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Tales From the Low Roads (WARNING: grisly content).

Low Roads Story #61

The Red Mile​


I recall once hearing that half the people in America are killed in car accidents each year. I must say, I really doubt that’s true. I mean, pretty soon no one would be left at all. But you do have to believe that the number’s pretty high. The headlines in any local newspaper will tell you so every day.

I don’t intend to relate the story of all the weird car crashes on our nation’s roads. If I did, I wouldn’t have time for much else. It is a fact that these mishaps occur frequently, no matter how exaggerated the statistics are. Anyone who drives can see that. The evidence is all around: broken glass and busted-off fenders clutter the whole landscape. But we don’t need to examine every one of these tragedies. There are some really strange ones in Tabor County that will do just fine.

Tabor County is pretty much cut in half by Interstate Highway 80. What I mean is, the freeway passes right through the middle of it. This serves sort of as a dividing line. The town of Fairview, the business and the residential district, are on the east side. The less populated areas, the farms and the wild land, are mostly on the west. This isn’t some kind of absolute rule. Small livestock ranches can be found in the flats north of Fairview, and the big tulle marsh is south of town. But mostly, that’s the way things are. Each section, the west, the freeway, and the east, has its own distinctive traffic behavior.

Like, in town people tend to drive slower. That’s because of the stop lights and regulations. Folks are more careful, since there are so many other drivers present. Anyone who misbehaves will really stand out. On the other hand, people speed more on the country roads. They seem to feel that it’s safer due to less traffic. Motoring through the farmlands can sometimes be pretty wild, especially if you’re not used to all the twists and turns. On the freeway, just about anything goes. You’re allowed to drive up to 70 miles per hour. Even though it’s not legal, folks can get away with some awfully reckless moves, swerving in and out of lanes, tailgating, road hogging and such. So it’s no surprise this is where the worst wrecks happen. The stretch of Highway 80 that passes through Tabor County has seen alot of nasty fatalities over the years. To all those who lost family or friends, it’s known by a pretty ghoulish name: The Red Mile.

I’ve heard the highway patrol say that most victims of the Red Mile have done something dumb to deserve it. That may not be true every time, but it sure is in some instances. Take skinners, for example. You know what skinning is, right? It’s the newest fad for thrill-crazy teenagers. Skinning is like skiing, except that you don’t do it over water. These reckless drivers will tow each other down the freeway. Instead of skis, the skinner uses a skateboard or roller-skates. The aim is to perform death-defying tricks and flips at the fastest speeds possible. They do this mostly late at night, to avoid excess traffic and the law.

Trouble is, if you lose your balance it’s not over soft water but over asphalt. That’s where the “skinning” part comes in. Of course, getting skinned-up isn’t the worst that can happen. Kids break arms and legs all the time. Some have snapped their necks clear through and died.

Probably the worst recorded skinning accident took place on the Red Mile, near the Rockville Road off-ramp. It was 3:00 in the morning. A gang of skinners was barreling north, doing maybe 90 miles an hour. The kid on the skateboard had the reputation of a wild daredevil who would take any chance for a crazy stunt. But what none of them knew was that a crew of road workers was out late that night, doing some repaving. By the time those kids saw the orange cones, it was too late to stop. The car plowed into the median and tumbled over and over, killing the driver and passengers instantly. The boy on the towrope wasn’t so lucky. He went flying straight out into the middle of the empty roadbed and was covered completely by hot tar. Fresh asphalt buried him alive. The startled crew immediately jumped from their trucks to try and save him. They did manage to haul his body out again, but it did no good. The extreme heat had loosened all his tissues. When the men pulled him from the sticky tar, they pulled him right out of his own skin. He was pealed, just the same way a banana gets pealed. This kid finally died later in the hospital, wrapped up head to foot in medical bandages like a mummy. I guess this is probably the ultimate example of “skinning”.

Another dumb fad activity you might expect to cause trouble is known as “auto angling”. This is practiced mostly by younger kids, the type that spit or throw stuff onto cars from an overpass. Auto angling is done off the overpass too. It can be a pretty sick piece of vandalism when it’s done right. The angler waits until he sees a vehicle with a really nice paint job is about to pass underneath. At that point, he quickly lowers something sharp, like a knife or a bent nail, on some kind of line. I’ve heard of devoted anglers who actually do employ a real fishing pole and hook. The aim is to scratch the paint as far along as you can. From bumper to bumper is the mark of a real expert. The very best can manage two cars in succession. Vehicles successfully marked in this way are said to have been “landed”.

There are three overpasses close to Fairview. The ones auto anglers prefer are either the farthest north or the farthest south. The one in the middle is near too near the center of town and is heavily used. One day a few years back, a tragedy occurred on the southern overpass when an angler tried to land an approaching sports car. It had a bright cobalt blue finish that the kid must have found irresistible. This particular angler was using a heavy corkscrew for his hook. He quickly lowered it down, but not quick enough. The agile little car eluded him. But what he didn’t notice was the massive 18-wheeler following it. The corkscrew smacked right into the top of the lead trailer. It struck so hard that it was shot all the way around to the other side of the overpass. It looped over and came right down on top of the unfortunate boy. The corkscrew screwed itself right into his skull. He fell over the rail into traffic and was run over and over by dozens of cars. But by that time he was already dead. The blow to the brain had killed him first.

A really weird angling mishap once took place on the northern overpass. This time it featured another rude freeway practice, one I’m sure everyone’s seen before. It’s commonly known as “flipping the bird”, although I’ve never quite understood how a bird gets involved. It’s also called the “freeway salute” or “giving the finger”. This last one makes more sense, as you do the gesture by raising up your middle finger. Motorists will flip it at each other as a sign of contempt for their driving skills.

Anyway, the angler in this story was employing a sharp knife on a clothesline to land his car. The one he wanted was a yellow station wagon belonging to a rather belligerent lady. This gal was always flipping off other drivers. Her left hand was almost constantly outside the window. That’s the way it was when the knife came down. I bet you can guess what happened next. The knife missed the paint job, but it sliced her hand clean off. It was a really disturbing sight, this woman with her severed wrist fountaining blood out the open car window. It unnerved the driver behind her so much that he plowed his truck right into the back of the station wagon. He went completely out of control and crashed into a retaining wall, catching on fire. The poor guy never made it out alive. He might have had a chance, except for one bizarre fact: the woman’s severed hand had flipped right back down onto his truck door. Its outstretched middle finger impacted directly on top of the door lock button. He never was able to open the locked door to escape. So, he burned to death and the woman was maimed for life. The really ironic thing was, this man turned out to be the angler’s own father, returning home after a hard day’s work.

My last story has to do with two different kinds of sloppy driving. In fact, they’re just the opposite of each other. A car hauler was making its way toward Sacramento with a full load for a dealership. I know you’ve seen this sort of truck before. It’s basically a double-decker flatbed. The hauled cars are parked on two levels, and a big ramp in back allows the top ones to be unloaded first.

Well, the driver was making good time until he came across a road hog in a little Beetle. A road hog is a slowpoke who won’t let you by. This guy was doing about 45, which is way too slow for the freeway. The trucker couldn’t pass because he had to stay in the truck lane. But he couldn’t slow down enough for safety either, since big trucks need a lot of momentum to keep rolling. So the two just traveled through mile after mile, far too close for comfort.

Then, wouldn’t you know, a tailgater pulled up in back of them. A tailgater will stay way too close behind you, even though he doesn’t have to. It’s just lazy, selfish behavior, same as with the road hog. It was a pretty hazardous arrangement, everyone driving so close. If any little thing went wrong, a terrible accident was a certainty.

Suddenly, a deer leaped out from behind a bush and landed right in the traffic lane. The man in the Beetle frantically pumped his brakes to stop. There seemed to be no way to avoid a crash. But the trucker was alert to the danger. He threw on his emergency brake and screeched to a halt with only inches to spare.

