ORIGINAL FICTION: "Climbers" (Chapter One)

of the homes or stores were over eighty years old, owning to a particularly nasty fire right before the First World War. The little village of Lyndon found out in one night why a volunteer fire department is so important, even if you're just a small village. And while no one was killed in the fire, the people in that little town had used up about all of their strength and resolve to rebuild the village just in time to find themselves living in a country at war. If it isn't one thing, it's another.
So the town of Lyndon was older than it looked. Wise beyond its years? Maybe. They had a volunteer fire department now, along with a real fire truck. John Tucker was employed as the police chief. Ok, he was really the entire police force. But it was full time work, and that's nothing to be scoffed at in such a small town. Most folks here either had a farm or drove some serious miles to find work. Many did both. There were a few small stores, a couple of restaurants, gas stations and a small public library. If you weren't too picky, you could do all your shopping in town for months without having to resort to that thirty mile drive to the "Big City". Most folks here made that trip about once a month. It was kind of a monthly ritual, and almost a parade on first Saturday of every month.
The road Ray was on, and Max was continually crossing, rose to the east as it left the outskirts of Lyndon. Only about half the fields outside of town had been harvested, so Ray was constantly watching for tractors or corn-crib trucks rumbling down the road. No need to get run over on such a nice day. Ray ended up standing off to the side of the lane on several occasions as machinery rolled by, first on its way to the fields, and now later in the day on its way back. Trucks that were bouncing light and empty in the morning were now groaning under the weight of the harvest as they headed back in to town.
As he rounded a bend in the road, surrounded by the woods on either side, Ray came face-to-grille with an old farm truck, stopped as dead as Elvis in the middle of the lane. Neither the driver in the cab or his hapless young assistant looked particularly put out by being stopped- or stuck- in the woods. A quick glance to the back showed Ray why: The truck was already full of harvested corn. No need to hurry now- just heading back to put it in the crib. Of course, it won't get there in a dead truck, no matter what the lack of urgency. Ray, ever the attempted extrovert these days, walked right up to the cab to say hello to Mister Robert Ludlow- Bob- who Ray had recognized by the truck before he ever saw who was driving. That one ton GMC stake bed was built before the last war, and did sort of stand out around town. Faded green paint, one dented fender and the world's weakest six volt headlights served as fair warning to keep an eye out for this one after dark. It was big, heavy and slow- and not very likely to be bothered by being hit by some small foreign car at night. Or in broad daylight, for that matter.
"Hey Bob- how you doing?"
"I'm fine. The truck's kinda quiet."
"So I see. Any particular reason?"
"Gasoline. Or the lack thereof. I sent the boy back to the farm for a can."
Ray shifted his gaze to the boy sitting calmly next to Bob. Bob followed Ray's look.
"The other boy. Ain't no limit on how many you can have."
Ray grinned. Bob had a farm family, all right. Four boys, three girls and enough dogs and cats around the house for everyone to keep busy petting something. Living on a farm out of town as he did, Bob knew Ray from his visits into the village. They had always stopped to pass the time of day, and got along well for two men who barely knew each other. At least Bob wasn't one of those folks who might think Ray was a bit-