Ghost Reaper Episode 1 Read online

  GHOST REAPER

  Episode 1 (A Serial Novel)

  by

  Drew Adams

  (Tune in for new episodes every 21 days)

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Drew Adams

  Cover design by Melinda Merrell Designs.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law and for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Use of this e-book is limited to personal, non-commercial use. All rights. No transmission, publication or exploitation of the e-book in part or in whole is permitted without the prior written permission of the author, Drew Adams. The book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Dedication

  Dedicated to Daddy Ray and Wanda Juanita Homan. Thanks Mom and Dad, your support was beyond words, and I have no words for how much I miss you.

  Chapter 1

  A squeal of tires, whiff of smoke, guardrails, then nothing. Chad knew what lay beyond the guardrails. A canyon, cliffs, boulders, all on his list of things he did not want to crash into. The sun was attempting to set, painting a pinkish hue through the deep valley floor his car was hurtling towards.

  The sluggish flight, doomed to last only seconds, hinged Chadwick Alan Dowdry between fascination and terror. He knew he was about to die. He feared it but at the same time was thrilled by the surreal mystery of the descent.

  A large boulder whizzed by in real time. For Chad it was slow enough to observe the pits and crevices. Then open space with only a ledge jutting out from the canyon wall threatening to interrupt his plummet into the abyss.

  The ledge proved to be enough, Chad's slow motion plunge lacked the trajectory to escape it. The steering wheel he tugged on turned tires gripping only air.

  On cue, time caught up.

  The rocky shelf raced towards him.

  He shut his eyes. Braced for impact.

  A concussive jolt jarred the car, conducting a massive wave of destructive energy through the frame of the car into his body from every possible direction. Diamonds of shattered shatterproof glass exploded towards him, ripping into clothing and flesh. The silence of the fall was replaced with the shrieking and groaning of twisted metal joined by the thunderous report of mass and velocity colliding. Chad didn't see his life flash before his eyes, and he didn't see a bright light.

  He was just lying on the ledge, peering over it, watching his demolished vehicle continue the journey. It struck the canyon floor and burst into flames. Chad watched with obsessive awe, grateful to be alive, overjoyed to not be in that car. He stood up and brushed dust from his shirt and jeans. He appeared to have no injuries, none of the glass remained in his skin. With care he ran his hands through his hair, finding no debris. He felt his pulse, expecting it to be out of control, but found that it plodded along as if none of the past eight seconds had happened.

  I’m not out of the woods yet.

  Above, the wall of the canyon, a sheer rocky precipice loomed upward without any break except the large boulder he had admired on the way down. Climbable, yes, but not without equipment, and certainly not with darkness following the already deepening shadows. He was stuck between trying to escape the ledge, or finding some shelter to endure the night. Spring here in Wyoming meant freezing nights when good weather prevailed. There was a front, he remembered, approaching from the northwest, but it wasn’t supposed to get here until sometime tomorrow evening.

  Or was it this evening?

  Already a chill seemed to rise from below where his car still burned. He blew breath into his hand, but noted no frost. To his right the ledge stretched about a quarter of a mile, disappearing around a bend, and relatively level. There was vegetation cropping up, sparse at first, then denser as it curved past the corner. To his left, a sheer drop.

  “Guess that makes my mind up,” he mused out loud.

  As he headed towards the thicket, he scanned the terrain for firewood or anything else that might be useful, stuffed a couple of sharp-edged rocks into his pockets, picked up a discarded beer carton and filled it with twigs he found as he made his way. Light was fading fast, much quicker than he had anticipated. The chill was still with him, not getting worse, but seemed to encompass his whole body, inside and out.

  At the curve at last, Chad whistled.

  “Damn... this would have been a good day to be in Vegas.”

  A lot of people, he figured, would not consider driving off a cliff particularly lucky, but when you considered he survived without a scratch, and now was looking at a shallow cave tunneled out of the rock, that fortune was on his side.

  Okay...gotta crib for the night. Now for a few homey touches.

  He hacked at some bushes with the sharp rocks managing to cut several of them and layering them across the mouth of his cave. It was only about three feet in height, close to seven in length and the depth about two feet of habitable space that decreased into a mysterious crack.

  Rattlers in there probably...but when you’re on a roll, keep throwing the dice.

  The beer carton and twigs plus the lighter in his pocket would provide fire. He noted a dead tree close by, reached into his left pocket, but found only one of the rocks he had picked up.

  “Shit...” he shouted... “I know I had it.” A search of his other pockets turned up nothing. No lighter to flick.

  The daylight was all but gone. Chad wasn’t about to start rubbing sticks together.

  Guess I’ll just curl up and take it. Still feel like my glass is half full.

  He squeezed into the shelter and huddled his arms and legs into a fetal position. His thoughts weren’t about snakes in the crevice, or the damp cold, or even his close brush with the grim reaper. What filled his mind and escorted him into slumber was wondering why he felt so damn good.

  Chad slept, if you could call it that. Dreams intruded, from his classes at the seminary to the horrific crash. He could see himself inside the vehicle, blue eyes staring into space, his dark hair matted with blood. Each dream featured montage after montage, all playing out in the hurdling car. Jenny appeared, sometimes in the car, sometimes standing besides him on the ledge, sometimes harping on the problems in their relationship. He would wake up, but slumber was quick to reclaim him. The last was the worst. This time it was Jenny whose blue eyes stared and dark hair was matted with blood. Her eyes weren’t lifeless, they penetrated him, accused him.

  Morning had arrived, but no light. Chad attempted to stretch out of his cramped position, but found the wall of brush he had constructed pressing close in on him. Snow had filtered through but enough caught in the structure to form a matted solid wall.