The tailgater never saw any of this. He was way too close and the truck blocked his view. As a result, he didn’t even slow down. He ran right up the back of the trailer, up the ramp to the second level, and slammed into the back of a hauled car. This car jumped forward and hit the next one in line. They acted just like a bunch of stacked dominoes. Finally, the last car was forced right off the front of the trailer. It rocketed clear over the truck cab and pounded down on top of the Beetle. The little auto was squashed into flattened metal. The road hog driver was crushed to death inside.

So, the road hog paid for his bad driving with his life, while the tailgater did jail time and was sued for thousands of dollars in damage. As far as I know, the deer was perfectly okay. The Red Mile only ever punishes human beings for their mistakes.
 
Low Roads Story #62

Follow the Leader​

This story goes back to the '80s. It happened during the ultralight fad. Do you remember ultralight airplanes? If you live in a city, there's a good chance you've never even seen one.

An ultralight is a tiny aircraft for private ownership. I don't think you even need a license to operate one. Really, it's not much more than a wing and motor. The motor is a small one, about the size you have in a scooter or a lawnmower. It runs on gas. The wing isn't very long, only about twenty feet. It's made from some kind of artificial fabric, plastic or something, and is stretched over an aluminum frame. A spindly, open aluminum body holds everything in place. You sit all cramped up in this with the steering. It has a small tail section and wheels on the bottom so you can take-off and land. Other than that, there's nothing much to it.

This airplane hardly weighs anything at all. You could probably lift it off the ground if you had to. That's why they're called ultralights. You need room to fly these things, so they're usually seen only in the country. They never can get more than a couple of hundred feet off the ground at most. If you want a fast ride, an ultralight might not be for you. They only go about twenty-five miles an hour. I'm sure that makes it easier to enjoy the view, though.

A fellow up in Gordon Valley built his own ultralight. I guess that's pretty easy to do if you know how. He was a young adult and his folks owned little forty-acre plots of farmland all over the valley. He lived by himself on one of these, but wasn't much interested in farming. He was a bit of a dreamer.

Supposedly he had turned his barn into a shop to build ultralights for purchase. That's how he said he would make a living. I don't believe he really ever did sell one to anybody else, but you would see him out flying his own often enough. He would pilot it all over Gordon and Ross Valleys. The gas tank held enough for a couple of hours' flight time. He had made the wing fabric in a rainbow pattern and it was quite a sight. All those beautiful colors sailing lazily through the clear air, like some happy hippie fantasy from a few decades back.

One autumn day he was on his ultralight, making the rounds, when he heard a loud chorus of honking behind him. He turned his head and was startled to see a twin column of Canadian geese lined up right behind the plane. I'll bet you'd recognize their formation. They travel in a big "V". That's because each goose is following the one in front of it. The first bird in line is the smartest one. He knows the right direction to fly, and that's the reason he's the leader.

Somehow this flock had picked out the man to lead the way. This was a pretty unusual situation, so he figured he'd take the opportunity to have some fun with them. He headed south until he was almost out of Tabor County. Then, he banked around and started north again, just to see if they would follow. But they were too smart to fall for this trick. They broke off and continued on their way. This experience had gotten the guy real excited, though.

From then on he would take the plane up whenever he saw a flock overhead. Sometimes they would ignore him and go their own direction. Frequently, though, they would fall in line, just like before. He found that as long as he didn't head north they'd track him just about anywhere he'd lead. He would take them on wild, twisting courses along the creeks and roads, or soaring low between tall trees. It was a fascinating spectacle.

That's when the local folks started calling him The Leader of the Flock. This title must have impressed him. He really took it to heart. He even replaced his rainbow fabric with some that had big outstretched goose wings stitched into it.

One day he was up in the air leading the birds a merry chase, when he decided to try a new maneuver. He headed for the tulle marsh just south of Fairview and flew low. He wanted to see if he could get them to land on the water. Suddenly there was a loud explosion. The ultralight plummeted out of control, right toward the swamp. It smacked into the muck and buried itself as the flock scattered and flew away. His body was located later, but it was too late. He had drowned.

Four men were located in the marsh. They were hunters, and they were the ones to blame. Each one had shot right through the ultralight's motor. I guess none of them could resist the idea of bringing down a goose with a twenty-foot wingspread. It seems impossible that no one could tell the difference between that airplane and a real bird, but they proved to be pretty liquored up when they were arrested. I guess that explains it.

These guys were punished, but not for the reason you might expect. You see, they only had a license to hunt ducks. I'm not even sure it's legal to gun down Canadian geese. I think they might be protected. Anyway, in the end each man only had to pay a fine. That's not much justice for killing a man.
 
Low Roads Story #63

Roll Out of the Barrel​


Travis Air Base was in a complete uproar. A sinister crime had taken place. Several guards were dead, cut into bleeding chunks in some weird, unknown fashion. That wasn’t the part of things that worried the brass most, though.

This situation was so serious that a special government agent was assigned to the case. He was told no more than that he would be investigating a theft, but that information was enough. Any other details, he could find out for himself. In fact, he was one of the few people in America who could do it.

This man had special mental abilities, what scientists call E.S.P. That stands for Extra Sensory Powers. He could look straight into another man’s mind and see if he was telling the truth. He could follow trails of psychic energy from a perpetrator who was long gone. He could create deadly mental illusions of, say, weapons or barriers that enemies thought were just as potent as the real thing. These skills had not come easy. The man had been raised in government institutions and trained ever since he was a little boy. He had never had a normal home life. Still, all the effort had paid off. If any man could solve this desperate mystery, he was the one.

When he arrived on the base, a team of military investigators had already been assembled. They were busy going over the scene of the crime. Each man wore a full-length lead suit and carried a ticking Geiger counter. All other personnel were forced to stand back from the site. It would be fatal for them to get any closer.

The psychic man didn’t need to go into this building. The clues he wanted would not be in there. No detection instruments the Air Force had could pick them up anyway. Instead, he circled the parameter, allowing his senses to wander. He was hunting for a trail, the leftover mental energy from where the wrongdoer had made his escape. If the track was fresh enough, the agent might even get an impression of this criminal’s state of mind.

When he finally located the trail, the power of it almost knocked him over. He had never encountered any signs of a mind this potent before. In fact, there were actually the trails of three minds, but the powerful one was so overwhelming that is almost completely masked the other two.

The agent gathered the military investigators. They had to follow this track before it faded. Everyone piled into a special Air Force van with thick lead shielding and a big swiveling aerial on top. They all were armed with high-powered rifles and even a flamethrower. Clearly, no one planned to take any chances.

One of the military men drove, while others operated the van’s detection equipment. All the while, the special agent probed the trail of psychic energy and gave street directions. He tried and tried to get a sense of what manner of brain could create this kind of power, but the images he received were just too weird. They didn’t seem to come from any sort of human brain at all.

The van made its way deliberately through the streets of Fairview. The town people stopped their normal business and stared inquisitively at the odd vehicle. They were pretty bemused. Most of them probably thought it was some new kind of TV wagon. Some approached it, like they thought their picture might end up on the nightly news reports. If they had known what was really at stake, not one of them would have found the situation funny.

Eventually the trail led clear out of town and into the farmland of Tabor County. There were fewer curious people to get in the way then. The trail led on and on, through Ross Valley and into the wilds of Gordon Valley. Finally it pointed right toward a small, secluded vineyard that looked like it had been abandoned. The van pulled up into the middle of the farm buildings and stopped.

At this point, everyone put their lead suits and helmets back on. Even the psychic agent had to wear one this time. The Geiger counters were chattering away like crazy. The men spread out to make their search. Several buildings had to be inspected. There were the living quarters, a tractor barn, several storage and outbuildings, and an old unused water tower.

