Continental

by Ryan Larson

It was a hot clear day, divided straight across the middle by the surreal ruler-flat horizon, a pale wispy sky beating hot heat down upon the plain yellow-brown earth, and the insectoid dot of a distant automobile was growing larger by the minute. It phased in and out of view, between the rolls of bent mirage air, like a miniscule boat bobbing over gentle waters. Nobody at the lone gas station appeared to pay it any mind: there were just two cars in the parking lot. One probably belonged to the employee behind the air-conditioned counter, and the other—the other was bright red. Unmistakably red. The driver of the distantly approaching automobile knew that the car would be red, and he knew other things too: he knew that the car was shiny, waxed every other week, with bright chrome hubcaps (custom made) and an imported Italian engine. Real leather seats, too, and a little custom-made chrome figure of a rearing horse resting square and proud on the hood. It was a beautiful ‘56 Continental. He also knew that the man waiting in the shiny red car was waiting for someone, someone who was not him. But he did not know whether the man in the beautiful car knew that the man he was waiting for was not the one quickly approaching in the rusted brown pickup truck, and he did not know exactly what he was going to do, even though he had been thoroughly instructed:

“You’re going to drive out to the filling station just out there down the road,” Buck had told him quite clearly and repeatedly, “and you’re going to park the car—not too close, you know, just in a regular spot. And you’re going to get out of the car—not too fast, just relaxed—and you’re going to walk up to the gentleman in the shiny red car and you’re going to shoot him right in the face. Don’t talk to him, don’t let him talk or even move, don’t hesitate, and don’t stop, just turn around calmly and walk back to the car and drive back here. Do it fast, do it clean, nothing will go wrong. We’ll be watching, we’re right down the road just out of view. Don’t even worry about it. This is nothing. We do this sort of thing all the time. Smoke a cigarette if it calms you down.”

The rusted brown pickup truck went roughly over a pothole and jumped a foot in the air. The gun on the passenger seat fell down onto the floorboards, down inside the empty bottles and newspapers that clanked around whenever the truck jolted. “Damn it,” said the young man driving the truck, who was trying to light a cigarette with one hand and keep the car from throwing itself into a ditch with the other. He put the lighter into the cup holder and tried to reach over and fish the gun back up. He nearly flipped the first two times he tried—he couldn’t reach down far enough without his view falling under the line of the dash. It’s fine, he decided. I’ll leave it there. That’s better anyway, nobody will see it when I roll up. He fumbled for the lighter—it was now sticky from whatever had been spilled in the cup holder last night—and resumed his efforts. The end of the cigarette was damped by his spittle, and great beads of sweat kept falling onto it from his perspiring scalp. His shirt was already soaked through, though after two weeks he’d already become used to the hot desert afternoons. Great pearls of sweat rolled in streams down his face, his arms, his chest—he wiped it from his eyes with his free hand again and finally managed to light the damn thing. His arms started to shake a little less as he inhaled greedy mouthfuls of sweet smoke. Slow down, he told himself, you’re going to swallow it if you’re not careful. But his breathing was frantic, and he only pried the shaking thing from his mouth after a full minute of desperate inhalation.

He was, in terms of his company, a very young man—he would have probably been just finishing up his final year of college if he had chosen to go that route. But school, college, education—he was never meant for that sort of thing. He was smart, the counselors had said, but simply unwilling to learn. Belligerent. His earliest memory was of the late-night wild west films—shootouts, hangings, robberies: real, hard, truthfully vulgar men. Late nights out playing gangster in his sleepy New Haven neighborhood, stolen sweets and morsels from convenience stores even though he was rarely actually hungry, fights with and grudges against foes real and imagined: these were the joyous memories of his childhood. “All my life,” he would tell his compatriots, “I was bound to be a rebel. I was bound to spit in the face of decent authority and ride wild as a cowboy across the great treacherous plains of infamy. Every man is a criminal, whether by secret adulterous sin or harmless bad accounting, but only the bravest and most honest are willing to admit and embrace their wickedness. A liar who knows he is a liar and proclaims it to the world and uses his gift freely is a thousand times more honest than a truth-teller who tells soft easy lies in passing. I will not pretend to be anything I am not, and I will not pretend that I am not evil to the very core.”

That was what he told people—his justification. But what he really thought of on lonely nights, what he really schemed about and dreamed of and planned for was not any philosophical truth. It was to shoot and steal and kill, pure and plain. And he had no fear of it either: just four hours ago, sitting around the soup pot in the circle of camped-out cars in the dewy morning, he had boldly volunteered to prove his commitment and worth, and to prove to himself that he really was not afraid and that he hadn’t come all the way out here for nothing.

Some of the others had objected, but Buck had admitted him into the scheme with no hesitation. He had always been a little sympathetic, the young man thought. He does seem to me a little out of place in this group—too gentle, too sure of himself, too—respectable was a good word—to be one of these criminals. It was he who had lent his spare gun to the initiate, barely more than a boy when he first came into their ranks and defended the young man with fervor whenever his youthfulness was called into question. Perhaps he trusted the young man enough to do the job, and he knew the job’s completion would really admit him into the inner circle, the group of real doers who did more than just talk, the ones who made the plans and negotiated and talked late into the night around a smoldering fire. Perhaps Buck had seen another man in the young man—a capable man, worthy of the job. Or perhaps he just wanted someone expendable. Who can say for sure?

