EQMM, June 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  From the side, it was easier to get a good look. He was a big guy, not tall but broad, wide across the shoulders, thick in the middle. If he had a neck, Simon couldn't see it—his helmet sat right on his linebacker shoulders. His pants tucked snuggly into his boots, pulling tight around his bulging calves. His hands, covered with black leather gloves, were also huge. Clenching the handlebars, they made the bike seem undersized beneath him, like a toy.

  Simon realized this guy didn't seem like a guy at all. He seemed more like the creature on the back of his jacket—a bear. He suddenly wished he could see the guy's face. Would he look like Grizzly Adams, hair all over the place? He chuckled at the thought.

  As if sensing he was being mocked, the biker turned and looked. It was then that Simon realized he had made a terrible mistake, lingering like this; imagining the eyes staring at him from behind the face shield sent a chill up his spine. He did not know this man, had no idea where he was going or why, but he sensed that this was not somebody to mess with. This was not a man you stared at, not for five seconds, not even for one. He wasn't threatening in a Hell's Angel sort of way, all bravado and bullying. Most bikers acted tough because they didn't want to fight, hoping their image of toughness would be enough to scare you away. No, Simon got the feeling this guy didn't care about projecting an image of toughness.

  He didn't need to act tough because he was.

  As if he had just come face-to-face with a rattlesnake, Simon turned slowly toward the road, applying gentle pressure to the accelerator.

  But as he accelerated, the biker also increased his speed. Forty-five miles an hour ... Fifty ... Fifty-five...

  The end of the passing lane was coming up in a hurry. The guy stayed right there, across from his window. Simon didn't dare look, but he saw well enough with his peripheral vision that the guy was still looking at him.

  A yellow sign warned of the end of the passing lane. Sixty ... Sixty-five ... Seventy ... For Christ's sake, the guy would not back off. The dotted white line vanished, the two lanes merging into one. His heart racing, Simon punched the accelerator and his Miata jerked forward.

  He hoped one last burst of speed would propel him past the biker, but the guy stayed neck and neck. Worse, the road brought them together like two canoes in a narrowing river, and soon the guy was so close to his passenger-side window that Simon couldn't help but look. There, beyond the rain-streaked glass, lost in all that black leather, was the shiny faceplate still looking straight at him.

  Cursing, Simon hit his brakes.

  The biker sped past. Immediately the guy started to slow down—dropping, dropping some more, forcing Simon to keep tapping the brakes, until they were all the way back down to thirty again.

  "I don't believe this,” Simon said aloud.

  He honked his horn a few more times. Again, the guy puttered along, not once turning to look back at his follower. There wasn't another passing lane for at least ten miles. At this pace, the poker games would be shut down for the night by the time he got there.

  Simon thought about taking his chances across the double yellow line, but as if in response to his thought, a pair of headlights emerged from the gloom and a van whipped past, rocking his car and spraying his windshield.

  He laid on his horn, then gave the guy's back a double bird. Still nothing. Maybe the guy was deaf. He drummed his fingers on his steering wheel. He'd just have to bide his time. There was a place to pass in a few minutes, and if he had even a hint of open road, he'd go for it. Show this punk what real speed was all about.

  But when he reached the area to pass, and started to make his move, the guy sped up again.

  Totally unbelievable. The guy was determined to be an absolute prick. This went on for another ten minutes—slowing in the double yellows, speeding up in the passing areas—until finally Simon couldn't take it anymore. He was going to pass and damn the consequences. The jerk was on a motorcycle, for Christ's sake. He would have to back off or he'd end up flying over his handlebars.

  The nachos and cheese he'd had an hour earlier now came back to haunt him; his stomach churned and gurgled. He'd need a bathroom before too long. He was halfway to the coast now, in one of the darker stretches; the dense forest on both sides crowded the twisting road, the branches reaching overhead, creating a canopy. They passed a wooden sign indicating they were in the Van Duzen National Forest. Simon knew that except for a rest stop and a campground, there wouldn't be any other sign of people for twenty miles.