It wasn’t too long before something happened. Each man was alone, and that was a mistake when you think about it now. But at the time it must have seemed important to cover a lot of ground quickly, before something drastic could take place. A horrible shriek came from the man inspecting the farmhouse. All the others converged on the spot, but it was too late to save him. Here’s what they saw when they entered:

The man’s body was still twitching and jerking, but there was no way he could still be alive. He had been slashed into ragged pieces, just like the guards on the air base. Two low forms hovered over him, swallowing up gobs of his severed meat. At first, they appeared to be naked human beings. That impression didn’t last long, though. These did not resemble any humans that had ever existed before.

Each one had its eyes on the side of its head, not in front like a normal person. Their thick lips protruded and were hardened by enamel. The aghast men could see they were sharpened like knives by the way they snipped through the dead man’s skin. The creatures’ arms bent backwards the way birds’ do. These limbs looked spindly and were probably not good for much. But the legs were thickly muscled and strong. The toenails grew out from the toes in talon-like claws.

When the two feeding monsters noticed the other men, they raised up instantly. Neither one had a single hair on their bodies. More than anything, they resembled plucked turkey carcasses with ugly, deformed human heads attached. Only, each of them was over five feet tall.

The psychic agent could tell that they were abnormally strong and quick. He had scanned their brains and didn’t see much there. Probably, they operated more on instinct than on reason. If they decided to attack, they would most likely be too strong to handle. So, the agent struck first. He noticed their resemblance to birds and took a chance. He created the image of a huge poisonous cobra and put that image into their minds. Birds are terrified by snakes, which can hypnotize them with a glance. The monsters just stared at the psychic image, frozen to the spot. This gave the other men time to pull out their weapons. A hail of gunfire opened up the two like bags full of bleeding hamburger.

So now only one more menace was left, the one with the powerful brain. This was likely to be the most dangerous of them, though. So they all searched together this time. That way, there was less chance of an ambush. At last the trail led to the old water tower. A twisting row of steps took them clear to the top, where they found the huge empty water barrel. This was where the supply of ranch water had been stored in olden days, but since the advent of modern irrigation it had been abandoned.

Inside this big barrel was the thing they had been looking for. A third mutant body was in there. It looked just like the other two, and that wasn’t strange, as the three had been triplets. Their insane parents had died in an asylum years before. The triplets had been raised in this barrel their whole lives so they wouldn’t endanger normal folks. But on close examination you could see where a couple of the barrel slats had been grown loose, allowing them to escape. A later inspection of the ranch grounds turned up the bones from two human bodies. These were the state caretakers who had the job of seeing to the triplets’ needs.

There wasn’t any more cause for the team of men to be worried. The figure in the barrel was stone dead. It had apparently been killed by radiation poisoning. In its lap, it held the nuclear material that the three of them had stolen from the hydrogen weapon at Travis. The hot isotope had finally melted the creature’s limbs. That was good, because it had been right on the verge of inserting the radioactive material into a suitcase bomb. This terrorist devise could have been exploded anywhere without warning, killing thousands of people. Fortunately, the men had arrived before the two monster siblings could complete the insane operation.

So the threat was over. The psychic agent wasn’t satisfied, though. He had seen into the mutant brains, and did not believe that the triplets were capable of such a clever scheme. But with the immediate danger over, the Air Force took complete charge. The farm was invaded by a squad of men in radiation suits. They examined absolutely everything, and when they were done they used the flamethrower to burn it all into ashes. Now no one else could ever learn their secrets.

But the agent still had to make a full report to the U.S. government and he did not plan to let military red tape get in his way. So he very carefully read the minds of the Air Force personnel. He did it so subtly that not one of them got wise. This way, he learned some very unsettling restricted information.

The examination of the third mutant body in the barrel had uncovered a very bizarre fact: whereas the other two creatures didn’t have much brain to start with, this one had no brain at all. Whatever gray matter it had possessed had been removed through a hole in the back of its head. So, really it had been dead for some time. This might seem like an impossible mystery, but surprisingly it actually cleared things up for the Air Force people. They had seen this kind of empty skull before and knew just what it meant.

And now the agent also knew. He had planned to leave Tabor County, but this changed his mind. There was no way he could go if such a menace was on the loose. In fact, stopping it had just become his most important priority.
 
Low Roads Story #64

Junkie​


I never understood why people have to take drugs. You may need some if you're sick, of course, but I mean using drugs for kicks. Living can be a pretty weird experience already. It doesn't have to be any more strange than it is.

But for the folks who can't do without them, there are plenty of sources in Tabor County. You sure wouldn't need to go far to find your favorites. The Low Roads in Ross and Gordon Valleys would be your best bet. The Mexicans and drifters down there always have a wide variety of choices. If you don't find what you want at one camp, just keep looking. And since there's so much competition, the prices are usually pretty cheap.

The Low Roads aren't for everybody, though. It's necessary to be tough if you want to venture down there, or at least lucky. The hobos aren't always as friendly as they seem. Some of the kids who go into the dry creeks for merchandise never return again. So you might prefer a safer source. For the dope fiends who live in Fairview, there's only one man available.

This drug pusher operates out of the southeast corner of town. That's the oldest part of Fairview, down by where the slough begins. The buildings cluster around the water like animals come to drink. Fishing is pretty good in the slough, although the fish are all bottom feeders. The sturgeons grow pretty sizeable and are quite tasty too. There's a boat dock, and fishermen regularly motor out to try their luck.

The drug lord's place is right by the water. The store is a real, legitimate business, but still it's just a front. It's a combination of saloon and bate shop called The Bate 'N' Booze. Plenty of men come just to get loaded on alcohol, but of course he makes more profits off illegal narcotics. He carries every kind that customers crave. He has drugs you can smoke. He has drugs you can eat like pills. He has drugs that have to be melted and shot into your veins with a needle. Every day, he sorts them out to sell. A crew of young toughs distributes these to addicts all over Fairview. They work cheap because they are hooked themselves. All they want is a small cut of the drugs for their own use. Not one of them would dare to take more. The pusher is notorious as a strong, brutal man who doesn't think twice about using violence.

In fact, he pretty much ruled the waterfront at one time. All the locals knew his profession, but no one ever informed on him. He got to be so confident that on hot summer afternoons he would actually sit out on his porch with a cold beer, sorting his drugs. This was pretty bold, but he got away with it for years.

The slough isn't exactly the seashore, but it's always been infested with seagulls. They feed off a nearby garbage dump and are known to be major pests in the area. They will steal the food right off your plate if nobody's watching carefully.

One day, after the pusher had just stepped inside, one of these birds landed on his porch. It looked over the wide variety of drugs. A bright yellow pill attracted its attention, and it swallowed the capsule down. It probably would have eaten every drug on the table, except at that moment it heard the man returning and flew away. The pusher never realized it had been there at all.

Well, that pill made the seagull go on a wild trip. It sailed all around the neighborhood, doing figure eights and all sorts of aerial tricks. It landed on folks' shoulders and warbled in their ears like it was having an intimate chat. The locals weren't disturbed. They actually found this crazy behavior to be rather charming.

The bird liked the pill so well that it went back to the pusher's place the next day. When the man left for a minute, it swooped down and swallowed another one. As time went on, it made a regular habit of this. The man never noticed, since it was only a single pill per day. Afterwards, the bird would flap off to entertain the neighborhood people.

But this situation didn't last long. Just like with every addict, soon one pill wasn't enough anymore. That's just what happens with all drugs. They're basically poison. The kick comes when your body tries to fight it off. But your system soon gets used to it. It takes more and more of the poison to receive the same effect.

So the bird was stealing more and more pills. The pusher finally started to see the loss. He didn't know who was causing it and punished every one of his distributors. They went around for weeks with black eyes and broken noses.

Then one day he caught the bird in the act. It sat there pounding down his profits, and he went berserk. He tried to get hold of the animal and ring its neck, but even a doped-up seagull is hard to grab. It sped off, squawking at him like it was laughing. The man was enraged, but he knew what to do. After that, he didn't take the drugs outside again.

