Read Online Long Holler Road - A Dark Southern Thriller by David Lee Malone - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Lee Malone
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the Alabama Great Southern Railroad, which obviously gave it its name. The gap cut through the big ridge that separated the two valleys and had several old mining and logging roads that ran up the ridges on each side of the road. About halfway through the gap, and near the top of one of the steep ridges, was the cave me and Glenn were going to explore.
We let the dogs out and stood there for a few minutes, letting them run around like maniacs and get their business done, then called them back and loaded them in the truck. After getting our flashlights and ropes secured we started the hike up the ridge, trying to be as quiet as possible, in case we might be lucky enough to jump a deer or maybe see a bobcat. About halfway up, we stopped for a minute to rest from the steep climb. We could have taken the logging road, but it wound around several times and took longer. Besides, we never wanted to be accused of doing things the easy way.
Just as Glenn was about to say something, I put my hand up to silence him. I cocked my head to one side, indicating that I thought I heard something. It was the sound of an engine, straining in low gear, winding its way up the logging road. Me and Glenn had always liked spying on people. Especially when they were out in the middle of nowhere because you never knew what you were going to see. We learned about making out with girls as well as other useful things, like running a whiskey still, as a result of our being expert spies.
We continued our climb in stealthy fashion, careful not to step on fallen limbs that could sound as loud as a rifle shot when they were snapped in the still woods. I was thinking to myself that it was a good thing old Snake wasn’t with us. Even if the ground had been covered with shag carpet, he would still have sounded like a herd of buffalo stampeding. The truck could be heard more clearly now and I was trying to judge from the sound where it was in relation to our location. We hurried as much as possible without making too much noise. Whoever was in the truck couldn’t hear us, but they might be going to pick somebody up that was already waiting there so we didn’t want to chance it.
When the truck came to a stop, it was still a little ways from the top of the ridge. Me and Glenn found a place behind a honeysuckle hedge to hide and watch. The truck sat still with no one getting out, the engine still running.
Glenn whispered to me, “You don’t reckon old Tater Smith’s got him another still up here, do you?”
“I don’t think so. I believe he’s still in the penitentiary. Anyway, Tater wouldn’t have a truck that nice.”
The truck was a late model, three quarter-ton Ford, that was four-wheel drive. It had big mud grip tires and a high camper shell on the back like I’d never seen before. This was an awful expensive truck to go traipsing around in the woods, was what I was thinking.
The engine shut off and both doors opened. Two men got out and looked around in all directions, as if they wanted to make sure there was nobody around. They both had on caps, the bills pulled down low, making it impossible to see what their faces looked like. One man was fairly tall and had a little bit of a gut, the other was kind of wiry and appeared nervous and twitchy, like if you snuck up behind him and yelled, he’d jump completely out of his skin. They raised the tailgate of the camper and walked around to the opposite side of the truck, out of mine and Glenn’s view. We could hear them moving what sounded like tree limbs and brush and could see a huge, ancient cedar tree shaking a little. I noticed a pine tree had fallen, probably blown down by a storm, and was wedged against the cedar tree.
When they emerged again, they were carrying what looked like a blue fifty-five gallon drum. The kind of drum that oil and hydraulic fluid came in, except it appeared to be made of plastic. It looked like it was sealed with some kind of tape and
We let the dogs out and stood there for a few minutes, letting them run around like maniacs and get their business done, then called them back and loaded them in the truck. After getting our flashlights and ropes secured we started the hike up the ridge, trying to be as quiet as possible, in case we might be lucky enough to jump a deer or maybe see a bobcat. About halfway up, we stopped for a minute to rest from the steep climb. We could have taken the logging road, but it wound around several times and took longer. Besides, we never wanted to be accused of doing things the easy way.
Just as Glenn was about to say something, I put my hand up to silence him. I cocked my head to one side, indicating that I thought I heard something. It was the sound of an engine, straining in low gear, winding its way up the logging road. Me and Glenn had always liked spying on people. Especially when they were out in the middle of nowhere because you never knew what you were going to see. We learned about making out with girls as well as other useful things, like running a whiskey still, as a result of our being expert spies.
We continued our climb in stealthy fashion, careful not to step on fallen limbs that could sound as loud as a rifle shot when they were snapped in the still woods. I was thinking to myself that it was a good thing old Snake wasn’t with us. Even if the ground had been covered with shag carpet, he would still have sounded like a herd of buffalo stampeding. The truck could be heard more clearly now and I was trying to judge from the sound where it was in relation to our location. We hurried as much as possible without making too much noise. Whoever was in the truck couldn’t hear us, but they might be going to pick somebody up that was already waiting there so we didn’t want to chance it.
When the truck came to a stop, it was still a little ways from the top of the ridge. Me and Glenn found a place behind a honeysuckle hedge to hide and watch. The truck sat still with no one getting out, the engine still running.
Glenn whispered to me, “You don’t reckon old Tater Smith’s got him another still up here, do you?”
“I don’t think so. I believe he’s still in the penitentiary. Anyway, Tater wouldn’t have a truck that nice.”
The truck was a late model, three quarter-ton Ford, that was four-wheel drive. It had big mud grip tires and a high camper shell on the back like I’d never seen before. This was an awful expensive truck to go traipsing around in the woods, was what I was thinking.
The engine shut off and both doors opened. Two men got out and looked around in all directions, as if they wanted to make sure there was nobody around. They both had on caps, the bills pulled down low, making it impossible to see what their faces looked like. One man was fairly tall and had a little bit of a gut, the other was kind of wiry and appeared nervous and twitchy, like if you snuck up behind him and yelled, he’d jump completely out of his skin. They raised the tailgate of the camper and walked around to the opposite side of the truck, out of mine and Glenn’s view. We could hear them moving what sounded like tree limbs and brush and could see a huge, ancient cedar tree shaking a little. I noticed a pine tree had fallen, probably blown down by a storm, and was wedged against the cedar tree.
When they emerged again, they were carrying what looked like a blue fifty-five gallon drum. The kind of drum that oil and hydraulic fluid came in, except it appeared to be made of plastic. It looked like it was sealed with some kind of tape and
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