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It remained unseen in the morning mist, travelling at speed through the trees. It remained unheard in the winter wind, the strong gusts muffling its approach.
Jack rubbed his eyes, certain that the mist was in his head, a remnant from another heavy night on the beer. The wind rattled at his windows and he cursed the pounding it caused in his throbbing head. He turned his trusty grey Ford Mustang sharply to the left almost without thinking, so familiar he was with the road that he could travel it on auto-pilot, whether drunk or sober, in rain or snow. But of course, auto-pilot didn’t account for the unknown.
Jack glanced at the speedometer, the needle pushing fifty as the road straightened up. The gentle purr of the engine reminded him of better times, times when he used to drive around with his friends all night – before he drove them all away with his drinking. He rubbed his eyes again, and realising that the mist was genuine reached to turn his lights on.
Before he could do so he saw the shape of a person, a flash of orange, something he had no way of avoiding. He thrust his foot down onto the brake, pushing hard but feeling he’d be unable to avoid an inevitable collision. He came to a stop with a jolt, his head thrown forward, but stopping short of the steering wheel. He breathed a sign of relief, thankful that putting his seatbelt on had become another of his auto-pilot routines since the accident. He looked around for the figure he’d narrowly avoided, but saw nothing. Confused, he unbuckled his seat-belt to get out of the car, but was thrown back in shock by a heavy impact on the bonnet, the sound causing Jack’s pulse to race.
It was a rucksack, a large orange one worn so often by the campers that came to the area during the summer. The fact that it was the middle of winter had no bearing on Jack, his head feeling clearer than it had in months when struck by the fear that he might have hit a person. Jack flew out of the car, looking in every direction for a body. The mist obscured his view in every direction so he ran further along the road searching for signs. Finding nothing he followed the skid marks he’d left to where he thought the impact must have happened. The road was clear. He looked in the trees by the side of the road, but again, he saw nothing. No sign of where a body may have rolled down the bank, no sign of where anyone would have walked from to appear on the roadside either.
The wind stirred through the trees, casting the mist into strange shapes. As it howled past his ear it whispered names from his past. The friend he’d lost in the accident and those that gave up on him, one by one, knowing that he’d not had a sober day since.
Jack ran back to his car in a panic and climbed inside, locking the doors. He put the car into gear and drove off, trying to peer around the rucksack that obstructed his view. He tried his brakes, hoping to throw it off as he did so, but it remained in his way.
He pulled over, and after cautiously looking out of each window slowly emerged from the car. He picked the rucksack from the bonnet, and dropped it by the side of the road. He moved around to the front of the car, checking it over for signs of damage. The grey paint on the bonnet was badly scratched by the rucksack, but there were no dents or scratches on the bumper, which he would have expected with the speed of impact had he have hit anything.
Again the wind taunted Jack, battering him with memories he’d tried to forget about; the race he’d won and the way he’d forced Alan off the road, the way he’d driven off and left him, not wanting to get into trouble, expecting someone else to come to find him laying by the road after being thrown from his car, but they never did.
Pummelled by guilt Jack reached into the car and opened the glove box, looking for his mobile phone. As he went to grab it a bottle of whiskey tumbled out, the top breaking off leaving the brown liquid to gush out and sink into the upholstery. As the familiar smell hit his nostrils Jack thought about his reputation in the town and what people would think, the village drunk, out of his head, hit some kid. They’d lock him up and throw the key away, of that he was sure. Calling the police wasn’t such a good idea after all, it wasn’t like there was a body sitting in the road waiting to be found, and the car had no damage to point at any wrong-doing.
He drove down the road, before the rucksack came back to him. If a body was found somewhere near the road, or if someone was reported missing, they’d find the bag. On it they might find a little grey paint, maybe even finger-prints. He opened his door to peer out and carefully reversed back to the bag, getting close enough to be able to pick it up without having to leave his vehicle. He threw it into the back, surprised by its weight, and headed off once more.
As he followed the winding road he couldn’t shake off his thoughts about the rucksack in the back, and why it was so heavy. Taking his eye off the road for a second he angled his rear-view mirror to take a look. From out of the top he was sure he could see a bottle, possibly a whiskey to replace the one that had smashed moments earlier.
