by Bialois, CP
Horace had the feeling he won the battle but lost the war. He glanced at his watch, three-thirty, which meant he had about two hours before he was supposed to be at Janice’s. He let out a sigh. “Have me back in an hour, and you have a deal.”
Steve’s face lit up. “That’s what I’m talking about! Don’t you worry, brother, I’ll have you back in time for your date.”
Horace only nodded; what else could he say or do? He hurried after the animated Steve, running toward the blue F-150 in the neighboring lot. He had a feeling he’d be late and Janice would kill him. He found himself asking one more, was this worth it?
*****
As rides go, things could’ve been worse. Horace continued telling himself that while Hip-Hop blared through the truck’s speakers. He didn’t have anything against the music, he liked some of Eminem and Dr. Dre’s stuff, but his preference was country. There was something about the guitar’s twang and the singers that made him feel comfortable and at peace.
Steve, on the other hand, was your typical corn-fed white kid who wanted to appear tough like the rappers he saw on TV. Stereotypical analysis would claim they must’ve been switched at birth, or Horace polluted Steve’s mind. Truth was, Horace had the beginning of a terrific headache and wondered, on more than one occasion, whether his friend was trying to kill him.
“WHOO! Now that was an awesome track, don’t you think?” Steve looked at Horace, expecting a reply for a second or two before turning his attention back to the road.
He was forever trying to convert Horace to his favorite rappers. The problem was Horace didn’t care for songs talking about cappin’ someone’s ass, doin’ time, or bustin’ some ho’s. Such things were below his standards. Far below. In answer, Horace shook his head. “Sorry, not my thing.”
“I don’t get you. You’re black, so why don’t you like rap? It’s dope.”
“And because I’m black I also like fried chicken and watermelons, right?”
Steve shrugged. “If the shoe fits, nigga.”
Horace shook his head, he wasn’t disgusted as it was the same conversation they had a hundred times. “There’s only one nigga here, and it’s not me.”
Steve burst into laughter. “Brother, you’re hilarious.”
Horace shook his head once more, nothing ever seemed to change. “You should watch something besides those music videos before your brain’s fried.” At least their exchange took his mind away from the fact they were driving over seventy miles an hour. That is, until he saw the parked car in the road ahead of them. “Watch out!”
During to their conversation, the truck had moved into the other lane which wouldn’t have caused an issue under normal circumstances had a car not been sitting there. Steve slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel hard but it was too late.
*****
Highway 66, or old 66 to the people of Tarken Heights, was little more than a straight shot between the Heights and the Interstate. The Powers That Be decided the road didn’t need a place to go aside from a highway. Serving as a major artery between the Heights and the outside world, traffic was scarce aside from the occasional delivery, sightseer, or local out for a joy ride.
Being straight and mostly flat allowed most to drive over sixty, a full twenty miles per hour over the speed limit. Such was the case with Steve and Horace. Following Horace’s shout, Steve yanked hard to the right to avoid the car. Another foot or less speed would’ve saved them from the collision, but that wasn’t in their destiny. The screeching of the locked brakes and the smell of burning rubber preceded the impact and, for the briefest of moments, Horace thought they wouldn’t hit. The shock of the driver’s side impacting with the other car’s rear passenger side sent a wave of shock through them.
The jolt knocked Steve’s foot off of the brake and by the time he pressed the pedal again his truck came to a stop twenty feet into the field. “Jesus. Where’d it come from?”
Horace stared straight ahead in shock, not believing he was alive. After a moment, he closed his eyes and thanked whoever was listening. Whether it was God or his angels he didn’t care. They all deserved his thanks. When he finished, he opened his door and slid out, landing hard on the crushed grain. He heard Steve follow in much the same manner on the other side of the truck but with a loud whoof.
After sitting there for a minute or two, Horace regained some sense of where they were and what happened. “You alright?” he asked, his voice hoarse and dry. He thought he sounded like he did when he had strep throat a couple of years previous.
