HIGHWAY 340

by

Dwayne Phillips

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Dwayne Phillips on Smashwords

Highway 340

Copyright © 2011 by Dwayne Phillips

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

* * * * *

HIGHWAY 340

Dave grabbed the cuff of his sleeve with the fingers of his right hand, leaned forward in the driver's seat, and rubbed the windshield with the shirt-covered heel of his hand.

“C'mon,” he mumbled to his windshield “Clear up a little. I have to see a little better.”

The windshield of his Ford Focus was fogged except for two little clear spots near the defroster vents. Dave had to lean forward and side to side to see through his portals to the road. Dave was going to fix the defroster, as soon as he got home, as soon as he decided where home was going to be.

Highway 340 is in the western edge of the northern half of Virginia. It is a two-lane highway that was ten miles east of Interstate 81 snaking its way through the poor, rural areas. Dave had left Interstate 81 an hour earlier. Several accidents in the snow and ice had all but stopped traffic on the Interstate. Dave pulled off on an exit near a town whose name he couldn't remember to try this road. Someone had told him about the scenic drive on this highway four hours earlier. He was lucky he remembered that brief conversation while getting gas. He thought he was lucky when he exited the Interstate, but now he was reconsidering.

Dave had been driving for 13 hours. At least he thought it was 13 hours. He had passed through towns named Grove Hill, Newport, and Battle Creek. Luray was coming next. Or had he passed through Luray? Or was Battle Creek next? The signs on the side of the road had run together in Dave's mind. He rubbed his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt. It was wet from vainly wiping at the windshield, and the cool wetness revived him for a moment more.

Dave sped up when the road became straight and black. He slowed when it became curved or white with snow and ice. Speed up, slow down, wipe the windshield, wipe my face, repeat the cycle. There were no other cars on the road at this time of night – or was it morning – so drift over the center line here and there to straighten the curves and miss the snow.

Every now and then the windshield wipers would groan when the windshield became dry. Those wipers weren't doing much good as they were coated with ice. It must be 25 degrees or something below freezing out there. Ice also coated the radio antenna. It grew thicker until it was like a pool cue, then it would all clunk off and start forming again. Dave had tried several times in the last hour to find a radio station, but nothing was there. He was sure his radio worked, so it must be the mountains or the weather stopping the usually clear AM stations at this time of night.

“This is enough,” Dave told himself. “I have to stop and rest. The next town – Battle Hill or Battle Creek or Luray or whatever – I'll pull into a McDonald's parking lot. I'll sleep a little; I'll sleep just a little to clear my head. The weather will be better too after a rest. Sure, it will be better.”

Dave went sped up to 55 on a stretch of straight, clear road. Once he hit 55, though, he saw a warning sign of a curve ahead. He let off the accelerator and started the slow down for the curves. These curves were the worst ones he had met tonight. He tapped the breaks so not to over correct for his straightaway speed and entered the curve to the right, then the left, then back to the right, and then through a couple of patches of snow in the middle of the road.

Ahead to the right Dave saw a sign atop a 20-foot post. “Lots” it read with a large space between the “t” and “s.” Snow covered the missing letters or maybe the sun had peeled cheap paint from the wood. This wasn't a McDonald's and this wasn't a town, but it did have what resembled a parking lot. Dave let the car continue to slow until he was almost stopped in the middle of the highway when he drew even with the sign.

This was a dimly lit area to park, but it was an area to park, so Dave turned the wheel to the right and pulled into what felt like gravel under his tires. The car stopped a foot from a concrete post. Dave's headlights peaked through the falling snow. Yes, it was a full snow now unlike the freezing rain he had been driving through. The side and rear windows of the car were as fogged and frosty as the front windshield. Dave couldn't see much, but that didn't matter. What could be out here in this weather that would hurt anyone? Dave pushed the gear shift into PARK and pulled his foot from the break. It felt good to not have any pressure on the ball of his right foot. He wiggled his toes in his shoe.

“Finally,” thought Dave. “I'll close my eyes for half an hour and hit the road again. Half an hour will do me good, just half an hour.”

