Moon Was Cloudy

MOON WAS CLOUDY

Two boys not yet school age played in the sand pile. Their fathers were somewhere in a war and their mothers were worried and unhappy, but the two boys just played in the sand. The older by a year turned toward the younger. He pointed to a smooth place he had made in the sand with his hand and said, “Let’s race our cars”. They put the two wooden cars down at the beginning of the smooth place and gave a hard shove. The cars sank in the sand. Both boys laughed and played on.

***

Each and every time another thread disappeared into the socket there was a click, and each time there was a click a reflection bobbled across the chromed. Eric Walters looked down at the engine seeing for every minute of his time and every penny of extra money there was a shiny bit of metal that mirrored his face. It was with loving care that he tightened sparkplugs into place above the cylinders. As he made the final adjustments, he smiled at his younger brother, Don, who was trying to remove a grease spot from the white top they had put on the 1947 Mercury convertible the day before.

The wrench was flung upon the workbench. The crash caused Frank March to drop the Pepsi-Cola he sipped while attempting to picture a well-fitted hood on the car. The broken mess of a bottle on the concrete floor presented a new problem. Sliding off the workbench, he reached for the broom, but Eric stood pointing at the Ford hood that lay nearby. Frank had the glass in the scoop when he saw Eric motion for help in lifting the piece onto the car, so he dropped the scoop and the glass scattered across the floor..

The grimace remained firm on Eric’s face as they put the hood on the car. The glass splinters from the scoop glistened under the trouble light. The hood looked odd on the Mercury, as it was too short. Of course, it was somewhat better than the one that had been too large. This hood was the third in a long line of junkyard recoveries. Two short and one too large, and the large one kept sliding off when the car stopped. In fact, its downfall was the morning that Eric ran into it as it slid mid-flight and dented a fender.

The proud owner of the hot-rod popped in behind the padded wheel and turned the ignition. The engine started immediately. The noise from the mufflers drowned out all other sound. No one noticed Mike Bossler and “Kleebe” Cleverston enter the garage. Eric twisted the key; the engine gasped into silence.

Bossler walked to the driver side window after shoving Don out of his path.

Bossler was big. He was taller than Frank and Eric and quite a lot heavier. His puffy face wore a banner of acme down the left cheek. His eyes were small, set back over a short, upturned nose. Across his broad forehead bushy eyebrows shook hands and became one. His mouth curled into a well-practiced sneer.

“Why don’t you put down this dog, Walters? It must take a damn lot of biscuits to feed.” Bossler glanced around to see if his humor was appreciated. It wasn’t, with the exception of Kleebe, who snickered.

Kleebe nodded his head. A grin ate a gaping hole into his face. “Yeah, Walters, it looks so mean. Ain’tcha ‘fraid it’ll bite you.”

 “Yessir, Ericson, a real hound, woof, woof!”

 Eric pulled himself out of the car.

“Ahh, sit down and relax.” Bossler pushed Eric back into the car, where he sank into the spongy seat.

Eric scowled. “It’ll run rings around your heap, Bossler, wide rings.”

“Yeah, talk’s cheap, Bossler.” Don’s voice squeaked like C-over high C from across the garage.

“Ha, listen to fatso there. Talk’s cheap, eh? There’s any cheap talk around this place, it’s you, Walters. I dare you to race this pile of junk. What’d’ya say, huh?” Bossler looked around to see the reaction of the others.

“You’re damn right I’ll race,” Eric said. “Anytime, anyplace.”

A voice called from the door of the garage. “Mike, hurry up.”

The girl stood just inside the door. Greta Holland was fourteen and at the point of being interesting. Supposedly She was Eric Walter’s girlfriend, but she called now to Bossler. Kleebe rushed out of the garage. The girl looked at Eric still sitting in his car. His eyes widened. Frank March stared at Eric, watching his friend’s face turn deep purple.

Bossler lit a cigarette. He sneered through the smoke. “Yeah, that’s right,” he snarled, “She’s the stakes. He patted the girl on the rump. “Let’s meet at Y-Roads tomorrow night at...say, eight?”