Before long, the bird started to get shaky. This was the drugs withdrawing. It became sick and desperate. It needed more pills, and flapped at the windows to get inside. The pusher thought this was pretty funny. He thought the bird deserved it for ripping him off to begin with. But the banging got more and more frantic. It started breaking the glass with its beak. The man was startled at this behavior. He beat the crazed bird back with a broom, but it went on to smash every window in the house. The guy got scared. He picked up wooden tables and things, and nailed them up over the openings. It was like that Hitchcock movie, except there was only one bird.

The house was now a wreck, but the man had kept the seagull outside. He hadn't counted on how desperate it was, though. It flew to the roof and tried to squeeze down the stovepipe. This just blocked it up, and thick smoke filled the whole house. The pusher was forced outside, hacking and coughing, and the bird flew in to get its fix after all.

This was more than the man could stand. He prepared a trap to kill the pesky creature. Next day, he set a plate outside, loaded with a pile of the yellow pills he knew it liked so much. Then he hid himself behind the front door and waited. He wasn't alone. A mean, vicious pit bulldog sat beside him. This was a new acquisition. He figured that even if he couldn't catch this thieving bird himself, the hungry dog surely could.

It wasn't a long wait. The seagull didn't suspect a thing. It landed and began to gobble the pills greedily. That's when the pusher unleashed his deadly pit bull. The bird had no chance. Before it could do a thing, the dog had charged to attack. It tore the bird to pieces and gulped it down.

The man was pleased. He thought his problems were over. But he didn't understand one thing: the seagull's tissue was thick by this time with the potent dope it had eaten over the weeks. When the dog swallowed the flesh, dope poisoning hit it at once. It started acting like a twenty-year junk fiend, foaming and dashing around in a frenzy. When it saw the pusher, it didn't even recognize him. The hopped-up dog tore wildly into the meat of his leg and couldn't be pried off until cops had killed it with a gun.

The wound was so bad that his leg finally had to be amputated. Nowadays, he walks around with a wooden plank on his stump. He uses alot of his own drugs to fight off the pain. This man isn't the terror he used to be. After the dog incident, police started to keep a closer eye on his place. The locals hate him because he killed off the funny, entertaining bird. But mostly, the addicts don't respect him anymore. They won't ever forget that a crazed junkie seagull once got the better of him.
 
Low Roads Story #65

Slice​


The Sand Trap miniature golf course is the current hideout for Blacky and his gang. I don't mind telling you that. You'd never be able to catch them unawares. They're way too well hidden.

The place was originally built by a guy who was anxious to cash in on the miniature golf craze. It was in a great location, right off the freeway, and he was sure he'd make a killing. Trouble was, he didn't build the course very well. There were problems right from the very beginning. He used crummy paint on the miniature buildings, which pealed after the first rain. The grass carpet came loose in places and had to be tacked down with nails. He never maintained the motors for the obstacles, and they soon all stopped working. After one season, the business looked really ratty and uninviting.

As a result, almost no one stopped by to have fun. About his only customers were teenage punks who hung out on the links drinking beer. This was illegal, of course, but as long as they paid to get in he didn't much care what they did.

But there was one family who came by to actually play golf. It was a father, a mother and a little son. They would visit most every Sunday after church.

You might suppose that this was a pretty happy family since they all went out for recreation so regularly. I'm sorry to have to say this wasn't the case. The father was a mean, angry soul. The only reason he took them anywhere was so that he could humiliate his son. If they went bowling, he would taunt the boy for rolling gutter balls. At the circus, the poor youngster always got a swat because he was scared of the clowns. His sadistic dad would make him try every strength testing machine they came across and laugh long and loud at his low scores. That was really unfair behavior. After all, he was only a kid and they can't do anything right.

At the golf course, his problem was that he couldn't hit the ball straight. It would swerve to the left or swerve to the right and he would miss every time. It wasn't like his father was helping him out at all. That would have ruined the man's fun, which was to tap in after a few strokes and then settle back to watch, as the boy struggled. Sometimes it would take as many as twenty swings, but he wouldn't allow the kid to stop until he sunk the putt. And the cruel man was always careful to jot down the score so he could show afterwards how much better he did. The unhappy mother would just stand by with a sad look on her face.

Probably she really was sad, but that didn't help the boy any. He still had to come back week after week to play one humiliating round after another. On one breezy summer day, he was doing particularly poorly. The wind was pushing his ball all over and his score was worse than ever. The father was actually starting to become irritated, but instead of stopping the game he just badgered the kid through miserable hole after miserable hole.

Eventually they got to the windmill obstacle. A mechanism was supposed to turn the blades evenly so you could putt through them, but it had been broken for years. They just swung loose now. The boy took his first stroke and, miracle of miracles, the ball went straight as an arrow, directly through the little door in the mill. No one could believe it. The boy was really excited, because now the ball would exit the mill through a tube onto a lower part of the green. Frequently it would roll right into the cup. This could be his first hole in one. Everyone anxiously awaited for the ball to come out the tube.

Nothing happened. The ball had become stuck up in the mill. For Dad, this was the last straw. He cursed and cursed his son for incompetence. This was incredibly unjust. It wasn't the boy's fault, but the owner's for keeping the course in such bad repair. But the father wouldn't see that. He just kept cursing as he groped his arm through the mill door after the lost ball.

He groped and groped, but he was getting nowhere. It must be caught in a place he couldn't reach. So, he shoved his whole head in through the door to try and see where it was. That was his fatal mistake. A sudden gust hit the windmill blades and gave them a hard spin. They cut right through the man's neck, decapitating him in an instant.

The publicity that followed the accident was devastating for the Sand Trap. It was the beginning of the course's evil reputation, which ended in the owner having to sell the place at a loss. The mother and son could have sued him for wrongful death, but they never bothered. For them, things could have turned out worse.
 
Low Roads Story #66

Deadly Missile​


Back in the '60s there was a pretty strong division between those kids who lived in town and those who lived in the country. It's not as strong today because modern transportation makes getting around easier. But back then the two types of kids didn't mix much. They had their own different schools and their own different churches. The dividing line was Highway 80, which separated the farming land in Ross and Gordon Valleys from the town of Fairview.

I was raised on a prune ranch in Ross Valley. Like I suggested, me and my friends didn't see much of the kids in town. The only time this might happen was if you had a cousin who lived there. So it goes without saying we were never invited to any of their birthday parties. There was no way it could occur. Still, everyone knew the story about the most infamous birthday party in Tabor County.

This happened to a boy from Fairview. He had just turned eight years old. I suppose he was pretty much like all the rest of us. We were all pretty bratty back then, especially when birthdays rolled around and we were the center of attention. Anyway, he had plenty of his pals over and was receiving all the best toys of the time as presents.

I think toys from the '60s were alot more fun than the kind kids get today. I think they showed more imagination. Take toy soldiers, for instance. Nowadays, plastic figures are about six inches high. They're full of springs and moving parts. Companies call these "action figures". They only ever do the one thing. These figures look pretty clunky to me. But in the '60s, Marx made many plastic lines. The soldiers were only a couple of inches tall, but the sculpting was real good. They didn't move at all, but they came in hundreds of different poses and only cost a couple of cents each. You could collect so many you actually had enough to make up an army. And how about video games? We didn't have any of that back then. These things can cost fifty bucks apiece. Toys in my day were more reasonably priced. Every kid could afford all the best ones.

So, this boy was getting a good selection of all the hottest toys. He got a Thingmaker, with plenty of Plastic-goop. He got a Johnny-7 One Man Army. He got a Superball. Every kid had to have plenty of these. He got a Great Garloo. This toy was actually pretty expensive, as I recall. And he got a Whammo Air Blaster.