He glanced at the road, then at the bag again. He moved his arm back, trying to reach into it, to pull out the bottle from inside. He quickly looked to the road again, and dread filled his heart. Right in front of him, dressed entirely in grey, a hitchhiker. Jack slammed on the brakes once more as the hitchhiker moved out of his way with incredible speed. Jack looked across at his pale face, briefly reminding him of Alan’s as he applied further pressure to the brake. The rucksack on the back seat continued its forward motion, the full weight of it striking Jack on the back of the head.
As he fell into unconsciousness his foot slipped from the brake. The car continued forward, and off the road gathering speed as it careered down the bank before coming to an abrupt stop as it crashed into a tree.
The man in grey climbed down the bank and opened the rear door. He reached over to Jack, placing his cold hands on his wrist to feel his pace slowing. Certain that no one would find him in time he took his rucksack and threw it onto his shoulder before continuing his journey, the wind and the mist disguising him as he made his way through the trees.
Jack rubbed his eyes, certain that the mist was in his head, a remnant from another heavy night on the beer. The wind rattled at his windows and he cursed the pounding it caused in his throbbing head. He turned his trusty grey Ford Mustang sharply to the left almost without thinking, so familiar he was with the road that he could travel it on auto-pilot, whether drunk or sober, in rain or snow. But of course, auto-pilot didn’t account for the unknown.
Jack glanced at the speedometer, the needle pushing fifty as the road straightened up. The gentle purr of the engine reminded him of better times, times when he used to drive around with his friends all night – before he drove them all away with his drinking. He rubbed his eyes again, and realising that the mist was genuine reached to turn his lights on.
Before he could do so he saw the shape of a person, a flash of orange, something he had no way of avoiding. He thrust his foot down onto the brake, pushing hard but feeling he’d be unable to avoid an inevitable collision. He came to a stop with a jolt, his head thrown forward, but stopping short of the steering wheel. He breathed a sign of relief, thankful that putting his seatbelt on had become another of his auto-pilot routines since the accident. He looked around for the figure he’d narrowly avoided, but saw nothing. Confused, he unbuckled his seat-belt to get out of the car, but was thrown back in shock by a heavy impact on the bonnet, the sound causing Jack’s pulse to race.
It was a rucksack, a large orange one worn so often by the campers that came to the area during the summer. The fact that it was the middle of winter had no bearing on Jack, his head feeling clearer than it had in months when struck by the fear that he might have hit a person. Jack flew out of the car, looking in every direction for a body. The mist obscured his view in every direction so he ran further along the road searching for signs. Finding nothing he followed the skid marks he’d left to where he thought the impact must have happened. The road was clear. He looked in the trees by the side of the road, but again, he saw nothing. No sign of where a body may have rolled down the bank, no sign of where anyone would have walked from to appear on the roadside either.
The wind stirred through the trees, casting the mist into strange shapes. As it howled past his ear it whispered names from his past. The friend he’d lost in the accident and those that gave up on him, one by one, knowing that he’d not had a sober day since.
Jack ran back to his car in a panic and climbed inside, locking the doors. He put the car into gear and drove off, trying to peer around the rucksack that obstructed his view. He tried his brakes, hoping to throw it off as he did so, but it remained in his way.
He pulled over, and after cautiously looking out of each window slowly emerged from the car. He picked the rucksack from the bonnet, and dropped it by the side of the road. He moved around to the front of the car, checking it over for signs of damage. The grey paint on the bonnet was badly scratched by the rucksack, but there were no dents or scratches on the bumper, which he would have expected with the speed of impact had he have hit anything.
Again the wind taunted Jack, battering him with memories he’d tried to forget about; the race he’d won and the way he’d forced Alan off the road, the way he’d driven off and left him, not wanting to get into trouble, expecting someone else to come to find him laying by the road after being thrown from his car, but they never did.
Pummelled by guilt Jack reached into the car and opened the glove box, looking for his mobile phone. As he went to grab it a bottle of whiskey tumbled out, the top breaking off leaving the brown liquid to gush out and sink into the upholstery. As the familiar smell hit his nostrils Jack thought about his reputation in the town and what people would think, the village drunk, out of his head, hit some kid. They’d lock him up and throw the key away, of that he was sure. Calling the police wasn’t such a good idea after all, it wasn’t like there was a body sitting in the road waiting to be found, and the car had no damage to point at any wrong-doing.
