Disappearance

by Ryan Wiley

I check the time again – eight thirty. I figure now is a good time to get everything in place. I take my gun and the box of bullets. If it speeds past me, I’ll only have time for one good shot — maybe two — but I want to have the bullets near me just in case.

  Seeing me grab my gun seems to get Tabby out of her daze. She looks up at me like a worried mother looks at her son before leaving for military duty.

  “It’s OK Tabby. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

  I’ve just told my first lie to my baby. Something bad is about to happen. I’m not sure what, or if it will be bad for the car or me, but something bad is definitely going to happen soon.

  Every minute I turn my head from one side of the highway to the other. To keep myself occupied, I recheck the holster to make sure the gun is locked and loaded.

  Getting antsier, I check the time and see I still have twenty minutes before they should arrive. This is too much time to waste standing here so I get ready to do another test shot with the gun to make sure it’s working. The last thing I want is to be in the perfect position only to discover the safety is on or the gun isn’t firing for whatever reason.

  The “No U-Turn” sign seems to be the perfect target practice. As always, I get into position far enough away that I don’t think debris will come back and hit me. I aim, this time able to stretch out my arm far enough that I can look down the barrel and properly aim. The sign is large from this distance that it only takes a second to measure it up. Then, I pull the trigger.

  The gun kicks up into the air. I almost fall to the ground from the explosion. When the smoke clears I see the sign has been blasted to bits. I love this gun!

  I’m glad I did the test run, because now I know I need to have a better stance to keep my balance. For this shot I was standing as if I were getting ready to walk. Instead, I now know I need to have my left foot well out in front of my right. Common sense, I’m sure, for most country boys, but I grew up without getting my hands dirty.

  I’m now confident and ready for the black car. I look in the car window and see it’s 8:58. It’s amazing how time can slow down when you don’t want it to. I look down at Tabby who is staring at me with her worried face.

  “I’m worried too Tabby, it’s OK.”

  I turn my head from side to side every five seconds trying to find the black car. I can visualize it coming down the highway as far as I can see. It moves at breakneck speed as I get my gun ready. When it gets close, I take aim at a front tire and pull the trigger. It hits and the black car spins out of control tumbling over — finally stopping at my feet.

  That’s the fairy tale scenario. If it were a week ago I might have expected it to happen like that. Now, I know even the simplest things have proven difficult.

  More minutes pass but there’s no sign of the black car anywhere. It’s now time for it to be here.

  The silence of the world around me is still hard to adjust to. In the regular world there’s almost always some kind of sound to distract your attention, whether it’s the TV, the radio, having a conversation, or the regular clicks and clacks you hear at work. Even when you’re outside, you hear birds or cars or something. It’s never totally silent… except for this past week.

  That’s why it’s easy to hear the black car coming up behind me. It makes its way up the road I just came from. Unlike every other time I’ve seen the black car, it’s moving at the speed limit. It approaches the stop sign that leads to the highway, which is only about thirty yards from where I’m standing. Adding further to my surprise, the black car comes to a complete stop.

  The car is close enough that I can see clearly there still isn’t anyone behind the wheel. It stays stopped like it’s looking at me and wondering what I’m going to do.

  The truth is I have no idea what to do. This wasn’t part of the plan. I hold my gun tight in both hands, wondering if I should shoot at one of the tires. My hands are shaking but I could probably steady them enough to hit them. Something inside of me is telling me this isn’t what I should do, though.

  Instead, I take one slow, careful step toward the black car. Then another. Worst case, I figure, if it speeds after me I can dodge out of the way. Since it’s so close, it can’t gain much speed at me.

  I continue walking and the black car remains still. I don’t hear the engine running; does this mean it’s electrically powered? Since I’ve never seen this type of car before I can only assume that’s why it’s not making any noise.

  I make my way to the driver’s side window and realize I’m afraid to even touch the car — images of being shocked to death flow through my mind. I peek inside to see if anyone’s hiding somewhere inside, but it’s empty. It’s just sitting here as if it’s off in a parking lot somewhere.

