Into the Fire

Today I’m featuring writer Mark Harbeson who is working on his first novel. I’ve had the pleasure of reading the first 20 chapters and have enjoyed Mark’s writing and this plot very much. So to initiate this “guest” contributor program, Mark has agreed to send me a sample of his WIP entitled Samaritan. You can learn more about Mark over at his blog “Utter Drivel”.

Here is his blurb for Samaritan:

What if you could change the future?

Detective John McCaffrey has a problem. For 12 years, he’s served his town proudly, rounding up thieves and murderers and bringing them to justice. But now, he’s seeing things. A robbery. A suicide. A fatal accident. Is he imagining things as his partner insists? Or are these images real . . . visions? When a robbery occurs in the exact time, place and manner he predicted, John discovers that he may have the power to prevent these calamities. But what is the source of the visions? And why do these random events all seem to be pointing to a future tragedy?

And here is the excerpt:

My throat felt a little dry. I’d probably had too much caffeine at dinner. I’d regret it later on when I was trying to get to sleep. I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. I grabbed a glass from the cupboard and went to the sink. Some people spent a lot of money getting water filters, purifiers, and other gadgets to make their water cleaner, purer, and taste better. Not me. I had straight, unfiltered tap water. I just didn’t think water was worth spending that much money on.
I filled my glass and leaned against the counter, taking a sip. It felt good on my throat, but I still felt dry. I drank some more. I downed the rest of the water. No change.
I looked into the living area. The TV seemed to be glowing unusually bright. The picture looked crisp, as though my set had suddenly grown a high-end digital plasma screen. I looked around the kitchen. The filaments of the light bulbs were glowing brighter, burning their images onto my retinas. I could hear them hissing and crackling as they burned bright. The hum of the appliances around me grew louder, producing a low rumble almost like an airplane was landing in my kitchen. My mind made note of all these things, and then made the instant connection.
It was happening again.
I could feel my heart pounding through my chest, reverberating through my ribs. The picture on the TV screen seemed to slow down, almost moving frame by frame. The announcer’s voice deteriorated into a deep, unintelligible moan. And then I began to see the familiar white light dancing in the center of my eyes, accompanied by the unearthly crashing sound. I felt every muscle in my body tense up as I awaited whatever sights lay before me, knowing I had no choice but to watch, to listen, to experience a second supernatural sight. The light grew, overtaking everything else in my field of vision, temporarily blinding me as the crashing noise filled my eardrums, to the point where I didn’t know if I could stand it any longer, when it was suddenly replaced by—
Snowflakes. Just a few dozen or so, lazily floating about in the cool night air. I could feel the cold air surrounding me, and I heard a rustling sound. A light breeze was moving through trees. I looked all around. There were trees on a snowy hillside, overlooking some water. I heard a small rumble coming from somewhere below me. A road was cut into the side of the hill, through the forest, and it led to a bridge nearby. There looked to be a small pond on one side of the bridge, and a large lake on the other side, with the bridge connecting forested areas. The bridge seemed to be one of those old park bridges, constructed of timber beams and stone masonry. When I saw the timber railings along each side of the bridge, forming a simple truss design while blending aesthetically with the forest area, I knew exactly where I was. Sutter’s Pond. About three miles outside of town. The small pond was named for on old saw mill that had once stood on its banks, forming the economic backbone of our town for decades. The rumbling sound that I heard was a spillway located under the bridge. Water flowed from the pond over a twenty-foot drop into the county reservoir, which was the larger body of water. Snow had recently been plowed from the road onto the shoulders. The shoulders carried onto the bridge and provided a convenient place for snow to be plowed and piled next to the bridge railings.
The road was deserted. The night air was cold and quiet. Then, down one end of the road, there was a noise. And then, suddenly, I was further down the road, watching a white pickup truck fishtailing wildly on the road. It moved erratically back and forth on the road, barely staying on the pavement. I saw an old man behind the wheel, obviously drunk and unable to control the truck. I was amazed that he didn’t fly off the road and into a tree.
Then I saw another car, and the horror of what was about to happen began to dawn on me. It was a green Honda, coming in the opposite direction, approaching the bridge with no knowledge of the danger that was hurtling closer with every moment. I glimpsed a woman in the driver’s seat. She had long red hair and looked tired. It looked like she was saying something, and then I saw—
No.
A child. A young boy, maybe six or eight years old, sitting on a booster seat in the back of the car. He was yawning and struggling to stay awake. A mother and her son, maybe returning home from a late night out. Or traveling somewhere, nearing the end of the road. Only that end was going to be sooner than they expected.