  "The damn front came in last night," he muttered.

  An urge to escape the icy coffin shuddered through him. He resisted, calming himself by considering the harsh conditions that surely existed outside. The chill he had felt yesterday had changed little. It was a wonder that he had not froze to death during the night.

  Guess those two weeks I was a boy scout came in handy. If I stay though, I'll die.

  He turned towards the snow laden brush wall and pushed. It didn't budge. He pressed harder, his back against the rocky ledge and put everything he had into it. Still no success.

  It can't be that soli
d.

  Towards his feet he could see a hint of light where maybe the snow was not as thick. With as much force as the cramped quarters would allow he lashed out with a kick. Snow tumbled, covering his feet and a shaft of light hurried into his shelter. With a sigh of relief, he laid his head back. Not out yet, he thought, but it's a start. Again he stomped at the light; more snow busting away; more sunlight flooding in.

  The hole looked small, but he began worming his way feet first through the opening. He was right. It was small, too small. His legs wedged at mid-thigh. A try at scissoring his legs to widen the space again demonstrated how sturdy the packed snow had made his wall. Twisting and turning, hitting the outer edge with his knees, and hitting the wall with his fist loosened some snow. Hips were stuck now. More worming and he managed to free them.

  At last he backed out of the shelter, freeing his head, and looked up at blue skies. It was cold, but the chill that had been with him had not increased. His panting produced no condensing mist.

  "Strange," he wondered out loud.

  Around the curve, the terrain sloped upward, relatively gentle compared to the sheer walls back where his unfortunate accident occurred. There were plenty of shrubs and small trees. Welcome hand holds he hoped would get him to the road.

  Chad guessed that close to a foot of snow covered the treacherous incline ahead of him. Some dark rock outcroppings peeped through the white blanket, giving the climb an appearance of being a smooth ramp twisting up the side of the canyon. He was sure this was not the case. Being an avid hiker and fair rock climber, he knew that each step could easily become a misstep, that would send him tumbling down an embankment that had already tried to welcome his death. Shivers flowed through him like electric currents, but no different than before. A brisk breeze pushed against brush sticking out of the snow, disturbing them just enough to announce its presence. There was no way he could dismiss the fact that the intense cold, wind chill or not, was not affecting him, no way he could explain the lack of steam forming from his breath, and number one on his list of hits.

  I still can't believe how freakin’ good I feel.

  A procrastinator for many aspects of his life, he commonly followed a philosophy of not doing today what he could put off until tomorrow. Of course this applied to things that he wasn't real keen on doing in the first place. The endeavor facing him fit into that category. In fact, it topped his list.

  I really ... really ... really... don't want to do this.

  "Shit!"

  "To stay is to die..." he spoke out loud. To himself he said to leave is to die more horribly.

  Equipped with a staff he wrestled from the shelter, Chad put one foot ahead of the other and began his climb to salvation.

  A third of the way up Chad stopped for a breather, though he was not tired or out of breath. The snow was packed harder than he had imagined, supporting his weight without so much as a hint of failing. Behind him, his tracks left shallow impressions, more like you would expect on firmly packed soil. The brush he grasped to support his ascent seemed unperturbed. In fact, his only complaint was the increasing weight of the stick he carried. It was not the weight he realized, more like the effort. A lot of little inconsistencies were starting to pile up, demanding further thought, more consideration. A hint of anxiety plagued the calm he was accustomed to feeling.

  It's not like you're the recent survivor of a certain fatal car crash, and I can't imagine why the possibility of hypothermia would make you nervous.

  The chill wasn't any worse, but then again it wasn't any better. He resumed his upward trek, his confidence increasing, yet not keeping pace with his growing apprehension. Another break wasn't necessary, but the last 40 feet was nearly vertical.

  "Damn...I wished I had some rope. Climbing shoes would be nice too. Ah hell...might as well throw in a rock hammer and some carabineers."

  He scanned the cliff top to bottom and mapped out a course that gave him the best chance for a safe climb. His love of climbing was tempered by the lack of equipment and the relentless uneasiness that threatened his confidence. Cockiness wasn't necessarily a compliment to scaling sheer walls. A healthy respect for nature, heights and Murphy's law is a better recipe. Still, a lack of confidence can be a death sentence.

  "Oh well..." he grunted under his breath "...nothing to it the way we do it."

  With a smile he felt was unwarranted, Chad left the staff behind and began to scale what he figured was the last hurdle.

  Lots of nooks and crannies in the first eight feet or so. He rested on a perch knowing that there was not much directly above him that would provide grip. A horizontal transverse would be best. The surprising thing was how little the climb was affecting him. At one point he could not believe an affliction of 'Elvis' had not struck him.

  Sure don't need my legs shakin’, especially since I don't have any gear.

  He reached left for an outcrop of rock and pulled himself from his safe perch. His foot found a nook and he gripped a slight bump of the cliff wall with his other hand. Fingers were all that kept him from falling back, and he wasn't sure he had enough purchase with his feet to propel him further. Most likely his feet would slip before enough force was exerted. "A belay would be real assuring right now," he muttered. There was no room to bend his knees, so he pushed left with his feet and stretched for the next hand hold.

  He got it, but lost his other three perches and found himself swinging by one hand, facing a screamer down the face of the cliff. With total expectation of failure he swung stretching with everything he had.

  Missed!

  Above him the cliff he now faced stood stark, mocking him, gloating over the life it would claim.

  Not today, bitch!

  Chapter 2

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

  His grip on the hold above him failed.

  The left hand found its mark.

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

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

  "Some stroll," he laughed.

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

  Well, at least the view is nice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Almost cared enough.

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

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

  "Weird," he mumbled.

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