Dave pushed his seat as far away from the steering wheel as it could go and leaned it back until it hit the pile of clothes in the back seat. He bent over forward and took off his shoes. His feet would be cold, but they would have a chance to dry. He curled his legs into the driver's seat and covered them with a sweat shirt from the back seat. Dave looked at his watch in the light of the dashboard. 2:15, or was it 3:15? The hour and minute hand swam together and apart several times. Dave couldn't read them, but it didn't seem important. Let the engine run and keep the heat on. Half and hour is all Dave needed. Just half an hour.

* * * * *

Gray. Dave opened his eyes to gray light. He pulled himself forward, but didn't move his arms from their tightly crossed position. The windows were frosted. Dave rubbed his side window with his left elbow. He peered through a small opening in the frost and opened his eyes just beyond a crack. A man with a gray beard and a dirty Tilley hat was walking through Dave's limited view. A dirty blaze orange jacket that was ripped and patched in several places shielded the man from the cold.

“What is anyone doing wearing a Tilley hat in the winter? Those are made from shielding you from the sun.” That was all Dave could say.

Fatigue spun inside his head. He closed the crack in his eyes and fell back into the seat.

“Just half an hour,” was his last thought.

* * * * *

Crackle. Pop. Crackle. Crackle.

Someone was popping bubble wrap with their fingers. No, that wasn't the sound. It was the tires of a vehicle slowing in gravel. The crackle and pop sounds stopped, and Dave could hear a rumbling engine. The engine quit and a horn tapped followed by two doors opening and slamming shut. Next were a pair of footsteps crunching through gravel right up to and then past Dave's ears.

Dave forced open his eyes to the sight of his arms clad in his tan jacket and crossed tightly on his chest. His chin was pressed down hard on his chest to keep the body heat as close as possible. Without moving any part of his body, Dave glanced side to side. The dirty gray interior of his car was to his right and frosted windows were to his left. Except for the fading footsteps on gravel, the world was silent, and Dave was cold.

Dave twisted his left arm just enough to see his watch. 7:30. 7:30? It was 7:30 in the morning. Dave had slept for four hours, or maybe it was five hours.

“Have to get back on the road,” raced through Dave's mind.

He jerked forward and lifted his seat back to the upright position. His right had went to the ignition, but it was already in the “on” position. The engine was off – it had run out of gas while Dave slept.

Dave's eyes opened wide as he quickly became fully awake. He had run the engine out of gas in his sleep. “Damn!” Dave shouted as he slapped the steering wheel with both his hands.

Dave felt his shoes beneath his feet, so he slipped them on and tied the laces. He opened the driver's door as ice fell off his car. He stepped out onto gravel laced with ice, stood erect, and surveyed the place that allowed him to sleep and run out of gas. His car was blocked in by half a dozen pickup trucks of various colors. The only thing they had in common were dents, rust, and gray primer brushed over the dents.

“I'm in redneck heaven, or is it hell?” was the first thought that came to Dave.

“Better not say that out loud,” whispered Dave.

He swallowed hard and turned to face the same direction as his car. A few feet in front of his car was a large frosted window. People were inside at a few large tables eating breakfast. Back to the right were a couple of gas pumps.

“All right, gas,” said Dave in a full voice this time. “I'll be on my way in no time as soon as I get some of the pickups moved. Why would anyone park right behind me and block me in?”

Dave closed his car door and walked around his vehicle to the front door, or maybe it was a side door, of the gas station restaurant. He stopped before opening the door and turned back towards Highway 340. The sign atop the post that stopped him four or five hours earlier was a little easier to see. It read “Lottie's.”

“At least it has stopped snowing and sleeting,” thought Dave as he exited the parking lot and entered Lottie's.

The quiet of outdoors was contrasted with the noise and bustle indoors. It was also warm indoors, and it smelled of food – baked, fried, and grilled food and spices.

“Grab a plate and sit,” came a loud female voice.

“Uh, no thanks,” answered Dave in an equally loud but less confident voice. “I just need to get some trucks moved so I can get some gas.”

“What?” came the female voice again.