended framing and the weight of the car would be on the smaller boards, not intended to hold such weight.

  “Hey dad, I wouldn’t be able to cross this thing in broad daylight unless I had a hole in my head the size of Canada.”

  “Chuck? You’ve got a hole in your head the size of Canada. Now get this car moving, son. Do it right now.”

  Chuck nodded and then focused his eyes on the bridge again. The right side tire tracks looked solid enough for the length of the span but the left ones were sagging lower, downward, starting about half way across the sixty-foot length. There also appeared to be several track boards missing entirely on that weaker side as well.

  Shaking his head slowly he grumbled, “This thing is never going to hold me up.”

  His head was now fully screaming in pain that seemed to grow worse with each heartbeat. He said, “Well Pop? Hang on.”

  With his right hand, he pulled the gearshift lever into drive and the car squatted lower as the transmission system engaged. It reminded him of a cat crouching to pounce across an unusually wide and open expanse. The brakes creaked loudly as his foot released the pedal, and the car started inching forward.

  When the front wheels bumped the first of the old planks, a sharp crack echoed through the trees from somewhere underneath him. “Hey dad would you get out and take a look? That does not sound too good. Maybe I need to move over one way or the other.”

  “It’s okay, Chuck. Just ease her up on the bridge slowly. It’ll hold.”

  He pressed the gas pedal down further until the front of the car popped upward several inches, and the first weight of the automobile lifted onto the bridge. Chuck hesitated, then inched the car forward more, listening as each board along the track creaked and groaned under the dead weight of the car until the rear wheels tapped the bridge. Another extra tap on the gas and the rear of the Jeep popped upward and rolled on to the tracks. The full 4700 pounds of Jeep was fifty feet in the air.

  The thought of falling into the darkness below made Chuck look out the side window but he could see little but treetops and darkness. “Dad it’s not going to hold...it’s not going to....”

  “Get moving, Chuck, right now.”

  He eased the car forward, inch-by-inch, feeling the bridge start to tremble beneath him. Had it started to sag? “Mr. Bridge? At least let me get half way across before you kill me.”

  He urged the car forward a little faster, still trying to feel the old timbers through the steering mechanism. The rain grew heavier, blurring the world through the windshield into an image of senseless, watery squiggles. He thought about turning on the wipers but couldn’t remember where the switch was located. Besides, the car was now starting to tilt to the left at a scary 20-degree angle or so. If one tire slipped off the wet and thicker track boards, the car would most likely fall through the weaker planks and the game would be over.

  Another pistol shot of cracking timbers and the structure seemed to jump, groan beneath him and shudder. The bridge tilted several more inches only this time, downward. Chuck hit the brakes and froze in horror. He was half way across with another good thirty feet of span ahead of him only now it looked uphill to reach the safety of the other side. At that moment, Chuck thought it might just as well have been thirty miles instead of feet.

  He gasped suddenly, out of breath. Why am I out of breath?

  “Stop holding your breath.” his dad cried.

  Gasping harshly, he took a deep gulp of air and then shifted his body weight to lean even closer to the windshield. The effort sent sharp new pains up the back of his neck and his vision blurred worse than before. Or was it the heavy rain on the windshield? “Dad? Help me out here. Please?”

  The car shuddered again, more violently, and fear became fact. The bridge wasn’t going to hold any longer. The game was over. Games over...you lose...please deposit another twenty-five cents to play again.

  He fought down the panic... the senseless urge to slam the accelerator pedal to the floorboard. “Hey dad? You think I can hit the other side of this bridge with the car? I bet I can make it skip three times across the water. Dad? Dad? Where did you go?”

  Risking a glace away from the bridge, he looked at the empty seat beside him. “Dad? Come back, Dad. Don’t leave me now.”

  “I’m right here.” His dad said from the back seat. The old man reached over Chuck’s shoulders and flipped a switch on the dash that activated the Jeep’s four-wheel drive unit. “Hit it Chuck...do it right now.” His father said.

  Chuck nudged the gas harder with his right foot...Or maybe it was the wrong foot… and the engine strained more heavily but the car didn’t move. Through the rain-splotched windshield, he could tell the center of the span was sagging worse and the far side of the bridge was moving upward.... Going up...third floor... He watched the world sliding away, getting lower with each second that passed.

  He pressed the gas harder. The front wheels broke traction and spun on the slippery wood. “Hey, we got to’ climb, baby so let’s climb out of here.”

  He eased off the gas until the tires stopped spinning on the wet boards. Again, he tapped the accelerator pedal and the car started to pull forward.

  Another loud crack echoed from beneath the bridge only this time it was urgent and angry. The old wood simply could not hold it together any longer. Chuck screamed, “It’s going to go, Dad. The bridge is finished and we’re going to die.”

  “Hit it, Chuck...hit it now...and hit it hard.”