He drove down the road, before the rucksack came back to him. If a body was found somewhere near the road, or if someone was reported missing, they’d find the bag. On it they might find a little grey paint, maybe even finger-prints. He opened his door to peer out and carefully reversed back to the bag, getting close enough to be able to pick it up without having to leave his vehicle. He threw it into the back, surprised by its weight, and headed off once more.
As he followed the winding road he couldn’t shake off his thoughts about the rucksack in the back, and why it was so heavy. Taking his eye off the road for a second he angled his rear-view mirror to take a look. From out of the top he was sure he could see a bottle, possibly a whiskey to replace the one that had smashed moments earlier.
He glanced at the road, then at the bag again. He moved his arm back, trying to reach into it, to pull out the bottle from inside. He quickly looked to the road again, and dread filled his heart. Right in front of him, dressed entirely in grey, a hitchhiker. Jack slammed on the brakes once more as the hitchhiker moved out of his way with incredible speed. Jack looked across at his pale face, briefly reminding him of Alan’s as he applied further pressure to the brake. The rucksack on the back seat continued its forward motion, the full weight of it striking Jack on the back of the head.
As he fell into unconsciousness his foot slipped from the brake. The car continued forward, and off the road gathering speed as it careered down the bank before coming to an abrupt stop as it crashed into a tree.
The man in grey climbed down the bank and opened the rear door. He reached over to Jack, placing his cold hands on his wrist to feel his pace slowing. Certain that no one would find him in time he took his rucksack and threw it onto his shoulder before continuing his journey, the wind and the mist disguising him as he made his way through the trees.
I will read again later...
... so I read it again.
Not sure about it. I felt it lost some of its sharpness with the longer re-write.
Not sure about it. I felt it lost some of its sharpness with the longer re-write.
Thanks for reading and taking the time to comment.
But...
I've just completed a rewrite, so I've edited it...
But...
I've just completed a rewrite, so I've edited it...
I'd like to see CSI solve that case :)
I liked that, perhaps not as much as some of your other stuff, but I still liked it. The setting was laid out very well, and described perfectly. I could, in my imagination, picture every facet of the story, and whilst the whole concept didn't wow me, it was still a very enjoyable read.
Thanks for that, Meka.
Thanks for that, Meka.
It remained unseen in the morning mist, travelling at speed through the trees. It remained unheard in the winter wind, the strong gusts muffling its approach.
Jack rubbed his eyes, certain that the mist was in his head, a remnant from another heavy night on the beer. The wind rattled at his windows and he cursed the pounding it caused in his throbbing head. He turned his trusty grey Ford Mustang sharply to the left almost without thinking, so familiar he was with the road that he could travel it on auto-pilot, whether drunk or sober, in rain or snow. But of course, auto-pilot didn’t account for the unknown.
Jack glanced at the speedometer, the needle pushing fifty as the road straightened up. The gentle purr of the engine reminded him of better times, times when he used to drive around with his friends all night – before he drove them all away with his drinking. He rubbed his eyes again, and realising that the mist was genuine reached to turn his lights on.
Before he could do so he saw the shape of a person, a flash of orange, something he had no way of avoiding. He thrust his foot down onto the brake, pushing hard but feeling he’d be unable to avoid an inevitable collision. He came to a stop with a jolt, his head thrown forward, but stopping short of the steering wheel. He breathed a sign of relief, thankful that putting his seatbelt on had become another of his auto-pilot routines since the accident. He looked around for the figure he’d narrowly avoided, but saw nothing. Confused, he unbuckled his seat-belt to get out of the car, but was thrown back in shock by a heavy impact on the bonnet, the sound causing Jack’s pulse to race.
It was a rucksack, a large orange one worn so often by the campers that came to the area during the summer. The fact that it was the middle of winter had no bearing on Jack, his head feeling clearer than it had in months when struck by the fear that he might have hit a person. Jack flew out of the car, looking in every direction for a body. The mist obscured his view in every direction so he ran further along the road searching for signs. Finding nothing he followed the skid marks he’d left to where he thought the impact must have happened. The road was clear. He looked in the trees by the side of the road, but again, he saw nothing. No sign of where a body may have rolled down the bank, no sign of where anyone would have walked from to appear on the roadside either.