So afterwards, they went outside to play with all this keen new stuff. One thing I will have to say for today's toys: they're probably safer than they were back then. Companies have learned from experience. They all know the horror stories about how babies can swallow rubber balloons. Then the infant hiccups, swelling the balloon with air until it bursts, exploding the kid's head. That's why all packages of balloons have warning labels today. But back then we didn't know as much.

You could get a bad burn from the hot Thingmaker. A grenade launched from the Johnny-7 could poke you in the eye. Still, with the kinds he had that day he shouldn't have gotten into too much trouble. But here's what happened.

The incident involved two of the toys. First was the Superball. That's a black rubber ball about three inches across. It was made from some kind of mystery super material and could bounce higher than any ball before. It only took a little effort to get it to bounce over a house. Then there was the Whammo Air Blaster. It looked like an oversized plastic pistol with a wide mouth. You'd pump it up with a lever to get a huge blast of air, just like the name says.

This probably would never have happened in the country. There aren't enough hard buildings around. Houses in the farmland are all made of wood. Anyway, what the kid did was to stuff the Superball inside the Whammo Air Blaster. These toys were meant to be used separately. You should never combine them that way. Then, he took aim at a hard stucco wall and fired. The Superball shot toward the wall with deadly force. I'll bet the kid hoped to make hole in the building, but instead it bounced off and came right back at him. It struck him in the chest and went right through. Then it shot across the street toward his house and hit that stucco wall. Altogether it ricocheted seven times before losing speed. Each time, it shot clear through the boy's body. He was so full of holes there was no way he could survive.

The party was ruined, of course. Each child took back his presents, so I guess none of them felt too bad about it. All the gifts were returned except for the Superball and the Whammo Air Blaster. These were needed for trial evidence. The parents sued the toy companies for damages. They actually won, but it didn't amount to much. The courts didn't hand out big cash awards the way they do now. Especially not when customer stupidity was involved. Anyway, this doesn't change my mind. I still think toys were more fun in the '60s.
 
Oh yes, I remember the Superball and all the great Whammo! products. At least they didn't give him the dreaded Red Rider BB gun...

The most dangerous toy we had were the Jarts, the law darts we had in the camper. Great fun to play with but many got hurt by being idiots with them. Now we're stuck playing Cornhole...
 
A Red Rider BB gun? You'll shoot your eye out, kid!

Yeah, I never really understood the logic behind lawn darts (game-wise, maybe/safety-wise, no no no!) Do-it-yourself assassination kits, more like. Who in hell conceived the idea of letting kids purposely toss weighted objects into the air for fun? Same guy who let us all have bows and arrows and dart guns, I suppose (I'd pry the suction cups off those darts, drill holes, then glue in finishing nails. They'd stick to the wall every time that way!) It's a miracle that any of us ever survive our childhoods... now that all potential toy hazards are made out of Nerf foam, kids have to do drive-bys for the same level of kicks. You just can't win...

I've never heard of Cornhole. Sounds ominous... sounds like it's got an entirely separate safety factor to worry about...
 
Thanks Hawk! Most informative! Who'd have thought there'd not only be a site devoted to this game but that they'd sponsor tournaments! The final paragraph really caught my eye:

"Horseshoes require a sand pit and are hard for the kids to pitch, lawn darts require a lawn and hasn’t been seen since the 70’s, ring toss was made for children and bean bags are for wimps..."

Okay... I was with 'em right up to the last point. Now let me get this straight: bean bags are for wimps... but fill the same cloth sack with corn and suddenly you've got a manly sport! I never thought bean bags were particularly disreputable... cops fire 'em for crowd control, which ought to qualify as tough credentials! Well... I'm not out to rain on the Cornhole parade. Hope to see it in the next Olympics, if only as an exhibition.

Alas, I can't read this name without harkening back to Beavis and Butt-head. When Beavis scarfed down too much sugar, pulled his shirt over his head and went in search of "TP", there wasn't much mystery connected to his "Cornholio" alias. I presume the game came first... it sure could have used better publicity!
 
Low Roads Story #67

The Wife of Little Big Head​


Do you remember Little Big Head? I believe I once told you about him. Little Big Head was part of a traveling carnival. He wasn't any kind of performer. He didn't have those sorts of skills. Instead, he was an exhibit inside a big jar of alcohol in the freak tent. Most things you find pickled in alcohol are dead, but not Little Big Head. He only pretended to be. At night, when the carnival was closed down, he would sneak into town to do murders and other evil deeds. He was small, only about the size of a baby, but that didn't slow him down. For awhile, he was the terror of the west coast. Then one year the carnival stopped at the town of Fairview in Tabor County. That's when Little Big Head ran into Blacky and his gang. They were the ones who put an end to his rampage. Little Big Head isn't a menace anymore.

Although no one knew it, Little Big Head had a wife. That's how she thought about it, anyway. He ran across her one year in a little town in southern California. I'm not sure which town or even what county it's in, it's so far away. She was a bogey who lived in the sewers all by herself. Her name was Mud Sally.

Mud Sally was taller that Little Big Head. She was about the size of a normal person. She was sort of a mummy, which meant her skin and flesh was all shriveled and dried out. It would crack and flake off when she tried to move, so she had to stay in the sewer system where all that wetness would keep it moist. As a result, fungus and slime would grow all over her. Instead of hair, she had a head full of moss. Her skin became doughy and sticky, but at least it stayed in place.

Like Little Big Head, Mud Sally didn't have to eat very often. That was good, because she didn't get too many chances. Her best opportunities were when sewer workers came down to inspect. But sometimes she could also catch inquisitive boys who got too near the big storm drain outlets. This didn't happen very frequently, though. Mostly she just had to eat the mud that drifted in. There were squirming things living in it and they provided nutrients. Feeding off this muck is how she got her name.

She was all alone in the world until Little Big Head showed up. They first met when he was returning from one of his crimes. He must have found her pretty amusing, because the next night he came back with some special treats. These were the throat and organs from one of his victims. It was the first time anyone had ever been nice to Mud Sally, although I suspect Little Big Head only did it to be funny. After that, she always considered that they were married.

They weren't, of course. No babies ever got born. You'd never find a minister who would do the wedding anyway. Even so, each time the carnival passed through town, Little Big Head would stop by with goodies for her. She would stare lovingly at him with her mold encrusted eyes, and gurgle and drip her fond appreciation. Little Big Head thought all this was pretty hilarious. The carnival came by two or three times every year, and he never failed to show up.

But then one year passed and he didn't come. That was when Blacky put an end to his antics. Mud Sally didn't know all this, but she did understand that something was wrong. She knew he came from the carnival, but there was no way to go there to check. She was sure to stand out, since she was way too big to fit into an alcohol jar like he had. She could only gaze out at the tents and rides from the storm grates.

Then it was time for the show to leave. You might think that Mud Sally had no choice but to stay behind, but it was winter and real wet out. So she took the chance and crept away from the protective sewer water. She followed the trailers and delivery trucks to the next town. There, she took up in that sewer and was just as much at home as she had been before.

When the carnival moved on, so did she. It wasn't easy. She had to stay off the main roads, traveling through marshes and canals whenever it was possible. You'd think she would miss the right town at least once, but she always managed to find it. I think she had a special sense of direction, like pigeons do.

So, she was always able to stay close by the home of the only one who had showed her any kind attention. At night she would venture out of the tunnels and haunt the town streets. She knew something bad had happened to her husband, but didn't know what. Her aim was to keep searching until she found out. If some local resident was out late, on a drunk, say, that was their bad luck. She would drag them back into the dark sewer drains and torture them so they would tell the truth. No one was able to, of course, but at least she could eat them afterward. This went on for some time. The carnival developed an evil reputation, just as it had when Little Big Head was still around.

At last the carnival arrived in Fairview. The town had good sewers and Mud Sally settled in just like before. People began to disappear, the way they did in all the other towns, but the police chief had no better chance of solving these crimes than anybody else did.

