Road Trip

Free short story, plus horror anthology.

Public service announcement - I’m very excited to be appearing in Tiny Terrors Volume 1 horror anthology by Graveside Press with The Absence of You, a religious-themed horror short with a smattering of spouse haunting. The collection features a pretty broad spectrum of horror, including paranormal, gothic, body horror, psychological, cosmic and creature features - so likely to be something to tickle everyone’s tastebuds. Would love to know what you think…

I do really like this cover art

And now onto the main story!

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When I’m in a car, I like to imagine I’m running beside it. Turning cartwheels, leaping fences. Anything but rattling around in a tin can.

The American’s driving. He hasn’t said much, not even tried to turn on the radio. It must be those long interstate highways, all those hours of driving in a straight line. He’s a man who knows how to kill time.

‘Another 200 miles yet,’ he tells me. ‘Quit wriggling.’

‘I’m not wriggling,’ I say, foot knocking against the back of the passenger seat. My bladder’s just about ready to burst. Drinking that whole bottle of lemonade was a mistake.

The American takes pity on me and pulls into a service station, and I half hobble, half run to the facilities. He stays in the car, cigarette smoke trailing from a crack in the window. He doesn’t want a coffee, refuses to get out and stretch his legs. The car might be a part of him, a modern mechanical centaur.

But while my driver seems to survive off of nicotine and petroleum, I’m made of squishier stuff. Bladder relieved, I wait in the café queue, trying to choose between a croissant and a blueberry muffin. That’s when I catch him from the corner of my eye.

Our guy.

He’s not supposed to be here. We’re meant to meet him in 200 miles, only he’s not supposed to see us until it’s too late. If all goes right, he’ll never see us at all.

But it’s not gone right. He’s here, damn it, sitting at a table on the far left with a giant milkshake, browsing his phone and slurping from a straw so disgustingly that it sends tingles right down to my size 10s.

He’s not looking up, so I duck out the queue, take one last glance at the guy and head back to the car. The American looks at me like I’m crazy, then asks if I bought extra coffee, and looks disappointed when I tell him no.

‘We should wait here,’ I say.

The American takes a long pause, puts out his cigarette on the cupholder. ‘Can’t be him.’

‘But it was! I saw him, plain as fucking day. We’ve got to wait for him, see if he comes out.’

Another pause.

‘No. We go to the location. Stick to the plan.’

I buckle my seatbelt, cursing the American and my own panic. I should have stayed in that queue. Bought that coffee and possibly croissant, possibly muffin. Followed our guy back to his car, nice and calm like, keeping distance and noting his registration number. That’s what the American would have done. It’s what I would have done, under normal circumstances.

But these aren’t normal circumstances. When you’ve been in this line of work for as long as I have, you tend to develop a certain protocol for doing business, a way of keeping things under control. Seeing your guy 200 miles away from where he’s supposed to be isn’t keeping things under control. And perhaps it’s just my imagination talking, but there’s something off about the American, the way he just shrugs off the sighting and just cruises back onto the motorway like we’re out Sunday shopping.

‘We should have waited,’ I say, too late, far too late.

The American doesn’t say a word. Just keeps driving.

Every minute I’m glancing out the back window, and every minute no one’s following. Because of course they aren’t. I’ve worked myself up, the way I do sometimes. So I do what the doctor says, take several deep breaths and sweet talk my anxiety into submission. There isn’t shit to worry about, I tell my race horse brain, because that guy couldn’t have been our guy. It’s basically impossible. And if that guy was our guy, then, well, what of it? He probably didn’t see me. Even if he did, he wouldn’t know me. We’ve never met. To him, I’m just another face in the crowd.

The car slows at a red light. The American curses, low and soft, and that catches my attention. It’s the first thing he’s said since we left the service station.

‘What is it?’ My voice is brittle despite the deep breaths.

The American points at the dashboard. ‘Low on gas.’

‘We were just in a bloody service station!’ I’m jogging my leg, tapping the side of the window. ‘We can’t just keep stopping. What do you think this is, some kind of jolly?’

To his credit, the American doesn’t rise to my bait. Got the patience of a saint, this one.

‘Gas station coming up,’ he murmurs.

I want to be angry but his voice soothes me. He’s got peace about him, something restful in his soft brown Bambi eyes. ‘Alright. As long as we make up the time.’

The American nods. As if it was waiting for him, the traffic light switches green and we turn left, snaking down a strangely narrow side road. I’m squinting, sunlight low in my eyes, but this road doesn’t look right at all.

‘You’re sure this takes us the right way?’

The American doesn’t reply. We follow the empty, single laned road, ever narrowing. Trees arch above us, their shadows stretching like fingers.

I keep glancing at the American’s side profile, the snub nose, blonde crew cut, neat chin with just a hint of stubble. Making sure he’s not looking, I reach into my jacket pocket, trying to seem casual. The touch of cool metal is reassuring, but I don’t do anything, just keep my fingertips brushing along the edge.

As we turn the corner, my hand pulls away. We’ve reached a tiny little petrol station, buried between trees. Who the hell put it here and why, I don’t know.

The American stops, gets out the car. He doesn’t look at me once, striding to the pump with long-legged confidence.

He’s a nice-looking guy, I realise. Nice, but ordinary. The sort of person you instinctually trust.

After he’s filled up, he knocks on the window, making me jump.

‘Gonna pay. Want anything?’ He smiles, flashing pearly whites.

‘No thanks.’

He wanders into the petrol station while I wait. Leg jogging, fingers tapping. It might not look like it, but I can wait for the cows to come home, if I have to.

In the end, it doesn’t take long at all.

Tyres screech beside the car. I’ve already dropped to the footwell, rolling out the door as the first bullet cracks through the front window. The petrol pump is my nearest cover, and I take a leap, not expecting to make it.

The hail of bullets doesn’t come. Our guy’s gotten out of the car, fiddling with his weapon like he doesn’t know what to do with it. His hands are shaking, and his second shot goes wide.

All my fear falls away. The world becomes clear, my senses razor. I’m a thoroughbred lined up in the race, and all I know is how to run.

I duck out and shoot, hitting our guy smack in the right shoulder. Crimson bursts from his shirt and he staggers, which is enough for me to get a clean second shot. He goes down, screaming, then still.

Something swooshes behind me. I turn as the automatic doors open, shoot the American right in the chest. He’s holding a Coke can, cliché of cliches, and as my bullet hits his body, the can drops to the asphalt. The American’s body goes after it, quick and clean.

I crouch behind the petrol pump. My body ought to be thrumming with adrenaline. But for the first time all day, I feel peace.

After a good ten seconds of quiet, I go and inspect the corpses. The job’s done all right, it’s our guy for sure, but the whole business is a mess. Public. Exposed. The boss won’t like it one bit.

I walk the other way, check on the American. Though honestly, I shouldn’t bother. There’s no way he’s still with us, not with that much shred in his torso, and while this might be the middle of nowhere, there’s bound to be staff and they’ll already be calling the fuzz. I need to get out of here, right this second.

Still, I bend down for one last look.

His last expression is the most emotion I’ve seen on his face. All those white teeth finally exposed in one big grin, like he’d died laughing. It makes me wonder. Why he didn’t wait to come out the petrol station, if he was in on the thing.

Maybe he thought I was already dead. Maybe he was planning to double cross the both of us, take the money and run off into the sunset.

Or maybe he really was just buying a can of Coke.

It feels wrong somehow, just leaving the American there. So I reach down, take the Coke. You could say it’s poetic, taking a piece of him with me.

Truth is, I’m just feeling thirsty.