The wind stirred through the trees, casting the mist into strange shapes. As it howled past his ear it whispered names from his past. The friend he’d lost in the accident and those that gave up on him, one by one, knowing that he’d not had a sober day since.
Jack ran back to his car in a panic and climbed inside, locking the doors. He put the car into gear and drove off, trying to peer around the rucksack that obstructed his view. He tried his brakes, hoping to throw it off as he did so, but it remained in his way.
He pulled over, and after cautiously looking out of each window slowly emerged from the car. He picked the rucksack from the bonnet, and dropped it by the side of the road. He moved around to the front of the car, checking it over for signs of damage. The grey paint on the bonnet was badly scratched by the rucksack, but there were no dents or scratches on the bumper, which he would have expected with the speed of impact had he have hit anything.
Again the wind taunted Jack, battering him with memories he’d tried to forget about; the race he’d won and the way he’d forced Alan off the road, the way he’d driven off and left him, not wanting to get into trouble, expecting someone else to come to find him laying by the road after being thrown from his car, but they never did.
Pummelled by guilt Jack reached into the car and opened the glove box, looking for his mobile phone. As he went to grab it a bottle of whiskey tumbled out, the top breaking off leaving the brown liquid to gush out and sink into the upholstery. As the familiar smell hit his nostrils Jack thought about his reputation in the town and what people would think, the village drunk, out of his head, hit some kid. They’d lock him up and throw the key away, of that he was sure. Calling the police wasn’t such a good idea after all, it wasn’t like there was a body sitting in the road waiting to be found, and the car had no damage to point at any wrong-doing.
He drove down the road, before the rucksack came back to him. If a body was found somewhere near the road, or if someone was reported missing, they’d find the bag. On it they might find a little grey paint, maybe even finger-prints. He opened his door to peer out and carefully reversed back to the bag, getting close enough to be able to pick it up without having to leave his vehicle. He threw it into the back, surprised by its weight, and headed off once more.
As he followed the winding road he couldn’t shake off his thoughts about the rucksack in the back, and why it was so heavy. Taking his eye off the road for a second he angled his rear-view mirror to take a look. From out of the top he was sure he could see a bottle, possibly a whiskey to replace the one that had smashed moments earlier.
He glanced at the road, then at the bag again. He moved his arm back, trying to reach into it, to pull out the bottle from inside. He quickly looked to the road again, and dread filled his heart. Right in front of him, dressed entirely in grey, a hitchhiker. Jack slammed on the brakes once more as the hitchhiker moved out of his way with incredible speed. Jack looked across at his pale face, briefly reminding him of Alan’s as he applied further pressure to the brake. The rucksack on the back seat continued its forward motion, the full weight of it striking Jack on the back of the head.
As he fell into unconsciousness his foot slipped from the brake. The car continued forward, and off the road gathering speed as it careered down the bank before coming to an abrupt stop as it crashed into a tree.
The man in grey climbed down the bank and opened the rear door. He reached over to Jack, placing his cold hands on his wrist to feel his pace slowing. Certain that no one would find him in time he took his rucksack and threw it onto his shoulder before continuing his journey, the wind and the mist disguising him as he made his way through the trees.
Jack rubbed his eyes, certain that the mist was in his head, a remnant from another heavy night on the beer. The wind rattled at his windows and he cursed the pounding it caused in his throbbing head. He turned his trusty grey Ford Mustang sharply to the left almost without thinking, so familiar he was with the road that he could travel it on auto-pilot, whether drunk or sober, in rain or snow. But of course, auto-pilot didn’t account for the unknown.
Jack glanced at the speedometer, the needle pushing fifty as the road straightened up. The gentle purr of the engine reminded him of better times, times when he used to drive around with his friends all night – before he drove them all away with his drinking. He rubbed his eyes again, and realising that the mist was genuine reached to turn his lights on.
