by Eric Miller
And then everything went to Hell.
He felt someone sitting across from him before he heard them. They shuffled into the booth, the seat emitting a faint squeak.
Looking up, he knew that whatever he had been hit with had caused him serious damage.
The girl smiled, her hands folded over one another on the table. Long brown hair fell onto her brown leather jacket. A green turtleneck reached for her chin and brought out the color of her eyes.
“Hi, Randy.”
“Who…who are you?” He managed, even though he knew.
“I am Lucille.”
He laughed. It hurt. “Lucille isn’t real.”
She was quiet.
“Did you do this to me?”
“No,” she said and shook her head. “You did.”
“What?”
“Who do you think I am?”
His lips quivered and he looked down. “The girl. The girl I killed that night.”
“Go on.”
He took a deep breath. He had never said any of this aloud and the words were hard to find, but once he started they tumbled out. “I was fucked up. Real high. Don’t know what was in the mess I snorted that night but I was real jittery. All over the road. And then there you were, your car on the shoulder, hazard lights on, a flare on the road behind you. You hadn’t done nothing wrong. And I…” His voice cracked and his breath hitched and he wondered if the hotness on his face was tears or more blood.
She was as still and quite as the grave.
“You come for revenge? Is that it? Make sure I pay for what I done? For getting away with it Scott free?”
“Did you get away with it?”
“Ain’t no one saw me that night. No one else on the road.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He stared at her, unsure at first what she meant. Then he shook his aching head. “No. I’ve lived with it. That’s for damned sure.”
“And that’s why I’m here. To offer you a way out.”
“Out of what?”
“This,” she said and motioned around her. “And this.” She leaned across the table and touched a finger to his forehead.
“I don’t understand.”
“I know,” she said. “You don’t really need to, I suppose. But I’d like you to.” She stood. “Join me outside? I promise you won’t get attacked again.”
The world tilted when he stood and he gripped the table until it righted itself. Then he followed her outside.
She led him past the empty gasoline pumps and into the massive parking lot. It was surrounded by night, the dark thick and crowding in on them as though it had been painted onto the canvas of the world. The only vehicle in the lot was his truck.
Walking over to it, she stood on the running board and extended a hand toward him. He took it and she helped him up.
Staring in the window, he saw himself impossibly slumped in the driver’s seat. Small flecks of white powder dotted his shirt.
“It was strong this time,” she said. “Maybe too strong. There were a few other things mixed into it as well. You have to be careful what you cut it with.”
The blow to his head had knocked him unconscious, he thought. He was still lying on the pavement and all of this was a horrid hallucination.
“No,” she said. “The hallucination was everything after Chattanooga. You in that truck? That’s real. You scored tonight and your heart couldn’t take it. You’re on the verge of slipping into the abyss, just tumbling over into angry oblivion, and yet you refuse to give in.”
“But the attack…”
“You thought that up on your own. I can’t say why.” She glanced into the cab at his body. “Maybe it was what you wished had happened instead of this?” She turned away from his body and looked at him. “Or maybe what you thought you deserved. Who knows this time?”
Staring at his own body made him shiver. Inside the cab, his head was turned at an awkward angle and a silver strand of drool dripped from his chin. He wondered if he was as fat as he looked now as well, sprawled across the seat like he had collapsed there.
Maybe he had collapsed there, he reminded himself.
He wanted to deny what she was telling him, but he knew it was true. He could feel it.
Working up the courage to speak, he asked, “So, are you Death then?”
She laughed. “No. I told you. I’m Lucille.”
“What do you mean by that?”
She stepped down from the running board. He took one last look at his wheezing, corpulent body and followed.
“It doesn’t matter what I mean. You wouldn’t understand it anyway.” She placed a hand on his cheek. “Just…give in. Let go and give in.”
Her eyes were such a deep and vibrant green that he had a difficult time looking away.
