Hell’s Roundabout
A novel by
Benjamin Vance
Hells Roundabout
Copyright 2014 by Benjamin Vance
World rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means; electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise for public use, including Internet applications, without the prior permission of the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper or on the Web.
This is a work of fiction. Names, incidents, dialog and characters are strictly products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons living or dead is purely coincidental (specific place names used are done so to present their best qualities thematically, descriptively, geographically, and politically). Any errors in this work are the responsibility of the author.
Cover design and layout by ebookit; www.ebookit.com.
Published by Benjamin Vance Books.
Published in eBook format by Benjamin Vance
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ISBN-13: 978-0-9859-1686-2
Edited by SLS
Other books by Benjamin Vance:
Komatke Gold (Adventure)
The Face of Freedom (Political Fiction)
The Doctrine of Presence (Adventure)
Adamonde (Science Fiction)
Prologue
Have you ever pulled up to a stop light or stop sign, looked both ways to make sure no cars were coming, then cautiously pulled out, only to be on the receiving end of horn blaring road rage from another swerving, cursing driver? How does that ever happen?
In a more benign vein, have you ever been in a similar situation and looked back to your right or left and been unable to see a car that you’re absolutely, 100% positive was there just a second before? It happens to us all, but have you ever really … really considered why?
Certain things continually distract us and distort our perceptions, but we have our bad days and our good days and even on our good days, bad things may still happen. For instance, you look up the road for a clear half-mile in both directions knowing there are no other intersections either way, and then you pull safely into your highway lane, and look in the mirror again just to be safe. You see the clear road to your rear, then for some unknown reason the hair stands up on the back of your neck and you glance at the rear view mirror a second time to see a car or truck barreling up behind you … well, then you know something is truly amiss. You don’t tell anyone except perhaps your spouse or rider, but even he or she wasn’t paying attention and will probably think you’re crazy if you say, “That damned vehicle behind me came right out of nowhere.” Yeah, right, where have we heard that before?
In the future, perhaps you should give yourself the benefit of a doubt, keep quiet and check that vehicle for dents and scratches and even burned places when it invariably screams past you, hopefully on the left. Maybe it did come out of nowhere or at least somewhere or sometime else. Maybe it’s damned as well, so pay attention.
Get a close look at the driver’s face if you can, and see if any of the flesh is burned or rotting. See if it has lidless eyes and a lipless grin on its face and as it passes, roll your window down to smell for sulphur, ozone ... or decay. If any of these things occur, don’t think you‘re losing your mind; just appreciate that the poor thing recently escaped from Hell’s Roundabout and is pleased to have finally escaped that infinite, damned circle of death.
1.
The carnage was mind numbing. Parts of the car and passengers were spread over and into the large pines, and the smell was gut-wrenching; pine sap, bowel, blood and mechanical oil stench was everywhere. That’s because the parts of the car and what had been someone’s body or bodies were mutilated beyond belief. When one stood away and looked at the whole scene it seemed as if the car exploded horizontally, toward the tree-covered hillside. What kind of wreck or explosion had precipitated the tragedy was beyond Armond Lennox’s aptitude to comprehend. Possibilities ran through his mind; an improvised explosive device, semi-tractor explosion, hydrogen powered fuel cell eruption, propane blast; anything was possible in California.
Then he saw it; another bumper segment of a different color. After that, his eyes started picking out parts of two cars; engine parts, seat parts embedded in trees, polymer door panels wrapped around trunks and limbs. He called two volunteer Sheriff’s deputies over and gave them instructions to start building two piles of remains and two piles of car parts; had to tell one to put on his blue Nitrile gloves. Being from Texas, he thought the scene looked similar to the aftermath of an F5 tornado.
There wasn’t much snow left at his altitude and what little had come from the previous night’s storm was almost evaporated or melted already. Still, it was butt cold, but he was dressed warmly and felt relatively warm when he stopped to think on it. Actually, the reason he was shaking was due to the neural trauma of the unexplainable butchery initiated by whatever “Hell” led to the untimely death of the car’s occupants.
***
Born and raised in Lubbock; the great state of Texas had always been his home, even during his seven-year stint in the Marines. However, since his wife’s death from Lou Gehrig’s disease he’d essentially been lost, and “home” really didn’t mean much without her. It also didn’t help that his wife’s family of ingrate, inbred idiots blamed him for a disease that she’d probably inherited from them. They were unrelenting in their condemnation, so several years after the love of his life died, he quit his job as Sheriff in a thriving Texas town, sold everything he could sell, and moved him and his 11 year old son, Charley to California.
The small town of Bishop in Inyo County had everything he needed; a job, good people, natural beauty and a good trout stream to teach his son how to properly fly-fish. It also had a first-class hospital, a good airport and quality restaurants. The town always had its good side and then every summer its bad side caused mostly by tourists and bikers from Western California and Nevada. Since his arrival barely eight months earlier, he’d met many good people, including the Mayor, Simpson Maxwell who was really a farmer at heart, all the members of the Sheriff’s auxiliary force, the eight other permanent deputies and several members of the town council and of course many waitresses, store owners, teachers and residents whose pleas for assistance had been answered with a visit to homes or businesses. He hadn’t investigated a major automotive accident … until this … the butchery spread around him.
The elected Sheriff, Andy Shepard was a great guy, knew everybody and was loathe to get on the bad side of anyone. Therefore it was up to his deputies to enforce the law and from time to time get on the bad side of drunks, druggies, shoplifters, loiterers, speeders and possibly a homeless person or family passing through. Road accidents were not his cup of tea in any case. Certainly, the horror Army was presently standing among hadn’t happened in the Sheriff’s quiet town before ... had it?
When he finally regained control of his precocious vomiting reflex, we wandered over to where current Deputy-in-charge, Larry Englestein was gingerly kicking at part of a plastic car fender in a futile attempt to kick it over with the sharp toe of his Western boot. He did it that way so he wouldn’t have to get his face too close to whatever may have been lurking under it.
“Larry,