Читать книгу Flight Risks - Douglas Schofield - Страница 4

Dawn.

A late model Grand Am sped along the Interstate. On either side of the dual ribbons of asphalt, a sere, bone-dry landscape sifted past. Flat. Unchanging. Mind-numbing.

In the car, five dark-eyed young men sat erect, staring ahead at a dramatic city skyline, starkly silhouetted against an opalescent sky.

Each man was silent. Each man was eerily still. Each man’s face was freshly shaven, the skin of his cheeks shiny and taut.

Flickering taillights signalled congestion ahead. The inside lane – the lane reserved for high-occupancy vehicles – appeared clear. The front passenger checked his watch. He muttered to the driver in a foreign language.

The car slipped left and accelerated, speeding past slower traffic.

The car closed on a freightliner in the neighbouring lane. Its long trailer was laden with a lopsided load of heavy steel pipe. The transport drifted left, straddling the two lanes. The car’s driver muttered a curse. He swerved to the right, changing lanes to pass.

On the trailer, a wide strap restraining the rear of the load suddenly parted with a report as loud as a cannon. The load abruptly shifted, pipe ends splaying.

A horrifying chain reaction of failure followed, as a second strap let go and, with a shriek of grinding metal, tons of pipe rolled off the trailer.

The truck driver stood on his brakes. The huge rig jack-knifed, taking out a line of cars in a roar of demolition, and came to rest lying on its side on the highway median.

The Grand Am lay under the load of pipe. Crushed.

A single length of pipe flexed rhythmically, one end tapping on the pavement.

Tapping . . . tapping . . .