No Reason to Live (Novel extract)

No Reason to Live

This novel is, as yet, unpublished. It’s a follow on from my earlier work and features the same main character. This is Chapter 1:

Chapter 1

The man was all over the road and Mike had to swerve several times to avoid colliding with him. The man seemed to be signalling him to stop and in the event, he had little choice. The road was slick after some light rain and as it was his first day in his new car, he hadn’t yet gotten used to its handling. Luckily the two lane road was deserted and he eventually brought the Malibu to a screeching stop right in the middle of the road. The man eyed him cautiously but made no attempt to get into the car. Mike hit the button to lower the front right hand side window.

“Say fella, you need to be more careful; hey, are you OK?”

The man did not respond but continued to stare at him. Mike waited a few moments as the man seemed to consider the proposition. He eventually edged his way towards the passenger side door but the movements were slow and almost imperceptible. Mike was not unduly worried. The man did not appear to be dangerous. He showed no signs of being armed or threatening. Quite the opposite in fact, he appeared shy and nervous. Just to be sure, he still had his central locking engaged. As the man edged closer, he decided to try again.

“Say buddy, it’s a wet evening out there, can I give you a ride somewhere?”

The man’s answer was unintelligible, a low guttural sound that could have been a yes or could equally have been a no. He eventually nodded his head a few times which Mike took to indicate assent so he hit the door release and the man sat into the vehicle abruptly.

“So, where you headed?”

No response. The man just sat rigid in the passenger seat, with his arms wrapped round himself and stared straight ahead. Mike stuck the car in drive and eased back to the correct side of the road. He reckoned that he had been stopped for between three to four minutes but no other vehicle had passed in either direction during that time. This caused him some disquiet. He had wanted to travel on secondary roads that were not busy but there was quiet and then there was deserted. Still, he was a big guy and he’d be fine. He had left D.C. early that morning. He had decided to stay off the interstate highways as he wanted to take his time and see as much of the country as possible. It was November so he thought Florida would be nice and it was his ultimate destination. A quick scan of his map had found him the Blue Ridge Mountains Parkway and it seemed too spectacular to resist.

The Blue Ridge Parkway is probably one of the most traveled roads in the U.S. and is noted for its spectacular beauty. It runs for 469 miles (755 km), mostly along the famous Blue Ridge, a major mountain chain that is part of the Appalachian Mountains. The Parkway commences in Virginia more or less at the Shenandoah National Park and ends on the boundary between The Great Smoky Mountains National Park and the Cherokee Indian Reservation in North Carolina. Mike had planned to make it a two-day drive and see as much scenery as possible.

He had not been disappointed. The scenery had been beautiful and he had had a wonderful day’s sight seeing. The weak November sun had been just right to accentuate the views. One spectacular vista had followed another and he found he had stopped in more places than he had planned and was now behind schedule. Still, this wasn’t necessarily a problem either as he really didn’t need to keep to a schedule any longer. He had planned to spend the night in Asheville but as he noticed the fading light, glanced at his watch and considered his slow progress on the two-lane, he decided he was away behind schedule and an earlier pit stop would have to be made.

His passenger had been unplanned. He had no objection to giving hitch hikers a ride but he rarely saw any these days. Most people either seemed to have their own transport or relied on Greyhound or Amtrak. There was also more distrust out there, more suspicion, perhaps just more realization that there were a hell of a lot of weirdos around. A pity, he thought, as hitch hiking had always been a great way of getting around and seeing the world when you were on a budget. He had hitched himself and had always been willing to return the favour when he bought his own vehicle. But this man could hardly be described as a hitch hiker. To call him disheveled would be a grave under statement. What little hair he had was plastered to his head from exposure to the rain. The man was rail thin with deep sunken eyes that were so dark brown as to be almost black. He was shivering and seemed to be suffering slightly from exposure. He also looked undernourished. He could have been any age from between 25 and 45. Mike settled on early 30’s. His clothing was ragged and torn. He had on old faded jeans, a tee shirt with indecipherable writing whose pattern had probably been worn away from use and laundering and an incongruous pin-striped suit jacket, also well worn and long separated from the pair of trousers that it had originally matched. He smelled of a mixture of stale sweat, rainwater and something else, which Mike couldn’t be sure of but it could have been fear.

The man may have been a drifter but he had no luggage. In fact he had been carrying nothing at all. Mike had been a policeman all of his life and his natural curious instincts were raised. He decided to try again:

“Say buddy, are you OK?”

No response. He tried a different approach.

“Look, I respect your privacy but if you don’t tell me where you’re headed?” He shrugged and let the statement hang out there. This prompted a movement in the seat; just a brief look towards Mike and then the man stared straight ahead again. However, in the split second, Mike felt he saw a pleading in the man’s eyes and he began to feel sorry for him.

“Look”, he started again. “I’ve been driving all day through this wonderful countryside on the parkway. I was originally headed for Asheville, then I changed to Deep Gap but well, I may not make either. I mean I’m trying to see the country and with the fading light and the rain, I guess I might just hit the next town and turn in for the night. The man’s response was to stiffen and wrap his arms even tighter. He started to shiver and eventually managed to croak:

“No!”

