by J K Ellem
She could hear the man’s breathing from behind.
He was there, perched behind her, a feeling of malevolence filled the car. He had no seat belt on and Jessie thought about slamming on the brakes, throwing him forward, hoping to smash his head or face against the back of her seat. But what would she do then? Try to disarm him? Good luck with that. She’d probably get her neck sliced open from the momentum if he tumbled between the front seats. Maybe she could throw open the door and make a run for it. But where would she go? The last gas station was a few miles back and they’d been few and far between. Apart from the occasional cluster of lights in the distance where there were a few houses clumped together, there was nothing but darkness. Maybe he had a gun. She didn’t know.
Traffic was light. If she suddenly stopped and ran from the car, maybe she could flag down another motorist. But what if no one stopped? She certainly wouldn’t stop if she saw some crazed woman running down the middle of the road madly trying to wave her down.
From what little she saw when he had first grabbed her, he looked fit and felt powerful. She had no doubt he could outrun her, especially since she was in heels, and then she would be dead.
He said very little other than telling her to head south. He was heavily accented when he spoke and Jessie tried to place it. Maybe Eastern European, maybe Russian. She had travelled extensively throughout Europe and heard many accents, but this one had her stumped.
She needed to think of something but she’d play along until an opportunity presented itself.
Then one did.
A warning light on the dash came on, the gas was running low.
“We need to stop for fuel,” Jessie said. Her eyes were gritty and sore, and the sudden glare of headlights from occasional oncoming traffic had given her a throbbing headache.
The man leaned around the headrest to confirm the gas warning light. He looked out of the windshield and saw nothing but blackness dotted with the red taillights of vehicles farther ahead and the rhythm of the center line in the beams of the Golf’s headlights.
Jessie started to get anxious. She didn’t want to run out of gas in the middle of nowhere.
The inside of the car began to brighten from behind and Jessie shifted her gaze to the rearview mirror. A rectangle of harsh light grew across her eyes, almost blinding her until a wide column of light swerved around the car. A long haul semi pulled out and shot past the little Golf in a blur of orange night lights, rippled air, and a swirling vortex of dusty grit, almost pulling the Golf in behind it.
“Prick!” Jessie muttered, wrestling with the steering wheel as a massive wall of displaced air buffeted the car before finally subsiding.
A few minutes later they were in darkness again but soon the horizon began to lighten, a halo of dull light in the distance.
The man consulted the screen of his cell phone and grunted, “There’s a gas station ahead.”
Jessie gave a sigh of relief as she saw a huge glowing signage tower rising out of the darkness, a shining beacon in the midst of her growing despair. Then the 24-hour gas station came into view. There were no other cars when Jessie pulled in and parked her car next to one of the gas pumps. The place was lit up like a Christmas tree, an oasis of bright light in the middle of a landscape of perpetual darkness. Country western music piped through the speakers, filling the plaza with the twang of a lonesome cowboy crooning for some girl he met in some bar in some town.
Bright neon said “24-hour gas,” “24-hour food,” and Jessie needed both, but her heart sank when she saw no other cars or trucks at the pumps. It was too much to hope for a police cruiser. Running was her only option—if given half a chance.
The knife appeared again, a little firmer against her throat this time. Thoughts of escape evaporated, replaced by thoughts of dying. All it would take was a quick flick of the wrist, a severed artery, a warm gush, and she would bleed out in a matter of seconds all over her carefully Scotchgarded seats.
“Get the gas,” the man said, calm and composed.
“I need to pay first.” Jessie turned and nodded at the main building, the interior brightly lit but depressingly empty.
“Use your credit card at the security window,” came back the reply, one-step ahead of her plans that were slowly crumbling. “Swipe your card. I’ll stay here. You make any attempt to run or scream, I’ll come after you. Don’t underestimate me. I will kill you,” he said low and threatening.
