Kenn Crawford - Dead Hunt

“Not everyone,” Michael corrected her.

“Bullshit,” Lauren argued. “You’re all alike. You’d screw a hole in a tree stump if you needed to get your rocks off.”

“Wait a second,” Paul interrupted, “how did the conversation turn from Kelly Gets to Male Bashing 101?”

“She didn’t have sex with herself,” Lauren rolled her eyes. “And, as much as I hate that bitch, the team is just as pathetic as she is.”

“It wasn’t the whole team; it was, like, three guys,” Paul corrected her.

“Like that makes a difference,” Lauren laughed sarcastically.

“And you know this how?” Lucy asked Paul.

“I was there,” Paul replied as Lucy stared at him with insinuating eyes. “And I didn’t touch her! Can we please change the subject?”

“Good idea,” Wade agreed as he popped in a CD and cranked the volume.

The sounds of deep hip-hop bass lines rattled the van’s tiny speakers, drowning out any possibility of further conversation.

Several hours later they were crossing the Canso Causeway from mainland Nova Scotia to Cape Breton Island. The Causeway was 4,500 feet long and the only road on and off the island.

The rest of the trip continued to be rather uneventful as song after song pounded the speakers. Paul tried a few more blonde jokes but couldn’t get any more of a response than the girls rolling their eyes. Wade laughed at a few. Michael barely smiled.

The girls were exhausted from the competition and the long drive. Lauren and Emma couldn’t keep their eyes open despite the loud music. The teens drove through the Whycocomaugh Reservation and then through the village of Baddeck.

“What the hell kinda language is that?” Wade asked, pointing at the huge sign as they approached the turn to St. Anne’s.

“Gaelic,” Emma answered.

“What does is it say?” he asked.

“One hundred thousand welcomes,” she announced

“I can read that,” Wade laughed as he pointed to the English version printed below the Gaelic one. “I meant how do you say it in Gaelic?”

“Caid Mille Failte,” Emma explained without giving it a second thought.

“You’re pretty smart for a dumb blonde,” Wade laughed jokingly.

“Tapadh leat,” she replied.

“Huh?” Wade asked.

“Thank you,” she explained as she batted her pretty blue eyes.

“She’s pretty damn cute too”, Wade thought as he stared into her captivating baby blue eyes perhaps longer than he should have. He pulled his eyes away from her as they reached the base of Kelly’s Mountain.

At the foot of the mountain was the turn off for the tiny village of Englishtown, home of Giant MacAskill. The three boys had stopped at the museum on the trip up to the competition to see how big this giant really was. They learned the Cape Breton Giant stood seven foot nine and weighed 425 pounds. His shoulders were measured at forty-four inches wide while his hands were eight inches wide and a foot long.

“This guy even makes you look small,” Michael suggested as he snapped a picture of Paul standing next to the life-sized statue. Paul laughed, but when he saw the picture he knew Michael was right; Giant MacAskill did make him look small. The guys wanted to stop again on the way back to show the girls the museum, but a thick fog was rolling in, so they decided to just keep driving before it got worse. As they approached the top of Kelly’s Mountain it got worse, much worse. Visibility was all but gone and the road seemed to literally disappear in front of their eyes.

Paul slowed the van down to a crawl, desperately trying to keep from driving over the side of the steep mountain. He’d heard rumors that the fog on Kelly’s got as thick as pea soup and he now knew exactly what those people had meant. He didn’t even know he was driving off the road until the van scraped against a guard rail, scaring everyone in the van, including him.

“Drive in the middle of the road,” Michael suggested.

“Why the hell would I do that?” Paul snapped back. “I could get creamed by a truck coming the other way, you idiot!”

“Because you’re gonna drive off the mountain if you don’t, moron!” Michael told him, “You can’t see more than a foot in front of the van, so keep the yellow line between the headlights. That way it’s impossible to go off the road.”

“Great idea,” Paul rolled his eyes. “And what happens if one of those big-ass trucks come?”

“You’ll see their headlights. So pull over before you kill us!”

Paul knew it was a good idea. He just hated to admit somebody had a better idea than him, especially Michael.

Paul eased the van over until the yellow line was between his headlights and slowly crept over Kelly’s Mountain. Much to their surprise, and appreciation, not a single vehicle came the other way. As they reached the bottom of the mountain, they literally drove out of the fog as if they’d driven through a wall, but their relief was short lived. At the base of Kelly’s Mountain red and blue flashing lights from a parked police car and a “Bridge Out” sign welcomed the teens.

Normally a bridge out sign was no big deal, but Cape Breton, although called an island, was actually two islands. The Atlantic Ocean ran through each end until they met in the middle at the Bras D’or Lakes, a fresh water lake famed for its sail boating and spectacular views. The combination of fresh and salt water gave the Bras D’or Lakes a unique ecosystem. The Seal Island Bridge was the largest bridge on the Cape Breton and the only way to cross over on this end.

A thick, burly man got out of the police cruiser and eyed the van cautiously as it rolled to a stop. Paul rolled down the tinted window as the cop approached.

“You kids lost?” the cop asked.

Paul motioned his head to the bridge, “What’s the problem?”

The cop looked at Paul for a few seconds before answering, but it was long enough for Paul to notice the cop looked like he was ready to snarl. The cop nodded towards the bridge out sign.

“If you actually knew how to read, what do you think that big sign over there would say?”

“Jesus, man!” Paul responded. “Who pissed in your corn flakes?”

“Listen, smart ass,” the cop growled, “a car filled with partying teenagers tried passing an eighteen wheeler and slammed head-on with an oncoming car. The tanker jackknifed and exploded and a lot of innocent people were killed here, so I’m really not in the mood for your stupid questions because you’re not smart enough to read the signs.”

“Hard to see the signs when the fog is so thick we could barely see the road!” Paul snapped back.

“You’re wearing my patience thin, boy,” the cop sneered. “So turn this rig around and go back to wherever the hell it was you came from.”

Paul, who had little respect for authority figures and even less respect for cops, wasn’t smart enough to be intimidated or quiet.

“No problem, officer. That’s what I’m trying to do: get back to where we came from. Maybe you heard of it. It’s called Glace Bay, and it’s on that side of the bridge,” Paul sarcastically said, pointing across the bridge.

“That’s it!” The cop barked as he reached for the van’s door handle.

Lucy quickly leaned over Paul towards the open window.

“Excuse me, sir,” she flirted in her best sexy voice.

The cop was instantly pacified as his eyes traced the contours of her tight and revealing shirt before looking her in the eye. She had that effect on men, and she used it whenever it was to her advantage. She leaned out the window, crossing her arms so they squeezed her breasts together, enhancing her cleavage.

The cop’s eyes dropped instantly to take in the view.

“Bat your eyelashes, lick your lips, show a little cleavage, and you can have a man eating out of your hand in seconds,” Lucy thought. It was so easy it was almost embarrassing.