by C. K. Vile
He looked over and saw the two truck drivers in the gas station parking lot lumbering in their direction. They were comically large and had murder in their eyes.
He looked down at Danielle, still on the concrete. Admittedly, it looked bad.
Nick braced himself for a beat-down.
“Guys, wait, I can explain.” Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he could. Not that he got a chance.
The first guy, a chunky man of over six feet in a Zeppelin shirt, grabbed Nick by the throat. “How do you like it, buddy?”
Nick couldn’t respond. Or breathe. Any air he had left in his lungs came gushing out when Zeppelin socked him in the stomach. Twice.
Nick doubled over and dropped to the ground. He looked up in time to see the second man swing his steel-toed boot into his ribs.
The back of his head hit cement.
Zeppelin helped Danielle up.
Despite not having any breath, Nick didn’t know when to shut up.
“She’s fucking crazy,” he croaked.
“Motherfucker. You like to beat on women? You a big man?” Steel-Toes picked Nick up by the back of his neck and punched him square in the mouth. The taste of copper filled it.
Nick fell back against Danielle’s car. He wiped his mouth and pulled away crimson fingers. Split lip for sure.
Zeppelin was satisfied Danielle was okay and took another shot at Nick’s stomach.
She spoke up. “Guys, okay, he’s had enough.”
“You sure?” Steel-Toes cracked his thick knuckles. “I’m off the road, I’ve got all night to teach this piece of shit a lesson.”
Zeppelin grabbed Nick by the hair. “Me too.”
Danielle picked the Taser up off the ground.
“No, it’s fine I swear.” The Taser crackled in her hand. “I’ve got this. We need to go work some things out.”
He tried to lift his hands to ward it off, but lightning struck Nick anyway, and the pavement leapt up and smashed him in the face.
Chapter 17
Nick wrenched back into consciousness. For the third time in as many days, he awoke to that damn song. This time it was all around him.
It wasn’t the only thing.
Darkness enveloped him, save for the faint glow of a dashboard light. He was in the passenger seat of a car. Not his. It was smaller. The windows were dirty. He could barely see out of them.
Danielle’s car. Her 1994 Shitbox.
A sharp smell thrust itself into his nostrils with every breath; a sickly-sweet smell. A smell he instantly recognized.
He turned his head the best he could given the stiffness in his neck. His side shrieked at the slight movement.
It all came back. Those beast-men had kicked the crap out of him.
And Danielle had tasered him.
She sat in the driver’s seat, her right hand in his left.
“Dani.” He choked as blood and bile sat in the back of his throat. It was that damn smell.
He tried to pull his hand free. Holy hell, she had a grip. It was like steel.
He pulled again. Skin tore and he cried out.
It wasn’t her grip. The crazy bitch had glued herself to him.
“It hurts, right?” Danielle tugged at his hand. Pain shot through it. “I wanted you to understand how you’ve made me feel. You think I can’t feel you pulling away from me, but I do. And it hurts, Nick. See?”
She pulled at his hand again.
“Gnyaaah!” He gagged.
Her apartment. He remembered the smell from her apartment. Whatever the chemical was, he was doused in it. The entire car was. There were some containers in the backseat. He had little doubt they had been emptied. “God, Dani, what’d you do?”
Nick reached for the handle on the passenger door and found only broken plastic scratching at his fingertips. He fumbled for the window handle. It was gone too, a rusty screw left in its place.
“I love you so much, Nick.” Danielle’s voice quivered. She clearly fought back tears. “I love you so much. I gave you everything and you spit it back in my face.”
“Dani, I didn’t mean to—” Nick felt the noxious fumes fill his lungs. He’d pass out again soon.
“Where are we?”
Nick stared through the grime that coated the passenger window. Abject darkness. His eyes adjusted; there was gravel in the moonlight, and beyond that, grass. No artificial light. Wherever they were, it was remote.
Shit.
“I can’t be without you, Nick. I can’t do it. I’d die without you. I don’t know what else to do. So this is it. This is the part where we work things out.”
There was finality in those words. They might never leave that car.
Nick panicked. Near as he could tell, she wanted them to suffocate right there, together in her car while they listened to that damned song. Was that possible? He knew jack about turpentine or whatever chemicals artists used in their work.
He fumbled at his pockets. Where was his damned phone?
Danielle answered the question before he could even ask it. “I tossed your phone.”
Nick grabbed the wrist that was glued to her. “Danielle. Look at this. Why would you do this?”
She put her free hand over their misshapen uni-fist.
“I knew this would get through to you. Remember the night we fell in love? In your car? This is real, you said. This is a human connection. Face to face. Remember?”
He did. And she had taken what he thought was a beautiful and genuine moment between two people and perverted it beyond recognition.
“Do you… do you think this is normal? This is not normal. This isn’t what normal people in love do.”
Danielle glared at him. Daggers could have flung from her eyes.
“That’s because our love isn’t normal, it’s special. There has never been and never will be a love like ours. We’re meant for each other.”
Nick searched for a way to get through to her. She wasn’t stupid. They’d had real conversations. He knew there was a part of her that was rational. He needed to reach it. What else was important to her? She was an artist, right? At least she thought so.
