All now lay quiet in the small southern town. It was as if both the town and the mountain had given up fighting, fallen asleep, and were finally at rest trying to heal. Rest they should. Just 12 hours earlier the tranquility the area was famous for had been shattered.
The incident occurred on the outskirts of the city limits. The chaos of a horrific crash and the unspeakable injuries that left children rushed for emergency care, nurse by their sides, was something those who witnessed would ever forget.
During the night a cooling mist from the remainder of the lake on top of the mountain descended slowly upon the main road laying down a healing blanket of white. The peaceful mist eventually covered all traces of the carnage still present along the sharp twist in the mountain road aptly named Deadman’s Curve.
As the last finger rays of sunlight reached across the sky transitioning daylight into dark, the collision of a giant earthmover, tractor, and school bus added to the scars already carved into the mountain’s face and the infamous history of the town. Mist Mountain had been quarried since the early 1800s, first gold, then coal, and now the very heart of the mountain was being removed: Key Gypsum.
Fed by natural springs and filled by recent storms, Lake Kendor was overflowing down the side of the mountain cutting a small stream across the dirt road below — a road soon occupied by a land mover, school bus, and tractor.
As the last scoop of key gypsum tumbled into the bed of the earthmover, the driver climbed the six-foot ladder to the cab. In his sleep-deprived state, the driver of the massive earthmover had let the puddle of brake fluid under his vehicle go unnoticed.
Filled with over five tons of key gypsum, the yellow and black earthmover emerged from the bowels of the excavation pit, starting its slow decent down the mountain’s narrow winding road. Had the driver known his journey to the processing plant at the foot of the mountain would end long before reaching his final destination, he wouldn’t have volunteered for the overtime shift. And certainly would’ve been more alert for the approaching school bus.
Panther pride rocked the bus carrying football players from Mist Mountain High School, and rightfully so. They had just won the school’s first regional championship and were slated to play in the state championship in two weeks. That game would be won by default.
The driver downshifted as he started up the steep incline of the mountain road. The progression of the bus would be slowed even further due to a tractor spanning both sides of the road barely two miles ahead.
Pulling a farm combine, the green and yellow tractor inched its way up the mountain road. The farm equipment spanned almost the entire breath of the narrow road, and Farmer Jim, who’d made the journey every season for the last 20, had waited until traffic was at its lightest. He’d hoped to complete trip from his fields at the base of the mountain to those halfway up, before sundown. After all, Martha was fixing pot roast for dinner and he loved his wife’s pot roast. That hope, tractor, and combine would soon be destroyed. His dinner would go uneaten.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the small breach of Lake Kendor’s dam winded exponentially causing the entire dam to fail. The suddenly released wall of water cascaded down the face of the mountain, instantly transforming the small stream across the dirt road below into a raging river that stopped the progression of the tractor and combine just below Deadman’s Curve. It also stopped the school bus and brought an end to the celebration of all who were inside.
As the earthmover gained speed down the steep grade approaching Deadman’s Curve, a red warning light illuminated the interior of the cab.
The ensuing carnage echoed down the mountain and into the town as the giant earthmover entered the curve and flipped over, dumping its five-ton load of key gypsum down the mountain and covering tractor, combine, and school bus in the precious white rock mineral.
The story above happened just as described. I should know. I was there and was one of the emergency responders who help give medical attention to some of the survivors of the horrific crash on Mist Mountain.
Last night The Wife noticed I couldn’t sleep. She found me gazing out the living room window into the backyard. As she gave me a hug she asked, “Can’t sleep? Thinking about the accident again?”
Giving her a kiss, my gaze returned to the newly constructed sandbox. There, illuminated by moonlight stood a half-demolished mountain of sand, a yellow and black earthmover lying on its side, its load of white marble chips spilled, a green tractor and combine, and one yellow school bus all resting from the evening adventure. “You think they will be scarred for life?”
The Wife gave me a reassuring hug, “Don’t be silly. Sweet Caroline got sand in her eyes and Little One skinned her knee. Their mom is a nurse. They’ll be fine.”
She took my hand and pulled, “Now, back to bed, Big Papa. Remember you promised the girls to rebuild the town and mountain in the morning. And don’t forget about the lake on top. They really liked it when the dam broke.”
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