Before he could do so he saw the shape of a person, a flash of orange, something he had no way of avoiding. He thrust his foot down onto the brake, pushing hard but feeling he’d be unable to avoid an inevitable collision. He came to a stop with a jolt, his head thrown forward, but stopping short of the steering wheel. He breathed a sign of relief, thankful that putting his seatbelt on had become another of his auto-pilot routines since the accident. He looked around for the figure he’d narrowly avoided, but saw nothing. Confused, he unbuckled his seat-belt to get out of the car, but was thrown back in shock by a heavy impact on the bonnet, the sound causing Jack’s pulse to race.
It was a rucksack, a large orange one worn so often by the campers that came to the area during the summer. The fact that it was the middle of winter had no bearing on Jack, his head feeling clearer than it had in months when struck by the fear that he might have hit a person. Jack flew out of the car, looking in every direction for a body. The mist obscured his view in every direction so he ran further along the road searching for signs. Finding nothing he followed the skid marks he’d left to where he thought the impact must have happened. The road was clear. He looked in the trees by the side of the road, but again, he saw nothing. No sign of where a body may have rolled down the bank, no sign of where anyone would have walked from to appear on the roadside either.
The wind stirred through the trees, casting the mist into strange shapes. As it howled past his ear it whispered names from his past. The friend he’d lost in the accident and those that gave up on him, one by one, knowing that he’d not had a sober day since.
Jack ran back to his car in a panic and climbed inside, locking the doors. He put the car into gear and drove off, trying to peer around the rucksack that obstructed his view. He tried his brakes, hoping to throw it off as he did so, but it remained in his way.
He pulled over, and after cautiously looking out of each window slowly emerged from the car. He picked the rucksack from the bonnet, and dropped it by the side of the road. He moved around to the front of the car, checking it over for signs of damage. The grey paint on the bonnet was badly scratched by the rucksack, but there were no dents or scratches on the bumper, which he would have expected with the speed of impact had he have hit anything.
Again the wind taunted Jack, battering him with memories he’d tried to forget about; the race he’d won and the way he’d forced Alan off the road, the way he’d driven off and left him, not wanting to get into trouble, expecting someone else to come to find him laying by the road after being thrown from his car, but they never did.
Pummelled by guilt Jack reached into the car and opened the glove box, looking for his mobile phone. As he went to grab it a bottle of whiskey tumbled out, the top breaking off leaving the brown liquid to gush out and sink into the upholstery. As the familiar smell hit his nostrils Jack thought about his reputation in the town and what people would think, the village drunk, out of his head, hit some kid. They’d lock him up and throw the key away, of that he was sure. Calling the police wasn’t such a good idea after all, it wasn’t like there was a body sitting in the road waiting to be found, and the car had no damage to point at any wrong-doing.
He drove down the road, before the rucksack came back to him. If a body was found somewhere near the road, or if someone was reported missing, they’d find the bag. On it they might find a little grey paint, maybe even finger-prints. He opened his door to peer out and carefully reversed back to the bag, getting close enough to be able to pick it up without having to leave his vehicle. He threw it into the back, surprised by its weight, and headed off once more.
As he followed the winding road he couldn’t shake off his thoughts about the rucksack in the back, and why it was so heavy. Taking his eye off the road for a second he angled his rear-view mirror to take a look. From out of the top he was sure he could see a bottle, possibly a whiskey to replace the one that had smashed moments earlier.
He glanced at the road, then at the bag again. He moved his arm back, trying to reach into it, to pull out the bottle from inside. He quickly looked to the road again, and dread filled his heart. Right in front of him, dressed entirely in grey, a hitchhiker. Jack slammed on the brakes once more as the hitchhiker moved out of his way with incredible speed. Jack looked across at his pale face, briefly reminding him of Alan’s as he applied further pressure to the brake. The rucksack on the back seat continued its forward motion, the full weight of it striking Jack on the back of the head.
As he fell into unconsciousness his foot slipped from the brake. The car continued forward, and off the road gathering speed as it careered down the bank before coming to an abrupt stop as it crashed into a tree.
The man in grey climbed down the bank and opened the rear door. He reached over to Jack, placing his cold hands on his wrist to feel his pace slowing. Certain that no one would find him in time he took his rucksack and threw it onto his shoulder before continuing his journey, the wind and the mist disguising him as he made his way through the trees.