“But your hand. Your poor little hand. Look at it.”
Danielle looked at their hands. Whatever she’d used to bind them together, she’d been liberal in its usage. Globs of it had dried all over, giving their uni-fist the surreal look of nature gone wrong. Like they’d been born that way. Was that the look she’d gone for?
Nick touched their bound hands gently. They were still sticky.
“You’re an artist, how will you ever make art with a messed up hand?”
She lowered her head, closed her eyes and wept. Good. This was good.
“Dani, let’s go to a hospital, yeah? I’m sure they can fix it.”
Danielle exploded. “How could you think I care about this?” She shook his hand violently. Sweet mother, it was agonizing. “What’s wrong with you? Why are your priorities so fucked? All I care about is us.”
So much for rationality. Nick started to feel light-headed. It increasingly appeared as though the only way out of this situation was through it.
“Okay. You only care about us. I can see that. But this. What you’ve done here. How does this help us?”
She calmed. Became still. Her breathing steadied. It was terrifying.
“I told you. This is the part where we work things out. Or we don’t.”
Red lights flashed behind them. Please, God, let it be the police. Sheriff Reed. Roberts. Even Kern would have been a welcome sight.
The rhythmic clang that accompanied the lights brewed dread in his gut.
They weren’t on a road.
Nick focused on the digital clock on the dash of the car.
2:12.
There was a tiny speck of light miles down the railroad track—they were positioned on top of those beaten metal rails.
The 2:15 Express whistled in the distance, barely audible over the music’s furious beat.
“D
anielle.”
That’s it. Repeat her name. Over and over. Get through to her.
“Danielle. Look at me.”
She stared straight ahead. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Danielle!”
She turned to look at him. Her face was stone.
“Danielle, talk to me. What is it you want?”
She slammed her free hand into the car horn. “You seriously still have to ask me?” Her eyes glistened in the lights of the crossing signs. “I want us to be together. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I feel like I keep saying it and saying it and you’re not listening to me!”
Nick glanced at the oncoming train and tried to control the short panicked breaths that poured out of him. Don’t lose your shit, man. Don’t do it.
“Okay, I’m listening now. You hear me? But this is the worst place ever to work things out. Right? Let’s go home. Back to my place, we can work things out there. My mom is there. You did that for me.”
Danielle sobbed openly.
“You said you missed her. I wanted you to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, to make you happy. I want everything to be perfect.”
Nick thought about The Shady Thicket Inn. How did they ever get to this?
The 2:15 Express whistled again.
“Come on, Dani, let’s go home. We’ll sit on the balcony. We can listen to my happy song there. Together.”
Danielle’s sobbing stopped. She calmed again. It was less terrifying this time. He seemed to be getting through to her. One more push. A little one. That’s all it would take.
“All you have to do is drive us off the tracks.”
Danielle gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“No. No no no!” She punched the steering wheel over and over. “We work it out now! Here. This is it, Nick. This is our last chance! Why can’t you see that?”
The train whistled again, forlorn in the night. It’s doing its best to warn them, tell them to get the ever-living fuck out of the way.
Lie. Lie like a rug. Lie your ass off. Anything to get off these tracks.
“Okay, let’s be together. I freaked out. I know I did. I’m—I’m under a lot of stress, right? I’m supposed to be writing and—I haven’t been. But you helped. You saw me that night. You saw how happy I was. You did that. You. And it scared me. It scared me how much you affected me. Do you even know how long it’s been since I felt a connection with anyone? A long time. Too long.”
That part was actually true. Nick glanced out the windshield at the oncoming train. Stop looking at it. Focus on her.
“And—and you went to the trouble to find my mom. That couldn’t have been easy. I know that. So look, let’s go and talk this out somewhere else. Anywhere else. I’ve already got a room at The Shady Thicket. The room I scared you in, remember? Let’s go there.”
Danielle seemed to be considering what he said. He could see her working it out. He was close.
“Come on, Dani. Another couple of minutes and it’ll be too late. Let’s go—drive off the tracks.”
Silence. Aside, that is, from the blaring music, the incessant train whistle, and the voice in the back of Nick’s head. It was seriously losing its shit.
Danielle shook the steering wheel so hard he thought she’d rip it off the mount. “You’re just saying that! You don’t mean it!”
The train whistled yet again. Imminent death hurtled toward them, sending its vibration through the car. Danielle wasn’t going to be reached. Time for plan b, whatever that was.
The instinct for self-preservation kicked in. Nick whirled around in his seat and shoved his foot into the passenger window. It blew open and Nick thanked any deity that might be listening that, for once, it was as easy as it looked in the movies.
Danielle screamed at him. “Nick!”
Nick unbuckled her seat-belt. He’d drag her out the window by force if necessary. She may have been psychotic, but that didn’t mean she deserved to die. Plus, they were still fucking connected.
“What are you doing? Stop it!”
Danielle smashed the lighter button in the dash of her car.
“Don’t leave me, Nick. Please!”
Nick ignored Danielle’s cries and knocked the rest of the passenger window out with his sleeved elbow. The only thing he heard now was the approaching train’s persistent whistle.
