Damien sat in his cruiser parked on a ridge overlooking the 126 Highway, a lone wolf on the outlook. He lit a cigarette from the burning end of his last one, taking a deep drag on the fresh butt. He held the smoke for a moment, then let go filling the insides of the coup with haze. The Highway partrol man stared out the front windshield at nothing but the deep night and thick fog that rolled in from the sea. Damien’s eyes were dark with no emotion or expressed in them. A thin smile played on his face.

     The cop pulled a photograph out from his breast pocket. Looking at the picture, he touched the figures in the photo tenderly with a fingertip and for just a moment, the smile disappeared.

     “Someone else will ride hell’s highway,” he said looking   for one last time at the photo of him with his wife and two children at a Sunday picnic. He put the photo back in his breast pocket and turned the cruiser around, heading back to Highway 126.

     Back at the station in Santa Paula, Damien went directly to the office of the commander. He knocked twice and then entered.

     “Officer Blackwell, sit down.” The commander said.

Damien sat in the chair farthest from the table lamp on the commander’s desk.

     “Mr. Blackwell, I’ll be brief about why I called you in. I’ll give you a choice, officer. Either retire early with full benefits, or you will work a desk job for the rest of your career.”

     Damien’s thin smile turned to a wide grin. He looked passed the commander to a window behind him that showed only the gray fog illuminated by the lights of the parking lot. “I’ll take retirement sir.”

     “Damien, I know it’s been hard for you. Losing your family like that. I don’t know how you could patrol the same highway that took your wife and children, and I want you to know that I consider you one of the best. When you’re on patrol, you’re always first on the scene to any accident on Blood Alley. It’s also, why I have to ask you to retire. We’ve had too many complaints about your reckless driving in chasing speeders and going to the scene of an accident.” The captain paused a moment and then said, “I warned you before about this and stood up for you more than once. Get some therapy Damien, you’re human after all and losing your family must have an effect on you.”

     The captain walked over to Damien’s side, placing his hand on the officer’s shoulder, he said. “ I’ll be here anytime you need a friend. I know what it’s like to loose someone close.”

     “Thank you sir, when is my last watch on patrol?” Damien’s smiled as if the commander just gave him a commendation.

     “Tomorrow night, I want you to show officer Montana all the places he will need to watch on Blood Alley. He will be taking over your sector. Good luck to you son.” The commander walked in front of Damien and held out his hand, shaking Damien’s offered hand as he stood from the chair.

Deep in the night, thickened mist from blue-gray waters of the Pacific, swirled and churned its way to land. The brume invaded the valley of farms and villages, following an ancient course along the Santa Clara River. The vapor began to recede, opening dawn’s light on the town of Santa Paula. Whiskers flicked her tail; her body crouched low beneath the wisteria at 540 Blossom Lane. The cat eyed a sparrow about to land on the walkway to the front porch. The bird watched a worm inching across the cement path. The sparrow cocked his head for one last look, and flew down to its prey. The worm writhed from the stabbing pain of the sparrow's beak. Whiskers gave one last flick of her tail, and then pounced from her hiding place, crushing the bird in her mouth.

Eddie just arrived at the scene on his morning delivery of the paper. He saw through the rising mist his target, a cat in the middle of the newspaper-landing path. With a lethal throw, Eddie released his missile. The whirling rocket drove through the morning air smacking Whiskers across the head. The cat jumped with a shriek, letting go of her prey while scrambling for safety. The paper laid perfectly placed, dead center on the walk. The bird thrown to the cement, rolled over into the hollow beside the walkway, blood seeping from his mouth. The worm coiled and twisted, its liquid contents spewed on the cement slab. The front door swung open while Eddie admired his accuracy from his bicycle in the street.

"Eddie, that arm of yours is going to get you in baseball's Hall of Fame," Frank said as he came down the steps of the porch.

"Thanks, Mr. Montana. You gonna coach this year?"

"I sure am. Be careful on your bike, we want you in good shape."

"Will do, sir!" Eddie beamed his bright smile and left in a whir of pedals and spokes.

Frank opened the paper to the headlines. "Teenagers Guilty in beating death of Homeless Man." He turned the page. "Blood Alley Claims Another Victim." Frank pulled out the sports section and tucked the rest under his arm, then found his way back to the kitchen table.

