Short Story: Devils Playground

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The summer of 1950 was a scorcher. It was the end of July in the Arizona desert and Fred Thomason had just about all he could take of the rolling fireball that was his car. Freds hair was drenched in sweat and the alcohol sure wasn't making things any better.
He hastily swiped the lock of hair from his sticky forhead as he pulled the car off the highway and onto a dusty sideroad that led to the Superstition Mountains.

The Thomasons knew it would be hot, but had been, by no means, prepared for this kind of heat. No, this heat was like driving through an oven, the hot wind all but scorching your face with every blast.... and it was just about to get the best of them.

"Again?", his wife Shirley complained. It was enough to shake him from his thoughts about the tales of the Old Dutchman and his long lost gold mine that had cost so many people their lives when they looked for it.

Fred glanced at his wife. "She looks so harmless", he thought to himself as he scanned ahead for an open patch on the side of the road where he could pull over. "So damn harmless."

She hadn't even bothered attempting to hide the edge on her voice, or the weariness of her eyes. She was tired and stickey and hot and just about as sick of the road and the heat and everything that goes along with it, as he was.
Plus, she had to put up with him and his drinking on top of everything else, meaning the sleeping boy and girl in the back seat, who had spend most of the trip bickering and complaining
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