  At least the rain had lessened to a light drizzle, allowing him to turn down his wipers. He passed up a couple of opportunities to pass until he hit the spot he wanted—another downhill slope with a passing lane. Then he bore down on the gas. His quick move got him alongside his companion, but as expected, the biker matched him.

  Simon clamped down on the steering wheel. He felt his pulse in his hands. They streaked down the hill, the forest a blur on both sides. The extra speed increased the moisture spattering his windshield, making the glass blurry for seconds at a time, but Simon didn't want to take his hands off the wheel to speed up the wipers.

  They barreled along, his speedometer passing over seventy, then eighty, then ninety...

  As his engine screamed, Simon held his breath. The dotted white line vanished. The road narrowed. The punk still wasn't backing off, and there was no way Simon was letting off the juice now. He took a quick glance at the biker and, with a chill, saw the guy look over at the same time.

  The extra lane disappeared, and then the two of them shared a lane, Simon partially over the double yellow. A bend in the road loomed ahead, a wall of trees beyond it.

  Knowing his Miata cornered well, he kept his speed high and squealed around the bend. The biker stayed right with him, leaning into the curve, his shoulder nearly touching Simon's passenger-side window. That's when a pair of headlights appeared.

  Simon had only a second to react. The gap between the lights made him think the vehicle was a semi or a motor home, and he jerked his wheel to the right. He knew the biker was there, but he had no other choice. As the truck—and it was indeed a semi truck—rumbled past, shaking his little car with its wall of wind, the Miata bumped the motorcycle.

  The guy swerved onto the shoulder and beyond, kicking up a shower of mud. Simon's momentum drifted him toward the shoulder, and for a second he thought he was going to hit the guy again, but the biker suddenly dropped behind. By then they had rounded the corner and Simon had the Miata under control.

  He gasped for breath, finally remembering to breathe. Heart pounding in his ears, he roared up a hill in the storm, nothing but open road in front of him. The surge of adrenaline lit every one of his senses on fire. He'd done it. He'd actually done it. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he saw only blurry darkness behind him. The guy was gone. He must have pulled off, shaken up by the whole thing. Simon had actually proven the cooler customer.

  "Hot damn,” he said.

  The glass splintered instantly into a spider web of cracks, the sound as loud as a gunshot. Simon yelped and ducked to the right, car swerving. He glanced up just in time to see a fist strike the window—a black leather fist wearing gleaming brass knuckles.

  This time the glass gave way in the center, shards landing on Simon's lap. The wind roared in his ears. Wet air rushed into the car, smelling of pine and mud. Simon saw the outline of the biker outside the window, and seeing the shine of the leather through the broken glass suddenly made the guy more real—as if before he was merely a projection of Simon's tired mind, or a villain in a video game.

  They neared the top of the hill. Leaning away from the window, Simon edged closer to the edge of the road, but the biker followed, punching the glass again. More glass went flying, and this time a piece struck him above his mouth.

  Tasting blood on his lips, Simon hit the brakes, hoping his attacker would race by, but the guy slowed along with him. The fist came through the window again, and this time the burly hand struck him on the cheek. It was only a glanc
ing blow, more leather than brass making contact, but it was still powerful enough to jerk his head to the right. Purple and red stars flashed in front of his eyes.

  When his vision cleared, the Miata was halfway in the ditch. As it plowed over the uneven ground, the car trembled and shook. The side of his face throbbing, the skin around his left eye already swelling, Simon steered the car back onto the highway. The biker was there, but Simon wasn't going to get punched again. As they roared over the hill, the night a swirl of black and green around them, he let out a primal scream and swerved at the biker.

  The guy was too fast. He moved even farther to the left. They banked around a gentle curve, and it was then that a white motor home emerged from the night like a whale surfacing from the depths of the ocean.

  Just in time, Simon whipped the Miata back into his own lane. He cringed, expecting to hear a sickening crunch.

  But there was no such sound.

  After the motor home roared past, blaring its horn, there was the biker on the far left shoulder, keeping pace. He turned and looked at Simon.

