As he takes my luggage out of the back of the cab and dumps it in my arms, I wonder how I’m going to walk while carrying these heavy bags. The driver still expects to get paid, and I even tip him, though I don’t know what for.
Get gutsy. Mom’s favorite line. Sometimes Sam heeded her advice too much. I don’t have the same courage. If Sam was in my place, although she would have still paid the driver, she would have told him to get lost if he dared to linger for a tip, despite the shoddy treatment he’d dished out.
“Be safe now.” The driver steps around to the front of the cab and disappears into his seat. “I’m really sorry for my mistake.” A polite jerk.
I watch him back up, turn around and drive away, spitting pebbles over the road. I start to yell something profane at him. My lips flutter but no sound escapes. I’m terrified of being out here alone in the wilderness. The only thing that keeps me from turning around and chasing after the cab, screaming for him to stop, is the fact that I’m on this trip for Sam.
I’ll have to walk miles down this road. Miles. I have trouble walking one at home. Thank God I’d worn running sneakers for the flight. The day’s getting darker, and I trudge along the side of the narrow, cracked dirt road. When I spot something shadowy crawling at the base of the pine trees edging the road, I gasp and stop in my tracks.
A squirrel darts past me across the road. I laugh and continue walking, trying to recall the directions. Imagine being frightened by a squirrel! How am I ever going to make it spending nights camping out in the woods if I’m freaked out by a small furry creature?
At the sound of a vehicle traveling close behind me, I glance over my shoulder. An old black pickup truck. I’m no fan of riding with strangers, but with my luggage and who knows how long it could take me before I see the sign for my destination, I’ll try to flag the driver down.
My luggage hits the shoulder right where I drop it, as I turn to try to flag down the driver. Before I can even raise my arms, the truck roars past me, with its huge tires spraying my jeans with mud.
“Jerk!” I shout at the tailgate as the truck vanishes down the road. I pick everything up and keep walking onward.
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About the Author
Isabelle Drake got her start writing confession stories for pulp magazines like True Confessions and True Love. Since publishing those first few stories she has written in many genres, but tends to write about everyday people in extraordinary situations.
When away from her keyboard, she likes watching classic horror films, especially Hammer films such as the Karnstein Trilogy, and reading (of course). An avid traveler, she'll go just about anywhere—at least once—to meet people and get story ideas.
Email: [email protected]
Isabelle loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.finch-books.com.
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