Route O wasn't on the map. A lot of things in southern Missouri don't show on maps. Like the weird twists in roads that leave city folk dead in gulches. Or the mazes of coal and lead mines, long abandoned and filled with black water. But the state had paid to erect a sign on the gravel road called O, so Paul Mitchell decided to use it. Heck, the highway was another thirty miles south, and there had to be other ways to get to Nebo. The map smelled of cat piss. John Denver was singing about country roads, accompanied by a soft hiss as the radio signal began to fail. Paul jerked the truck into drive and the first rocks of Route O began pelting the fenders.
Night here was different than in Kansas City; even though the stars were more numerous, and the moon as bright as a searchlight, the darkness of the Ozarks was liquid. It doubled its efforts to shadow headlights. It trickled through fingers like fine black sand. The dashboard lights were dull and far away. From behind the truck, the trailer rattled in empty protest. Soon it would carry the silver-gray Thunderbird from Nebo to Kansas City. Antique cars were Paul's passion. And down here in the Ozarks folks didn't realize--or perhaps care--that their cars would sell for twice as much as in the cities. Some guys came down here and made a killing, virtually stealing immaculate machines from old and unaware folks. But Paul paid good. He liked repeat business, and he'd been relieving these people of their cars for nearly a decade now. This was his first visit to Nebo. Route O corkscrewed deep into the Ozark forest, and the radio's soothing hiss engulfed the music.
Paul drove on the gravel road for nearly an hour when the truck lurched to a stop, and his head smacked into the steering wheel. Terror seized his throat as he realized he had fallen asleep--he did not know where he was. Tree branches surrounded the truck, scritching at the windows. Static screeched from the radio. Paul's crotch was wet with cold coffee. He turned off the radio. Stepping out of the truck, he saw he had not driven far off the road, but the truck was nose down in mud. He hoped he wasn't stuck. Last year he was driving over a spillway on the Elk River and the truck bogged and died. The Nash Metropolitan washed off the trailer. Without the help of a group of campers, the truck might have gone over too. But now there was nobody to help him in the silent night.
The mud was not deep. He started to get back in the truck when, from the darkness below, he heard splashing. Peering through the trees, he spotted the backend of a car. There was another splash, and he walked down the embankment.
The Chevy Impala--probably a '66--was slowly sliding into a strip pool. Its front doors were wide open, and from inside came a loud hissing--the radio was still on. Paul stepped out into the water to peer into the car, but as he did, a large burp of air escaped from the tail pipe, and the Impala disappeared into the pool. Paul recoiled from the water, fearful of being sucked in like the car. He hadn't seen anyone behind the wheel. But it had been dark inside the car--thick blackness, massy as chewed licorice. Nobody was in that car. The Impala was now settled deep under the smooth skin of the pool.
Strip pit lakes were usually small--narrow and meandering. And they were always very deep. Most of the county's strip pits had been exhausted of lead and left to fill with rain and railroad ties. Sometimes, however, the miners hit subterranean rivers; the pumps weren't fast enough and the pit was hastily evacuated. Not all of the equipment could be saved. Neither could the Impala, Paul mused, and then he felt sick: what if there really were people in that car?
He saw them in the water. Two people were wading toward the far bank, hand-in-hand as they climbed out of the pool. Paul cupped his hands and yelled, "Hey, you all right?" They turned to face him; in the darkness all he could see of their faces were the black pits of eye sockets. Then away up the bank they swayed--like the way retired couples do when strolling through a park. "Do you need help?" he called again, wondering if they were in shock. But the forest swallowed them. "Hey, wait a minute--can I help?"
Then came a voice: "Yes, come over--come help us." Paul couldn't tell if it was male or female, but there was no urgency in the voice. Only invitation. He shuddered, and a string of bubbles popped on the pool's surface.
Then he resolved not to help--not to help anyone but himself. "I'll send help from Nebo!"
"--from Nebo," echoed his voice. Silence.
)