  Simon's stomach churned even worse—now he really needed a bathroom. As they hit another straight stretch, not a car in sight, the biker barreled across the lanes. Simon swerved back and forth, trying to keep his attacker at bay, but these feints didn't fool him. He turned along with Simon, and then deftly sidled up to him. Simon leaned away, expecting another blow, but this time the fist grabbed his steering wheel.

  The brass knuckles, shiny with moisture, were still there. The leather glove was covered with hundreds of pin-sized holes. Simon had no idea what the guy was doing until the wheel moved to the right. Along this stretch, the pine trees grew awfully close to the road, and if he hit one of them at this speed...

  Slamming on the brakes was the most obvious thing to do, and he almost did it, but then he had a flash of insight.

  With his left hand, he grabbed the door handle and jerked the door open, putting his forearm behind it.

  It worked better than he expected. The door struck the motorcycle's handlebars, sending them careening in the other direction. The biker obviously hadn't expected this move; he held onto the steering wheel a split second too long. His weight was going one way, his bike the other, and the bike began to tilt.

  In the next instant the biker was gone. This time Simon did hear the sound of a wreck—a series of bangs and thuds. Swerving into the center of his lane, he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw, through the smear of black and gray, a flickering headlight in the middle of the road, receding behind him. Then he rounded the corner and was alone with the rain and the highway.

  In addition to his throbbing cheek, his whole body was trembling. Nobody could survive a crash like that. He had killed a man. He had actually killed. Dear God ... His life was over. Even if it was manslaughter, he'd go away for years. His wife ... his daughter...

  He tasted bile. He clamped his hand over his mouth, and only through force of will did he keep from throwing up in the car. He descended a slight hill and, with fortunate timing, saw the sign for the Van Duzen National Forest Campground—and then another: Rest Area—1 Mile Ahead. He'd stupidly left his cell phone at home, so a pay phone was his best bet.

  He could make it to the rest area.

  The rain sliced into his car, dampening his left arm. The highway widened, a lane appearing in the center for a turnoff to the left, for the campground, and another lane on the right, to the rest area. Still shaking, he turned to the right, slowing gently, turning into the gap in the trees.

  He'd never been to this particular rest stop. He'd passed it lots of times, even a few times when he had to take a leak, but by the time he reached it the pull of the casino had always carried him the last twenty miles. But this time he couldn't wait, and he was glad when he entered the pothole-infested parking lot and saw no other cars. He didn't want anyone to see him in his present condition—or his smashed window. He still hadn't decided if he was going to go back and fess up to what he did.

  His mind raced, trying to understand how it all had happened. He had just wanted to pass. He didn't even see what he had done wrong. Honked the horn a few times, maybe. Had that really been enough for the guy to want to kill him?

  The rest stop was a lonely place, a few chipped picnic tables and a drab concrete box in a small clearing carved out of the forest; the pine trees, with their long, slender trunks and thick green branches high above, loomed a few dozen feet beyond a grassy area like a wall of spears. A single lamp shed its pale yellow light on the area. As he parked in front of the little building, the rain turned into a fierce downpour, and it sounded so much louder when he turned off his engine.

  He had killed a man.

  Stomach clenching, he threw open the door and ran toward the building. The frigid rain instantly soaked his hair, cutting through his thin cotton shirt like icy needles. The wind whispered through the trees, stirring up the paper plates and cups on the ground near the overflowing garbage can. The phone booth was on the far side, near the women's door, but he couldn't wait. Dodging the puddles in the sidewalk, he sprinted to the green door marked Men. When he grabbed the cold metal handle, the door opened (thank God, thank God) and he sprinted inside.

  The room was dank and cramped, smelling of piss and mold. A single amber light above the cracked mirror and the metal sink was the only thing keeping the darkness at bay. There were two urinals to the left of the sink, two green stalls immediately to the left of the urinals. Gritty tile floor, lots of small white squares streaked with mud. Shoebox-sized vents near the ceiling. Stumbling into the first stall, he took it all in with a glance.