“All the pain… The loneliness… Debbie… The kids… The girl you killed… All of it. Gone. Just like that.”
“Where…where do I go?”
“Nowhere,” she said. “That’s the beauty of it. Everything ends here. No more memories. No more shame. Just…nothing.”
They were sitting inside the truck stop again. He didn’t remember walking back in but, damn, was his head killing him. He was surprised that he was awake.
You’re not, he thought, and then shook it off.
“Well?” she asked.
Staring at her across the table, he thought her smile looked a little too perfect. Too straight. Too white.
“I ain’t ready,” he said.
She grunted and slapped the table. “Goddamit. What do you have to live for? Huh? You tell me?”
He opened his mouth to say something and then stopped. What did he have to live for? Taco Bell’s Crunchwrap Supreme and reruns of CSI: Miami? Driving back and forth across the country for the next ten years until he had a heart attack? He didn’t have anything to live for. And whose fault was that? Just his. As much as he wished he could blame Debbie or the kids (or that girl, that goddamned girl who did everything she was supposed to do and yet he still plowed right into her), the fault could only lie at his feet.
She smiled and leaned back into her chair, calming some as the despair washed over him.
But just because he had ruined it all up until now did not mean it had to stay that way.
Her eyebrow rose as he had the thought.
He could track down the kids. They may hate him, may not want to talk to him, but he could at least try. He felt he owed them that before checking out.
She stood and placed both palms onto the table. “They don’t hate you. No, no. For that, they’d have to think about you at all. But they don’t. Debbie remarried. They have a father. At best, you’re a sperm donor.”
He knew that she was telling him the truth.
“Why do you do this?” he asked.
She cocked her head to the side, her face twisting in confusion. “What?”
“Why? Why do you do this?”
Staring at him with a strange expression on her face, she lowered herself into her seat. “No one’s ever asked me that before.” She thought for a moment. “No. They’ve asked ‘Why me?’ or ‘Why now?’ but not…” She shook her head.
“Why?” he asked again.
“It’s just what I do,” she said, her voice sounding small and weak. “There is a hole in some people. In a lot of people, truth be told. And they fill it with booze and pills and sex. For a while. But eventually they realize that the hole is too deep, too wide, and that nothing will ever fill it. That’s when they turn to me and I help them slip away. It’s a service I offer, one that I’m good at.” Her voice regained its former strength. “I’ve had famous actors and comedians, musicians and writers. I’ve had politicians and soldiers. And I sure as hell have had truck drivers. When living gets too much to bear, I am waiting there to take it all away. For some, it’s a needle. For others a noose. It doesn’t matter. I am always here and I always win.”
He didn’t like how confident she was.
How arrogant.
Something rumbled deep within him. It was small and hot and had the potential to blossom into flame. He hadn’t felt it in a long time and, damn, how he had missed it.
“To hell with this,” he said, nurturing the spark inside of him and wondering why he’d ever let its warmth die. He stood and slipped from the booth.
She was instantly beside him, walking along as he headed toward his truck again. “Why? You have nothing. Not a goddamned thing to live for. And don’t say your kids because you know they don’t want you to call.”
“Spite,” he said as they walked through the double doors at the front of the gas station.
“What?”
“I hate arrogant sons-of-bitches more than anything and I figure you’re one of the most arrogant I ever met. So lady, I tell ya, even though I should be dead, I’m sticking around just to piss you off.”
She stopped, her mouth hanging open at the sheer audacity of it.
He continued to his truck. As he climbed onto the sideboard, she sprinted over to him.
“Randy,” she said. “I don’t lose. You realize that, right?”
“I know,” he said as he opened the door.
“I am always waiting here. And you will come to me one day.”
He knew she was right. That was the worst part about it. One day he would just say “fuck it” and come looking for her.
“But not today,” he said as he climbed into his truck and back into himself.
He gasped and sat up so quickly he almost smashed his head into the steering wheel. The world rocked and swayed and it took him a moment of sitting absolutely still with his eyes closed for everything to calm.