Bossler put an arm around Greta’s shoulders and steered her toward the door. He paused and looked back. “Hey Ericson, ah sure as hell hope if you win her back she don’t have no big tummy.”

The girl blushed a bright red.

Bossler, giggling, shoved her out of the building. A moment later the stones of the driveway were scattered onto the lawn.

****

Four cars were parked along the Y-Roads and five boys kneeled nearby. Frank March was drawing a map in the dirt with a short stick. The others looked on with interest. Frank March studied the map before speaking.

“Look, man, what will one little drag prove?” Frank answered his own question without pausing for a breath. “I say instead make it a race to the Farmer’s Market in Wilmillar to prove who has the most skill on the road, then at the lot we run a drag for speed. Then you follow all this with a chicken run...voila! Best out of three’ll prove all around driver and car.”

Frank searched the faces.

Bossler spat, cleared his throat and spat again. “Okay by me.”

Frank suggested certain rules to be decided upon and got the approval of both parties. Frank would wave a handkerchief starting the race from a standstill. They would follow Old Creek Road to the highway, then to the market parking lot. Don and Kleebe left together to be at the market to judge the finish.

The two cars lined up side by side. Frank walked to the front and raised his right arm. A white handkerchief floated from his hand. It settled on the ground in a heap as roar echoed another roar. The piece of cloth swished upward into a circle, drifted to a field and died in the weeds.

Both cars left black marks as they squealed off the invisible start line. Frank waited until they were out of sight before walking down the road to his own car. His shoes echoed in the stillness of the late night. Only the restless leaves of dark trees made any other sound. Frank caught a glimpse of three shapes in the woods before something cracked into his skull with a dull thud. He fell to the ground and felt boot toes dig into his ribs. He rolled into a ball trying to prevent being kicked in the groin.

He blacked out after a jolt to the jaw as someone stepped upon his face. Frank March lay still with blood dripping from his mouth.

Gritting his teeth, Eric cut sharply around a bend in the back road. What a stupid route Frank had chosen, all twists and turns. He pulled the Mercury into a rare stretch of straight road and pressed all the way down on the accelerator. The Mercury leaped with power and pressed Eric deep into the seat. He glanced from the soaring speedometer to the rearview mirror.

Bossler was right on his tailpipe as he slowed for a sharp turn that went down a steep grade. Working, sweating, knowing he could take Bossler with pure speed, but all the curves on Creek Road kept that in check. He glanced in his mirror, saw his enemy taking chances. He watched the other car swerve back and forth across the road. Eric returned to concentrating on the winding route.

One jolt followed another. Bossler was hitting his rear bumper. The Mercury was hit again as he came to a horseshoe curve. Eric’s sweaty hands lost their grip on the wheel, not recovering until the car went straight through a guardrail to land nose down in a ditch ten feet off the road. A horn disappeared into the distance, on and on it blew.

****

Two lights canvassed the parking lot as the car, leaning to one side, turned into a lane. It dug into the gravel under the tension of new speed as the driver fed more fuel. It rushed up the drive toward the building that was a busy produce market during the weekends. Brakes burning, it skidded to a sideways stop.

The waiting boys ran up to the car, which was almost hidden in the rising dust. The door opened and closed on the driver’s side Out of the cloud of dust appeared Bossler. He walked to the others with a smile, which failed to hide his ever-present sneer.

“Well, did I beat Walters?”

 “Man, I’ll say,” said Kleebe.

Don was walking away, but a hand grabbed his neck, the fingernails leaving a dark red mark. Kleebe swung Don around to face Bossler.

“You don’t ride with us, kid,” Bossler yelped.

“I was only going to sit in the car to wait for Eric.”

“You can wait for your brother out here, though I feel that chicken won’t show. Guess you’ll have to hope March shows up. Kleebe and I have a date, so we got to cut out. If the turtle still wants that drag he’ll have to wait a day or so. Gee, I really do hope you don’t have to walk. It’ll be dark out there.”

