Precious Cargo

Eric was light on the throttle as he started down the narrow lane, mindful of the lack of traction offered by the empty truck.
He was comforted somewhat by the crunch of gravel underneath the wet snow.
The air temperature was still just above freezing, but that would change soon, if the forecast was correct.
After the first mile or so he got a little overconfident going into a righthand curve and felt the truck sliding to the left.
Resisting the impulse to brake, he blipped the throttle, kicking out the back end, bringing on that sick feeling as the left tandem slipped off the ditch overhang for a split second as it found some grip propelling them up the grade.
He was expecting the road to be flat, following the shoreline.
But in this stretch, the shoreline disappeared, forcing the road up into the hillside, with a sheer rock wall on the left, and a fifty foot drop to the water below.

The figure causing George's distress seemed familiar with the pallid skin and purple/blue lips.
When his screaming subsided, George realized the ghoul was not acting in a threatening manner.
In fact there seemed to be a pleading in his eyes, like he wanted something.
George summoned the courage to turn around and face him. When he did so, the ghoul was not there. He didn't fade away. It was like he never was. Maybe he wasn't.
But the chill in the room said otherwise. Not the wind from the shattered door. This chill was different. Vastly different from anything George ever experienced.
George was basically a rational man. He was an educated man. He fought his primal instinct which caused him to scream and was telling him to run like hell back to his car and don't look back.
If the ghoul was real,(George felt this was an uncharitable name, but it seemed fitting) he seemed to have the ability to materialize at will. So why would he break the door to enter?
Besides, he didn't have any arms, which was another issue. They obviously weren't cut off. As an orthodonist, George recognized bite marks when he saw them. Human bite marks.

As Pye turned north on highway 139 the snowfall was intensifying. The tracks on the highway ahead revealed the dark asphalt underneath the fresh accumulation.
The ground temperature wasn't that cold yet, this early in the year, but as he climbed in elevation, north of Madison, things could get a little slick.
Pye had sworn to himself he would never return to the north country, but here he was. And for some people he barely knew.

 

George was in a quandry. Should he wait on the trucker or simply flee?
The money no longer seemed important, but venturing outside didn't seem like an enticing option either.
He was shaking uncontrollably. Though generally a wine drinker, George remembered the bottle of Scotch whiskey in the kitchen.
Back in the family room, enroute to the kitchen, he froze at what he saw.
A spectral figure stood on his deck, just outside of the shattered door glass.
Unlike the one in his bedroom, this one had all of his limbs. He appeared to be a little older and better dressed. The other wore only a scrap of cloth that could barely be called pants.
Behind his blue lips were teeth stained dark with blood. And rather than pleading, he appeared angry. Menacing, yet hesitant to enter, staring to one side of George.
George glanced to his right to find the armless ghoul at his side and quickly surmised the two not to be friends.
The ghoul next to him began to flicker like a faulty flourescent light and shift towards him.
The right side of George's body became unblievably cold and he watched in astonishment as the ghoul melded into him.
Just slid sideways, like slipping a card into the center of a deck.
The biggest jolt was to his brain. He felt violated in a way he never thought possible.
He had an image of a sharpened icicle driven into the center of his cranium like a frozen spike.
He realized he was no longer alone in his head. It felt like two people in a sleeping bag meant for one.
As if sensing his panic, the visitor sought to console him.

Take it easy friend, I'm here to help. We are powerless without a live host, and if I hadn't got in you first, Pizarro here would have, and he's not the nicest guy in the world.
"Have you done this before?" George asked.
The last time was about forty years ago. It was a fisherman up here from New York. I told him about the gold, and he was eager to help.
I was in control of the body, as I am now, and we swam down to the bottom. I kept him under too long and drowned the poor guy.
I feel terrible about that to this day, and have been hesitant to try it again. I was glad to see that diver up here.
I'm not an expert, but I think if it is gone, our spirits will finally be free to move on.
"How many of you are there?"
Eight altogether. I am Juan, by the way.There are four others like me. By like me, I mean with missing limbs, and in some cases worse, thanks to that cannibal Pizzaro standing there.
His friend is lurking about somewhere. He thinks the gold should remain here. He is driven by greed.
We could never spend it while we were alive and he is too obstinate to realize he #### sure can't spend it dead.
Too many people have died already. I want it to end. You have a thousand questions, George. I can sense them.
But time is short. I understand somebody is coming for the gold but you must leave before they arrive.
If Pizzaro has a host body to jump into, I will lose my advantage, and more people could die.

They then moved back into the bedroom to pack up the gold. There were two sturdy leather briefcases with steel reenforcement on the top shelf of the closet, provided by Hornsby.
An enraged Pizzaro stood helplessly in the doorway watching the coins being loaded up.
A heated conversation ensued between the two sailors, as three more spectres hovered around Juan, apparently in support.
Another had joined Pizzaro, also with bloodstained teeth.