"Morning, hon," Frank said, sitting down at the breakfast table. His wife dressed in her bathrobe and bunny slippers, poured herself a cup of coffee.

"Anything interesting in the paper?"

"Looks like the Angels are going to have a good season this year with their new pitcher.”

Linda sat down at the kitchen table and looked out the window where the orange tree stood in full bloom.

“Frank, how about staying home this morning.”

"I have court this morning, otherwise I would." Frank reached over to hold his wife’s hand.

"Do you have to go to court?"

"It's part of the job, you know that. If someone decides on a hearing, I have to show up, and give my side." 

“I had a dream last night. A bad dream.”

“Honey, the dream is over, it’s just a dream. Stop reading those crazy horror magazines. Okay?” Frank stroked his wife’s hand and then gave her hand a kiss.

"What did you give the ticket for?" She asked.

"Speeding. I should have ticketed him for illegal lane change as well.  I knew this would happen when the guy told me he’s a lawyer." Frank picked up his paper and looked for where he left off reading.

"Who will be your partner?"

"Damien, nobody else will work with the guy."

"No wonder, he gave me chills down my spine, when you brought him over for coffee a couple of months ago. It’s that weird smile of his."

"I admit he is a little strange, but that guy has a second sense when it comes to accidents. He’s the first on the scene every time."

"I have to take the team to the game tonight, Rachel called in sick."

Frank looked up from the paper. "Aren't they playing in Valencia?"

"Yep, I have to drive the Alley. There is no getting around it." Linda looked over to her husband and said. "You'll be on duty tonight. Watch out for us, the boys will be with me.”

"Be careful. Promise?"

"I promise."

"There was a bad accident last night on the Alley." Frank looked down at the sports section. He knew Linda would read the paper eventually.

"How bad?"

"Why don't people strap their kids in? I just don't get it. What's wrong with them? Don’t they have any idea what can happen at eighty miles an hour?" Frank tried to keep his feelings under control. As a cop, his training officer warned him about getting emotional.

“Mrs. Lytle next door told me the highway is cursed, because of the Santa Clara River that runs alongside it. She said the souls of those drowned in the dam disaster seek revenge on the living.” Linda looked out the window her gaze going beyond the orange tree.

“That’s utter nonsense, and you know it.” Frank said, annoyed of his wife’s belief in the paranormal.

"Any news on the boys who murdered that homeless man?" Linda said.

Frank knew this was going to come up. "They were found guilty.”

"I knew those boys. They rode in my bus. They were polite, good grades. Our sons played sports with them. How could they do such a thing?"

"I don't know honey, especially when it’s kids." Frank said.

"They just kicked him to death. He befriended stray dogs; I used to see him on my way to pick up the children. He never did anything to anybody, just lived down by the river. They came back after the party and kicked him some more." As her voice rose, Frank worried she would wake their two sons.

"Honey, all we can do is the best we can for our boys. Pray, and teach them to harm no one, whether it's by word or act. Please, let’s talk of something else," Frank said, with a pleading look.

"I worry, Frank. We moved from L.A. to get away from all the violence. Yet, it seems to haunt us here. When we first moved here, Blood Alley looked like a highway from a picture postcard—a slow moving river running alongside the road, orange and avocado trees planted on both sides. Now all I see on the 126 are the memorial markers where so many people have died."

"Hey, what's up?" Bill said.

"Morning, Bill. Is your brother up?" Frank asked.

"He's up and running."

Frank looked at the clock on the kitchen wall and jumped up, "Will you look at that? We're missing our run. Gotta go, hon. These guys wouldn't know their way around the block without me leading the way."

"Mom, he leads from the back."

"Don't lose your father, I need him to take the trash out." Linda smiled, as the two men dashed out for their morning run.

"David, wait for your older brother, he can't run that fast," Frank said.

“Dad, the whole neighborhood can hear you.”

The scent of orange blossoms rose from the orchards and yards, thick with nectar and the buzz of honeybees. The sweet heady odor wafted on wind currents in and out of homes and yards, as it ascended skyward, a holocaust to the heavens. People moved to the rhythm of human time, a time that's but a moment, a blink, to those things immortal. The cemetery by the sea at river's end gleamed with daylight’s shine on its smooth granite slabs.  Fresh pits dug from blessed soil waited for their fill, like gaping mouths to the underworld. Daylight waned as evening shadow dimmed the valley floor, embracing the land in dark garlands of shaded light.

