The Unlighted Highway
by
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The sun has just set over the Cholame Valley in central California. Eternal night has captured the day. A shadow-like form is seen on the rolling hills near the abandoned highway, staring at an object in the road, laughing. California Highway Patrol Officer Paul Jamey has responded to a dispatch call for an accident on old Highway 466. The officer turns off the state Highway 46 onto the old road. The patrol car veers right and stops directly in front of a barbed wire fence strung across the cast-off two-lane. The CHP gets out of his state issue and shuts off the rollers on the police car. He proceeds with extreme caution to the fence. The bodily shape on the hill sees him and remains protected by the night and the cover of darkness. In the distance, an illumination is seen, along with the faint sound of a car horn. Hopping over the fence, taking out his flashlight, he moves toward the brightness. The area is panned with the beam of light. His leather boots walk on the dirt and caked mud of the abandoned road. An object begins to take form right in front of his eyes. "What in the hell in this?" The old Ford resembles an ancient police car: black top, painted white sides, and a white hood. Approaching the car, he sees that the left side is crushed. The left front wheel has burst on its rim. The engine block is broken and the motor is pushed up into the seat. The car's lights are on and horn is blaring. Motor oil is spewed all over the road. The driver's side door is open and smashed. The light is directed to the back of the automobile, no license plate. This auto has been customized with fender skirts that cover the top of the rear wheels. The constant blast of the car's horn is truly annoying. The officer cautiously goes to the front of the car, again no license plate. Roaming over to the smashed hood, pulling the lever, it pops up. Reaching in to sever the wires connected to the horn, he stops the noise. The hood stays up, the strident sound has ended and the headlights go dim. He scrutinizes the old Ford's engine looking for the vehicle's ID number and stops cold in his tracks. Surprisingly there is no battery in the car. His eyes come across an olive green military dress jacket in the backseat of the Ford. An object is sitting on top of this coat. This form begins to take shape; it's a human skull. The officer picks up the skull muttering "This is interesting." The evidence is wrapped in the military jacket to secure for forensics. Startled, the CHP hears something behind him. His right hand reaches for his police special. The officer is not taking any chances, for nothing can be seen past the beam of light, being a clouded night of darkness. He advances back to the Highway Patrol car, cautiously looking over his shoulder. The flashlight is turned off, his weapon is secured, he hops the fence. The gruesome find is locked in the trunk. Picking up the police microphone, talking into it; "Paso Robles, Officer Jamey. Location about a mile northeast of the intersections of Highways 46 and 41 out of Cholame. Send tow, abandoned Ford on old State 466." The dispatcher replies "Do you need backup? Over." "No, just tow. Over and out." The microphone is put back in its place and his eyes look in the direction of the derelict car, waiting for the tow truck. He sits down in his patrol car and lights up a cigarette, thinking about this odd situation. Turning on the car radio to 1460 AM KDON, Salinas; the song "A BRIDGE I DIDN'T BURN" by Ricky Van Shelton comes on the air. The music soothing, relaxing until it ends; something has caught his attention. The radio is switched off and the cigarette put out. The loud roar of an engine, high pitched, like a race car, is coming from the direction of the fence. He shines the police side light to the sound, nothing is there. Exiting from the patrol car, gun drawn, pacing to the old road; the high pitched roar of the engine continues. Moving close to the source of the noise, the engine begins to quiet down to a steady hum. Laughter can be heard, then silence, complete silence. Two headlights turn on by the barbed wire and the light reflects to his knees. The car is that low to the ground. Over his right shoulder and coming from the state highway, another set of headlights are directed straight at him. Unnerved by this crossfire of illumination, he spins around. It's only the tow truck and it has stopped right in front of him. The car's lights grow dim, faint, and now dark by the fence. The spectre is no longer watching, and disappears into the night. The tow truck driver gets out of the cab. His name is Ralph Denny, a tall, good looking man in his mid-twenties. He looks like Paul, same age, only his hair is blond, not brown. "Officer Jamey?" "Yes." "My name is Ralph Denny, police impound. I saw some headlights, knew it must be you." "You saw them too?" "What?" inquires Ralph. "Nothing. What we have is an old wreck on old 466, got to tow it out." "Check," says Ralph. Denny gets into the cab of his vehicle. The unexplained car lights have gone. The auto has vanished, assuming it was an automobile. The truck has pulled up in front of the CHP.
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About the Book
The door has opened for the Dark Watchers to spin their deadly web in a quiet, rural valley in Central California. Highway 46 is their battleground, near the old creek bridge. Creating illusions to taunt and annoy, to preserve their domain for the San Joaquin Valley. An unlikely group: a California Highway Patrolman, some Chumash Indians, a café proprietor, a junkyard owner, and a rock-a-billy band, Johnny Calvin and the Rhythm Rockers, are out to do spiritual battle with these evil entities.
About the Author
Dana Rowe
Mark R. Deaver is a graduate of U.S.C. with a M.S.L.S. degree. A rock music historian, he wrote the article The Fifties Were a Drag, and wrote the liner notes for the picture disc record album Chrome, Smoke, and Fire. This is also his first novel.