He stuck his head out the window into the cold night air. It tasted better than any food, any drink.
“I’m not leaving you, you’re coming with me.” Nick jerked on Danielle’s arm and pulled himself half-way through the car window. She dug her nails into his hand and pulled back with both arms.
He gritted his teeth and pulled harder, adrenaline spurring him on. If he could get the rest of the way out the window, he could use the strength of his legs to pull her free.
“No!” Danielle had other ideas. The dashboard lighter popped out, red hot and ready to burn. She yanked it free and shoved it into her shirt. “This is it! This is the part where we’re together!”
Danielle’s shirt ignited and devoured the chemicals covering her. The flames spread fast and licked her face. Even as the screaming, flaming girl self-immolated, she pulled at him with a strength he wouldn’t have imagined possible.
“Fuck’s sake, Dani, stop struggling. I don’t want to leave you here!”
He managed to drag her from the driver’s seat and across the midsection of the car, but she fought every inch of the way.
Nick looked up at the train, now close enough that he could make out the engine’s shape behind its headlamps. He needed to free himself now, or die with Danielle.
“This is us, Nick! This is us!”
The heat was unbearable. He could only imagine what it must be like for her.
A piece of wayward glass bit into Nick’s side as he wormed his way through the window. He let gravity do most of the work and fell awkwardly to the gravel below. Danielle was in the passenger seat now, her arms hanging out into the air. The flames consuming her and the interior of the car spiraled upward into the night sky.
The fire snaked its way up Nick’s hand. The pain was mind-numbing. The rest of the world seemed to disappear. All he knew was the heat and fear. He kicked at the gravel until he found enough traction to get on his feet.
Danielle screamed uncontrollably, a nightmare of sound. Nick couldn’t be sure she was still in there. For her sake, he hoped not.
She’d lodged herself against the passenger door. Given another minute he could have pulled whatever was left of her free, but with a thousand tons of death careening down on them there was no time. One way or another it was over for her.
But not for him. Not yet.
His hand was engulfed at that point. The globs of dried and hardened glue that dotted their uni-fist streaked downward and dripped onto the ground like molten tears.
Somewhere in the noise—Danielle’s cries of pain and madness, the train’s shrieking death dirge, the clanging crossing signs, that damn song—Nick heard a new sound, louder than anything he’d ever heard before.
It was him. His cries. His screams.
The cacophony bled together with the unbelievable pain in his hand as a mash of seared flesh and glue ruptured and tore free. He had no time to look, couldn’t look, but knew he’d left layers of skin behind.
They separated and Nick collapsed to the ground. The pain didn’t stop. It only intensified as the fire lit the sleeve of his jacket.
His brain was on fire too, a million neurons with a megaphone screaming, “Run, motherfucker, run.”
He stumbled to his feet and away from the car. He didn’t know or care if he even had a left hand at that point. He needed to clear the tracks before the inevitable explosion of shrapnel.
He shed his jacket in a blind attempt to rid himself of the fire roaring its way up his arm.
The world seemed far away and his legs like dead weight. He’d black out at any moment. Keep moving. Plow through. Get to saf
ety.
He lurched through the grass at the far side of the gravel. Puddles, dew, any moisture he could find. Please, for the love of anything and everything, something cold. Something wet.
Nick stumbled down a small bank and into a ditch filled with standing water. He plunged headfirst without hesitation. He turned in the water and looked back at the train wreck in action. Danielle leaned out the passenger window, her hand outstretched. Her car was a fire-filled shell.
Her screaming continued. The oncoming train screamed back, its emergency brakes engaged.
Nick lowered himself further in the water as the train slammed full-force into the car and a tremendous fireball rose into the night. Debris rained down around him as metal fought against metal.
Darkness fell. It was an ebon shroud made of agony and it blanketed him like a child who’d drifted off to sleep.
A part of him thought he’d never wake up.
Chapter 18
Nick didn’t die that night, although he probably should have.
He’d spent some time in the hospital, the result of the third-degree burns he’d suffered to left arm and hand, but he lived.
He sat at his laptop, with the intent to write for only the third time in the months since Danielle died. He hadn’t been ready the previous two times he’d put fingers to keys. Not knowing what to write wasn’t the problem. Getting back to the headspace required to write the book he wanted; that’s what was screwing him up.
The first attempt had ended with uncontrolled crying. “Post-traumatic stress,” it was called. It was a concept he’d been familiar with since childhood, as evidenced by the fact he couldn’t watch anyone prepare food for him without losing his lunch.
But this was a whole new ball-game. For the first few weeks after the incident, he couldn’t think about Danielle without slipping into a crying jag. It wasn’t sadness. It was the fear, the helplessness, and the pain of that night. The combination had broken him.
But, as with all things, that passed in time.
The second attempt at writing had produced a small amount of actual work, but it was soulless. He hadn’t allowed himself to re-experience the events of that week to the degree necessary for the prose to be worth a damn. He could think about them without bursting into tears, and that was a step in the right direction, but he was detached from it, as though it happened to someone else. Ultimately, what he’d written was worthless.