Blue Stew (Second Edition) Read Online Free
Author: Nathaniel Woodland
was electric. He had taken a couple blind strides before he even thought to hold the LED light out in front of him to see where he was going.
His legs felt like jelly, and there was this strange sense that he was running on a slow treadmill, and that if he didn’t move fast enough, he would get dragged back to it . . .
Crashing out of the woods, Walter scarcely had room to line up the jump over the stream of water that bordered the road. The horror brought the adrenaline, making his heart go wild, overwriting the pain of the crash.
He flipped open his phone, momentarily losing his light source. No service—of course. He began jogging down the wet road, hobbling numbly, his light bouncing in front of him through the driving rain.
Who could do that to someone? A vague, horrific scenario took shape all by itself in Walter’s head, that of some psychotic killer mutilating his victim, throwing him into a Jeep, and then jamming the accelerator with a rock, sending him flying into the night to his doom. The scenario was spotty and would buckle under closer scrutiny, sure, but at that moment Walter was not in any state of mind to scrutinize.
The river was loud . It was high and it was wide, too, and Walter thought he could actually see the frothy waterline rising up the bank. He hesitated for an instant, envisioning the bridge being ripped up and toppled over by the water raging underneath. But then he remembered that there was, in all likelihood, a psycho-killer in the area, and Walter’s head swung backwards automatically, towards the rainy and gloomy night behind him. He saw only darkness except for the faint glimmer of the Jeep’s one headlight through the distant trees.
He hastened onto the bridge.
It was an old cement bridge, built sometime in the sixties. It arched up at the middle. Walter unthinkingly slowed when he reached its shallow apex. He couldn’t help himself from shining his light over the edge as he moved. He and his friends used to jump into the river from up here. It had always seemed like a pretty long fall, even the last time they’d done it as full-grown men, five or so years back. Now, the water seemed so high and so close that he could almost lean over and skim the rippling brown water with a fingertip.
The timing was impeccable. A second sooner or later and Walter would never have seen it: A large, familiarly-shaped object, floating near the surface of the water, shot out from under the bridge and raced away with the raging current.
At first sight his mind insisted that it had to be a large log, but then Walter saw the legs, and then the arms. He threw himself against the edge of the bridge and extended his light out over the water. This second look showed the floating object to have a head and a face. Two half-open eyes glinted in reflection of the flashlight up on the bridge, and then the body was carried off into the night.
Walter’s initial reaction had him thinking that the nearby psycho-killer was in fact a serial killer on a killing spree. Before succumbing to raw panic—somehow—he managed enough levelheadedness to raise a quick alternative: Even that wild night, a spade can remain a spade, and maybe some innocent victim had simply gotten too curious and too close to the fast rising river, and the wet, slippery rocks.
At any rate, Walter was not sure this person had been dead, floating on his back as he’d been. He picked up his pace, wiping rain off the screen of his phone, reconfirming his lack of service.
He started up the hill on the other side of the valley.
Walter felt terrible in every sense of the word. He was shocked, disturbed, and mystified by what he had seen and experienced in the past fifteen minutes, and the pain from the crash was now reasserting its presence throughout his body.
On the other hand, and more so than he had in many years, he felt alive .
Chapter 3 – Fire on the Hill
“S till not getting through?”
Nigel, pacing near the window
His legs felt like jelly, and there was this strange sense that he was running on a slow treadmill, and that if he didn’t move fast enough, he would get dragged back to it . . .
Crashing out of the woods, Walter scarcely had room to line up the jump over the stream of water that bordered the road. The horror brought the adrenaline, making his heart go wild, overwriting the pain of the crash.
He flipped open his phone, momentarily losing his light source. No service—of course. He began jogging down the wet road, hobbling numbly, his light bouncing in front of him through the driving rain.
Who could do that to someone? A vague, horrific scenario took shape all by itself in Walter’s head, that of some psychotic killer mutilating his victim, throwing him into a Jeep, and then jamming the accelerator with a rock, sending him flying into the night to his doom. The scenario was spotty and would buckle under closer scrutiny, sure, but at that moment Walter was not in any state of mind to scrutinize.
The river was loud . It was high and it was wide, too, and Walter thought he could actually see the frothy waterline rising up the bank. He hesitated for an instant, envisioning the bridge being ripped up and toppled over by the water raging underneath. But then he remembered that there was, in all likelihood, a psycho-killer in the area, and Walter’s head swung backwards automatically, towards the rainy and gloomy night behind him. He saw only darkness except for the faint glimmer of the Jeep’s one headlight through the distant trees.
He hastened onto the bridge.
It was an old cement bridge, built sometime in the sixties. It arched up at the middle. Walter unthinkingly slowed when he reached its shallow apex. He couldn’t help himself from shining his light over the edge as he moved. He and his friends used to jump into the river from up here. It had always seemed like a pretty long fall, even the last time they’d done it as full-grown men, five or so years back. Now, the water seemed so high and so close that he could almost lean over and skim the rippling brown water with a fingertip.
The timing was impeccable. A second sooner or later and Walter would never have seen it: A large, familiarly-shaped object, floating near the surface of the water, shot out from under the bridge and raced away with the raging current.
At first sight his mind insisted that it had to be a large log, but then Walter saw the legs, and then the arms. He threw himself against the edge of the bridge and extended his light out over the water. This second look showed the floating object to have a head and a face. Two half-open eyes glinted in reflection of the flashlight up on the bridge, and then the body was carried off into the night.
Walter’s initial reaction had him thinking that the nearby psycho-killer was in fact a serial killer on a killing spree. Before succumbing to raw panic—somehow—he managed enough levelheadedness to raise a quick alternative: Even that wild night, a spade can remain a spade, and maybe some innocent victim had simply gotten too curious and too close to the fast rising river, and the wet, slippery rocks.
At any rate, Walter was not sure this person had been dead, floating on his back as he’d been. He picked up his pace, wiping rain off the screen of his phone, reconfirming his lack of service.
He started up the hill on the other side of the valley.
Walter felt terrible in every sense of the word. He was shocked, disturbed, and mystified by what he had seen and experienced in the past fifteen minutes, and the pain from the crash was now reasserting its presence throughout his body.
On the other hand, and more so than he had in many years, he felt alive .
Chapter 3 – Fire on the Hill
“S till not getting through?”
Nigel, pacing near the window
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