“I need to pee,” came the terse reply. It was true, she needed to pee. They hadn’t taken a toilet stop since leaving the airport, and for Jessie, squatting back out on the highway, in the darkness on the side of the road, wasn’t an option.
“You can do it on the side of the road when we get going again.”
Jessie was getting angry. She half turned her head but the blade pushed farther against her throat. “I’m not some fucking dog!” she spat. “I can’t just cock my leg and take a piss.”
There was a pause from behind, the man was thinking
“Fine!” she snapped impatiently, not waiting for a response. She needed to regain some control, start pushing her own demands.
Jessie undid her seatbelt and began wriggling in her seat. She hitched her skirt up and began pulling down her panties.
“What are you doing?” the man asked, panic in his voice.
“What the fuck do you think I’m doing? I’m going to take a piss here and now, in the car. Not going to spoil my underwear though; I want to keep them dry.”
Her panties made it to her knees before the man screamed, “Wait!”
“What?”
“Stop.”
“I need to go now, otherwise I’ll piss in here and in about an hour you’re going to wish you’d brought a gas mask with you.”
“Fine,” the man snarled. The knife came away from her throat, leaving an angry raw welt on her skin.
“I’m coming with you. You run, you die. And I’ll kill anyone in the store. Their blood will be on you.”
What sort of cowardly shit is that, Jessie thought as she pulled up her panties and grabbed her purse. The man pulled out a trucker’s cap from his backpack and slipped it on, pulling it low across his brow. “Get out, but stick close to me.”
“Whatever,” Jessie replied, pushing open the car door with a newfound surge of confidence. She had a minor win and it felt good. Her normal fiery attitude came flooding back now that there was no knife held to her throat. She slammed the door a little too hard, not turning, not waiting for the man to follow as she stormed off toward the store.
“Filthy bitch,” the man muttered as he exited the car, pocketing the knife before hurriedly chasing after Jessie as she strode across the plaza.
6
Freddy Monk looked up from his console and saw a woman making a beeline toward the doors of the store, a man following her, running to keep up.
Freddy gave a crooked smirk. He’d seen it a thousand times before. He called it “road trip rage.” That’s what happens when a couple is cooped up for too long in their car on a long journey. The trip starts off fine; everyone is excited about where they are going. Then after a few hours of staring at the same endless ribbon of straight asphalt or boring landscape, they start arguing, fighting, until finally they’ve had enough.
Freddy had witnessed everything from married couples in full-blown screaming matches to boyfriend and girlfriend break-ups right in the store.
Road trip rage. Yep! It’s a disease.
The automatic doors parted and the woman stomped in, her head turning side to side. Freddy could tell she was pissed, but what a looker she was. Caramel skin, lean but curvy at the same time, straight black hair, dark brown eyes. Halle Berry and Tyra fucking Banks all rolled into one.
The woman threw him a cold glare. “Restroom?” she demanded.
“Eh,” Freddy stammered, shifting his eyes from the woman’s perky breasts to her face. She had on some kind of uniform but damn she wore it well. “At the back wall, just pas
t the last shelves.”
She nodded and threaded her way through the rows of shelves toward the back of the store. Freddy’s eyes lingered on her behind and the shape of her legs as she walked off.
The man paused halfway in and halfway out of the store, the automatic door sensor holding the glass panels apart, waiting for him to overcome his indecision.
He looked unsure of what he should do. His head was down like he was looking at the floor, but Freddy could tell his eyes darted around the room.
Oh brother, are you ever punching above your league, Freddy thought as he watched him. The guy was short, squat, foreign-looking, dark-skinned, tanned maybe, with dark curls poking out from a hat that was pulled too low and tight over his head.
“She’s in the back,” Freddy offered. “In the restroom.”
The man said nothing, just nodded. He walked inside and the doors closed behind him. He moved to the end of an aisle of snack food and stood there like he was lost.