“Yeah,” came the weak reply. “You?”
“I think I’m alright.” Horace’s nose settled on a familiar smell that he wasn’t happy about. I shit myself. I fucking shit myself! Disgusted, he tried to pull himself up using the truck door.
“Fuck, I think I pissed my pants.” Steve’s usually high-pitched voice rose another notch. “Damn it! I can’t believe this!”
Horace finished pulling himself up and winced at the sudden pain in his back that disappeared as suddenly as it came. When he looked down, he let out a breath at how lucky he was. Below the grain was a sharp rock he missed and behind it was a pile of what looked like dog droppings. Relief swept through him on both counts, he cheated what would’ve been a painful, but not mortal injury. His headache was also a distant memory and he didn’t crap himself. With his nerves calmed somewhat, a chuckle escaped from him.
“What’s so damn funny?” Steve had pulled himself to his feet at the sound of his friend’s cackle. “Look at my truck! My dad’ll kill me!”
Horace waved at him, as if he were shooing away a fly until he could stop laughing. It was harder than he thought. “I’m sorry, Steve… I couldn’t help myself.” His smile froze on his face. Shit! He broke into a run toward the road through the swath they created.
At first, Steve watched him, not understanding. “Where the hell are you going? I wasn’t going to…” His words trailed off when he saw the car, a Ford like his truck. He tore after his friend. “Shit! I didn’t see anyone… I swear to God.”
Horace didn’t respond. He hadn’t seen anyone either, but what could they expect to see in the fraction of time they had? Still, if someone was hurt… he shook those thoughts from his mind until he reached the car, now sitting diagonally with its backend pushed off of the road. The car’s windows were open and it was easy to see it was empty and the lack of blood on the ground meant no one was under the car. Thank God!
Still huffing from the unexpected exercise, Steve slowed to a walk before resting a hand on the Thunderbird’s hood. “Any… sign… of them?”
Horace shook his head, but his eyes continued to survey the surrounding area. “Call the police and help me look around.”
With shaking hands, Steve dialed 9-1-1 and listened to the recorded message telling him the call couldn’t be connected. He looked at the readout and the lack of bars, meaning there wasn’t a signal.
“Any luck?”
Steve looked up. Horace was thirty feet away in the trees and brush across the two lane street. Steve shook his head. “There’s no signal.”
Horace nodded, he hadn’t thought of that but it made sense. He looked around him. Where had the car’s owner gone? He hadn’t been walking back to town or they would’ve seen him. But then where?
Chapter 3
Franklin Bowen paused in mid-stride a few miles from where he left his car. He wasn’t following the road as he thought he should’ve been. Instead he was in the middle of nowhere with no landmarks he could use as a guide. Everything around him was a bright white, intense to the point of being blinding, yet he didn’t have to squint. Where am I?
He heard the crash, felt it as though he was there but he wasn’t. He felt someone next to him without seeing him. The man he met by the field was with him and still dressed in a silver tunic and pants with white trim around his neck. Somehow he looked different, but Franklin couldn’t put his finger on what.
“It is time. Remember what I told you.” Tanok didn�
�t look at him, and that was fine by Franklin. He found something unnerving about looking into those dark eyes.
Franklin’s face twisted with uncertainty. The only thing he remembered being told was Tanok’s name. He said as much, earning a shake of the man’s head and a friendly pat on his shoulder like one would do to a dog.
“You’ll know when and what to do.”
Without another word Tanok disappeared, melting into the surrounding whiteness. In the blink of an eye, Franklin woke in the field where he tripped over his tire iron. He pushed himself into a sitting position and felt a fresh jolt of pain up his back and neck. A stream of blood trickled from his mouth where he bit down on his tongue trying to keep the pain at bay. A strangled cry erupted from him until the pain disappeared seconds later. By then he heard the grains rustling and what sounded like someone coming close to him.