"How's the family?" Mike asked.

"Great, the boys get bigger by the day. Linda has them in her bus tonight. They’re playing against Valencia. They don't stand a chance with those two." Frank said, strapping his Sam Brown on in the locker room of the Santa Paula Highway Patrol Station.

"I see your partner is already in the roll call room. Does he ever crack a joke Frank? He smiles like the Grim Reaper." Mike straightened his tie.

"Give the guy a break will you? You know he lost his entire family on Blood Alley. A retired cop made a left turn in front of him and Damien ran right into him. He’s the only one that survived. How would you feel?" Frank then slammed his locker shut.

"Didn't mean any harm Frank. Say, we’re still on for the barbecue and game this Sunday? Dot is looking forward to catching up on the news with Linda."

"Nothing could be better. See ya after church Mike. Say, do me a favor; Linda is going to be on Blood Alley tonight. If you see them, would you keep an eye out? My whole life is riding in that bus."

"You got it!"

"Better get to roll call and Officer Grim. I mean Damien." Frank gave his friend a wink and a smile.

The Officers waited for roll call and their assignments. The day shift began to pull in, gassing the cruisers for the switch. Nightfall started to descend and the fog from the sea began its primeval journey inland. The roll call progressed while the men stayed seated, fidgeting with their logbooks.

“Okay men, you have your assignments, we have a weather report that states the fog will be dense at times, so make sure your lights are on, you have plenty of flares, and your emergency kits are in order. That’s all,” the desk sergeant said, as the men filed out to the back lot.

“Hey, Blackwell!” Frank shouted, “Wait up, what’s the big rush?”

“No rush, Frank. I have all the time in the world.”

“Let’s open the trunk and make sure we have everything.”

“Sure thing.” Damien opened the trunk and Frank looked inside, counting the flares and checking the emergency kit.

“Think I’ll get us another box of flares, with this fog moving in we may need them.”

“Sure, Frank whatever you say.”

Frank went into the station house for the flares. Coming back to the car he placed them in the trunk and got in on the passenger side.

“Something eating you, Damien?” 

“It’s my last night. I’m moving on after tonight.”

“A better offer at another police force?”

“Well let’s say it was an offer I couldn’t refuse. How about I show you a few places tonight before I leave? Might come in handy in the future.”

 “Alright. They’re on our patrol aren’t they?”

“Oh yeah, they’re on the patrol.” Damien looked over at Frank and smiled as he kept staring at him.

“Hey, are we going or what?”

“Sure thing, Frank.” Damien pulled out of the station and onto the highway leading to Blood Alley.

Frank felt uneasy about the fog moving in early. Tendrils of mist curled in the form of gossamer shrouds surrounding the homes in Santa Paula. The sun dropped on the horizon, sinking into the thick wall of dark gray. The car’s lights went on as hands of mist covered the beams of illumination. Frank looked at his watch. Linda would be on the bus in another two hours. He said a silent prayer.

Damien slowed down at the turn for the 126. “Have you seen the memorial in Piru?” When the light turned green, Damien took off, flooring the pedal.

“The town in the middle of Blood Alley? I didn’t know they had anything but a broken down hotel.”

“Well they do, to a cop. A cop that the town despised.”

Frank glanced over at Damien. His smile smeared his face with sarcasm. The speedometer had reached seventy and climbing. Frank glanced over at the river running along the highway and the fog that somehow kept pace with the cruiser.

 “Ten L ninety. Come in. Stolen vehicle spotted on the 101 Freeway. Eighty-four Chevy, green sedan, license number 126HEL6. Two male occupants.”

“Ten L ninety, we’re on our way.”

“That’s Mike’s car. What luck, right from the station he gets one.” Frank said.

“That will keep him busy won’t it?” Damien looked over at Frank and grinned.

“Yeah, it will.” Frank realized the freeway was in the opposite direction. Mike wouldn’t be able to watch for the school bus.

“Here we are folks, Piru, California.”