“Go to hell,” Don offered.

The blow came and went. Don felt the ground stop his fall. Fumes arose around him as the two cars sped away spraying gravel. Don sat up watching the tail lights grow smaller. He crawled over to a log marking the border of a parking space and sat down to wait.

****

It was past one o’clock when Frank March started his car. His jaw felt terrible and a warm liquid was cooling on his chin. He leaned to one side against the door, wondering if some ribs were broken on his left side. He had waited for Don and Eric to return, but of course they hadn’t. Frank took a deep breath, feeling the pain like a small explosion in his side.

Grimacing, he turned the car around and headed down the road Eric and Bossler raced on earlier. Every bump and turn sent a coiled snake’s teeth into his flesh. He drove slowly, looking for what he didn’t know, but he came to the main highway and then to the market without finding it. What did he expect? They wouldn’t leave breadcrumbs for him to follow. As he pulled into the lot Frank saw a frightened-looking Don Walters running toward his car.

The sobbing explanation stabbed Frank’s eardrums, but stopped suddenly when Don saw his pale face in the moonlight.

“This has...developed into a... war. This idiotic petty rivalry...has included...me...and you, Don.” Frank’s voice croaked, but the pain was lessening. “Bossler holds as much against...you and I as he does against Eric...because Eric...overshadowed you and me so long...we are only...like an arm...of the main target...and you must wound the enemy as well as...kill.”

“Kill?” interrupted Don. “God, Frank, Bossler knew Eric wouldn’t show.”

Frank was again driving on the back road, only in the opposite direction. Half was up a twisting hill the headlights reflected off an object shining alongside the road. Don saw it, but Frank hadn’t noticed the flash. He was enjoying the sudden absence of pain in his rib cage. He was feeling confident that his ribs were all together.

“Frank...Frank, did you see that?”

 “What?”

 “Something along the road like a hubcap. Stop, Frank.”

“Ah, that’s probably all it was, some thrown hubcap.”

“No, we gotta stop. Please, Frank. Stop.”

Don’s fat leg crossed the transmission hump and his fat foot stomped the brake. The car jerked under the two masters; one stopping it, the other pushing it ahead. The car stalled. A door slammed as Don dashed down the road, soon overtaken by Frank’s Ford driven in reverse. The hubcap lay on the shoulder like an evil eye. Beyond it was a broken guardrail and smashed down bushes. Frank pulled off the road and got out. Don and Frank walked to a shallow gulley where they found Eric lying unconscious across his steering wheel. Thankfully, only the battery was dead.

****

Early the next morning, Don Walters walked off the road, down the embankment, dragging behind him a long chain. The sun glittered off the links moistened by the morning dew. Getting down on his knees, he hooked the end around the Mercury’s cross member in back of the rear axle. From the car’s window Eric raised an arm. He lowered it slowly. On the road, a pickup truck at the other end of the chain pulled forward. Frank edged the truck across the road, turning to sit on the shoulder. Glancing back, he saw the Mercury was free of the gulley. Eric applied the brakes and Don exchanged the chain for a shorter one. This disconnecting and reattaching of chains to the car and truck soon had the Mercury back on the road.

Even after the dead battery was replaced, the car failed to respond; the motor had some kind of damage from the impact. The battered car was towed back to Eric’s garage. The boys left it and rushed off to school, which was half over for the day.

They left the principal’s office just as fourth period was changing. They hurried towards their classrooms. Half way down the hallway, Eric pulled Frank around a corner out of sight. Ahead in the main corridor were Mike Bossler and Greta Holland. She stood leaning against Bossler's chest.

“That serpent with blue eyes.” Eric looked into Frank’s bruised face. He stared with an odd expression before turning and walked down the side hall, motioning for Frank to go to class alone as he went.

Eric walked down the empty corridor. It led away from the main hall into a new wing being constructed. This section of the building was unoccupied and many of the boys went there to smoke.

