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It was seven on an April morning, still a little cool and misty, but with the promise of a beautiful spring day ahead. Wild dogwoods were blooming in the woods on either side of Sumter Road, and in one place where a house had stood long ago, a mass of wisteria was climbing into the trees.
Aaron Twitchell wasn't appreciating the beauties of nature. He was scowling and clutching the steering wheel of his battered Ford pickup while his wife Nancy complained. One minute she was whining that she was going to be late to work. The next she was yelling at him not to go so fast.
"If you'd remembered to fill your gas tank yesterday, I could still be in bed," he said.
"Well, excuse me! I had my mind on getting your store-bought fried chicken to you before it cooled down," she said as he slowed down to maneuver a curve. "When I think of all the times you've left your lights on and I've had to drive all the way back out here with the jumper cables... "
Aaron knocked her backward with his right arm as he slammed his foot down on the brakes. The truck skidded and screeched to a stop right before the bridge over Foxtail Creek.
"Oh my Lord," Nancy gasped. "Did they get run over? Aaron, look at all the blood. Are they dead?"
"Call an ambulance," Aaron told her, "Tell them it's a bunch of people."
And then he was out of his truck, running in a zig-zag path between the bodies and bicycles on the bridge, seeing if anybody was alive.
He had thought at first that they were all hit by some speeding vehicle, but one glance at the first body told him otherwise.
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