Motel Desert

Jerry popped open a can of soda. The early morning radio station was on and playing a good old-fashioned song, just perfect for this time. It was about six, six-thirty in the morning. He was driving through the very hot Arizona Desert. No, he wasn't driving probably a better recommended vehicle like a truck, but his old '99 mustang would do, and it was doing. Jerry drunk some of the soda, the fresh, crisp, poppy taste sliding down his throat. He sighed in relief. "Great to be back on the old road again," Jerry told himself. It was true; his father, grandfather, and great grandfather,Jerry Cornbelt I used to work along this exact road. His great grandfather was a conductor on one of the first trains in America on the side of this road. His grandfather, Micheal Cornbelt, was one of the men who took some of the shipment off the train when it would stop. And his father, Jerry the II, was in the crew who had rebuilt this whole part of the rail road when a semi-truck crashed into it. That was thirty years ago. So, our Jerry is Jerry Cornbelt III. He still wondered why his grandpa took the name Micheal, instead of Jerry, or at least Josh, which was the name of Jerry's great-great-grandfather. Jerry's dad had passed away last year mysteriously when he was some where up about twenty miles on this same road. Jerry had grieved big time, so that is why he was going on this little road trip, in honor of his father.
The car made a unusual sound. Jerry took a look at the little screen behind the wheel to see he was almost out of gas. But it didn't worry him. He knew that seven miles up the road was a gas station. But then, that thought went away, as the car stopped right in place and turned off! "Aw, damn!" he yelled. Jerry got out of the car. His jet black hair danced with the wind, and his brown-jean jacket also followed; poor harmony. He tripped and stumbled on a bumb in the road. His light blue jeans were now scruffed, and his knee felt like there was a scrape; but there wasn't. He lifted up the hood and black smoke released into the sky as if it had been held in prison for all it's life. Jerry coughed and coughed. Now, his face had been slightly covered in black ash. Just his luck; his car breaks down on the same road his dad had disappeared on. He had finally noticed a little sign the said: MOTEL SAMSON 1/2 MILE. "I've got cash," he told himself. So, Jerry wrote on a piece of cardboard saying that his car was broke down and could use assistance, come to the Samson Motel, and he placed it in the side window.
He began walking. It was now six-fifty, and yet all around the desert, fog circled him about two miles away on all sides, no matter what. Suddenly, he heard the sound of wheels approaching. But, they didn't seem like car wheels. More like wagon wheels. Must be some amish folk Jerry told himself. He wouldn't mind taking a two minute ride in a wagon to a motel. But he knew amish people wouldn't help with his car. The wagon slowly appeared from the fog behind him. Two black maines trotted it down the road. "Excuse me!" Jerry yelled waving his arms back and forth. "HEY!" he shouted again. The wagon grew faster and faster, and Jerry became petrified. He stood still in fright, knowing this was the end of his life. He would go out on the same road his pa went out on. He screamed as the wagon was inches away. He expected it to hit him, but instead, it went right through him. It turned around, but the rider nor the horses were staring at Jerry. The rider was African American. He had a straw hat on and what looked like to be, slave clothing. "Wha?" Jerry murmured. Another woman, African American and dressed like the rider, poked her head out from the front of the white draped wagon. "Samson, what are earth are you planning?" she asked. Right there, Jerry thought he was insane and thought he was seeing things. But, what if these were ghost of the past. "Just hold on tight, sugar," he replied, his gaze still locked firmly of the road ahead of which he had been facing. All of a sudden, over the horizon, a few paces away from Jerry's broken down car, was a finely painted black wagon made out of fine, unique, silky wood. The rider was dressed in all black topped with a black-brimmed hat and a purple feather laced into it. He had a blondish beard and green eyes, and he was holding a pistol. He made hee-yah! sounds as he approached. "Your mine Samson!" he growled. "Samson, move! He's coming!" the woman begged. "No! I'll take on Josh till' the death! I'm tired of that spawn from hell!" the man replied. Jerry thought about the white man in the black wagons name, Josh. But, nothing came up. The slave's wagon began to race towards the black one. The two were inches away. Then, as the three humans screamed at the top of their lungs, the two wagons crashed into one another. The sounds of breaking wood and snapping bones rang through the air, then disappeared. So did the ghostly visions. Jerry stood in astonishment for about two minutes, then ran towards the motel...motel Samson.
Jerry bursted through the doors of the motel office. The man at the counter was dressed in a green T-shirt and was African American. Jerry walked up to the counter. He gave the man thirty bucks and he received his key. He finally asked a question he needed to ask; no, not about his car. "Do, do you know anything about the um, the history on this road?" he asked. "Oh sure," the man replied. Jerry noticed his name tag said "Samson Hills". "So, a long long time ago, my great-great-grandfather was a slave of a plantation down the road about seven miles. And because of the railroad, the plantation owner forced the train company to put up a fence right on it, which piece of the fence today if broke of from a wind storm. Anyways, the owner was named Josh. Mr.Josh is how the slaves addressed him. So, one day my great-great-grandfather escaped in a run down wagon with his wife. Josh came after him in his black wagon to kill them but they all three ended up being smashed together. Now they say that around three a.m, people several miles up the road are taken away by the spirit of Mr.Josh to the field where the plantation was," the man told. Now, Jerry new everything now: What happened to his father, how the semi-truck crashed into the railroad, who the people in the wagons were and more about their descendants. But, the mystery for the reader, is to match these events up with what they now know....