His chest ached horribly and his nose and mouth were raw. He opened his eyes and at first thought that he was still alone. He flicked his wipers on, pushing the sheet of rain from his windshield, and saw that the parking lot was crowded.
“Hot damn,” he said.
The throbbing in his head was horrible. He rubbed his scalp and his hand came away spotted with blood. He looked up to see a bit of blood on his doorframe.
The head injury? He wasn’t sure.
He thought about firing the engine up and hitting the road again, pushing through the last hundred and twenty miles to Birmingham. But he was tired, so damned tired.
Crawling back into his sleeper, knowing that Lucille would keep him awake, he thought he’d just curl up and relax for a while even if he couldn’t sleep.
Lucille.
It had not been a dream or a hallucination. He knew that in his gut. She was there waiting for him. Patient as the day is long. Knowing that he would come looking for her.
They always do, he could hear her say.
And he would. Was it depression? Addiction? Something worse? He didn’t know. Maybe he’d see a doctor one of these days and find out. But, eventually, it would all get to be too much for him and he would find her again. Maybe here at Rising Fawn. Maybe elsewhere out there on the long, dark road.
“But not today,” he said again as he pushed the pillow beneath his head and closed his eyes.
He was asleep in minutes.
Joseph Spencer was born in 1978 in Peoria, Illinois. After graduating summa cum laude from the College of Mass Communications at Southern Illinois University-Carbondale, he embarked on a 10-year career as a newspaper journalist before transitioning to a career as a manager of a 9-1-1 emergency communications call center. He has utilized his writing and public safety experience to create the Sons of Darkness novel series featuring paranormal crime thrillers Grim and Wrage published by Damnation Books.
NEVER LOST AGAIN
Joseph Spencer
“IT’S A SHAME HE’S DEAD.”
“Who?”
“The guy singing It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year on the radio—Andy Williams. Christmas ain’t Christmas without Andy Williams. That’s the bitch about getting old. You outlive everything you love.”
“About that, listen, Mac, I heard about your wife. She was a great lady. I’ll miss her coming around here with you. Dinner’s on me, alright?”
Terry MacGlothan’s mood turned as dark as his platter of Salisbury steak. “Nah. You don’t have to do that.” He set down his fork and stared at the lumps in his mashed potatoes. He’d suddenly lost his appetite. “She loved it here. You know, there’s not many diners like this left nowadays. She used to say that sitting down at the counter here was like taking a time machine back to when we were kids.”
“Dinner’s on me, and that’s all there is to it. It’s the least I can do.”
“Hey, Joe. Can you fill me up over here?” A bleary-eyed young punk with a Spartanesque strip of black hair running down the middle of his otherwise bald head banged hard enough on the white Formica counter with his black coffee cup that the porcelain lip cracked. He rubbed his eyes and licked his lips, making sure to show off his silver stud tongue piercing to Terry. He made clacking noises with it as he gnashed it against is teeth. It matched the piercings in his nose and eyebrows and the studs on his black leather jacket.
“I told you once already, spaz.” The angry Italian hash slinger furiously wiped down the counter with his white rag. His bushy black eyebrows slanted sharply downward and his lips quivered, making his fast-reddening round cheeks shake like a steaming teapot. “The name’s Lou. There’s no Joe. And you’re paying for that mug.”
“Why the hell does the sign outside this dump say Joe’s Chili Bowl if your name’s Lou?” The young hooligan rolled his eyes, folded his arms, and leaned back in his chair. “And I ain’t paying for that shit. It was cracked when you gave it to me.”
“Dump, huh? My Grandpa Joe opened this dump in 1945.” Lou puffed out his chest and pointed at the yellowed black and white pictures hanging on the wall. “He packed ‘em in four deep just for a bowl of chili back then. Anybody over the road on Route 66 in these parts knows Joe Rodgers’ Chili.” Lou put his hand over his heart. “I’m carrying on a legacy here. That’s why the sign says Joe’s Chili Bowl. As long as I’m breathing, it’ll stay that way.”