  I decide I’m going to touch the car, just to see what happens and because I want to get inside. I reach my left hand out and touch the window… nothing. No electrocution, no engine kicking back on, no movement. Nothing.

  I try opening the door but it’s locked. Go figure.

  I’m stumped on what to do next. Should I take a shot at one of the windows? I’m so scared now I can hardly breathe. I ask myself why I’m this terrified. It’s just a car; I’m in no real danger unless it somehow self-destructs. Then I remember something said in one of my psychology classes in college discussing how we are afraid of the unknown. That’s what is making me so scared. I have no clue what this damn car is going to do next. It could transform into an alien spaceship for all I know.

  My emotions turn to anger and without thinking I kick the side of the car hard.

  “What the hell do you want from me?”

  I look around, hoping to spot someone watching. I’ll bet they’re getting a good laugh out of this. Fortunately I don’t see anyone, because I wouldn’t hesitate for a second to let my gun loose on them. I’m no person to be messing with right now.

  That’s it. I can’t take it any more. I take several steps back, a safe distance from anything that could fly back at me. I hold up my gun, aiming to make the bullet go through the driver and passenger side front windows. My hand is shaking uncontrollably as I put my finger on the trigger. Feet apart this time, taking one deep breath, I fire.

  The bullet ricochets off the window and I’m fortunate it doesn’t come back and hit me. I move to the side to fire my next round. This time I shoot at the body of the car. When I look I expect to see a good size dent at least, but instead it makes a loud ding and that’s it. No visible damage to the car. I could empty out all of the bullets I have and this car would sit there and smile at me.

  The last thing I can think to try is one of the tires. There’s no way a tire could be bulletproof could it? I stand back, making sure again to have a good angle so it doesn’t bounce back and kill me. I pull the trigger but instead of a loud bang, I hear a click — I’m out of bullets.

  I forget this isn’t the movies where the guns have an endless supply of ammo. This is real life — or some distorted version of it.

  Having no bullets in my gun I feel defenseless. This needs to be corrected at once. The box of bullets is on the ground by the Honda. I start walking backwards toward them, making sure to keep my eyes on the car. If it speeds towards me, I’m close enough that I could dodge it.

  I feel like I’m in a western, giving the stare down to an enemy. As I take another backwards step, the back of my foot hits the bullets. I pick them up and go behind the car to reload. That way, if the car does speed toward me while I’m distracted, I’ll at least have a car between us to minimize the blow.

  I reload, making sure to keep my eyes on the black car as much as possible. I look at Tabby who is lying on the dashboard watching me. It’s hard for me to gage her reaction. Cats would make excellent poker players.

  I walk back to the car with the fully loaded gun in my hands. I go to the passenger side this time and peek inside again. All I see is a very clean and polished black interior.

  I try the passenger door, fully expecting it not to open. With g
reat surprise, though, when I pull on the handle it does open. How odd, the driver’s side is locked but the passenger door is unlocked?

  This newfound discovery has opened up a world of new possibilities. I step into the car and sit down on the leather seats. I can now see that the lights in the dashboard are, in fact, on. Was it like this before or did it just happen when I opened the door? Regardless, the car is on now. A single key is turned on in the ignition, as well as a large button by the steering wheel with a blue light that says “On”.

  I lay my gun down and crawl into the drivers seat. Something tells me this is going to be a very fun car to drive. I reach for the safety belt and realize there isn’t one — not on the other side either. That’s just great, any collision in this car and I’ll be flying through the window. I reach over to put the car into drive but it’s stuck. How on Earth is it stuck? Then I realize I didn’t put my foot on the brake. “Ahhh, you dummy!” This shows how nervous I am. I take a deep breathe and try to calm myself down. I put my foot on the brake and try again to put it in drive, but it’s still stuck.

