Dead Post Bumper
Dean Wesley Smith
Dead Post Bumper
Copyright © 2013 Dean Wesley Smith
Published by WMG Publishing
Cover design copyright © 2013 WMG Publishing
Cover Illustration by Nejron /Dreamstime.com
“Dead Post Bumper” was first published in the More Stories from the Twilight Zone edited by Carol Serling and published by Tor in 2010.
Smashwords Edition
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
One
Elliot Leiferman: Summer 2016 near Death Valley
The dust and light sand swirled along the edge of the ancient road like a runner fleeing a threat, twisting in streamers on the dry desert wind, vanishing, then appearing a step or two later. The sagebrush whipped back and forth making only a faint rustling sound quickly snapped away by the force of the hot wind and the empty nothingness of the desert. A fence of rusted wire and old wood paced along beside the road, sometimes upright, other times nothing more than a remnant of splinters mostly covered in sand.
The road, gray with age, vanished under sand drifts and piles of dry sagebrush as it stretched into the distance. Nothing but dust and sand and waves of heat had traveled the road in a very long time.
The rusting hulk of an old automobile rested on four flat tires, tipped slightly in a shallow ditch. One of its two doors hung open and the hood of the car tucked against a still-upright fence post. The picture of a wild cat adorned the hood and the word Jaguar in metal script rusted on faded blue paint.
A man’s body sat behind the steering wheel, the skin mummified in the heat and dry air and constant wind, the old seat belt still holding the body in position. Dead eyes stared at the fence post against the hood of the car as if it was an insult to even the living.
Dust swirled inside the car for a moment and then settled into the thick layer on the seats and floor. Sand was building a dune against one side of the car, already up to the bottom of the windows. In ten more years the car and man inside would be nothing more than a large pile of sand and the highway would be covered completely.
Two
Elliot Leiferman: December 20th, 2012, Malibu, California
Elliot watched in disgust as his wife, Casandra Lieferman, Candy to her few remaining friends, grunted as she lowered her large bulk into a chair beside the bed. She had a chocolate-covered maple bar in one hand and a large vodka-tonic in the other, three limes of course, more vodka in the tumbler than tonic by a factor of two.
Nothing he could say, no amount of pleading, begging, threatening, had helped Candy to either stop her drinking problem or go on a diet. His thin bride of eighteen years had ballooned in the just the last three years to over 350 pounds and she now regularly downed ten vodka-tonics in tumblers before dinner. He gave up counting how many she had every night after her huge dinner. She just passed out in her bedroom, eating and drinking while watching television.
He had moved into his own bedroom almost two years ago now.
Something had gone horribly wrong in both of their lives and their marriage, and he had no real idea what. He had remained thin, actually five pounds under their marriage weight, and he seldom drank anymore. His work took him around the world on business trips and for years Candy went with him on many of the trips.
But then, three years ago, it all changed and changed suddenly. She started drinking and eating and quickly grew tired of the traveling as well, deciding instead to simply stay at home and indulge herself.
At one point, a year ago, he had begged her to go to counseling with him and she had shrugged and gone along. But in the sessions it quickly became clear she was never going to stop either overeating or drinking. She just didn’t seem to see why she should.
When the counselor finally got her to tell him why, clearly, so that she, the councelor, could understand her, she had simply said, “Why not.”
“I still don’t understand,” the counselor had said.
Candy had looked at her with disgust, then said simply, “You haven’t heard? The world is ending December 21st, 2012. So why shouldn’t I enjoy this last year?”
Since that point, Elliot and Candy had argued many, many times over her belief. He had kept asking her what if she was wrong, what then? She had flatly said time and time again that she wasn’t wrong.
He had demanded over and over for her to explain how could she be so certain.
The Mayan calendar is ending on that date,” she had said, as if that explained everything. “I just know my life, your life, will end that day. I can feel it.”
Now, as he unpacked from his last trip, she sat in his bedroom on his dressing chair.
“Tomorrow’s the big day,” Candy said between bites of the maple bar and sips off the vodka-tonic. A large smear of chocolate streaked her cheek but she didn’t seem to care. She hadn’t been out of her bathrobe in weeks and he doubted from her sour smell that she had even taken a shower in that amount of time either. He had been in Europe the last two weeks and had only gotten home a few hours before.
“So,” Elliot asked, repeating a question he had asked every time she said something about her insanity, “what happens if the world doesn’t end tomorrow?”
“Oh, it will,” she said before taking a huge bite of the maple bar, chewing twice, then washing it down with a large gulp of vodka.