“Bet your gramps didn’t serve darkies like him at the counter back then.” The punk leered smugly and shook his head at Terry. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo of an eagle clutching a swastika in its talons on his forearm. “Whaddaya think? You think Grandpa Joe woulda let your kind sit on that stool back then?”
“Not sure about my kind,” Terry said with enough sarcasm dripping from his voice that it matched the stream of gravy spilling off his plate. “My dad and his brothers? I’m pretty sure they were welcome in any parts those days. They went over to Europe in the last Great War and fought boys marked up like you—your kind.”
The thug biker pointed to patches on his jacket. The top one featured an iron cross resting on the cheek of a skeleton wearing a winged crown. “If my kind fought your daddy, boy, you’d never have seen your daddy again. My kind never backs down.”
“That’s it!” Lou slammed down his rag and pointed at the door. “You break my mug. You insult me. You insult my customers. Get outta here now or I’m calling the cops.”
But Lou’s bully pulled open his leather jacket to reveal a silver revolver tucked into his waistband. He patted it, smirking smugly like a goon used to taking what he wanted if he couldn’t get it any other way, and dared the frightened restaurateur to make a move toward the phone sitting by the cash register. “You ain’t gonna call nobody, Joe. Got it? Cuz if you call the cops on me I’ll fucking kill you and him. That’ll be the last fucking bowl of chili you’ll have to worry about. Got it, Joe?”
“I got it. Listen, I don’t want any trouble…”
“Well, it’s a little late for that, Joe.” The punk spit a plug of chewing tobacco onto the tiled floor. He ran his tongue over his yellowed teeth which made his stud piercing click like the hands of a clock counting down how much time his captives had left. “Trouble’s here, don’t cha think?” He turned his head sideways and ogled them. If
the punk’s eyes truly served as windows to his soul, then he’d either drawn the curtains or no one was home. “You got a truck, don’t you, boy?” The punk pulled an elaborately-marked pocket watch out of his leather coat and muttered under his breath. “It’s time-to-get-the-fuck-outta-here-o’clock. Why don’t you give me a ride?”
“Where did you get that?” Terry knew he should be worried, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d seen a watch like that long ago. The shock of seeing it again overrode his senses. He had to know where this young punk had gotten that watch.
“The fuck did you say?” The troublemaker turned his gun sideways and stomped over to the counter. As he stood over Terry, the gunman put the cold barrel up to Terry’s temple and pressed it hard against his skin. “I’m not playing, man. Get the keys to your fucking truck and let’s fucking go. Otherwise, Joe’s going to have some smoked dark meat for his chili.”
“Go ahead. Pull the trigger, chicken shit. You think I’m afraid to die?” With the barrel of the gun still pressed firmly against his head, Terry pointed at the punk’s pocket. “I’m not taking you anywhere until you tell me where you got that watch.”
Headlights suddenly filled the room. A car pulled into the parking space closest to the front door and the bright glare of its lights replaced the familiar gloom of the Midwestern winter skyline which had turned so gray and murky from the disappearance of the early setting sun. When the lights finally flicked off, the outline of the car became recognizable. No mere run-of-the-mill family van or grocery-getter station wagon had pulled up. This black and white Monte Carlo had lights mounted on the roof, and a golden police shield on the car door.
“I don’t know who fucking called the cops, but you’re fucking dead now…both of you.” The degenerate pulled back the gun from Terry’s head and pointed it at Lou, who whimpered and cowered from the barrel.
“No one called,” Lou cried. His voice cracked like a teenage boy. He swallowed hard as he held up his palm to plead with the punk. “It’s just Lumpy. He comes in every night…orders a bowl of firebrand, extra meat, no beans…like clockwork. Just play it cool. He won’t know anything’s going on.”