  “What am I doing wrong now?”

  I reach for the key to turn the car off and back on again, but the key won’t budge either. I push the “On” button but it doesn’t even move, click, or anything. The blue light remains on. Is there some trick to getting this thing to move? Voice activation, maybe?

  “Turn On. Go. Drive. Forward.” Nothing works and I sound like an idiot. I start kicking the dashboard, hoping to jar something loose and get the car back to life. From my experiences with electronics, kicking them works a surprising number of times. Not this time though.

  I look around, trying to find the one magical button or lever that will take this car off into the sunset. While I don’t find a button to start the car, I do find one that piques my interest — the trunk opener. I lift up on it, not expecting it to do anything. This time I’m more fortunate. I hear a “boing” and turn around to see the trunk door rising up. I reach over to get out of the car, but the driver side door doesn’t open from the inside either — the owner should get that fixed.

  I crawl my way back over to the passenger side and out the door. I walk over with giddy anticipation as to what’s in the trunk.

  What I see makes my jaw drop in horror. Crumpled car pieces I can only assume are from Abby’s car, and Cujo’s bloody and grotesque head — his dead eyes staring back at me.

  Chapter 19

  “Oh my God!” I take my gun and look around again for someone watching me. This has to be one sick prank, and here’s the proof. It doesn’t explain why the car drives all by itself, but it certainly explains that someone put all this shit in the car when I wasn’t looking. After all, the car doesn’t have arms (at least not any I can see).

  It also means someone is close; I’ve never felt more unsafe. I storm over to the Honda and open up the trunk to pull out my ax. If someone is watching me, I might as well give them a good show. With gun and ax in hand, I go to the mystery black car with vengeance.

  I drop the gun to the ground and take a firm baseball grip to my undersized ax. I aim my best swing at the front tire. The blade hits the tire and bounces back hard like a toy bouncing ball shooting up from the ground. This unexpected force causes my left arm to throb with pain, which only makes me angrier. Holding it with just my right hand now, I take a chop at the side of the car but I’m met with the same undamaged result.

  What the hell is this made out of? It has to be some kind of material unseen on the market. I don’t even see a scratch where I hit it with my ax. I give it a couple more swings and only get more useless results.

  Giving up on the ax, I’m out of good ideas but I start with closing the trunk. I don’t want to see that ever again. The moment the trunk door closes, the car starts to move about as slowly as a car can move.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  It’s headed straight for the Honda. At this speed it’s bound to cause little or no damage but I keep an eye on it anyway. Once it gets close enough to where I think it’s going to crash, it makes a sharp left turn and stops only a few feet away from the Honda. I hear a clicking sound, which can only mean the car either fully locked or unlocked. I try the passenger door and see it’s locked. I move over to the driver’s side and that side is locked too. This keeps getting weirder and weirder.

  I get the feeling I’m being tested, like this is a puzzle I have to figure out. I don’t have the faintest idea how to solve it, though. All I know is over the past few days this car has done everything it could to prevent me from going near it, but now it’s almost demanding I get back inside.

  That’s when an idea occurs to me. I’ve learned growing up that if you want a bully to stop picking on you, you have to think of the absolute last thing they want to happen, and then you go do it. Most kids think that’s telling the teacher, but to a bully that’s almost wanted. It gives him another reason to pummel you. No, the last thing a bully wants you to do is fight back. He likes it when you’re scared and submissive, but the moment you start throwing a few punches is when he’ll leave you alone and look for easier targets.

  With the black car and whoever is watching me, I think the last thing they want is for me to leave. I’ll bet they’re thriving on my reactions. As much as this black car fascinates me and piques my interest, I’m going to drive off as if I don’t care anymore.

  I get the keys out of my pocket and climb back into the Honda. Tabby is sitting on the driver’s seat so I reach down to move her, but she jumps out.

  “Tabby, get back here!”

  When I look over, she’s pawing at the black car’s door.

