Ghost Reaper Episode 1 (2 page)

Hands
were slipping. He swung his body anyway. Another inch lost, grip fading even as
the last joints of his fingers pinched harder. Chad lashed out with his left
arm as he pushed with his right foot.

His
grip on the hold above him failed.

The
left hand found its mark.

Good
hold, he thought. He was swinging like a pendulum, but gained control and
grasped the outcrop with his other hand and pulled himself up. With solid firm
footing he made the rest of the sideways climb, then up to what he supposed
would be the crux of the climb. An overhang that jutted out four to five feet.
The edge of it was thick. The thing was as tall as it was wide. To each of its
sides the cliff wall was as smooth as glass. He couldn't see directly above the
overhang from where he was, but he had noted during his first assessment that
it looked possible. Twelve feet of formidable climbing, but possible.

At
this point he would expect the need of a squat on the rock to recover, but
there was no fatigue, no cramping. It was as if he was just out taking a
stroll.

"Some
stroll," he laughed.

With
a groan he challenged the overhang, coming to the point where he would have to
hang upside down and monkey bar to the edge, except there were no monkey bars;
only insignificant imperfections in the surface. A deep inhalation of breath,
he gripped those blemishes and swung to the edge. Grabbing the edge of the
outcrop was not difficult.
 
Even
pulling himself up was uneventful. The problem was the last twelve feet. He was
staring at a surface that was not near as hospitable as it had appeared from
the bottom.
 
   

Well,
at least the view is nice.

The
top of the overhang was flat, inviting a sit down, and that is just what he
did.
 
He still had the chill, and
something akin to weakness, but different. Some things were easier, some not,
trouble was he hadn't quite figured out which was what. To his right far below
in the canyon his car rested, covered with snow. Snow that had extinguished the
fire, doused the smoke, and made the chance of anyone finding him remote.

"No
choice, Dowdry, stay and die. Continue and die more horribly."

A
crevice spread across the face of the cliff, maybe eight feet up. He would have
to jump. Not enough room on this overhang for much of a running start, he
thought.

If
I make it, my fingers will probably get cut to the bone.

Positioned
like a sprinter, his right foot cocked at the edge, he fired off and leaped for
the cleft.

He
overshot by at least two feet. His hands slapped the wall above the fissure and
his slide down followed. Searching fingers found the crack and held. A moan
escaped his lips, anticipating the pain. There was none. He was hanging just
about four feet from the top, with ample caches and protrusions to make it.

This
is too weird. I can't jump that high. I should be screaming my way to the
bottom.
Well, I'm not hanging around,
no pun intended, to worry about it. I'll worry about it tomorrow.

In
a matter of moments he scaled the rest of the wall, jumped over the guard rail
and found himself on the road that had rejected his company yesterday. Nothing
coming from either way. He began walking towards the nearest town.
 
It would've been his last stop before
continuing to his father's cabin, tucked high in the foothills of the
mountains. The trip was meant to clear his head. A change needed to be made,
both in his personal and professional lives. People were going to be hurt and
disappointed, and he cared enough to forget the whole thing and just leave
things as they were.

 
Almost cared enough.

A
noise brought him back to the road. Behind him an older pickup was struggling
up the incline. He started waving his arms as the vehicle approached. It was
building some momentum. He added yelling to his antics, his heart lifting as
the truck neared.

It
passed him. The driver didn't even look at him.

"Weird,"
he mumbled.

The
road ahead wound up and around a rocky pinnacle. Chad's footfalls chuffed the
pavement with no more commotion than that of a snail. Moments ago he had
attempted to pick up a softball size rock to throw at the next car that passed
him. Although successful, gripping the stone required more concentration than
he anticipated. Questions flooded his mind. Head injury concerned him the most.
That would probably explain the lack of muscle strength and coordination.

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.

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.