Did he want to be found? The question flashed through his mind like a high-powered neon sign. He shook off the doubt and dread threatening to paralyze him. He needed help, a doctor in a hospital to tell him what’s wrong. Didn’t he? When the face appeared above him, he let out a shriek, trying to avoid being trampled by the large man.
*****
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Steve took the initiative when he heard the strangled cry. It wasn’t that he didn’t have goals or wasn‘t a leader, he just never had to display either trait. His mother all but forgot about him when he turned fourteen, saying her little boy didn’t need her anymore. As for his father, well, Fulton Drake threw money at him. It was far easier for him to allow Stephen to buy what he wanted than deal with any potential tantrums. Strange as that approach was, Thurston managed to keep a stranglehold on Steve’s accounts and other necessities. In his heart, Thurston hoped his son would grow into an independent person on his own. If not… then he didn’t like the other options.
Knowing his friend’s history, Horace was more than surprised at how fast Steve tore through the field. Not being a slouch himself physically, Horace barely made it to the edge of the road when Steve stopped. He swallowed hard, hoping everything was alright, but preparing himself for the worst.
Steve stopped before he stepped on or tripped over the stranger sitting in the field. For the briefest of moments, he teetered on the mental edge he drew between them. His excess bulk threatened to betray him, but in the end he regained his balance. Not very graceful but better than the alternative.
Having won his battle against momentum he bent over, offering his hand to the stranger. “Sorry about that. I’m Stephen, my friends call me Steve.”
Franklin watched him for a moment not sure what to do. Finally, he took the offered hand. “Franklin Bowen.” He barely got his last name out before he was lifted from his position and to his feet with an ease he didn’t think possible by the larger man.
“There you go. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Steve’s smiled faded somewhat. “Sorry about your car.”
My car? Franklin’s mind raced to grasp the meaning of what he heard. When his eyes turned toward the road and he saw the truck and his mangled car, he screamed. “My Car! Damn it!” Franklin grabbed both sides of his head in an effort to keep from losing his temper.
“Don’t let the visiting Devil win, Frankie.” His mother’s voice was crisp and clear in his mind’s ear. He had no intention of doing so even before hearing her voice. Franklin’s mind was full of vague images, some with a man named Tanok and others involving his car, including him striking it head first.
“My fault.” Franklin’s voice was lower than a whisper.
“Don’t worry. Me and my dad’ll take care of everything.”
Franklin heard Steve and nodded. He was trying to make sense out of what he remembered. Nothing was making any sense to him. Why had he been in the field?
Another voice spoke from just ahead. “Are you alright?”
Where’d you come from? Franklin wanted to ask but didn’t, although he felt he was deserving of some answers. After a brief pause, he nodded. “Yeah… I finished changing my tire and… threw my tire iron out here?” He finished the final portion as a question, as he didn’t know or trust his memories.
Steve looked around him, then bent over. When he stood, he had the tire iron in his hand. “Guess you tripped over this and hit your head.”
Franklin stood still for a moment, gazing at the tire iron. “That’s not right. I… took it back to my car. The explosion…”
Horace looked from Franklin to Steve then back again. He must‘ve really hit his head good. “What explosion?” What could it hurt to humor the man?
“Maybe it was the meteor I saw.” Steve’s face lit up with excitement.
Franklin looked at both of them before setting his gaze on Steve. “Meteor?”
“Yeah, it was a white streak before it hit. I saw it.”
Horace motioned behind Steve to the untouched field. “And where was that?” The question caused the pair to remain silent for a minute, giving Horace the chance to fully organize his thoughts. “C’mon. We’d better get you to a doctor.”
Franklin looked at him and nodded. “I think… that’s wise.”
“In what?” Steve threw his hand out. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we had an accident and our phones aren’t working.”
Horace paused. “Help me push his car off the road so no one else hits it. We’ll take your truck.”
“My truck? But…” Steve began pleading his case.