It was the last night before the show would pack up. Mud Sally was out stalking the town's dark byways like she had dozens of times before. She felt especially mean on this occasion. The search had been going on for some time now, without any good results. Anybody she met up with tonight would really be sorry.

Then something happened that got her more enraged still. An irritating buzzing sound filled the night. It was like a thousand angry flies were swarming at her. She swiped at them but hit only empty air. Then, something bit at her ankle. Fluid was leaking out of a deep cut in the skin, but there was no sign of what caused it.

I'll bet you already know what. It was Blacky and the boys. The rat patrol had finally caught up to her. The buzz came from the electric motors of their tiny black racecars. They were so dim in color they couldn't be seen, but the terrifying hum of the motors was everywhere.

Blacky was a very clever rat. He had come prepared to do battle with Mud Sally. Each racecar had been specially fitted with a razor-sharp butcher knife on the front end. When one of the gang members dodged in close, the blade would tear a vicious gash into her leg. Soon, mud and slime were dripping all over, and strips of skin littered the pavement.

Mud Sally was bewildered by the attacks. She went stumbling frantically off, but Blacky wasn't going to let her escape. The gang roared after her into the darkness.

That next morning, a bizarre spectacle greeted the waking residents of Fairview. Tarry spatters of liquid had splashed a twisted course all along the town streets. Every so often, you could see slabs of something nasty, like slices of moldy Wonder Bread had dropped off some loaf. This trail finally terminated at the banks of the southern tulle marsh, but there was no sign at all of what had caused the mess.

I imagine Blacky and the boys must have sliced most of Mud Sally's legs away before she vanished into the mire. That sodden, doughy skin was probably pretty easy to cut. No one will ever know now. Maybe she's dead down there. Maybe she's still alive, but suffering without any legs. Then again, maybe they will grow back, just like moss and fungus can grow. Any hunters who venture out that way had better be careful. But even without meat to eat, Mud Sally might still stay alive. If there's anything the tulle marsh has plenty of, it's mud.
 
Low Roads Story #68

Malted Milk​


Tabor County has a big brewery located on the western outskirts of Fairview. It's right on the freeway so delivery trucks have easy access. This isn't some microbrewery. It's big, like I said. It manufactures a nationally known brand of beer. If I mentioned the name, you'd know it at once.

This plant has been around a long time. It's one of the major employers in town. I must say it's a stinky business. You can smell those hops a mile away. That's why it can't be too near Fairview. It's also situated somewhat downwind.

America has always had a big thirst for beer. The only time this ever let up was during the '60s. That's when the story I'm telling took place. The '60s was a pretty wild era. Drinking beer from a store just wasn't trendy enough. People preferred to brew their own or make wine at home. Also, if you wanted to get loaded, all sorts or illegal drugs were becoming popular. It was a time when everybody wanted to break the rules.

All the major beer manufacturers were being hurt by this competition. They tried various methods of luring their clients back. That's when you saw all those psychedelic TV commercials with the weird colors and gals in hot pants and go-go boots. The brewery in Tabor County used a different approach. They took the long view. They figured the best way to increase sales was to start recruiting the minor kids in elementary school.

The Research & Development Department went right to work and came up with what they thought was the answer. It was a product they called Malted Milk. It was like a cross between beer and milk, sort of a beer milk-shake. When you poured Malted Milk into a glass, it was yellow colored like beer was. Then the top would form a layer of white foam, just like the beer's head. This was actually easy to achieve since milk can be pretty foamy already. The drink was flavored with malts and hops and really did taste just like a glass of beer.

The only hard part of the process was removing the alcohol. They had to, of course, because serving real liquor to kids was illegal. But it proved quite a problem. Every time they tried, the taste would suffer. They produced batch after batch. Some of them were alcohol free but tasted terrible. Some had a good flavor but too much booze. It took dozens of trials, but finally they got it right. Malted Milk was ready for the market.

When you think about it, this was a pretty crazy scheme. No parents would want their kids used to the idea of drinking a beer. It shows you just how desperate things were. But the '60s was a crazy time. Smoking wasn't any better than drinking, but there were plenty of candy cigarettes around and cigars made of bubble gum. So maybe the concept of fake beer wasn't that far out.

The fact is, a big order for Malted Milk did come in, and this was from a local school. That's because the brewery was offering a discount just to get people interested. Malted Milk actually cost less than regular milk. None of the schools in Fairview cared much. They were all pretty well off money-wise.

But Rockville Elementary School was different. That's where all the farm kids got their education. It was located at the southern end of Ross Valley, and since it only took care of the rural population it was kind of a rinky-dink operation. The principal wasn't really very competent or well respected. He could never get enough money from the school district for proper supplies or programs. So the idea of cheap Malted Milk sounded pretty good to him.

It got introduced one Monday at lunch. The kids went in for their hot meals and saw all these foaming glasses at the end of the line. The cafeteria looked more like a saloon than a lunch counter. The kids stared in wonder at the fake beer. They must have thought it was pretty cool. They all sipped at it like it was the real thing. Some of them blew the foam off like they'd seen it done in movies.

But a terrible mistake had been made. Instead of the harmless Malted Milk, the brewery had accidentally shipped over one of the test batches. It tasted exactly the same, but this formula actually had quite alot of alcohol in it. The kids had never tried real booze before. Their systems weren't used to it. When the liquor started to kick in, they all began acting crazy, like a bunch of mean drunks. They started throwing the food and the glasses and trays at each other. Then they grabbed up the knives and forks like they were weapons. Teachers tried to restore order, but it was too late. A full-scale riot had begun.

One of the teachers called the sheriff for help. He arrived with a crew of deputies, but by that time the damage had been done. The riot had caused thousands of dollars in property destruction. All the children were taken into custody. Each one had to be treated for alcohol poisoning. Several of them had cuts and stab wounds from the silverware. And there was one death. The principal had been trampled and stabbed with knives. I told you he was unpopular. I guess he found out just how much that day.

This incident caused quite a scandal. The brewery might have been closed down because of it, but only the research department was fired. No more Malted Milk was ever produced. Actually, it might be time to bring it back. Near-beers are popular today. I'd like to try one. They should only be sold to adults, though.
 
Wow...what a clever scheme there. And for dessert, they could hand out malt balls (Whoppers, etc.) instead of rum balls, right?

That's the trouble with research. Mess up your paperwork, and bad things can happen...
 
Clever, maybe... it never would have worked with me, though. Beer wasn't something that attracted me as a kid; even now I don't care for it much. I've come to like blended drinks... frozen daiquiris, coladas, margaritas... anything that features a slurry of crushed ice! Grasshoppers are my favorites; unhappily, with the high cream content, they're too rich to drink all night long. Those things will get you loaded in a whole different way!

Yeah, those R & D boys really dropped the ball! More animal tests might have been indicated... I'm not sure a cage of drunk chimps would any improvement over the drunk eight year olds, however!
 
Littlebighead said:
Clever, maybe... it never would have worked with me, though. Beer wasn't something that attracted me as a kid; even now I don't care for it much. I've come to like blended drinks... frozen daiquiris, coladas, margaritas... anything that features a slurry of crushed ice! Grasshoppers are my favorites; unhappily, with the high cream content, they're too rich to drink all night long. Those things will get you loaded in a whole different way!

Yeah, those R & D boys really dropped the ball! More animal tests might have been indicated... I'm not sure a cage of drunk chimps would any improvement over the drunk eight year olds, however!
Click to expand...

I'll take your word for it, since the only alcohol I use is the isopropyl that we use to clean the chemo hood. Never understood the appeal of beer myself. I looks like a bad urine sample and smells like the stagnant water that we would dump out of old tractor tires when we had to move them. Alcoholism runs in my family, the only time there was a beer at our house was when Dad would buy ONE CAN to make batter with to fry catfish for our annual summer cookout.
 
