Mystery & Suspense - Daily Short Stories

An Inceident on Route 12 - James H Schmitz

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Duration:: 17m
Broadcast on:: 15 Jul 2024
Audio Format:: mp3

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Or call 303-974-9444 to speak to a rent estate advisor today. Hello, it is Ryan, and I was on a flight the other day, playing one of my favorite social spin slot games on Chumbagocasino.com. I looked over the person sitting next to me, and you know what they were doing. They were also playing Chumbagocasino, everybody's loving having fun with it. Chumbagocasino's home to hundreds of casino-style games that you can play for free anytime, anywhere. So sign up now at Chumbagocino.com to claim you're free. Welcome bonus. It's Chumbagocasino.com and live the Chumbalites. Sponsored by Chumbagocasino, no purchase necessary, VGW Group, void were prohibited by law, 18 plus terms and conditions apply. An incident on Route 12 by James H. Schmitz. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read for LibriVox by Dale Grothman. He was already a thief prepared to steal again. He didn't know that he himself was only booty. An incident on Route 12 by James H. Schmitz. Phil Garfield was 30 miles south of the Little Town of Redmond on Route 12 when he was startled by a series of sharp, clanking noises. They came from under the Packard's Hood. The car immediately began to lose speed. Phil jammed down on the accelerator, had a sense of sick helplessness at the complete lack of response from the motor. The Packard rolled on, getting rid of its momentum, and came to a stop. Phil Garfield swore shakeily. He checked his watch, switching off the headlights, and climbed out onto the dark road. A delay of even half an hour here might be disastrous. It was past midnight, and he had another hundred and ten miles to cover to reach the small private airfield, where Madge waited for him and the thirty thousand dollars in the suitcase on the Packard's front seat. If he didn't make it before daylight. He thought of the bank guard. The man had made a clumsy play at being a hero, and that had set off the full woman who'd run screaming into their line of fire. One dead, perhaps two, Garfield hadn't stopped to look at the evening paper. But he knew they were hunting him. He glanced up and down the road. No other headlights in sight at the moment, no light from a building showing on the forest hills. He reached back into the car and brought out the suitcase, his gun, a big flashlight, and the box of shells which had been standing beside the suitcase. He broke the box open, shoved a handful of shells and the thirty-eight into his coat pocket. Then took suitcase and flashlight over to the shoulder of the road, and set them down. There was no point in groping about under the Packard's hood. When it came to mechanics, Phil Garfield was a moron, and well aware of it. The car was useless to him now, except as bait. But as bait, it might be very useful. Should he leave it standing where it was? No, Garfield decided. To anyone driving past, it would merely suggest a necking party, or a trunk sleeping off his load before continuing home. He might have to wait an hour or more before someone decided to stop. He didn't have the time. He reached in through the window, hauled the top of the steering wheel towards him, and put his way against the rear window frame. The Packard began to move slowly backwards, at a slant across the road. In a minute or two, he headed in position, not blocking the road entirely, which would have aroused immediate suspicion, but angled across it, lights out, empty, both front doors open, and inviting a passerby's investigation. Garfield carried the suitcase and the flashlight across the right-hand shoulder of the road, and moved up among the trees and undergrowth of the slope above the shoulder. Placing the suitcase between the bushes, he brought out the thirty-eight, clicked the safety off, and stood waiting. Some ten minutes later a set of headlights appeared speeding up Route 12 from the direction of Redmond. Phil Garfield went down on one knee before he came within range of the lights. Now he was completely concealed by the vegetation. The car slowed as it approached, breaking nearly to a stop sixty feet from the stalled Packard. There were several people inside. Garfield heard voices. Then a woman's loud laugh. The driver tapped his horn inquiringly twice, moved the car slowly forward. As the headlights went past him, Garfield got to his feet among the bushes, took a step down toward the road, raising the gun. Then he caught the distant gleam of a second set of headlights approaching from Redmond. He swore under his breath, and dropped back out of sight. The car below him reached the Packard, edge cautiously around it, rolled on with a sudden roar of acceleration. The second car stopped when it was still a hundred yards away. The Packard caught in the motionless glare of its lights. Garfield heard a steady purr of the powerful engine. For almost a minute nothing else happened. Then the car came gliding smoothly on. But again no more than thirty feet to Garfield's left. He could see it now through the screening brush, a big job, a long, low, four-door sedan. The motor continued to purr. After a moment, a door on the far side of the car opened and slammed shut. A man walked quickly out into the beam of the headlights and started toward the Packard. While Garfield rose from his crouching position, the thirty-eight in his right hand, flashlight in his left. If the driver was alone, the thing was now cinched. But if there was somebody else in the car, somebody capable of fast, decisive action, a slip in the next ten seconds might cost him the sedan, and quite probably his freedom, and life. Garfield lined up the thirty-eight's sights steadily on the center of the approaching man's head. He let his breath out slowly as the fellow came level with him in the road, and squeezed off one shot. Instantly, he went bounding down the slope to the road. The bullet had flung the man's sideways to the pavement. Garfield darted past him to the left, crossing the beam of the headlights, and was in darkness again on the far side of the road, snapping on his