  He slammed the accelerator to the floor. The wheels barked angrily, tearing into the wood and emitting a shower of splinters and blue tire smoke. Chuck cried, “Fly, Big J. Come on and Fly.”

  The car jumped forward with the sounds of the bridge crying in death throes, cracking and shattering beneath the wheels. The rear wheels plunked into an empty area where the front wheels had knocked the boards out and dangled there a moment. The forward momentum of the car was enough to carry the vehicle over and across the last few feet of the span. The Jeep’s tires at last hit the soft sand on the other side of the bridge and drug the rear of the Cherokee off the falling timbers and onto the surface of the logging road, but Chuck forgot to stop.

  The car was safely across the bridge now but was gaining speed, zipping wildly along the narrow road. “Hit the brakes, Chuck.” his dad shouted.

  Chuck’s clouded mind repeated, “Hit the brakes? What for...let’s get out of here.”

  “Do what I told you, son. Hit the brakes.”

  His left foot found the pedal and pressed but the car kept moving forward. Then he realized that his right foot was still holding the gas pedal all the way down to the floor.

  Bushes and trees flew past the windows and the road ahead was nothing but a blur of watery motion. With great effort, Chuck forced his right foot away from the accelerator but kept his left in place on the brakes. The automobile skidded sideways and slid to a stop.

  With a last, loud, groan and cry, the bridge folded in the center and collapsed. The aged structure disappeared into the watery darkness below and nothing remained but a wide, gaping black hole in the old logging road where the bridge had once spanned Beaver Creek.

  Chuck never heard the crash nor did he see the gaping hole that night because sitting behind the wheel of the stopped Jeep; foot locked on the brake pedal, he had passed out cold. An unseen hand flipped the four-wheel drive button to the off position.

  More time passed until Chuck realized he was moving again heading out of the woods only now there was a life shaking fear that engulfed his mind and thinking. There was only one screaming thought and that was to get far away from the lightning. Who’s driving? Me?

  He didn’t know where, when, or how, but he was moving and that seemed good enough until suddenly there was no longer a road in front of him. His cloudy mind realized the logging road had finally intersected with a highway...a paved gravel road. “Good. He said. “Now I can relax.”

  And so he did, a
t least until a set of bright headlights filled the windshield in front of him, which forced him to steer his car away from the quickly closing lights. The Jeep skidded on the wet pavement but Chuck was able to recover and get things moving straight again only further over to the left side of the road. The lights shot past him. “Wow. Boy is somebody on the wrong side of the road.” he snickered.

  The rain was falling in sheets now but his feverish mind had yet to consider turning on the windshield wipers. His only concern was to flee the streaks of white death shattering the night around him and to find a nice place to curl up and go to sleep. (“I could use forty winks,” said the Cowardly Lion)

  A large bolt of bright, blue, flashing light appeared in his rearview mirror along with two white eyes each winking off and on in sequence. Was it pouring rain? Why didn’t the rain put out the blue bolts of fire behind him? Why don’t you turn on the windshield wipers?

  The wiper switch was on the turn signal lever on the left side of the steering wheel. Chuck pressed it but the wet world before him didn’t clear. He started hearing a soft “tick‑tick‑tick‑tick” sound in the car and now a bright green blinker indicator arrow on the dash flashed off and on, in rhythm with the clicking sound. (Right hand...left hand...that hand is my hand.) He began humming happily with the “Tick‑tick‑tick‑tick.”

  “Chuck? You better stop the car.” His father said.

  Chuck looked across at his dad who simply sat there smiling, and said, “Hey pop? I have a good idea...but I can’t remember what it was. Hey Dad? Do you remember what my idea was? Do you remember? I can’t.”

  His father reached over to the steering wheel and said, “Yes, Chuck. I remember your idea but right now, let’s get the car stopped. Then, I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Moments (or was it hours?) later someone was holding a bright light in his face, shinning it directly in his eyes. A voice behind the light was saying, “Geeouodarar?” (What was that you said?)

  ”Get out of the car, Veal, right now” Sheriff Walt Brooks shouted.

  “Hey. It’s my car. Why should I get out?” (And why did I park it at such a strange angle?)

  A rough hand grabbed him by the arm and snatched him into the rain. The cold water felt good on his hot face. He took the sleeve of his shirt and wiped at his forehead. It came away bright pink. He asked the voice, “Hey...didn’t I put on a blue shirt this morning just before I left... left... where did I left from? North Carolina?”

  The voice spoke again but the words were still tangled and the light hurt his eyes. The rain was washing the words coming from the voice behind the light away.

  A sudden crack of lightning flared overhead. Chuck screamed and tried to break loose from the grip of the voice. He wanted to scramble under the car but the hand wouldn’t let him go. He screamed again and tried to jerk away. Something struck his chin and he realized the lightning and the voice behind the light were going to kill him...he knew they were going to kill him.