ORIGINAL FICTION: "Climbers" (CHapter Eighteen)

about a quarter of a mile both ways, but that half mile stretch right there was a mess. Compared to the rest of the road, it looked like there had been a demolition derby there. Every night. At five hundred feet, they could see it all. The tire marks on the pavement, the skidding ruts through the gravel on the shoulder and the swaths cut through the grass by vehicles swerving completely off the road. Some came back to pavement, some didn't. Some ended abruptly at a guard rail and a few went off through the surrounding fields. Both men in the helicopter were so stunned they made a point of videotaping the whole scene from the other angle, from exit to exit again. Before they turned to return to their airfield, the pilot had one spark of inspired genius. For whatever it was worth.
Moving slowly over the Interstate, the pilot hovered at what looked to be the center of all the action. Tire marks went out in both directions below them. With the camera pointed straight down, he lowered them to just a few hundred feet over the road. The camera lens was filled by the Interstate below them. Traffic was slowing down, thinking he must be using radar to catch speeders. He wasn't. Not this time. With the camera pointed at the tire marked pavement, the pilot slowly pulled up on the rotor pitch control. The helicopter started to climb straight up over the road. The camera took in more and more of the surrounding area. In a steady climb to five thousand feet, the camera took in the road right-of-way, the surrounding fields and stands of trees on either side of the road beyond the fields. None of this footage would make the evening news. The State wouldn't even mention that they had it. But they had it, and it was an eye-opener. The heaviest concentration of skid marks was directly between the two stands of trees. There was no doubt about that. The big question was: What does it mean?
Far to the west, and getting farther west with each passing minute, Ray and Barbara were at the state line. Into Illinois and off the super slab, they headed southwest out of Grayville, bound for Harrisburg and the Forty-Five Cafe. Lunch awaited, and if they were lucky maybe they'd have the air conditioning turned on in there today. Down to a reasonable fifty miles an hour on the rural two lane, Ray turned off the air conditioner and rolled down the windows. It was amazing how cool it could be when you weren't surrounded by blacktop and big trucks. Not so bad out here. The air was clean and fragrant even if it was going to be blazing hot this afternoon. They were closing in on their lunch. At the outskirts to Harrisburg their speed dropped to forty, then to thirty through the town. No need to rile the locals. Nice and easy through the burg and on to the restaurant.
They could see the cafe's white gravel parking lot as they drove down the street in the brilliant in the noon day sun. Not even a mad dog would walk across that lot without sunglasses. They parked as close as they could to the building and Ray turned off the engine. Ah, the sweet silence of a small town on a summer day. The mind-numbing amount of nothing that was going on. Better get inside quick. Ray decided to live life on the edge. They left the windows down. No sense in turning the car into an oven. They'd have to get back in that thing eventually. Across the short stretch of gravel to the walkway around the building, the Meadows were making a bee-line for that front door. Halfway there the sidewalk was blocked in front of the restaurant by a motorbike. It was old, it was rusty and it had at one time been yellow. Now it was Steve Vaan's wheels, but they didn't know that. This minor inconvenience was offset by the fact that the cafe's front door was closed. Good sign there. The air was on. Get inside quick.
Inside the Forty-Five Cafe it was dark and cool. It was perfect. A slight breeze from the ceiling fans was the finishing touch. Ray decided he could just stay here for the rest of the summer and Barbara seconded that motion. Once their