Freddy continued to watch him. The guy looked awkward, uncomfortable, like he didn’t want to be there. Both hands were thrust deep into his jacket pockets. Freddy couldn’t get a real good look at his face. But he was powerful-looking even if he was short. Squat like a bull, with hunched shoulders and an air of menace about him.
A few minutes later the woman emerged from the restroom and walked back through the aisles to the front of the store, a paper napkin in her hands, wiping her fingers. She discarded the napkin in a swivel-top bin and approached the counter. The man followed her then stood next to her at the counter.
Freddy gave the woman his best smile, almost feeling sorry for her. She ignored him then shot a sideways glance and glared at her companion.
Yep, Freddy thought. Definitely road trip rage.
Just then a deep rumble came from outside.
Jessie turned and looked outside.
A semi with two long mirrored tanks for hauling bulk liquid lumbered into the truck access area of the plaza. Two and a half tons of gleaming steel, road rubber, and horsepower. Its long massive shape was outlined in orange running lights. The air brakes hissed and the tanker came to a stop. It settled on its haunches and the door of the cab swung open.
Jessie watched as someone climbed out the passenger door and stood on the top metal side step. She couldn’t see his face, but it was definitely a man. He was facing back into the cab, saying something, maybe thanking the driver for the ride. The driver had his back to her, but it was a definitely a man too.
The man on the rig stepped down another rung, slammed the door, then jumped effortlessly to the ground. He stepped back and gave a salute as the big rig slowly pulled away, picking up momentum before rolling back out onto the highway.
The man hitched a rucksack over his shoulder, slowly turned, and walked toward the store. His black leather jacket looked well-worn but cherished; he wore dark faded jeans and hiking boots.
He was average-looking. Not big, but not small. Just average. But there was something about his walk, how he moved toward her that made Jessie’s insides tingle and the hairs on the nape of her neck shiver. A sensation she hadn’t felt for a long time, too long in fact.
Twenty yards from the automatic doors he finally looked up and their eyes locked through the glass.
He smiled at Jessie and for some inexplicable reason she suddenly felt safe, that everything was going to be all right.
The automatic doors parted and Ben Shaw walked into the store. He paused for a moment and stared at the two people standing near the counter, two people who were now staring straight back at him. The two sets of eyes told him enough. One set seemed pleased and fearful all at once. The other looked arrogant and cruel. Shaw had made a living watching people, observing them: their mannerisms, their features, their body language, their intent, the clothing they wore and what it concealed.
Shaw committed both faces to memory, nodded, then walked toward a large coffee station in the middle of the store where a number of coffee pots sat warming on hot plates. Like a moth drawn to a light bulb, he walked casually but with purpose. The tendrils of rising steam and the thick smell of coffee were welcoming sensations as he surveyed the immense spread.
It was a lot better than the meager offering at the last gas station about six hours east of here. All they had were those automatic coffee dispensers Shaw never really trusted. He preferred coffee freshly drip-filtered, with steam you can see, from ground beans you could smell, in a glass decanter you could pick up and pour yourself.
Even though the truck driver was continuing on, Shaw wanted to take a break from the road and grab some food and coffee before hitching another ride south. He had time, plenty of it, but the truck driver was on a deadline.
There was an endless variety of creamers—some flavored, some plain, full-fat, half-fat, no-fat, half and half, organic, non-organic—stacks of takeout cups in various sizes, containers crammed with stir sticks, and plastic lids piled high. Farther along the counter were trays of donuts, glazed pastries, and frosted buns with serving tongs. Coffee and donuts, caffeine and sugar, the perfect chemical combination and road-food diet for late night travelers and insomniacs.
“Come on, let’s go.” Jessie felt a rough hand clamp down on her arm and she was almost dragged to the window to pay first for the gas. She tried to pull her arm away but the man held her closer to him. His other hand was still in his jacket pocket, fingers clutching the hidden knife.
“We need to pay for the gas,” the man said impatiently to Freddy.