Mike now had a decision to make. He didn’t have a huge amount of gas and the light had almost faded completely. He had seen the sign for Marksboro a few miles back and was contemplating spending the night there, assuming they had a motel. His passenger obviously had other ideas. Just then they were meeting an oncoming car that did not dip its headlights. Mike averted his eyes from the beam and looked towards his passenger and in the bright light of the passing vehicle, caught something that he had not noticed before. The man was bleeding — seemingly profusely. He had briefly taken away his right hand and Mike now knew why he was hugging himself so tightly and shivering. His hands were slick with blood and his tee shirt appeared to be soaked in it. The fact that the man had not said anything about his injury made Mike doubly suspicious. He decided to take it slowly. The man still did not appear threatening but better to be cautious.

“Say, you know this town up ahead?”

The man’s response was to shake his head, violently. Mike risked placing his right hand on the man’s shoulder and tried to sound casual.

“Look buddy, I only bought this vehicle a couple of days ago and while I have no objection to company, I’ve noticed you’re bleeding badly all over it; But that’s not important so don’t worry. Look, I don’t know how badly you’re hurt but I reckon we’ve gotta get you to a hospital. What you say we pull into this next town? I’ll go get some gas and check out if they’ve got a medical facility; if they don’t, we can hit the next town”.

The man recoiled even further, if indeed that were possible, almost as if he were trying to roll himself into a ball and make himself invisible. He again managed a stuttered:

“No”.

“Ok, Ok buddy, look, relax. I’m not gonna hurt you. No one’s gonna hurt you. Tell you what, I’ll just get some gas and then we’ll do a slight detour; we’ll get on the Interstate and then, next big town we see, we’ll get you some medical attention, OK?”

The man brightened somewhat, gave a guarded nod followed by another bout of shivering. They pulled off the parkway and drove the three miles or so into Marksboro. As they approached the outskirts, Mike spotted an Exxon on the right and pulled in. His passenger crouched down as he got out to use the self-serve facility. Strange he thought, even in a small town nowadays there was no gas service; just one very bored looking member of staff sitting in the cash booth. If you wanted gas, you pumped it yourself. It was a dimly lit station that probably existed on local patronage and the occasional passing tourist traffic. Not much of that at 7.30 pm on an evening in November. He filled up and was paying the cashier just as a second, larger vehicle pulled into the station. It was a Lincoln Town Car or similar and it had been heading in the opposite direction going pretty fast when it had seemingly seen the gas station, detoured, crossed the centre line of the two-lane and pulled in. The car had its lights on high beam and it seemed to startle Mike’s passenger. He glanced over his shoulder to where Mike was returning to the vehicle, just as the occupant of the second car emerged at the second pump parallel to the Malibu. Mike took a quick look at the driver and sole occupant of the Lincoln just as his passenger emerged from his car with a look best described as panic stricken. Mike approached the man and again attempted to placate him.

“Not too long now buddy, just jump back in the car and we’ll get you the attention you need real soon”.

The man glanced from Mike to the driver of the Lincoln and again screamed:

“No, no,” and something that was inaudible. He took off, limping at high speed, favouring his right side, leaped across the divide between the sets of pumps, over the grass verge and back on to the black top. There was an almighty wheezing sound as the truck applied its air brakes but it hadn’t a chance. In his panic, the man had not seen or heard the approaching vehicle and it hit him head-on, throwing him into the air like a rag doll and knocking him forward at least twenty yards. The thud of the impact was sickening. Mike immediately ran to the scene where his passenger had landed and was lying prostrate in the middle of the southbound lane. The truck driver stumbled from his cab, obviously heavily shocked.

Both men bent over the accident victim. Mike tried for a pulse but there was none. The man was quite dead. The truck had been traveling at perhaps forty miles per hour when it hit him and it probably weighed thirty tons — no contest — the man would have died instantly. The only blood was from the man’s pre-existing wound. It was definitely on his right side but it was difficult to tell if it had been inflicted with a knife or a gun or if it was just a routine accident. Given the amount of blood on the man’s tee shirt, Mike doubted it was a domestic mishap. The truck driver had obviously recovered his composure enough to call 911 or perhaps it had been the cashier. Whatever, he heard the faint sounds of a siren in the distance. Probably police, the man was beyond medical help by now. He went back to his car for a moment, found a heavy jacket in the trunk and placed it over the man. Whoever he had been, he deserved that dignity at least.

The truck driver produced a packet of Marlboros and offered Mike one. Although he rarely smoked, he took one now and inhaled deeply. He couldn’t keep the image from his mind; it seemed to have imprinted itself there. The man who had been his passenger had been nervous ever since he had picked him up twenty or twenty five miles back. But nervousness is one thing. What Mike had seen in the poor man’s face as he had emerged from the car was sheer, unadulterated terror. In fact, he had never seen a look so frightened in his life.