He was halfway through the area when he heard them, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the members of Bossler’s clique. The next moment one of them stood in front of him. The boy looked Eric up and down, and then swung viciously. Eric fell back against a wall and shook his head. Everything went dizzy until he realized his plight.

He began screaming, “Come right up. Come right up! COME RIGHT UP!”

He pushed himself back into the center of the triangle. A skinny boy brought a foot up in an arc, his toe aimed at Eric’s crotch. Eric crossed his wrists in front and caught the foot in the crossing cradle. He spun the boy around, pushing him head first across the space into the concrete wall. The boy slumped to the floor. Catching his balance, Eric Judo-chopped another attacker on his right, but the third grabbed him in a full Nelson. Eric thrust his lower body backward and stooped over to catch hold of the boy’s pants cuffs. Standing, he raised the boy into the air and then fell back with him.  Eric’s back smashed between the boy’s legs. The boy whimpered as his arms went limp.

Eric wasted no time getting to his feet. He was surprised he had managed to thwart off harm. Now only one attacker still stood; the other two lay quiet at his feet. The skinny boy laid across the hall, stunned and helpless, while the other rolled in a rocking motion back and forth, the whole while gasping.

The last boy was deciding on a line of attack and as he waited Eric heard more movement coming. Four more boys appeared. The other boy pulled an object from his jeans. The click announced an introduction of a long blade.

Eric flinched. Things were getting a little too rough and tough. He danced past the knife wheeler and burst between the other four, surprise allowing him to elude their last-minute grasps.

Down the hall he ran, panting, “I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. I’ll kil...” Eric ran to the right, left, right, running blindly.

He bumped into Frank when he entered the main corridor. For a moment he looked blankly at Frank, then he started away continuing to say, “I’ll kill him.”

Frank grabbed Eric by both shoulders shaking him, telling him to snap out of it. Eric, his eyes glistening, knocked off the hands, turned on his heels and stomped away down the hall.

****

They sat on the bench in the garage watching Eric, who stood at the worktable. He held a whetstone in his hand, sharpening a knife clamped in a small vice. He whistled to himself as he worked.

The vice was loosened, the knife picked up and Eric swaggered pass the wrecked automobile and held the weapon up for the other guys to see. Its blade was razor thin. He turned from his brother and his friend, who only bowed their heads, not looking up until Eric left.

Walking through the night air, Eric kept a hand in his right coat pocket. A fierce determination commanded his steps. He turned down the next block toward the center of Wilmillar. The courthouse clock was chiming eleven times on the west side of town.

His heart thumped in his chest echoing the striking clock. A small drop of perspiration rolled down his cheek. It paused at his chin as if confused where to go.

The clock struck and the drop splashed to the sidewalk.

Bossler lived alone, adrift from his parents, in a small alley apartment just off the main street. The apartment was a room over the grocery store where he worked after school. The town was dark. There were no houses in this area, only stores and a couple of gas stations, all of which were now closed.

Eric was sweating so freely his skin was slick. The evaporating moisture turned the sweat to a chill. All the while the clock struck its countdown. At a booth on the corner he made a phone call. His soft voice slid through the narrow wire and curled around the middle ear of Mike Bossler. Eric told him to be outside in ten minutes by the fruit stand. Bossler slammed the receiver down, walked out the door and down the steps to the street. “Why wait?” he muttered.

Bossler stood in front of the fruit stand to the right of steps leading down to the sub-basement shop. Walking around the corner a block away came Eric. He saw Bossler.

Amused, Bossler watched him come until Eric stopped just short of him. They stared at each other.

The end of chiming brought a dead silence. Eric leaped at Bossler, who stood ready for a charge. His arms encircled Eric’s waist, lifting the smaller boy off the ground with a bear hug.

“I’ll kill you!” Eric shouted.

Bossler snorted. Was this all the guy had, this weak oath? “Yeah, right, punk.” Bossler squeezed harder and laughed.

He didn’t notice Eric’s hand sunk deep in his right coat pocket. The hand came out and five inches of thin steel went into Bossler.