Damien turned the car off Blood Alley, onto a side road. They passed decrepit buildings with boarded up windows. A stray dog slinked along a forgotten sidewalk of the half-dead town. A liquor store came into view, fog wisping around the old wood building with one lone bulb, like a naked eye, lighting a sign, “No Checks”. The cruiser slowed it’s speed to a crawl as the two officers wound their way behind Main Street and up the side of a small hill where sat a Victorian hotel; an ancient oak clutched the earth in front. Dim light seeped through the glass of the oak door. On the front porch of the old hotel sat wicker chairs left idle, wanting for occupants. Two cars sat in the small lot in front. On the left of the hotel’s parking lot, wild roses grew at the base a bronze statue. The squad car pulled up and the men walked to the memorial.

“They hated him, the people of this town.”

Frank stared at the bronze officer riding a motorcycle from the twenties, wearing a leather helmet and goggles. The statue wore an eerie grin; with his body bent forward, as if his life depended on all the speed he could muster. A placard at the base stated: “In memory of those who perished from the Saint Francis Dam failure, March 12, 1928.”

 “He saved people by blowing the siren on his bike, warning of the dam break and the wall of water hurling down on them.”

“Why did they hate him for saving lives?”

 “He was the town’s bully. He kicked a boy’s dog to death in front of his parents. The boy cried and screamed for the dog’s life. The parents held their son back, unable to do anything in fear of a worse fate from the cop. The dog had growled at him”

“That’s why there’s no name on the placard?” Frank said.

“A committee made the memorial for a cop who saved lives, but the town’s people still remembered how hateful he treated them and refused to have the statue. It’s dedicated to the victims instead.” Damien said.

The fog swirled around their feet rose up, clouding their vision.

“Guess we better get going. Fog’s coming in.” Damien headed for the patrol car.

Frank followed with weary feet. He zipped up his jacket. The cold had seeped through to his bones.

The men got in the cruiser and backed down through the dried up town. A lone dog stood in a dark corner of a boarded up shop. The dog growled bearing its teeth as the cruiser drove towards Blood Alley.

“Think I’ll turn on the heater. Man, it’s cold,” Frank said.

“You’ll get used to it.”

Frank watched Damien turn on the wipers that swished the beaded damp from the glass, as the patrol car sped down the 126. The dispatcher’s voice cried out in vain. The voice wavered, fading in and out, as a ship’s distress signal would on a stormy night.

“Have you seen where the dam collapsed?”

“No, never have. I heard about it. Mulholland built it, I think, to bring water to Los Angeles.”

“That’s right—designed it himself. He thought he could build and do anything. The people in Los Angeles looked at him as a god, bringing water to a growing metropolis.” The cruiser roared down the inky highway.

Damien veered the patrol car off to the left, on a lone canyon road. It sped up a narrow twisting highway that snaked its way through a gorge at the base of the mountain pass. The car stopped, deep inside where willow branches wept along a mossy stream. The patrolmen got out into the mist. Frogs croaked and groaned their primeval tune to the night. The patrol car’s lights lit the cliff’s sides at their narrowest point, revealing walls of stone looming over them.

“It was here deep under the earth where it happened.” Damien looked at the rocky sides of the canyon lit up by the glare of the car’s headlights. They rose from the streambed as fortress ramparts battered from an ancient war.

“The earth gave deep below, just before midnight. The dam ruptured. A wall of water over seventy feet high tore through the canyon, burying alive five hundred people in its path to the sea.”

“Lord God, may they rest in peace.”

“Rest Frank? Mulholland told them not to worry about the cracks in the dam. He said everythings fine. He engineered the dam himself, and you think they’re resting?”

“I can pray for their souls, Damien. What else can the living do for them?”

Damien smiled and gave a laugh that echoed off the rock walled canyon. An unearthly echo grew on its own, then faded into the mist. The frogs stopped their song to the night, as silence fell like a velvet shroud.

Damien looked at Frank while his partner said a prayer to the victims of the flood. A sneer slit his face and then he said, “It’s time Frank. We better get back on patrol.”

 Damien walked to the cruiser with Frank following, his head bowed like a condemned man, thoughts of the lost souls weighed on him. Damien steered the cruiser back to Blood Alley, the wheels squealing around each curve as the patrol car picked up speed. Frank didn’t buckle his seat belt, nor did he notice the acceleration the cruiser made as it gained speed towards Blood Alley. Frank stared out the windshield with the wipers making their steady journey, belting a rhythm on the glass, beading with ocean mist. The murky vapor swirled in front, forming strange ghoulish shapes with hollowed eyes.

