The Last Drive by Carl Jacobi

It was a cold wind that whipped across the hills that November evening. There was snow in the air, and Jeb Waters in the cab of his jolting van shivered and drew the collar of his sheepskin higher about the throat. All day endless masses of white cumulus cloud had raced across a cheerless sky. They were gray now, those clouds, leaden gray, and so low-hanging they seemed to lie like a pall on the crest of each distant hillock. Off to the right, strn and majestic, like a great parade of H. G. Wells’ Martian creatures, marched the towers of the Eastern States Power lines, the only evidence here of present-day civilization. A low humming whine rose from the taut wires now as the mounting wind twanged them in defiance.

Through the windshield Jeb Waters scanned the sky anxiously.

“It’s going to be a cold trip back,” he muttered to himself. “Looks mighty like a blizzard startin’.”