 

When Eric got to the top of the hill, he eased the truck to a complete stop, not only to gather his wits, but to scan the unfamiliar road ahead.
The downgrade was steeper and longer than the one he just climbed.
He couldn't see beyond the curve at the bottom, but it seemed to turn back to the right, following the path of the river.
With no weight on the rig, going down could be just as tricky as going up.
Eric put the truck in second gear and let it idle down the hill, keeping the slightest pressure on the brake pedal.
Nice and easy does it. The wheels tried to lock a time or two, causing Kay to flinch, but Eric had a feel for it now.
The road flattened out as it went into the curve and opened into a short straightaway.
Eric gave it all the throttle he dared and moved up a couple of gears for a run at the next grade. Getting his rhythm now.
Only this time he didn't come to complete stop at the top. He let the hill slow it down to a crawl, slipping it into third gear as he rolled over the top, gaining confidence.
The curve at the bottom seemed much closer this time, only this time it wasn't the bottom. And it was tighter.
The truck held the curve, slipping only slightly, finding the gravel underneath the layer of wet snow.
As he found the next straightaway, he found something else.
"Holy crap!" Eric and Kay said in unison when they saw the tree trunk laying across the road ahead.

 

"One question, make that two." George asked Juan as they neatly stacked the doubloons in the briefcases.
Go ahead, friend. But you don't have to speak out loud.
"Should have figured that. Anyway, why bust out the glass when you can float around, or whatever?"
That was Pizzaro. Trying to scare you away. He has limited powers, but not very effective.
He dumped the coins on the floor in an effort to get them back down to the lake.
I suppose he thinks since he can never spend it, nobody else should be able to.
I assisted him in thirty-two murders. I was greedy too. But I have lived with remorse for five hundred years.
I will never atone for that, but I will assist you in any way I can, for you have merely stumbled across a fortune.
I would ask you to do good with this, for it has only caused misery. Can you promise me that, George?
George took a long look Juan's friends, taking in the missing parts. Saw the same looks of anguish.
The intense desire to finally rest in peace.
"Of course I can, Juan. You have my word. Something else, what is the other voice in my head? Sounds Portugese."
That is Pizzaro. He is cursing me and threatening me for helping you. I do not fear him.
He has already killed me once. What more can he do?
_________________________________________________

Eric resisted the temptation to slam on brakes. He knew it was impossible to stop the empty truck on the slippery grade.
Even worse, sliding sideways could send them over the cliff and into the river.
"Hang on, baby." he said, looking to make sure Kay had her harness on, knowing she did.
The log was fairly large, over a foot in diameter, crossing the entire road.
Fortunately, it's height corresponded with the heavy steel bumper, preventing impact with the radiator or front tires, either which would have been devastating.
The truck speed was down to five MPH when it struck the log with a resounding thunk.
"You OK sweetie?" Eric asked Kay immediately after impact.
"Yeah, but I think this might leave a mark." she said, rubbing her shoulder.
Eric got out to survey the damage. The truck appeared unharmed, as did the tree, unfortunately.
A rootten tree falling down could be explained, but not a perfectly healthy one.
It is possible for a severe windstorm to take down a tree, but there would be more than one.
Even lightning will generally start a localized fire. Nothing of the sort here.
The growth side originated from the left, or the mountain side of the road.
A large tree on the cliff side served as a brace, preventing the truck from shoving it out of the way.
Back in the cab, he apprised Kay of the situation.
"Maybe you should call it in." she suggested.
"Good idea, sweetums. Just hope we have a signal, which I highly doubt." he said, remembering the failed attempts at reaching George.
As he pulled his phone from his shirt pocket, it rang.
"Now who in the world could that be?" he said as he saw an unfamiliar number.
It was Pye.

 

"Thank Jesus you answered lad. Where are ye now?" Pye said worriedly.
"Who is this?" Eric replied, not recognizing the number displayed, or the voice.
"This is Pye, from down in Provincetown."
"Oh, yeah. What's up?"
"Are you OK? Where are you?" Pye asked again.
"I'm on the road to Flagstaff Lake. In a bind actually."
"Just stay where you are lad. I will be there soon."
"Not much choice pardner." Eric said and described the tree across the road. "When you top the second grade, we are just beyond the first curve. Go easy, friend."
Pye was secretly pleased the tree had blocked the truck's progress, for he was now convinced that something terrible awaited them at the lake.
As he turned onto Flagstaff Lake Drive, the dual tire tracks from the GMC were visible but filling in rapidly.
Pye took care navigating the big hearse down the narrow road, remembering his logging days and the dangers of this road, which seemed to have not changed in thirty years.
The heavy Cadillac did well on the narrow road. It also helped that the memories came flooding back, and Pye felt as if he had driven it yesterday.
He pulled the selector down in low and creeped down the second grade.
As he gently rounded the curve, the box truck came into view and he smiled at the big hen painted on the back. doors.
Eric and Kay, both dressed in heavy boots and coats, met Pye at the rear of the truck, as the Caddy eased to a stop.
"What in the world possessed you to come up here?" Eric asked."And don't tell me you had a sudden urge to go skiing."
"Don't worry about that now, lad. Let's see how bad it is first."
"Not that bad, if I had a chainsaw. It's a right healthy trunk. This truck didn't even faze it."
"I don't have a chainsaw, but I do have the next best thing."
Pye opened the rear of the hearse and produced the largest double bladed axe he had ever seen.
"Whoa. Talk about Paul Bunyan. Old school."
"I quit using it back when we started using chainsaws, but I for some reason I could never part with it.
Not as young anymore. We might have to take turns swinging it lad."
"Not a problem. Now why are you here?" Eric persisted.
"You first lad. I know you are not delivering eggs from Georgia or picking up furniture."
Eric thought about the secrecy involved in his job, but in the end said the hell with it.
"As crazy as it sounds, I have been sent here to pick up gold doubloons, worth millions of dollars."
"Not crazy at all lad. Not near as crazy as the feelings I have about this God forsaken place. Are you supposed to meet anyone down there?"
"Yes, the man that owns the cabin. Then he is heading south himself."
"I pray he is still there, lad. If it were possible to turn around here, we would be wise to do so, but it's not.
And if a man is down there, the Christian thing to do would be to try to save him."