Frank stared at the window’s reflection taking on the phantom shapes. They would form and meld with each stroke of the windshield’s blade. Masks of children appeared on the glass pane with each swipe of the rubber blade; their eyes and mouths gaped opened, then melted and reformed. Silent screams from their black gaping mouths formed and then vanished with each swipe of the blade, an eerie slide show depicting the victims of the disaster. The car’s radio static emitted pleas and cries from the doomed men, women and children. They cried out to Frank—pleading for rescue. Damien drove faster down Blood Alley, passing cars as if they were standing still. Damien’s face pale white, with eyes black as coal. His smile smeared on like a mask. He looked over at Frank staring out the windshield with the eyes of a dead man. An uncanny laugh came from Damien while he watched Frank slumped in his seat, mesmorized by the ghostly images before him.

Linda could hardly see out of the window of her school bus. The tired old yellow and black bus lumbered up the inclined on Blood Alley, causing the feeble blades wiping the windshield to slow even more. The basketball team, including her two sons, yelled war cries in preparation of the game. Her fingers gripped the wheel as her eyes peered out into the fog and mist that shrouded her view of the road.

The cruiser sped down Blood Alley on the same flood path of years ago, tearing the black ribbon of asphalt with spray flying from the cruiser’s wheels. A hay truck ahead struggled up the incline. Burdened, it groaned in heavy work, gears grinding to pull its weight toward a bend at the height of the climb. The cruisers tires squealed trying to pass the truck as a school bus appeared at the crest. The patrol car melded into the bus with a force that drove both over the side of the railing. A deafening roar, as if a freight train crashed into a cement wall came from the hill. The fog gaped opened its mouth for an empty grave, swallowing the mangled debris of flesh and metal.

Screams rang from the bus on its journey down the side of the hill and to the river’s bottom, and then silence fell on the scene as the fog folded into the gouged hole sealing their tomb.

Mike Larson came everyday to the Santa Paula hospital, after he finished his shift at the Santa Paula patrol station. He watched for any change in his friend, who laid in bed with tubes and wires connected to his body. Cards and flowers from well-wishers and neighbors adorned the small bed stand next to him. A doctor on his rounds at the hospital walked into the room.

“I’m Frank’s doctor. Doctor Thomas.” The doctor extended his hand.

“Officer Mike Larson,” shaking the offered hand.

“You’re a friend of Frank?”

“I knew him and his family well. How long could the coma last?”

“Hard to say. It could last days or years.”

“His family died in the accident Doc. It’s a miracle he survived.” Mike turned back to his friend in the hospital bed. “It’s strange doc, because he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt the impact threw him on the cliff’s edge. The patrol car with his partner and the bus went over the side. It’s because of not wearing his seatbelt that his life was saved.”

“I know, another tragic accident from that cursed highway. At this hospital, we have seen more trauma injuries than some major cities, all because of speeding or reckless driving on Blood Alley.”

“Frank woudn’t start a car without making sure everyone had their seatbelt on. That’s what’s so strange, why wasn’t he wearing his?”

A nurse entered the room with a clipboard that she held out to the doctor in charge. The doctor turned to review the clipboard offered to him.

“Hey Doc look!”

“What is it?” The doctor said as he turned back to face Mike.

“He’s smiling. That’s a good sign, ain’t it doc? His eyes opened and he looked at me.” Mike pointed to Frank lying in bed and said, “see he’s still smiling, but his eyes are closed now.”

“It’s the first sign we had, will make a note of it, but I wouldn’t get your hopes too high. Coma patients often open their eyes and make facial expressions. Try talking with him every time you visit. It could help.” The doctor looked back at the clipboard, ignoring Frank and his friend.

Outside the hospital window, moonlight flickered on the river’s face. The sea formed a shroud of mist to cover the valley in fog and seal the villages in a tomb of dark vapor. Blood Alley’s strip of hard black asphalt shimmered in the reflection of red and white lights from cars and trucks that streaked across its surface, making bloody cuts like that on a dead man. Inside the hospital room, Frank’s head turned with its peculiar smile to face the window where the river and Blood Alley waited for him. 

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