Elliot just shook his head. How could a woman he had loved so deeply, still loved, actually, gone so far off track? He had read a dozen books about insanity and nothing about Candy’s seem to even fit a pattern. He could even remember the night it had started. Back in 2009 she had come to bed late after watching a History Channel special on how the world was supposed to end on December 21st, 2012, the last day of the Mayan calendar. She was both excited and agitated at the idea, and he had listened only half-heartedly at what she had said that night.
Over the next few weeks after that, she never stopped talking about the topic, even on a trip together to London, one of her favorite cities. At one point on that trip she stood looking up at Big Ben and said, “Isn’t it a shame that all of this will be gone in three years?”
He had changed the subject, hating even talking about predictions of any future. That was for those crazies who believed in that mumbo-jumbo. He was a believer in right now. The present. Today. The future would be what the future would be. And Candy, up until that point, had been as down-to-earth as he was.
Not any more. She was as crazy as they came.
He turned from his unpacking and looked at the mess of a human being his wife had become. “I guess tomorrow we shall see, won’t we?”
“That we will,” she said, smiling. “I plan on spending the day on the deck, watching the world end over the ocean. Would you like to join me?”
“Thank you, dear,” he said, turning back to his now almost empty suitcase on the bed so that she wouldn’t notice how disgusted at her he felt. “I’ll do my best to make it back from the office in time.”
“With the world ending, why bother to go into the office at all?”
He shrugged, keeping his back to her. “I just like the routine is all. It’s comforting.”
“Well do hurry home,” she said. Then grunting, she hefted herself out of the chair and waddled down the hall toward the kitchen.
He had no intention of being home tomorrow, end of the world or not. He’d deal with her the following day, after her fixation had been p
roven wrong.
Then maybe he could help her, find her the help she needed.
Three
Elliot Leiferman: December 21st, 2012, near Death Valley
The car hit ninety easily as he took the Jaguar down the straightaway out onto the desert road headed toward Death Valley. The old highway was almost never used anymore, and to even get on it he had had to move a road-closed sign, but he loved the freedom of the straight pavement and the speed he could safely drive without worrying about any patrols stopping him.
Thunderclouds threatened in the low hills in the distance, but the cab of the Jaguar kept him comfortable from the intense heat and safe from the blowing sand. This morning Candy had been like a schoolgirl in her excitement. How anyone could be excited about the end of the world was beyond him, but for weeks the news reports had gone on and one about the Mayan Calendar coming to an end today, and this morning’s headlines were “End of the World?”
The entire thing just annoyed him.
It was not only stupid, but it had cost him the women he loved. He wanted this past, he wanted to help Candy get healthy again, stop drinking, lose weight, become the woman he had married.
But that wasn’t going to happen until he got home tonight and the world hadn’t ended. Then he could start helping her recover for real and maybe even get to the root cause of why she had believed the end was coming anyway.
The smooth ride of the Jaguar ate up mile after mile of the old road, taking him deeper and deeper into the desert. Even at this time of the year, the temperature outside his car was a warm ninety degrees and he had the air conditioning holding him in comfort. He had come to learn that there were real advantages to having large amounts of money, the beautiful home in Malibu was one, this car was another.
He loved this car, and lately had taken more and more long drives in it when home just to get away from Candy.
He looked out over the expanse of desert around him, letting himself relax into the drive. Wouldn’t it be funny if the world actually did end today while he was in the desert? He snorted to himself and snapped on the radio, letting it search for a radio station.
Normal music playing, no alarms, nothing different.
Nothing was ending today.
He let the miles drift by as he thought about all the wonderful times he and Candy used to have and the hope that starting tomorrow, they could rebuild that old life once again.
The sun was starting to touch the horizon; the day was nearing an end. Candy was going to need him later tonight. He had no doubt she would pass out from all the drinking, but at least he could be there to take care of her. For the first time in a year, he felt he wanted to. Something that she had believed in deeply was about to not happen and she would need help getting through that.
He let the car slow down to under sixty and glanced around at the vast expanse of nothingness. Amazing that in such a crowded place as California, there could be so many thousands of square miles of nothingness.
At that moment he noticed a faint light on the dashboard. He slammed on the breaks and came to a stop in the middle of the old road.
The gas warning light was on.
Oh, God, no. He had no idea how long it had been on, but it was unlikely he had enough gas to make it back to the roadblock he had moved, gone around, and then replaced. That had to be seventy or more miles back at least.
It had never occurred to him to get gas before he left. His thoughts had been on Candy and the end of the world, not his wonderful car.
He swung the Jaguar into a quick three-point turn on the narrow old road, and started back west into the glowing orange of the sun as it sat over the Pacific in the far distance.
He had to stay calm, think this through.
At that moment the finely tuned car that had run so smoothly for so long sputtered, caught again, then sputtered and shut down.
He was out of gas.
On a closed old highway near Death Valley.
Oh, God, oh God, oh God, what had he done?