“It can still be driven. We’ll come back with the police if we have to.” Horace stepped toward Franklin. “Do you need any help… I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Oh, it’s Franklin Bowen.”
“Franklin, this is Horace Foster. He’s a good guy if you can stand the bullshit.” Steve smiled following his introduction. It was his way of fighting back for having his thunder stolen.
Franklin nodded. “No, thank you. I’m fine.” As he began to follow the one named Horace he realized Steve was a key. For what he didn’t know.
*****
The Thunderbird proved to be easy to move. Despite the hellaciousness of the crash, it was still drivable with the front end crushed and mangled. Still, Horace felt it wise for the three of them to remain together. Their passenger seemed the non-violent sort, but with his obvious head injury he could have a seizure, amorism, or even a burst of energy he couldn’t control.
Horace remembered seeing an episode on a science channel discussing the varying aspects of head injuries. None of them sounded very pleasant to experience or deal with as an outside party. With those shows and his own fears in mind, Horace took his seat in the front with Franklin in the back. Not an ideal seating plan by any means, but it’d keep the man they found from trying to open the door or grab the steering wheel in a sudden act of suicide. Of course, he could lean forward and rip their eyes out but Horace did his best to not visualize that image.
Franklin hadn’t put up a fuss about being in the back. In fact, he welcomed it, or so it seemed to Horace. Every so often Horace glanced back to check on him, and each time Franklin said he was fine. Even the confused look in his eyes went away. It was because he hit his head, Horace reasoned. Such a thing was liable to screw up anyone’s mind.
Steve was enjoying himself. His earlier fear over killing someone in the accident was long forgotten. His focus was on helping their new friend get the help he needed. Every so often he’d check the rearview mirror to see if Franklin was alright. Horace’s questions weren’t enough for him since Steve was the type that needed to see something to believe in it. It was a trait he developed when he learned Santa Clause didn’t exist. Since that day twelve years earlier, he never believed what someone told him except for Horace. Steve trusted his friend more than anyone else, and he’d been in a few altercations defending him.
“Where’re you from? Horace and me are born and raised in Tarken Heights.” Steve’s voice was pleasant without the worry Horace’s carried.
It took Franklin
a moment to realize he was being spoken to. After a pause, he shrugged. “Settler’s Grove. I was heading upstate when my tire blew and you found me.” A nice way to say you hit my car, asshole. He wanted to lash out, but something held him back. He knew he shouldn’t blame them. After all, he did leave his car in the middle of the road. Why did he do that? The answer remained just outside of his reach.
Steve gave a sheepish look to him from the corner of his eye. “Yeah… Sorry about that. Good thing it happened, though. I mean… so you don’t have to drive with that bump on your head.”
Horace winced and wanted to palm his head. Steve meant well, he just wasn’t well-spoken at times. To his surprise, their passenger nodded his understanding.
“I appreciate your help.” Franklin paused before continuing. “My insurance is up to date, so it shouldn’t cause you any problems.” Was he actually saying this? My God, I must‘ve hit my head harder than I thought!
Steve smiled, feeling relieved. “That’s good to hear but I’m not worried. You’re an all right fellow, Frank.”
Frank? Of all the names he could’ve been called, it had to be the one he hated most. Somehow, and for reasons he didn’t understand why, he smiled. With nothing more to say, Franklin closed his eyes. He needed rest and it provided the perfect excuse to not have to listen to them for awhile. He didn’t hate them, he was just tired.
What’s this place? Where am I? As before, Franklin found himself surrounded by a brilliant white light without being blinded when he closed his eyes. He strode forward, each step was a gentle test for footing, which he was surprised to find was firm. He paused after his third step and, though he tried as hard as he could, he couldn’t remember if he tried this in his previous dream. Was this a dream? And if so, could he really remember what happened to him previously? He wanted to ask, but there was no one to answer. He turned in a circle, looking everywhere he could, but to no avail. Only the white vastness greeted his searching eyes.