Chapter 5 - The Road to Pine Ridge
Roger didn't think. He didn't analyze. He relied entirely on the primal survival instincts built over three decades of navigating near-fatal highway disasters.
He slammed the truck into reverse.
The massive Kenworth roared, its tires spinning violently on the wet asphalt before catching traction. The heavy trailer swung backward, smashing directly into the front nose of the police cruiser with a deafening crunch of metal and shattering fiberglass.
The uniformed officer screamed, firing the shotgun into the air as he was thrown off the metal step into the muddy ditch.
Roger threw the shifter into first gear, stomped on the accelerator, and the 18-wheeler surged forward, roaring down the dark, forbidden highway, tearing through the closed road barriers like wet tissue paper.
Beside him, the civilian Thomas collapsed back into the seat, bleeding heavily from his hands, his face pale as paper.
"Where are we going?" Thomas wheezed.
"We're going to the house with the red door," Roger growled, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "We're going to find out what the hell is buried in my backyard."
The storm seemed to follow them, a localized hurricane chasing the truck down the empty interstate. For two hours, neither man spoke. The CB radio remained completely silent, emitting only a low, rhythmic hum that sounded eerily like a human heartbeat.
As the sky began to turn a bruised, sickly shade of pre-dawn purple, the familiar exit sign for Pine Ridge appeared through the mist.
Roger took the turnoff, navigating the heavy truck through the quiet, sleeping suburban streets of his past. Everything looked exactly the same. The oak trees, the white picket fences, the neat little lawns.
Finally, the truck pulled up outside his old home.
The white paint was peeling now. The garden Helen had loved so dearly was overgrown with ugly, choking weeds. But the front door was still painted a brilliant, blood-red.
Roger killed the engine. The silence was absolute.
Thomas slowly opened the passenger door and tumbled out onto the wet grass. Roger followed him, grabbing a heavy flashlight from the cabin.
They walked around to the backyard, their boots sinking deep into the mud. The flashlight beam swept across the overgrown garden.
May you like
In the center of the yard, beneath the old willow tree where Helen used to sit, the ground had been violently disturbed. A massive, deep trench had been dug, surrounded by mounds of fresh, black earth.
The Hook: Roger walked to the edge of the pit and shone the flashlight down into the darkness. At the bottom of the grave lay three body bags, completely sealed. But next to them, sitting on the muddy floor of the trench, was an old, battery-operated baby monitor. Suddenly, the monitor crackled to life, and a voice whispered out of the dirt: "Thank you for bringing them home, Roger."