  “Tabby, let’s go. It’s locked.”

  She ignores me and continues to paw at the door. I turn back and yell at her again, “Tabby, it’s locked. There’s nothing I can do. See…” When I try the door handle again, the door opens up. How can this be? I’ve been within earshot of the car since I last tried the doors and would have heard it unlock. With the door cracked open, Tabby jumps in the passenger seat.

  I turn away for what I think is the briefest of moments when something happens — the worst thing I can possibly imagine happening. The black car takes off, and with its momentum the car door slams shut — leaving Tabby trapped inside.

  “Noooo!” I get into the Honda and turn the ignition. The engine only sputters. This can’t be happening now, did I leave the lights on? I check then look up and see the black car starting to disappear far off into the distance. I try the key again, “Come on damn it. Work!” This little pep talk seems to do the trick because the engine kicks on. I put the car in drive and speed off after the black car that’s carrying my precious Tabby.

  The Honda doesn’t quite move like the BMW, but it’s pretty fast. I’ve managed to get the car going fast enough now that the black car is still within view, but I have some catching up to do.

  I feel like a crazed mother whose child has gone missing. That cat saved my life and now it’s time I return the favor.

  I’m headed north, the opposite direction of where I’d want to be going. I’ve been this way a couple times already, and it doesn’t stir up any pleasant memories. Going up my famous hill — where just off the road a tree was struck by lightning — my Honda reaches ninety miles per hour. Anything faster makes me think the screws will pop out. I seem to be gaining on the black car but not fast enough.

  I wonder what Tabby is thinking. Is she scared? Does she even understand what’s happening?

  I keep a steady grip on the wheel and think about what I’ll do when I catch up to it. I can’t wreck the car with Tabby inside — she’ll die in a crash at these speeds. What can I do? Not in my wildest dreams do I expect the car to slow down. Shooting the tires also does no good; I’ve already proven this car is bulletproof from top to bottom. The only option I can think of that might not involve Tabby or me getting killed is to drive ahead and then slam on my brakes, letting the black car crash into the back of me. If I do this I
can hopefully slow it down enough that it stops.

  It doesn’t seem like much of a plan, but it’s the only one I have. When I make my way down the hill I push one hundred miles per hour. It terrifies me beyond belief going this fast but I’m getting closer.

  Then the black car does something I never would have expected. It pulls over to the side of the road and makes a complete stop. I pull up behind it, wondering why it stopped here. Then I look over to see this particular part of the highway doesn’t have a guardrail. It should though, because off the road is a steep hill — a hill I’m all too familiar with. This is the exact point where I wrecked Abby’s car.

  I get out of the Honda and walk toward the black car, making sure my ax and gun are firmly in hand. Halfway there I look out over the hill to see if anything has changed. It hasn’t. It’s still an empty piece of land with no sign of my previously wrecked car. When I get to the passenger side window, I see Tabby in the seat. To me she looks terrified but who knows what’s going on inside her head. I try the door but it’s locked. I want more than anything to get her out. I call to her to get back so I can make another attempt at shooting or axing my way through the window. No matter what I say, whatever pointing and speaking I do, she doesn’t understand me. She just paws at the window and meows.

  “Tabby, get back so I don’t hurt you!”

  I walk over to the driver’s side, hoping Tabby won’t follow me over but she does. I know at any moment — any second — the black car may spontaneously start driving off again. I decide I have to take another shot at the window, even if Tabby is there. I’ll shoot at the front window since I’ve never officially tried that yet.

  First, I try the driver’s side door in case by some miracle it’s unlocked. When I reach for the handle I don’t even give it much of an attempt because I’m fully expecting it to not work. However, when I flip the handle and the door cracks open I can’t believe my unexpected fortune. Tabby finds the crack in the door and pushes her way out before I even get to open it all the way. She doesn’t run off, though; she looks up at me wondering what I’m going to do next. I stare right back at her, as if looking to her for any good answers.