  He barely made it down to the bowl before the contents of his stomach surged out of his mouth. Again and again, he threw up, until there was nothing left but dry heaves and the horrible acid burn in his throat and his nose. He hugged the cold metal, his head bent into the bowl and all its foulness, sobbing now. The damp ground soaked through his pants and chilled his knees.

  The restroom door swung open.

  There was no creak, just the distinctive swoosh of the door and the increasing loudness of the rain. Simon froze. The stall door had shut behind him, but he knew whoever it was could see his knees. They would have seen his car. Might have seen the wreck. Maybe it was a policeman, already come to haul him away.

  Simon didn't make a sound. The restroom door swung shut, muting the storm. Only a dripping faucet broke the silence. After a few seconds, he heard footsteps, water dripping on the tiles, the rustle of heavy clothing. He half expected his stall door to swing open, but instead he saw a glistening black boot appear on the ground, only inches from his knee. The mud-coated toe pointed in the direction of the urinal Simon knew was right next to the stall.

  A black boot.

  Simon's despair was quickly washed away by an all-consuming dread. His breath caught in his throat. It couldn't be.... The man could never have survived. It had to be someone else. It had to be.

  As Simon remained absolutely rigid, he heard a zipper, then the tinkle of fluid hitting the metal urinal.

  He felt himself relax slightly. It was just some traveler, stopping to relieve himself of his coffee. Maybe he hadn't even noticed Simon. If Simon just waited, maybe he would go away.

  But then Simon felt a splash of warm liquid hitting his knee, and he realized, with a shock, that the man was pissing on him. With a startled cry, he scooted away from the line of piss, which continued splashing against the tiles. His heart thundered in his ears. The piss dribbled to a stop, and then he heard the zipper. He saw the boot turn, two boots appearing, both facing his direction.

  Simon pressed his back against the other side of the stall, his body shaking. The boots didn't move for the longest time. Simon waited for a gloved fist to smash through the stall, right in the middle of all the Johnny+Suzie and For a Good Time Call messages scratched on the green metal. But instead, the boots turned away. As Simon sat rigid, waiting for his stall door to bang open, he heard the footsteps mo
ve away. The restroom door swung open.

  Soon he heard nothing but the tinking faucet. Simon had no idea how long he knelt there, but it was a long time. Then, when he actually wanted to move, he found he couldn't. Would the biker be waiting outside? Or had it merely been a mistake, pissing on him like that? Maybe it wasn't the biker. Maybe...

  The roar of an engine out in the parking lot made him jump. He knew the sound. It was the biker. He heard the screech of tires, and then the sound of the engine moving away. He breathed a sigh. The guy was just toying with him one last time.

  He was going away. It was over.

  Shakily, Simon rose. He flushed the toilet, washed his mouth in the sink, then used damp paper towels to wipe off the piss on his pants. Breathing a sigh, he pushed through the restroom door and out into the rain. He didn't mind the water drenching him—he wished he could be submerged in it, like jumping into the ocean. He walked toward the phone booth, and as he neared, he saw that the metal cord had actually been severed. Had the biker cut it? The rain suddenly felt colder, and he turned, taking a few cautious steps down the sidewalk toward his car.

  Until that moment, he hadn't realized that he was holding his breath. He took several long, shuddering gulps of air, then continued on to his car. Why would the biker cut the cord? Unless...

  That's when he heard a roar from the trees.

  He stopped. At first, he thought it was an animal, a mountain lion or a black bear, and he turned in the sound's direction. It was coming from somewhere in the forest beyond the asphalt. Then he caught a glint of metal, and he saw a black shadow emerge from the darkness. A wheel appeared. Chrome. And then he saw the biker rolling out of the trees, like an apparition of death itself.

  The rain created tiny white explosions on the blacktop between them. The biker, front tire poised at the curb, gunned his engine. His headlamp was smashed. Simon was halfway between his car and the restroom, and he knew this was exactly what the biker had wanted.

  He broke into a run, heading for his Miata.