The arms went limp. Bossler dropped to the sidewalk. Eric’s watched his foe crawl on his stomach with the knife handle protruding as a long slash of blood trailed beneath him. Bossler crawled to the curb, where his head dropped over and his body quivered. Everything became still.

Eric was silent for a second, and then laughed a sick, high chuckle, which turned to moans and his moans became noiseless tears. He looked at the dead boy halfway in the street. Eric felt weak. He had an upset stomach. He reached back and leaned on the wooden rail along the steps to the basement shop. His legs shook. He let his weight fall against the wood for support.

****

The bodies were found at dawn.

A policeman on early store check saw Mike Bossler in a pool of drying blood. An ambulance was called and it’s siren led a sleepy-eyed crowd of town people to the scene. They came to watch the removal of the maimed. By the time Don and Frank arrived, they had removed Bossler’s remains and were bringing Eric’s broken shell up the steps. It was difficult to determine whether the cause of death was the broken neck or fractured skull.

Cameramen from the papers were taking pictures and people were giving their versions as to what had happened. Frank saw the knife being looked over by detectives. The razor-like blade looked rusted. He went to the broken railing and picked up some of the rotted wood. Letting it fall to the bottom of the steps. A cop yelled at him to get away. He walked back to Don. They departed the excitement, both silent. Frank listened to the noise grow where the people made speculations, but he saw clearly what had happened. The knife, the rotting wood: the braggart and the rotting mind. Frank was terrified by what he knew. Not the death, nor the action, but the truth. They had been born to inherit a world whose sky was under a mushroom cloud of death. How then could there be peace anywhere?

In the afternoon, the sun shined brightly on the small town street where people were shopping in the stores and men were talking about it in the barbershop.

Last night Eric Walters was on the same street.

Last night the moon was cloudy.

___________________________________________________________________________

This is another story I wrote when I was 15 years old. It is semi-true, based on an incidence with my friend Richard Wilson, except no bloodshed happened beyond maybe a bloody nose. We had moved from Downingtown to Bucktown in the spring of 1957 and that was when I met Richard. Richard was obsessed with cars and with girls. He bought a 1947 Plymouth for $40 and we spent hours working on it. It never reached the state of the Mercury in this story. Eric and Don Walters are based on Richard and his younger brother, Tommy. Frank March is always my alter ego in these tales.  Rich had a girlfriend at that time and a boy at school was cutting in on her. I forget his name, except it did start with a B. and he did come to the garage and insult Richard. Eventually they made some challenges, but these never resulted in anything except a fistfight.

This incident, oddly enough, inspired more than this tale. It also inspired characters in my play, "Ya-Ha-Whoey!' and my novel "Come Monday". The biggest inspiration was nother novel, "Forty-Dollar car", which was very autobiographical.

If I wrote the story today I would make some alterations. For one, I would cut the prologue about playing with cars in the sand. I never really developed that and even I am not certain who the two boys are supposed to be.  I also might have cut back on Frank, Don and Kleeve and kept the focus more on Eric and Mike. 

In the last couple of years of Junior High I fell under the influence of the writer Evan Hunter. His book Black Board Jungle became a popular movie, as did it's theme music, "Rock Around the Clock". The first Evan Hunder book I owned was "The Jungle Kids", the title used to gloom on the movie's success. It was a book of short stories.

I ws very much into juvenile deliquent fiction and hot rodder stories by then, so I had to write some myself.

Purgatory Story

by

Larry Eugene Meredith

They were in fine humor sliding down the rope into the pit. One of the three wore a knapsack on his back. The others carried all they thought needed in pockets and on their belts, a flashlight and a knife. Originally there was to be a fourth, but he had taken ill. They laughed. Yeah, Bob had taken ill. He caught a touch of “yellow fever”. They laughed again remembering how he fled the deserted farmhouse they explored last month. They had spooked him so much on that trip he had wet his pants.

Their parents would be angry if they knew the boys had come to the cave. It was the great forbidden place. The township had placed heavy boards across the small hole that was the only known accessible entrance, and put up a large sign, now faded by time and weather: “No Trespassing Under Penalty of Law”.