Strawberry daiquiris and pina coladas come off more like desserts than bar-fare; if you were looking to get hammered, Grasshoppers would be a poor choice (you'd freeze before you put enough of them away!) I don't get to indulge in any of this stuff very much anymore... restaurant special occasions don't roll around as often as they used to (we do most of our celebrating at home these days), and I don't like bottled liquor enough to pay money for it. Beer tastes harsh to me and always has; hard booze tastes like medicine. I don't mind a glass of red wine, and probably ought to imbibe more regularly for cardiac considerations; I find it hard to stick with it, though. Soft drinks, now... I polish off a couple of liters of Squirt every week! One must have some weaknesses to brag about!
 
Low Roads Story #69

Hollow Men​


The eastern creek is the creek system in Tabor County that passes closest to the town of Fairview. Still, it's pretty remote from most civilization. It doesn't get that near to town until the very end. Mostly it lies in wildland, like the other creeks do, and it really doesn't cross that many roads.

In the dry season, field hands will camp out in the creek beds. Mostly they will choose the central creek, since it's in the heart of farming country. No one ventures into the western creek, though. The reputation of that place is just too frightening. It isn't near most of the ranches anyway. So, either the central or eastern creek has to do. Men will live in the eastern creek, but not too far south. That's because it leads to the southern tulle marsh. That marsh is very unsafe. It's full of hunting things. Sometimes at night they travel up the creek to hunt men. This has happened more than once. So, anyone who stays there has to be on his guard.

In the winter months, every creek is full of river water. Often the level is low. Then, the water is clear and doesn't move very fast. But during a flood it gets choppy and dirty. It's very dangerous at those times. You sure couldn't wade through it. Still, the men have to cross the creeks on occasion. That's why they make bridges.

I'm not talking about normal railed bridges that you can drive across. No Mexicans could afford to build something like that. But it's simple to make bridges out of old telephone poles. Sometimes phone poles in the ground have been there too long. The phone company will pull them out and replace them with stronger ones. The old poles can be left on the roadside for days. All you have to do is walk off with them. It takes several men, of course. A phone pole is usually just long enough to reach from bank to bank. I guess it's a struggle to put them in place, but once they're installed they can last for years. You might not think you'd want to use a bridge like that. You might think they're too unsteady. The trick is to use two poles, side by side right up against each other. You walk with your right foot on the right pole and your left foot on the left pole. You'd be surprised. It doesn't take that much balance.

Two ranches up in Ross Valley had this arrangement. The eastern creek ran between them, and the only way for workers to visit each other was this kind of bridge. The winter crews would use it often, because in winter there aren't that many men around. Guys on a neighboring ranch are usually the only company available.

This incident happened during a fairly wet winter. The creek was about half full of dangerous brown water, so no one felt much like taking a chance to cross. The rain was keeping them all indoors anyway. It was a pretty dull time. But it didn't stay that way long.

There was an uproar one morning in one of the bunkhouses. A man was dead in his blanket. There wasn't a single mark on him to show how it occurred, but his face was contorted with pain and terror. His glassy eyes bugged wide open in a horrible stare. It really spooked his bunkmates when they found him.

This mysterious death prompted the town coroner to do an autopsy on the body. When he opened it up, the mystery became no clearer, but it did put him in a cold sweat of fear. It seems that the corpse had no internal organs to examine. He must have started with some, but they were gone now. The gut cavity and the chest were totally empty except for a little thin liquid residue. The coroner knew of no disease that could do this kind of thing. If this was a new one, it was particularly nasty.

Doctors examined all the other men in the bunkhouse for germs. Nothing unusual turned up, so they were released back to the ranch. None of the laborers thought a disease was responsible for the death. They were pretty superstitious and believed that witchcraft was to blame. One of the men on the neighboring ranch must be an evil sorcerer.

This was a bad situation. The dead man's friends began doing magic rituals to protect themselves. To the workers across the creek, it didn't look that way. They thought it was black magic to cause them harm. Everyone became really withdrawn and sullen. It stayed tense in the area for several days. Then there was another death.

This one happened on the other side, though. The dead body was in exactly the same kind of weird condition. All its organs were missing. This man's co-workers were sure that voodoo retaliation was involved, and started their own witchcraft ceremonies. They burned black candles and did alot of chanting. And soon a second killing did take place on the other side. That seemed to confirm it. Even the ranch owners thought that evil sorcery was at work now.

The sheriff didn't believe in any of that. He assumed that murders had taken place, but he didn't think they were supernatural ones. All this nonsense was just confusing things. So he assigned deputies to keep an eye on the ranches day and night.

The deputies went under-cover. They pretended to be farm workers, but really they just hung around looking for clues. That was easy enough to do in daytime. They would just blend in with everybody else. After dark it was different, though. The man on the graveyard shift had to lie low outside the buildings and keep his eyes open. That was pretty miserable duty, especially when it rained.

It was two nights after the last death and if the pattern was right another wouldn't be far off. The deputy on the scene was keeping a really close watch on the bunkhouse. He was ready for just about anything. What he didn't know, though, was that the building was empty. The Mexicans had had enough and had sneaked away that evening. The only people on his side of the creek were him and the ranch owner.

This farmer slept with his bedroom window open. So when he started a faint struggling and choking, the deputy heard it right away. He took out a flashlight and shined it inside. The farmer twisted in spasms under the sheets. It looked like he was having a seizure. Maybe it was a disease after all. The deputy was about to go for help when the man's body stopped jerking and went totally slack. It was clear that he had just died.

Then the deputy witnessed a very ugly spectacle. The farmer's head began to bend slowly back on the pillow. His dead mouth drew open into an awful gape. His throat bulged like something was forcing its way out from the stomach. Then, quart after quart of tarry black liquid gushed from between his jaws and slopped onto the rug. This horrible fluid stank like mad. The deputy was completely disgusted, but he was a trained professional. He did not fail to notice that even though the liquid spilled all over, it didn't separate into puddles. It stayed in one basic mass. He saw that it was moving all on its own. At that moment it was moving toward the open window.

The deputy switched off his light and dashed away just in time. When he turned back, the black fluid was streaming down the side of the house onto the ground. Once it was outside, it oozed along slowly in a thin line. It looked like a dark, flat snake about eight feet long. Then it stopped dead. The front end lifted off the dirt and flicked from side to side, just like it was a head trying to sense something. The deputy knew what was wrong. This liquid was aware of him. It started in his direction, but it wasn't moving slowly anymore.

The man ran for his life. He headed for the creek and the pole bridge. That was his best chance to escape. The poles were wet and slippery, and the roaring flood underneath was angry, but he didn't dare to pause. Luckily, he made it to the other bank without a stumble. The liquid was in hot pursuit. He had hoped the bridge would stop it, but it didn't even slow down. It poured itself right into the trough between the two poles. That was how it made its way to attack on both sides of the creek. The situation looked hopeless, but panic gave the deputy added strength. He grabbed one of the phone poles and heaved. Ordinarily you'd need several men to shift that much weight, but he just managed to do it alone. The two poles separated by a couple of feet and the liquid spilled between the crack. It splashed into the roiling brown water and disappeared.

When the deputy calmed down again and had time to reflect, he reasoned out what must have happened. This liquid probably preyed on men in their sleep. It entered through the mouth. Once inside, it dissolved away all the organs. It must have done this for food.

There was no way to tell whether or not the liquid was dead now. It might have broken up in the floodwater. Then again, maybe water was its natural home. He didn't think it was anything that had been made by sorcery. Possibly it would just be washed down to the tulle marsh. That might be where it came from to begin with. Anyway, it was just another good reason to stay away from the marsh. It was full of hunting things. Whether this creature would feed on them or be eaten itself was hard to tell. He just prayed it would be a long period before any of them swam up north again.
 
Quite the visceral varmint there, LBH! Remind me to leave on the opposite side of Tabor Country from where this creature comes from...

