Sandusky Burning, page 34
I brainstormed how I would get to the airport. I had no car and doubted the police would let anyone come and go from the campground. Where the hell did the Taj go? Once they found that trailer, the campground would become a crime scene. Was anyone inside that other trailer when it blew up?
I shaved and showered. On the way back to my trailer, I looked over to Chuck’s RV. His golf cart hadn’t been there all night. The last time I saw it was on the trail.
I returned to my camper. I found a clear poncho and started walking toward the trail.
It was getting brighter out. The sky still had plenty of gray clouds; more rain was possible. It felt like it was in the low sixties.
The trail was muddy, so I was careful to walk on the grassy part along the left side, to avoid ruining my dress shoes. My stomach dropped as I saw the golf cart about thirty yards ahead. Chuck was either kidnapped or dead. There was no way he would leave his cart up on the trail overnight; it was his baby.
I looked around. Nobody was out on the trail; it was too early and too wet. I used my hand to sweep some of the moisture off the seat and got in. According to the gauge, it still had half a charge. I turned the key and steered it onto the trail. If the golf cart had died last night, that would have explained Chuck leaving it there. But that wasn’t the case.
I left the trail and headed toward the campground entrance. There was always the chance that nobody was there, and I could slip out.
But as I traveled up Seagull, I saw Travis in front of the booth, talking to a uniformed Sandusky police officer. Did I really want to explain why I was trying to leave with Chuck’s golf cart? I took a right on Dove, heading north.
Suddenly, I just broke down sobbing. So hard I could barely see through the tears. I pulled to the side, slumping over the steering wheel and covered my face with my hands. Get it together.
The tears wouldn’t stop. What was I doing? My gig at the airport was dead. Why bother with another fly-along? I wiped my eyes and headed back to my camper.
I took a big chug off the vodka bottle. I needed a wardrobe change.
Taking off my business-casual clothes, I dropped them in a pile on the floor. I dug into the back of my closet and found my blue air force service dress uniform.
It wasn’t in bad shape, maybe a little dusty and wrinkled. There were tech sergeant patches on the upper sleeves, a white star in the middle of five white stripes. A respectable number of ribbons were pinned above the left pocket.
I took another big chug off the vodka bottle. I removed the uniform from the hanger and put it on. Even the stupid clip-on tie. I was always teased about it, especially in basic training, but I never gave in and learned to tie a real one.
The uniform was a little snug but wearable. I lost the shoes that went with it. My new dress shoes didn’t match, but I put them on anyway.
I looked in the bathroom mirror. With my fresh haircut, I could pull off the appearance of an active-duty airman. I looked myself in the eye for a long moment, then fired off a crisp salute. The loser in the mirror returned it.
I walked outside, realizing I should be wearing an air force cap at all times outdoors. But I lost the cap, and who was going to correct me? Even if I had my cap on, carrying a bottle of vodka around in uniform was against regulations. I flipped off no one and took another drink.
I got back in Chuck’s golf cart and headed north, driving around the pond and up the embankment leading to the train tracks. I fought back another sobbing fit as I headed east on the tracks.
I continued out on the train bridge that extended out over the lake parallel to the shore. It wasn’t a traditional bridge; the tracks were suspended above the water, constructed on cement footers anchored to the bottom of the lake.
The tracks were too wide for the wheelbase of the golf cart to fit over both rails, so I straddled the left westbound track. The tracks were positioned above rows of parallel wooden slats, fastened to either cement or metal braces below, I assumed. No structures extended above the tracks, so if I veered too far to the side, I could easily drive right off the edge.
I stopped where the tracks turned southeast. I had a clear view of the little campground peninsula. I wasn’t sure what time it was; I guessed maybe 6:45 a.m. I still had about a quarter of the vodka bottle left, so I took another drink.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to look at the sky, but the ceiling of Chuck’s golf cart blocked my vision. I leaned over and saw a small plane gaining altitude after taking off from the airport and smiled.
It was surreal to be sitting out on a train bridge in Chuck’s golf cart. Chuck was dead. He had to be dead. How did Mike kill him, with his bare hands? Did he snap his neck?
I looked down at the murky lake; it was almost a greenish color that near to the shore. It was probably ten feet deep. I could safely jump in without hitting the bottom.
I heard the train horn, closer, and felt the rumblings of it as it approached. It was probably going fifty or sixty miles per hour. The engineer would not be watching ahead very closely since he was about to travel onto a bridge with no possibility of colliding with a vehicle or a pedestrian. Usually.
I looked down at my uniform. The name tag was on the right side. Randolph. It was upside down to me. Like everything in my life.
The horn blasted again, and I saw the train. The entire bridge was vibrating. I clenched my teeth and felt them rattle.
It was a flying gray juggernaut, unstoppable, a rolling missile aimed at me. It promised violence and pain, but only for a moment, and then it would deliver darkness. It would deliver peace.
I could smell the exhaust of it, the engine, the grease, the rust, everything. The engineer must have spotted me. The horn started blaring, long, continuous blasts, over and over. I heard the screech as he engaged the brakes.
But he was going too fast. He could slow the train down, but he wasn’t going to stop it.
I could see the large rusty boxcars being pulled behind the engine, two stories high, most of them covered with colorful spray-painted graffiti. I had no idea what they contained and didn’t really give a shit.
I gave it some gas. Might as well go swiftly into the eye of the storm.
The horn was so loud, he was laying on it hard, and combined with the screeching of the wheels locking up, it made an awful, glorious symphony. The friction of metal on metal produced a strong smell similar to sulfur.
This was going out hard while going out easy. I closed my eyes and smiled as I felt the grand collision.
Acknowledgments
I was inspired to write Sandusky Burning while camping alone in my RV in that area several years ago. Our air conditioner needed to be repaired, so I drove the sixty miles from the suburbs of Cleveland and worked from the camper while awaiting the repairman.
I had rarely spent a moment alone there, and I looked at my surroundings from a different perspective. The transient, wide-open nature of campgrounds provided a fertile environment for shady activities. I envisioned an underworld that preyed on resort-town tourism and let my imagination run wild from there.
I want to thank all my friends who took the time to read my book in advance. The two beta readers I couldn’t enlist were my parents, Bonnie and Larry, who passed away prior to publishing Sandusky Burning. I lost my mother in 2015, and my father died only a few months before my book was released. I had imagined surprising him with a copy for Christmas. I owe them both for instilling in me the love of reading and writing.
The Story Continues!
His friend is on life support. He’s about to be next. As an RV campground becomes a war zone, will he be the next victim in a body bag?
Can he win a brutal power struggle before he takes a fatal bullet?
Click here to pre-order Sandusky Reckoning today!
Bryan W. Conway was born and raised in Flint, Michigan. He has been an author, soldier, factory worker, lawyer, project manager, and personal fitness trainer. His hobbies include writing, reading, fitness, scuba diving, and chess. He currently resides in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio.
For more information, please visit:
www.bryanwconwayauthor.com
Bryan W. Conway, Sandusky Burning
