Ghost Reaper Episode 1 by Drew Adams Page A

cut several of them and
layering them across the mouth of his cave. It was only about three feet in
height, close to seven in length and the depth about two feet of habitable
space that decreased into a mysterious crack.  
    Rattlers
in there probably...but when you’re on a roll, keep throwing the dice.
    The
beer carton and twigs plus the lighter in his pocket would provide fire. He
noted a dead tree close by, reached into his left pocket, but found only one of
the rocks he had picked up.
      “Shit...” he shouted... “I know I had
it.” A search of his other pockets turned up nothing. No lighter to flick.
    The
daylight was all but gone. Chad wasn’t about to start rubbing sticks together.
    Guess
I’ll just curl up and take it. Still feel like my glass is half full.
    He
squeezed into the shelter and huddled his arms and legs into a fetal position.
His thoughts weren’t about snakes in the crevice, or the damp cold, or even his
close brush with the grim reaper. What filled his mind and escorted him into
slumber was wondering why he felt so damn good.
     
    Chad
slept, if you could call it that. Dreams intruded, from his classes at the
seminary to the horrific crash. He could see himself inside the vehicle, blue
eyes staring into space, his dark hair matted with blood. Each dream featured
montage after montage, all playing out in the hurdling car. Jenny appeared,
sometimes in the car, sometimes standing besides him on the ledge, sometimes
harping on the problems in their relationship. He would wake up, but slumber
was quick to reclaim him. The last was the worst. This time it was Jenny whose
blue eyes stared and dark hair was matted with blood. Her eyes weren’t
lifeless, they penetrated him, accused him.
    Morning
had arrived, but no light. Chad attempted to stretch out of his cramped
position, but found the wall of brush he had constructed pressing close in on
him. Snow had filtered through but enough caught in the structure to form a matted
solid wall.  
    "The
damn front came in last night," he muttered.
    An
urge to escape the icy coffin shuddered through him. He resisted, calming
himself by considering the harsh conditions that surely existed outside. The
chill he had felt yesterday had changed little. It was a wonder that he had not
froze to death during the night.
    Guess
those two weeks I was a boy scout came in handy. If I stay though, I'll die.
    He
turned towards the snow laden brush wall and pushed. It didn't budge. He
pressed harder, his back against the rocky ledge and put everything he had into
it. Still no success.  
    It
can't be that solid.
    Towards
his feet he could see a hint of light where maybe the snow was not as thick.
With as much force as the cramped quarters would allow he lashed out with a
kick. Snow tumbled, covering his feet and a shaft of light hurried into his
shelter. With a sigh of relief, he laid his head back. Not out yet, he thought,
but it's a start. Again he stomped at the light; more snow busting away; more
sunlight flooding in.
    The
hole looked small, but he began worming his way feet first through the opening.
He was right. It was small, too small. His legs wedged at mid-thigh. A try at
scissoring his legs to widen the space again demonstrated how sturdy the packed
snow had made his wall. Twisting and turning, hitting the outer edge with his
knees, and hitting the wall with his fist loosened some snow. Hips were stuck
now. More worming and he managed to free them.
    At
last he backed out of the shelter, freeing his head, and looked up at blue
skies.   It was cold, but the chill
that had been with him had not increased. His panting produced no condensing
mist.  
    "Strange,"
he wondered out loud.
    Around
the curve, the terrain sloped upward, relatively gentle compared to the sheer
walls back where his unfortunate accident occurred. There were plenty of shrubs
and small trees. Welcome hand holds he hoped would get him to the road.
    Chad
guessed that close to a foot of snow covered