"Old black water, keep rolling..." Amazing how certain tunes come to mind at certain times...
 
Thanks Hawk! Actually, I'm not sure any part of Tabor County is particularly safe! This was an excruciatingly nasty way to go out, though (visceral, as you say, literally!) To quote from "The Wreck of the Hespheris": "God save us all from a death like this"!
 
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How dreadfully delightful! I liked the set up and execution of the story LH, bravo. Bravo.
 
Glad you enjoyed it, J! Thank you! Can't have too many blobs around (or perhaps an oil slick, in this case); they're the most merciless of horror staples!
 
Low Roads Story #70

The Death Green​


The folks up in Green Valley probably think they live in paradise. It is a pretty beautiful area, probably the nicest in Tabor County. The valley is surrounded by lovely green hills and mountains, and the lowlands are covered with grape vineyards. There are a couple of wineries, so the latest vintage is easy to get. The richest families in the county live up in these hills. You have to be rich to build homes up there. Access isn't all that easy.

The Green Valley Country Club is right on Green Valley Road, which is the main drag. Every rich family in the hills is a member. Who wouldn't want to be? The club has every amenity you could think of. There are two swimming pools, one especially for the kids. The other has high diving boards and a sunken window so you can watch the swimmers underwater. There are several clay tennis courts. The golf course is a real nice one, wandering through the trees and streams. A private airport allows visitors to come in from almost anywhere.

The clubhouse itself is a strong stone building from the last century. It's built almost like a fort, which is what it had to be in the old Wild West days. That's because there were plenty of bandits in the western hills, which aren't very far away. These days, the place offers really good dining, with the best local wine, and meat flown in from the best suppliers. The main hall can be reserved for special occasions and frequently is.

With all this ideal setting, the last thing you'd think to find would be a dead man out on the golf course. But that's just what happened one year. He was stretched out on the 12th hole. The reason for his death was pretty clear. He had been poisoned by rattlesnake venom. Snakes were not unknown up in these hills, but this case was really alarming. He had been bitten at least fifty times, and all on the right wrist.

The club manager ordered a massive search of the surrounding area, but the staff found no signs of rattlesnakes. This wasn't really surprising, since it was winter. All snakes should be hibernating this time of year. Still, the man was dead. No one could figure out how, though.

The club considered this some kind of unexplained freak accident until a few days later when the next member played the links. No one heard anything from him for several hours. They finally got nervous and went to check. This man was also dead, right in the middle of the 12th hole fairway. Only his right arm was bitten, but it was completely black and bloated. There was enough rattler poison in him to kill a hundred people.

The manager was frantic. If this got out, it could really give the club a bad name. He sent the golf pro out to play the course himself. He warned him to scan the grass carefully for anything unusual. But it didn't help. The pro was killed too. Only this time the left hand was bitten.

So, the course developed a bad reputation after all. No one played the links anymore. You wouldn't expect all these high-end folks to be superstitious, but a weird legend sprang up about the 12th hole. It was referred to as The Death Green. You couldn't really see it too well from the clubhouse. It led away through thick stands of woods and rough. Well, the story was that a mutant lived out in that rough. It was a rattlesnake all right, but not a normal one. This was like some snake from ancient Greece, with dozens of angry striking heads. Some people said it also had legs. I guess that would actually make it a dragon. But no one had really even seen the thing. You weren't supposed to be able to and live.

These stories were entertaining enough to listen to, but they were driving the club manager insane. He was desperate to end the crisis. A famous professional golfer was scheduled to play the course in a couple of weeks. It could be terrific publicity, but certainly not if he died. That kind of incident could ruin the place.

Finally he resorted to using an outside expert. This was a hunter from the state of Florida. He was a renowned snake trapper. It was expensive to fly him in, but if he succeeded it would be worth it. He had a very special method. When he arrived, he carried a large plastic animal tote. Inside were his partners. They were two pet ferrets who had been specially taught how to sniff out rattlers.

This man finally solved the mystery. He leashed up the ferrets and they led him directly to the proper spot. It was the only place no one had thought to look. The death spot was actually the cup on the 12th green. A colony of rattlers had set up a den right underneath that cup. They were, in fact, hibernating and really didn't appreciate being disturbed. Any golfer who sunk his putt and then groped around in the hole for his ball was sure to be bitten dozens of times. He couldn't possibly make it to help before all that venom proved fatal. A successful putt on that green was as good as a death sentence.

The expert had only been on the job a few minutes, but he still went home a rich man. No one begrudged him his fee. Before he left, he fished out all the snakes and put each one in a big glass enclosure that was specially built in the clubhouse. They're all happy and well-fed serpents now, and the display is a big attraction. The manager has had the last laugh on the locals. He'll point to the glass case and make jokes about the legendary monster. Even after that, though, the superstitious fear never calmed down completely. The 12th hole is still known as The Death Green to this day.
 
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Excellent tale. LBH. As soon as I read it I thought immediately of Chi-Chi Rodriquez's old trick of sometimes covering the hole with his hat when he made a putt. Imagine pulling up that hat and finding all those rattlers dangling from it by their fangs!
 
That's one way of extracting the menace I hadn't considered! Far better the hat than the hand, certainly; all those dangling rattlers could serve as nifty decorations, too (similar to imbedding casting flies)!

Glad you enjoyed the story, Hawk! Thank you very much! Though I've got to confess, everyone was able to anticipate the resolution when I first posted it (2002 or 2003). I guess there are only so many ways to tell a golf story (under par, over par, rattlesnakes in the cup).
 
Low Roads Story #71

A Couple of Trained Men​

Tabor County has railroad lines leading into it, like just about every other U.S. community does. Fairview used to be more dependent on the trains than it is now. Today, truck and bus service is better and we don't need the rails as much. Some businesses can't do without them, though. You'll see tracks leading up to alot of the big warehouses. For moving bulk cargo around, you can't beat the railroad.

Back in the olden days, you needed plenty of employees to service the engines and the rail cars. Two of these men worked pretty much by themselves in one of the warehouses. Even though they attended to their regular duties, these guys had a sideline. They would kidnap children off the streets and keep them prisoner in a big wooden crate. They would feed these kids just enough to survive. When there was a sufficient number, they loaded the crate on one of the cars. It was bound for their partner in San Francisco. This man had a shipping business. He would send the kids off to China to serve as slave labor in sweatshops.

Parents were becoming frantic at the loss of their kids. No one knew who was to blame, but they soon found out. The two men were caught right in the act. The whole warehouse scheme was uncovered by a mob of angry townfolks.

The two men confessed their crime, but it did them no good. The parents were too enraged by the loss of their children. These kids were now in a foreign land, so it was impossible to get them back. The parents should have turned the criminals over to law officers but decided to inflict their own justice instead. Each man was taken to the tracks and held tight in front of an open rail car coupling. Then the townfolk forced the engineer to back up the rest of the train. When the couplings came together, the man was squeezed between them. He was squeezed so hard he fell in half. This must have hurt. It was an awful way to die, but I guess the men got pretty much what they deserved.

If these guys had been killed in a shoot-out with cops, or been tried in a court and sentenced to electrocution, that might have been the end of it. But because they were murdered by a mob, they come back sometimes. Once each year on the anniversary of their deaths, it's possible to hear the wheels of a handcar out on the rails in the fog. You might just catch a glimpse, although no smart person would get too close. One of the murdered men is at each handle of the pump. They aren't very fresh anymore. Each one is still cut in half, like you'd expect. Only the top part is there, bobbing maniacally off the car platform each time his partner thrusts the lever down.

Keep the kids inside on these days. Several have disappeared over the years. They see the handcar sitting all lonely and inviting out on the tracks and can't resist seeing if it works. Only, once they're onboard, the half-men will leap out of the fog and pump it out of sight. No one knows what becomes of these stolen kids. Maybe the same thing that happened before. We'd have to go to China to find that out.
 
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