The boys ignored the sign and easily shifted the boards enough to make an opening. They tied a rope around one of the boards and one by one slid down into the dark and algid hole. They didn’t fear discovery. Very few people came out this way and the only person who knew their plans was Bob, and although he had refused to come, they had confidence he would tell no one of this.

Bill was the leader. It was his idea to break the ban and explore Skull Cave. Besides adventure was the possibility the treasure rumor might be true. Ironically, it was Bob who inspired the idea. He had been talking about Edgar Allan Poe’s The Gold Bug, a school assignment, exciting the others with talk of treasure hunting. Bob had murmured he wished they could hunt treasure, and then Bill had suggested the cave trip.

Every boy in town knew the tale, how once the hills were the camping grounds of bandit-raider Skull O’Brien. This man, an agent for the South during the Civil War, raided nearby Pennsylvania towns and hid his plunder deep in an underground cavern, which acquired his name. O’Brien got his nickname because he had a shallow sunken face and no hair whatsoever. No one found O’Brien’s cache, whisperers said, because the only safe opening to the cave was the small hole atop Pigeonwing Hill. There was one other egress, high on a deserted quarry wall, and thus unassailable. Besides county engineers suspected the sturdiness of the Pigeonwing Hill entrance, boarded it up and condemned the entire unexplored cave.

The boys left the dangling rope and moved away with flashlights in hand. They followed a narrow passage, made difficult to negotiate by jagged stalagmites. Several paces in their light beams disappeared into the vastness of a dark void. A gentle sloping surface led down into a great bowl of rock. Elk was the first to scramble down into the giant room.

“This has to be it,” Elk yelled, his voice echoing over and over. “O’Brien’s hideout.”

Bill came behind him. “It do look promising.”

“I really think we found it,” said Mark.

Bill urged them forward. “Find the treasure, if there is any.”

They walked across the large basin and found the opposite side dotted with several tunnels leading in different directions. They selected one and followed single file into it.

At length they came to another fork, one tunnel with a wide mouth, the other smaller.

“I have a suggestion,” said Elk.

“What?”

“Before we go any further, let’s eat.”

The others needed no persuading. They had brought a good lunch and the hike out and climb into the cave had increased their appetites. They sat at the fork, all three flashlights lined up to shed light on their meal. They ate most of what they had brought and what they didn’t finish they left lying on the path.

“Well, shall we get on with our search?” asked Bill.

“Yeah, but look, I got an idea.” Mark swung his light into the smaller tunnel. “I’ll go down here and you and Elk take that cavern. We can meet back here and this way we up the odds of finding any treasure.”

The others agreed anything speeding such discovery was all right with them. They split off into different tunnels, but the paths twisted, broke off into other tunnels, wound about beneath the ground.

Elk grabbed a hold of Bill’s arm. “Hey, man, I just though of something.”

“What?’

“How are we going to find our way back?”

Bill turned toward his friend. Elk was right. Absolutely. They had not marked the way and had twisted and turned too often to ever remember the same route back.

“I got an idea,” said Bill. “We can track sound.”

Bill cupped a hand beside his mouth and shouted for Mark. Elk got the point and did likewise. Both screamed Mark’s name several times and then stood silent, but heard no answer. Time passed and there was no response.

“Louder,” said Bill.

Together they shouted as loud as they could. They paused to listen. Still no call in return, but they heard a creaking and shifting around them.

“Hey, our noise is bringing down the wall. Get out, Elk, run.”

They darted into the dark as dust and rock swept into the vacated space. In his haste, Elk dropped his flashlight. They ran a good way; fearing more ceiling would drop and in running turned down more passageways.

“Oh God,” wailed Bill, “look.”

 Elk didn’t see anything except the stony shale of the wall.

“Look, Elk, we gotta get outta here fast.”

“More cave-ins?’

“I wouldn’t know about that, but look at my light. It’s dimming, burning out. We lose our light we’ll be in real trouble.”