The steering was heavy in his hands as took the car out of drive and coasted to a stop.
At the last moment he eased the car off to the side of the road, letting the Jaguar come to rest in a very shallow ditch, its front bumper resting lightly against an old wooden post of a long gone fence. No point in taking a chance that someone else out speeding on this old road would plow into his car in the middle of the night. He just hoped that bumping the old fence post hadn’t scratched the bumper.
He snapped out his cell phone and looked at the signal.
Nothing.
And he had never bothered to have a tracking satellite system installed, even though the dealer had suggested it. He had never figured it would be needed in his drives around Malibu.
He glanced around.
Death Valley.
A closed road with no traffic.
Nothing within seventy or more miles from him.
God, oh God. What could he do? His stomach twisted like he was about to be sick.
He couldn’t let himself panic. He had to think this through. If he panicked, he was as good as dead.
He pushed open the door and let the hot wind of the early evening blow dust into his just cleaned car. In front of him, the sun had set.
He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 5:30.
Six-and-one half more hours for the world to survive to prove he was right and Candy and all the other doomsday shouters wrong.
He unbuckled his seat belt and climbed out of the car, standing in the middle of the road in the fading light and looking in both directions, fighting down the panic that threatened to choke him at any moment. His only hope of getting out of this stupid mess was to stay calm.
No point in trying anything until light. Even with the sun just barely set, he could feel a bite to the air. It was going to be a long, cold night.
He went back to the Jaguar and checked for anything that might help him make it more comfortably. Nothing. He kept the Jaguar’s truck clean enough to eat out of, and he had not thought to bring either food or drink with him.
He had on light slacks, a light shirt, and not much else.
He went back to the car, buckled himself back into the driver’s seat, reclined the seat just slightly, and shut the door.
He had no idea just how cold it got later that evening. But it was colder than he had ever experienced or imagined possible.
Four
Elliot Leiferman: December 22nd, 2012, near Death Valley
The cold had drained Elliot more than he had ever imagined it could. His stomach was threatening to claw its way out of his body from hunger, and his lips were already chapped from no water and the extreme dry air.
At sunrise, he had managed to stagger out of the car and back onto the road. Then he had started walking back toward the roadblock at the same pace he used on the gym’s treadmill, a steady 4 miles per hour.
After an hour his speed had slowed and he knew, without a doubt, that he had no chance of making that walk clear back to the roadblock. The intense cold of the night was already being replaced by the hot, dry heat of the day, and the constant wind and blowing sand seemed to suck every ounce of moisture from his body.
His only hope was to return to the car and pray that someone either spotted him from the air or happened to drive by. Even if Candy noticed he was missing and reported that to the police, no one would know where to look. He had never told anyone he used this old highway to take drives on.
He barely made it back to the car, again snapping himself into his seat with his seat belt and leaving the door open for ventilation.
Yesterday clearly hadn’t been the end of the world, at least not for Candy. But it might have been for him unless he got very, very lucky.
That night, after a long, very hot day, the night again got bitingly cold and thunderstorms echoed through the desert, sending flashes of bright white light to show him the vast wasteland and how hopeless his situation really was.
A flash flood also washed out the bridge near the roadblock that night, making it impossible for any car to travel the old county road again.
The next morning he again started off on the walk out, but this time turned around after just a mile, almost too weak at that point to make it back to the car.
He slept off and on through the rest of the heat of the day and into the biting cold of the night, his seat belt holding him in place. The hood of his car and that fence post learning against the bumper of his Jaguar became his entire world as he drifted in and out of consciousness.
By the third day, Elliot’s strength was gone. He could barely keep his eyes open as the intense heat of the day drained what will to live he had away.
His mind escaped the constant of the old fence post, drifting back to the good days with Candy, the fun they had had, the trips they had taken.
Candy had been right.
If had just listened to her, drank with her, ate with her, got fat with her, enjoyed the last three years as she had done, he wouldn’t be sitting where he was, dying from the heat and thirst and hunger, staring at on old fence post.
He had caused the world, as he and Candy knew it, to end on the last day of the Mayan calendar.
He had caused it by not believing it could happen.
Yet it had. The world had ended.
“I’m so sorry, Candy,” he managed to whisper through cracked, dry lips.
As he slipped off into his last sleep, the sun beating down on the top of his Jaguar, he asked one last question, hoping somehow that Candy could hear him all the way out in Malibu.
How did the Mayans know?
About the Author
Bestselling author Dean Wesley Smith has written more than one hundred popular novels and hundreds of published short stories. Numbers of his stories besides this one have appeared in various aspects of different Twilight Zone. He originally sold two stories to the Twilight Zone Magazine but both ended up in the sister magazine Night Cry. He also had a story in the first Twilight Zone anthology.
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