When the dead speak

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Legend says that overcast skies are nature’s way of hiding evil, protecting the gods from seeing sinister deeds. So the clouds hovered, suspended by some unseen cosmic force. Even the Chicago winds weren’t able to blow the thick clouds away. The sun had tried to make a showing, desperately seeking a flaw in the haze. But it finally gave up as dusk bullied its way in, permitting the sun one brief shining moment before sinking below the horizon.

Like a string of dominos, expressway lights clicked on in succession along the Bishop Ford Freeway. A thunderous crash filled the air. Billows of smoke drifted up, spewing grainey dust in front of headlights, pitting windshields.

In an attempt to avoid another vehicle, a semi had swerved onto the median plowing headlong into the center support pillar of the overpass. The collision had sent the back of the semi fish-tailing into a jackknife. Tires screeched and rubber burned as cars and trucks slammed on their brakes. Loud, shrill horns replaced the sound of the disintegrating column. Chunks of concrete pelted the cab of the semi sending the driver running for cover.

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