They came around the final curve, approaching the bridge. The pickup truck on the other side swerved this way and that, tires squealing as it moved in haphazard fashion. For a moment, it looked as though he may plunge straight off the road, down a short slope and into the reservoir. But amazingly, the driver righted himself and managed to stay on the pavement once again. Both vehicles continued hurtling toward one another.
The Honda reached the bridge first. It was then that the woman saw the truck, fast approaching. The pickup crossed the centerline as it entered the bridge, heading straight for the Honda down the wrong side of the road. Instinctively, the woman slammed on the brakes and swerved to her left. The drunk pickup driver’s reaction time was slower, yet he must have registered the danger on some semi-conscious level, as he hit the brakes and swerved as well. But there was no way for him to adjust fast enough. He swerved to his right.
He turned into the Honda, slamming into it broadside. It should have stopped there. The Honda should have been trapped between the timber bridge railings and the pickup truck. But instead, the Honda was pushed into the snow piled high on the shoulder. The slope of the snow and ice pile vaulted the car up in the air, and for one fleeting moment it seemed to hover there, as if unsure where to land. The car came crashing down onto the bridge railing, leaning precariously over the edge. The entire front half of the car was over the bridge railing, as well as a portion of the back seat. I could see one tire caught against the railing, holding the Honda in place. The other back tire rested on top of the snow pile. The pickup had come to rest just next to it, front end wedged firmly in the snow. The pickup’s horn was blaring continuously—the driver must have been knocked unconscious on the wheel. Somehow, I could hear the screams of the child in the backseat of the car. There was no sound from the mother.
Helpless, I could only stand as a silent witness as the tragedy played out before me. The bridge railing began to creak and groan under the weight of the car. It was an old historic bridge, the kind that park lovers and historic societies refuse to let anything more modern and less attractive replace. The timber railings had probably last been refurbished years ago, and since that time had been left to slowly rot through countless amounts of wind and rain. I heard a loud snap, and the car slid a bit toward the edge. The child’s cries became louder and more hysterical, to no avail. The pickup truck’s horn continued to drown them out. Another crack, and the car slid a bit more. The railing continued to groan.
It was fighting a losing battle. All at once, the timber shuddered and split under its burden. Automobile and rotted wood plunged together down twenty feet to the icy water below. The car hit with a large splash, sending fountains of spray everywhere. It seemed to float for a few moments on top of the reservoir. But family sedans are not made to be watertight. It took on water rapidly, sinking slowly under the surface. Soon, only the roof was visible, and then it too went under, descending into the frigid depths. The car’s headlights cast an eerie glow under the water, as if to mark its final resting place. Then the water reached the car’s electrical system, causing a short and extinguishing the lights. The reservoir was dark once more.
I recoiled in shock as the white light again flooded my vision, and the unearthly noise filled my ears. A sound of shattering glass and a sharp pain thrust me suddenly back into the familiar surroundings of my kitchen. My hand hurt. I looked down and saw that I was bleeding.
I had crushed the glass in my hand. I opened my clenched fingers and let the glass shards fall to the floor. I stared at my hand dumbly for a few moments, breathing hard and trying frantically in my mind to comprehend what I had just seen. I was sweating, and trembling slightly. There was a small piece of glass stuck in a cut in my hand. I pulled it out, grimacing at the pain. Then I ran my hand under water in the sink. I had a first-aid kit in a cabinet next to the sink, and I pulled it out and found an ace bandage to wrap around my hand. I closed my fist tight around it in order to put pressure on the wound.
I looked around my apartment. Everything was as it was before. Nothing had been disturbed. I gathered my bearings, and then tried to focus.
There was going to be an accident. At the Sutter’s Pond bridge. A woman and her child were going to die. But when?
I remembered in my previous vision that I had taken note of the clock on the wall in the deli. I had known exactly when the robbery would occur. But there were no clocks on the road. I didn’t even know if it was the right date. And then I remembered: the snow. There had been a light snow falling, just like I had encountered on the way home from dinner. The accident was going to happen tonight. A sense of urgency seized me, and I shuddered involuntarily.
I grabbed my coat from the couch. There was so much I still didn’t understand. I knew the visions were real. But I didn’t know where they were coming from. I didn’t know why they were coming to me. At this point, I only knew one thing: I had to go. There was no way I was going to sit idly by. Not this time.
I bolted for the door.

Taken from Samaritan (2003-200?; written by Mark Harbeson)