Both boys ran down the narrow tunnels, always taking the left trail. At some spots the cavern narrowed to such a degree they had to crawl, inching on their stomachs, and at such times Bill feared the cave would dead-end and they would not be able to wiggle backward.

His light grew dimmer, until at length it barely shed any light at all.

“It’s going out,” he called back.

The light died and they scrambled forward into pitch darkness until Bill tumbled headlong down a decline in the ground. Elk followed and landed atop him. Both boys cried out, but were all right and able to stand. When they were on their feet, they cried out again but this time from happiness. Ahead was a round hole and through it they could see sunlight.

“An exit,” Elk yelled and pushed past Bill.

They ran toward the air. Elk was faster so was first to reach the opening. He ran into the sky and disappeared. A scream followed. Bill slowed and crept to the opening.

Bill peeked out and then shrank back. The opening was in the steep wall of the quarry. Over the edge he peered down at a distant lake of green water. There was no sign of Elk on the surface, only the ripples created when he hit.

Bill looked up and saw little chance of scaling the wall. His one hope was somebody coming along the far lip of the quarry and spotting him. He had to hope for that to happen.

Night came cold and dark. Bill wished they hadn’t been so anxious to eat their food or left the scraps to any vermin that might scurry about here. He tried putting that thought out of his head and eventually fell asleep.

He awoke damp with morning frost. Outside it was light and warm. He was hungry, but a quick search of his pockets yielded nothing. Elk had carried the knapsack. He waited.

The lip of the quarry was in shadow, making it hard to see him from across the lake. He could yell if anyone came, but not many ever came to the old quarry, and he faced the possibility if one did his voice might be too weak to carry.

Then he saw a person across the way. He squinted and was surprised to see Bob. Bill shouted. He watched as Bob heard and looked around. Bob saw him. He waved and Bill waved back.

“Help me, Bob. I’m trapped.”

“You putting me on?”

“No, honest. Elk fell into the quarry. I think he drowned. You gotta help me.”

“You sure you can’t get out?”

“Yes. The cave is a labyrinth inside. Nobody could find the way through, especially without a light. Mine burned out. Besides part of the way fell-in. I’m really trapped, Bob. Help me.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No. You got what you deserved. Look what you did to me, big-shot Bill Liance. Has to be the big man all the time. See where it got you.”

Bob left and Bill stared after him. He had known him all his life and although Bob was easy to tease, he had liked him and though he was liked in return. No, Bob wouldn’t walk off and let him perish.

Bob reappeared on the far ledge. He had something draped over his one shoulder. “Bill,” he called.

Bill waved.

“Look.” Bob said, and he pulled a looped length of rope off his shoulder and held it out in the air. “See this?”

“Yeah?”

“Catch.” Bob threw the coil out into the space between them. It curved downward and fell to the water.

“Bye-bye, Billy,” Bob said and he left.

He was sure Bob would soon return with help, but when night came and then another sun came up, he knew Bob had not lied. He wasn’t going to help.

Bill lay in the mouth of the cave, his stomach rumbling and his tongue and lips dry. He watched the sun rise over the empty lip of the quarry. He thought of the treasure in the cavern, an urban legend he knew, but it had led to adventure. It was funny how in adventure books the hero always got himself out of situations, where as he was depended on someone, anyone, seeing and saving him.

His best hope was Mark leading people in search of him after Mark got out of the cave; if Mrk got out of the cave. But as the daylight brightened he considered the rope Bob had tossed into space. No, there was no other exit from Skull Cave. None but one and he wasn’t going to think about it. There were still some things he could do for himself. Not acknowledging his own death was one of them.

_________________________________________________________________________________
I was 15 when I wrote this. It as kind of a follow up to "Rescue", but written for no one except myself.  There was near Downingtown, where I had lived a few months before penning this, a large quarry. It was no longer being mined for gravel and the pit had filled with green water of several years. It was a forbidden site east of town a couple miles. That and my fear of heights were most likely my inspiration.