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THE FINAL HOUR

Into the Valley of Death

By James Dale MerrickPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
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Photo by Andrew Ridley on Unsplash

THE FINAL HOUR

Written by James D. Merrick , March 28, 2015

6:00 AM. Tilton Town. Allan’s gloved hand inserts the ignition key. The Malibu coughs, belches into the morning gloom, then sputters to life. It moves slowly away from the sleepy apartment building and sloshes down the potholed driveway onto rain-slicked County Road. It’s heading toward the truck dispatch office perched on Tilton Mesa and Allan’s delivery assignment for today.

6:05 AM. Leaving Tilton. With sun in hiding, dampness casts its spell; glazing asphalt roadway; changing alfalfa-green to gray. Dark silos lie, as in wait, against the horizon. Allan’s fingers manipulate the low beams. The Malibu streams on, fouling the air as it passes, road steam rising in its swoosh.

6:20 AM. Entering Tilton Canyon. Rivulets of last night’s rain escape stone fissures, crisscross tarmac, hide warning line with slithery silt. To the left on canyon walls, stone daggers pierce the haze. To the right, wood guardrails, ebony-stained with morning dew, define the brink, beyond which rise opposing ramparts. The Malibu speeds on, tire prints trailing in its wake.

6:33 AM. Dark Fortress. Greedy shadows swallow canyon light, cast their eerie veils. Moisture-laden trees twist and threaten in the wind. A mile more of darkened roadway, oozing silt, fallen rock, and hairpin turns. The Malibu pushes on, oblivious of the maelstrom all around.

6:40 AM. Entering Summit Lot. Allan’s hands guide the Malibu off asphalt road and into Azure Fuels truck parking lot, pausing at the head of a line of mothballed vehicles, U-Haul type utility trucks, and a once-painted office trailer labeled Dispatcher. Under the eave of the office roof from which rain has begun to fall, the attendant waits, expressionless, clipboard in hand.

6:42 AM. Number Eight. The attendant speaks, “Your truck’s out today, take Number Eight.”

Allan’s gloved hand hesitates, rain drips from its fingers. Reluctantly, he accepts the key, parks the Malibu, and puddle-jumps to nearby Number Eight. He glances at its worn tires and cracked passenger window and then swings himself into the cab, unaware of the missing rear-view mirror.

6:45 AM. Leaving Summit Lot. Allan’s fingers twist the ignition key, languid grinding stirs the humid, rubber-scented air. The engine balks, then races wildly. Allan’s foot fumbles with the accelerator pedal-- right to left, right to left, right to left. The engine slows to idle. Number Eight sulks from its space, spewing rainwater from its tailpipe. It lumbers out the exit gate and onto the narrow, twisting, slippery roadway leading down. A spin of tire on loose gravel, and the unlocked cargo door clangs shut.

6:49 AM. Road Sign. Turbulent clouds obscure the sun. A rancid mix of road oil and canyon slime burdens the air, casts a pall over the descent. Last summer’s ooze of tar washboards the rain-glossed roadway. Headlights on. Allan’s gloved hands steer toward Tilton Town. The road sign, barely visible in the gloom, warns: Speed Limit 30 MPH. The speedometer needle points to twenty-five.

6:53 AM. First Curve. The hairpin approaches. Allan’s shoulders stiffen in anticipation as headlights penetrate streaking rain, illuminate mud-hatched center line. Tires thump pebble-strewn surfaces and send waves of muck to graveled shoulders. Rear tires slosh ‘round the curve and avoid guard rail and boulder-studded canyon walls. Truck splashes on. The needle moves to twenty-nine.

6:57 AM. Added Danger. Raindrops pellet the windshield and seep onto floor mats. Allan’s right foot presses the brake pedal, feels it sponge beneath. Rain rat-a-tat-tats on the cab’s metal roof and drowns out the steady hum of tread-bare tires. Drowns out the clackity-clack-clack of pebbles flushing across macadam. Drowns out the screech of sun-parched wiper blades on glass. Drowns out the scream of racing engine. The needle glides to thirty-five.

6:59 AM. Second Curve. Another hairpin awaits, beckons. Streams of mud erase the warning line. Sloughed and broken trees flail their branches in headlight beams. Tires spin and twist, seeking traction on the mucky slope. Allan’s foot stomps the pedal again and again, his pulse races, his gloved fingers grasp the wheel. Number Eight careens around the curve, splintering the air with squeal of tire and crunch of metal against guard rail, then, wildly, zig-zags back to center line. The needle swings to forty-five.

7:00 AM. Last Curve. The final hairpin lies in wait. Headlights betray the way. Pedal pumping, pumping, pumping; tires spinning, sloshing, sliding; rear cargo door banging, banging, banging; truck careening, careening, careening; guardrail rending, rending, rending; truck tumbling, rolling, tumbling—breaking, breaking, breaking. Darkness over all. The needle rests at zero.

Horror
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About the Creator

James Dale Merrick

I have had a rich, and remarkable life. Sharing my adventures brings me joy.. I write about lots of things. I tell about building a home in the rainforest, becoming a life model, love, death, grief, and retiring. Please join me.

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