Freddy nodded nervously. Something didn’t look right with these two. The woman pulled her credit card from her purse. She slipped it through the plexiglass enclosure and Freddy swiped it through the card reader. He handed it back, giving the woman a slight smile, feeling sorry for her and the ass of a boyfriend she had. Freddy had never had a real girlfriend before. He wished he had, but girls weren’t drawn to a gangly, hormonal young man just a few years out of high school. He found it hard and awkward to talk to girls. But he knew if he had a girlfriend, he would treat her right, with respect, take her out, make her feel like a princess. Not like this douchebag the woman was with.
The man had her by the arm, holding her in place like she was his prisoner or something.
7
High on the wall behind the attendant the television was on, the sound turned down. Jessie’s eyes drifted upward to the screen. The local network news was on. Filling the screen was a middle-aged newscaster, a grey-haired man doing a poor impersonation of Anderson Cooper, dressed in an ill-fitting jacket and tie. He was mouthing words but Jessie wasn’t paying much attention.
Then the image changed to a live special report. Darkness was punctuated by flashing lights of emergency vehicles. A blonde female reporter was standing in a field somewhere. She was wearing a jacket with the emblem of the news channel, holding a microphone, and talking to the camera with a stoic expression on her face.
Freddy noticed the woman was gazing over his head at the TV on the wall behind him.
He printed a thermal receipt and passed it back through the slit in the plexiglass. “Plane went down in Wyoming. Came from Salt Lake City. All dead apparently. Bad. Real bad.”
“Come on, let’s go,” the man holding Jessie’s arm began pulling her toward the automatic doors.
Jessie wrenched her arm free but stood rooted to the floor, not moving, her eyes fixated on the images on the TV screen behind the counter.
The man turned toward her, his teeth gritted, eyes furious. He whispered, “We go now!” He gestured to his hand in his pocket.
Jessie felt numb, sick, there was a ringing in her ears.
“Hey is everything okay?” Freddy asked. He didn’t like what he was seeing but he didn’t want to get involved. The man was obviously threatening the woman, being a little too rough.
Shaw looked up at the front counter over the line of shelves toward the couple. They looked like they were having an argument.
He grabbed the largest ta
ke-out cup and walked slowly down the row of coffee pots. A good selection, plenty of choice. He wasn’t keen on the flavored blends like hazelnut or mocha. He found Americano blend, freshly brewed by the look and smell, not old and boiled down to a gritty sludge.
He filled his cup then took a sip, savoring the rich flavor. He felt more alert now. It was going to be a long night. He planned to rest for a while, take a seat, and grab something to eat before going out on the highway again to see if he could hitch another ride south.
Raised voices came from the front of the store. He could see the man had the woman by the arm. Shaw frowned and watched them for a moment. Then he noticed the news feed on the TV screen behind the counter.
He took another long sip of the hot coffee, feeling it warm his insides. The liquid was deep black and smooth, the overhead fluorescents reflecting off its glossy surface.
Shaw looked longingly at the coffee, wishing that he could drink it all. It was going to be such a waste.
There was a microwave against the back wall with an open refrigerated display stacked with pre-cooked ready-to-heat food. Shaw placed his coffee cup inside two empty ones so there were three stacked inside each other. He opened the microwave, placed the stack of three with the hot coffee on the glass carousel plate, closed the door, selected the maximum setting for 30 seconds, pressed start, then waited.
He watched patiently as his coffee was bombarded with molecules while rotating inside the humming microwave.
Such a shame.
The microwave chimed. He pulled out the coffee. The black liquid was burnt and bubbling, super-heated, ruined.
Such a shame.
The two extra cups stopped his fingers from getting burned. He walked slowly to the front counter.
Freddy watched the man carrying a large coffee cup as he approached the counter. He stopped just short of the couple having an argument and stood there, watching the other guy who had the woman by the arm. That guy turned to Shaw and so did the woman. She had a pleading look in her eyes.