Summer of the Reaper
Sleeping was quite impossible after my dream. I had dreamed that Herby, a friend of my age in the neighborhood, was driving a small, gray car. There were three other young people in the car with him. They were on their way to somewhere. Suddenly, Herby lost control of the car and it swerved wildly for no apparent reason. As it left the road, it began to overturn. The driver’s door flew open and Herby was thrown out. I saw the car flip in the air and land on him. Somehow, I knew he was dead. I awoke with a start and was sweating. The next morning, my Mom asked about the noise I made in the night. I told she and my Dad about the dream. Of course, they dismissed it as “just a bad dream” and told me not to worry about it.
The next day was Herby’s birthday. He was turning 16. I told Herby and others at the school bus stop about the dream. They all got a chuckle out of it. After all, neither Herby nor his parents owned a small gray car. They owned a Buick Riviera, a red one, that was the best looking car in the neighborhood.
After school, we were at all at baseball practice when his father and mother showed up with Herby’s birthday present, a brand new gray Renault 4CV, a tiny little French sedan. Now, any kid would be happy to get a new car for his 16th birthday, but even Herby got a strange look on his face when presented the little gray car. His father said, “You can take your friends to the Baptist Youth Convention in your new car tomorrow.” All the guys I had told the story of my dream looked at me strangely, including Herby. I will never forget those looks. Still, it was a happy occasion; and, after practice, Herby gave the three of us a ride home in his new car. There was no discussion about the dream.
The next day, Herby and three of his friends set out for the Baptist Youth Convention. They had allowed themselves three hours to make the 105 mile trip. There was a large tropical depression off the Carolina coast. Herby and his friends were driving toward the coast; and while there was no rain yet, the winds were unusually high. Sooner than later, the storm would make landfall, bringing a lot of rain and some treacherous driving conditions. According to the police report, about half way to Columbia the winds were ripping. A highway patrolman just happened to be following Herby and reported that his car suddenly seemed to lose control and was blown off the road. The officer saw Herby thrown from the driver’s seat, saw the vehicle land on him. He was killed instantly. The others suffered minor physical damages. One had a broken arm and collar bone, while the others had bruises and abrasions; but they survived. My family was sitting around the table having lunch when we heard the report on the radio. My parents gave me the strangest looks, but said nothing of my dream. They never did.
The funeral for Herby was three days later. I got dressed in my suit and went to the cemetery for the graveside service. When his mother saw me, she walked over and slapped my face. “You evil, evil boy. You’re not welcome here. Go away!” She started crying and her husband escorted me to my car. “Herby told us about the dream” he said. “You stay away from us. Stay away.”
I thought it pointless to tell my parents what happened at the cemetery, since they had made no earlier comments about the dream and its coming true. Herby’s father did come to our house and told them to keep me away from Herby’s house and his mother in particular. Herby’s mother and father moved from the neighborhood a few weeks later. My mom and other neighbor ladies said that Herby’s mother had become a “basket case” and was suffering serious mental and emotional anguish at the loss of her only child.
Two weeks later, I and three other boys from the neighborhood had recovered somewhat decided to go hunting. Taylors, South Carolina was a suburban community on the edge of the countryside. At the end of our housing addition, there was a very large expanse of woods and farm lands. We had gone there several times to hunt rabbits and squirrels. This day was quiet, nothing stirring, nothing to shoot. We took a break beside an old stream. I say it was old because the banks were steep and fairly deep. A huge tree was growing on the lower bank, its roots partially under water. One of the guys pulled out a pack of Marlboros and offered us each one. He stuck the pack back in his pocket. Just as he reached into his jeans pocket for his Zippo lighter, he slipped on small stump on the upper bank and started sliding down the slope to the stream. There were no bushes to grab, nothing to slow his progress. He slipped all the way to the water and was up to his shoulders. He said, “Aw, shit!” Then, suddenly, he started shrieking and flailing his arms about his body wildly. He must have disturbed a nest and was covered with writhing water moccasins. We had no rope, so we tried to make a human chain. It was too far and we could not reach him. None of us was foolish enough to jump in and try to save him. Soon, he stopped shrieking. The snakes were still biting him and we could see him jerk or twitch each time, but there was nothing to do. He was dying. We ran back to the neighborhood to a volunteer fireman’s house. We told him what had happened. He got an emergency crew to the scene and, somehow, they managed to retrieve his body by electrifying the waters to kill snakes. He had bitten over 100 times, many on his face and neck area. We had lost another friend just two weeks after the loss of the first. None of us attended the funeral, but we did pool our money and sent a large bouquet of flowers with our sympathy.
A month passed. The mood was still pretty somber about the neighborhood. Neighbors only spoke quietly about the two deaths, and never to either’s parents, and never to any of us. Then, one fateful day, we decided to go hunting again. After all, we couldn’t just stop doing things we liked to do. Three of us were roaming the fields and woods looking for game. We would have shot anything that moved, but nothing moved. Suddenly, a summer storm blew in quickly. It was a deluge of rain. As we stood in the woods under the trees, waiting for it to let up, Bill suddenly looked at his watch and exclaimed, “Jesus Christ! I’ll be late for band practice.” Off he went, through the rain. He stopped at an old abandon pig sty and grabbed a large piece of tin. He used it to cover his head and started toward the neighborhood. He had made about three or four steps in that direction when he was struck by lightning. The bolt lifted him about two feet off the ground before releasing him. We ran to see how he was, but his body was smoking when we arrived. He knew he was dead. Again, we ran to the fireman’s house and told him. I remember him saying, “If I were you boys, I wouldn’t ever go back to those woods.” The emergency crew recovered the scorched body. There was no funeral. The neighborhood was in shock. Just six weeks earlier, there were five of us. Now, only two remained.
While I lived there, neither of us ever went back to the woods. I doubt if Mike, the other survivor, ever did, even after I left.
My family moved to Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma at the end of the summer. I stayed in touch with Mike for a time. Upon graduation, he joined the Marines. His father and mine were pretty good friends. His father called to tell us that Mike was only 19 years and 8 months old when he was killed during a fire fight north of DaNang in Vietnam.
So, I am the only survivor of that group of young men that made it to voting age. Gives one pause for thought and reminds me of just how precarious our existence really is. There is no knowing when your time may run out and you absolutely cannot outrun the Reaper.
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