flashlight as he spread it up to the car. The motor hummed quietly on. The flashlight showed the seats empty. Garfield dropped the light, jerked both doors open in turn, gun pointed into the car's interior. Then he stood still for a moment, weak, almost dizzy with relief. There was no one inside. The sedan was his. The man he had shot through the head lay face down on the road, his hat flung a dozen feet away from him. Route twelve still stretched out in the dark silence to east and west. There should be enough time to clean up the job before anyone else came along. Garfield brought the suitcase down and put it on the front seat of the sedan. The sedan started back to get his victim off the road and out of sight. He scaled the man's hat into the bushes, bent down, grasped the ankles, and started to haul him towards the left side of the road, where the ground dropped off sharply beyond the shoulder. The body made a high squealing sound, and began to writhe violently. Shocked, Garfield dropped the legs, and hurriedly took the gun from his pocket, moving back a step. The squealing noise rose in intensity as the wounded man quickly flopped over twice, like a struggling fish. Arms and legs sawing about with startling energy. Garfield clicked off the safety, pumped three shots into his victim's back. The grisly squeals ended abruptly. The body continued to jerk for another second or two, then lay still. Garfield shoved the gun back into his pocket. The unexpected interruption had unnerved him. His hands shook as he reached down again for the stranger's angles. Then he jerked his hands back and straightened up, startled. From the side of the man's chest, a few inches below the right arm, something like a thick black stick, three feet long, protruded now through the material of the coat. It shone, gleaming wetly, in the light from the car. Even in that first, uncomprehending instant, something in its appearance brought a surge of sick disgust to Garfield's throat. Then the stick bent slowly halfway down its length, forming a sharp angle, and its tip opened into what could have been three blunt, black claws, which scrambled clumsily against the pavement. Very faintly the squealing began again, and the body's back arched up, as if another stick-like arm were pushing desperately against the ground beneath it. Garfield acted in a blur of horror. He emptied the thirty-eight into the thing at his feet, almost without realizing he was doing it. Then, dropping the gun, he seized one of the ankles, ran backwards to the shoulder of the road, dragging the body behind him. In the darkness at the edge of the shoulder he let go of it, stepping around to the other side, and with two frantically savage kicks sent the body plunging over the shoulder and down the steep slope beyond. He heard it crash through the bushes for some seconds, then stop. He turned and ran back to the sedan, scooping up his gun as he went past. He scrambled into the driver's seat, and slammed the door shut behind him. His hand shook violently on the steering wheel as he pressed down on the accelerator. The motor roared into life, and the big car surged forward. He edged it past the placard, cursing aloud in horrified shock, jammed down the accelerator, and went flashing up Route 12, darkness racing beside him and behind him. What had it been? Something that wore what seemed to be a man's body like a suit of clothes, moving the body as a man moves, driving a man's car, roach armed, roach legs itself. Garfield drew a long, shuddering breath. Then, as he slowed for a curve, there was a spark of reddish light in the rearview mirror. He stared at the spark for an instant, break the car to a stop, roll down the window and look back. Far behind him, along Route 12, a fire burned, approximately at the point where the placard had stalled out, whereas something had gone rolling off the road into the bushes. Something Garfield added mentally that found fiery automatic destruction when death came to it so that its secrets would remain unrevealed. But for him the fire meant the end of a nightmare. He rolled the window up, took out a cigarette, lit it, and pressed the accelerator. In incredulous fright he felt the nose of the car tilt upward, headlight sweeping up from the road into the trees. Then the headlights winked out. Beyond the windscreen, dark tree branches floated down towards him, the night sky beyond. He reached frantically for the door-handle. A steel-rich clamped silently about each of his arms, drawing them in against his sides, immobilizing them there. Garfield gasped, looked up at the mirror, and saw a pair of faintly gleaming red eyes, watching him from the rear of the car. Two of the things, the second one stood behind him out of sight, holding him. They'd been in what had seemed to be the trunk compartment, and they had come out. The eyes in the mirror vanished. A moist black roach arm reached over the back of the seat beside Garfield, picked up the cigarette he had dropped, extinguished it with rather horrible human motions. Then took up Garfield's gun, and drew back out of sight. He expected a shot, but none came. One doesn't fire a bullet through a suit, one intends to wear. It wasn't until that thought occurred to him that tough Phil Garfield began to scream. He was still screaming minutes later when, beyond the windshield, the spaceship floated into view among the stars. The End of An Incident on Route 12 by James H. Schmitz When it comes to renting out your property, the uncertainty of finding reliable tenants can feel like a real guessing game, responsible renter or perpetual party animal. Enter Renters Warehouse, the pros who turn the uncertainty of finding great tenants into peace of mind. Renters Warehouse offers top-notch leasing and tenant placement services, ensuring you get trustworthy renters without the hassles and headaches. With no upfront fees, Renters Warehouse works for you, not the other way around. From marketing and showing your property, to screening tenants and preparing the lease, their team of experts handles it all so you can sit back and watch the rent roll in. Renters Warehouse even warranties their tenants for up to 18 months, at no extra cost. 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