 

The axe was old, but well cared for. The edges were honed to a machine like finish, with only the slightest patina of surface rust from humidity and disuse.
The crisscrossing movements were fluid and seemingly effortless, tapered chips of wood flying with every contact.
Eric had chopped a little firewood from time to time, but nothing like this.
He now regretted offering to help, feeling embarrassed to swing an axe in Pye's presence.
Fortunately, it wouldn't come to that, for Pye made short work of the fallen tree, not even breathing hard.
In fact, he seemed invigorated by the activity, going through the trunk in minutes, cutting through at the left side of the roadway.
It dropped to the ground without support from the main trunk, no longer bumper level.
"Now let's hope we can move this thing lad. Even with the slope and the snow, will still be a chore." Pye said, refering to the branches still attached and the amount of overhang on the right side of the road.
Even with the three of them, pushing was almost fruitless. With the tree on the ground, they had to get on their knees and attempt to push it downhill.
The slick snow and gravel underneath offered no traction. It was like kneeling on wet grass and trying to push a house.
"Wait right here." Pye said as he stepped to the rear of the hearse.
He returned with a length of heavy rope. Pye used the axe handle and a short length of wood as a fulcrum and raised the end of the log slightly.
Eric slipped the rope underneath and Pye fashioned a professional looking knot, securing the rope to the log.
He also expertly created three inline knots about three feet apart, beginning five feet or so from the log.
The knots gave each of them a handhold as they lined up in tug of war style. They were facing uphill, so they were able to lean back using gravity and their body weight to their advantage.
Apparently the tree fell before it started snowing, for there was dry gravel underneath.
Once they rocked it a few inches onto the snowy surface, it began to slide with less resistance.
Not easy, but doable. Kay lost her footing and fell back into Eric, almost dumping him in the process.
Then they learned to clear a snow free path and plant their feet on dry ground.
The trio soon found a rhythm and slowly but surely moved the giant log out of the road.
"Best I remember, there are two more grades after this, but they get smaller. After that we drop down into the valley." Pye instructed.
Sure enough, the next grade wasn't as steep as the others, and the next one was the easiest of them all.
The view was spectacular. The final straightaway dumped into the open valley.
The road split a snow covered meadow with Flagstaff Mountain on the left and the river on the right, which would soon be feeding into the lake, which could be glimpsed ahead.
According to directions, George's place would be the first one they came to, about a mile from where the road began running alongside the lake.
"I can see where this would be beautiful in the summer." Kay said, gazing up at the enormous peaks, overlooking the sparkling lake which would soon be frozen over.
It was an easy ride now, perfectly level down through the scenic valley. Eric was anxious to make his pick up and get back to the highway before the road became much worse.
As the cabin came into view, a lone figure was visible on the porch with a briefcase in each hand.

 

The late model Lexus had to belong to George Whitcomb, the orthodontist. The personalized North Carolina tag read #1SMILE.
Eric parked on the left side of the Lexus and Pye pulled the hearse in on his left, putting the truck between the two automobiles.
"Is he alright?" Kay asked, pointing at George, who seemed to be having difficulty with the simple task of walking down a short flight of stairs.
"Beats the heck outa me, I hope so. If he isn't, we will just have to figure out how to get him and his car out of here.
This ain't no place to be stranded."

The problem with George was Juan navigating his body.
George was sharing his eyes and his thoughts, but had no physical control of anything, not even his voice.
Oh no. This is bad, George. I don't speak English for one thing. If I jump out long enough for you to warn them, Pizarro will jump in and you and the gold will be at the bottom of that cold lake.
"You have to at least try, Jaun." George answered in his head.
"Por favor, deixe. Ha muito perigo aqui!" Said George's voice in Portuguese.
"What in the world?" Eric said. "I'm sorry sir, but they didn't tell me you didn't speak English. Are you George Whitcomb?"
"I speak some Spanish hon, but that ain't it. It's similar though. I think he said something about danger."
That is when George's body began screaming and pointing behind the couple.