And he was really shaking now. The cigarette had been no help at all. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he thought helplessly. It’s supposed to be simple, easy—I’m supposed to be relaxed. I’ve got to relax. I can’t come up there shaking like a stroke victim—it’ll ruin the whole thing. I’ve got to calm down and be calm and cool and go up there and shoot the man in the face.

By now the filling station was quite close—less than a minute away, surely. Now he could see the small squat building, the rusted old tank that lay sideways in the middle of the lot, the tall sign that had previously just been a blurred tree-shaped thing and was now clearly a sign that read: CHEAP GAS. It was an alien needle on a flat void plane, scarred by gouges and rocks and the occasional dead-looking grass patch. The sun shot fire down across the pavement and made his eyes water. He blinked and threw his cigarette out the window. Now’s the time. You’ve just got to do it. Just walk up there and do it. Just walk up there and do it.

And he looked straight across the roadway at the shiny red Continental that slept in the shade of the gas tank. He had never really seen it up close—God, was it beautiful! It was the only thing for miles and miles that showed any sign of care or attention, a beacon of class in a sea of cheap fixes and dirty patches. I hope the blood doesn’t ruin the leather, he thought, and he nearly got sick at the thought of actually blowing somebody’s head off. Brains and blood everywhere, like a watermelon under a hammer—I won’t look, he decided. I’ll point the gun, and I’ll pull the trigger while I look up across at the tank, and I’ll turn around and walk away and drive away without looking. If only he were out of the car, then I could do it in the street and drive away in a shiny new red car. But he’s going to be in the car. He’s supposed to sit in the car and wait for whoever he’s waiting for. And I must do it without any thought, any hesitation. I must simply act.

And suddenly he recalled what he had asked just a few hours earlier, while the guys were out checking the roads for any suspicious activity before they got the go-ahead: “But what if he sees me coming and knows that something’s wrong and drives away before I can get out of the truck?”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Buck had reassured him. “Don’t chase him. If he drives away, then your job is done, and I want you to come right back here. If he runs, I’ll deal with it. I only want you to worry about taking this here gun and pointing it right in his face and shooting the man dead. Once will do, provided it’s in the face. But do it twice if you’re not confident. Any more than two is unnecessary.”

I almost hope he runs, the young man thought. But I also hope he doesn’t. This is just a thing I’ve got to do.

And now the rusted brown pickup truck slowed to a halt, almost braking too fast and jerking, but he managed to do it cleanly and turned into the parking lot. The car tilted and jolted as he went over the edge of the curb, but that didn’t matter.

Find a parking spot. Not too close. There. That one.

It was a bad parking job, but that didn’t matter. He was facing into the front window of the station, and through the racks of canned meats he saw an employee reading a magazine in front of a fan. The dining area was empty. There was a radio station playing inside, he could hear filtering through the door: some old male voice with a thick southern drawl. He couldn’t make it out. Fan blades turned listlessly in the ceiling.

And the young man shifted his focus to the red car that was in his rearview mirror. There he was, the man, whoever he was, a broad-faced mustached character with a big nose and small eyes. He wore a smart black hat and suit, even in the heat. The young man took a moment too long in realizing that his eyes had locked with the other man’s. He turned his head too quickly.

Don’t sit there!

Get out!

Shoot him!

But he didn’t. He kept sitting in the car, and he kept thinking that he needed to get out of the car right away, but he didn’t move. And when he looked back, the man’s eyes were still right on his.

And when he looked back for a third time the man was getting out of the car. Damn it, the young man thought, he isn’t supposed to do that. Why’s he doing that? What’s he doing? I’ve got to get out of the goddamn car! But he stayed in the car, bolted to the worn seat, and watched with horror as the man all in black walked slowly and apparently meaninglessly off toward the desert. He took purposeful even steps, not hasty, not looking at the young man, and stopped when he reached the edge of the parking lot and turned to face the lot. His face betrayed no worry, no suspicion, only a curious kind of prying look.

As if released from a spell, the young man was suddenly able to move. He fumbled for the door handle, grabbed another cigarette then put it back down, and thrusted himself out of the door. He stumbled and caught himself. He looked up at the man and registered no change in position or expression.

The young man took two steps into the lot. He tried not to look at the man even though he knew that the man was looking at him and knew that he was coming for him. He tried to be causal and, of course, moved with jerky and awkward movements. Now he was out in the open, maybe three paces from the shiny red car, with no protection whatsoever. I’m in range now, he thought. I’ve just got to shoot him. Don’t hesitate. Just point the gun and shoot him and don’t miss. He reached for the gun.

At that moment, he saw two clear images at the same time. The first was the gun, still lying exactly where it had fallen on the floorboards of the old brown truck, underneath a rumpled newspaper, and most importantly not in his hand. The second was the extremely real vision of the man in black reaching into his coat for his gun—

The world danced. The young man heard a report, a crashing wall of sound. He feinted, turned back toward the truck, changed his mind, fell, recovered, turned again, and leapt behind the tank.

He searched himself: apparently not dead. The man must have missed. But now there was the crunching of gravel, footsteps—

The young man suddenly looked up and realized that he was directly in the shadow of the shiny red car. He turned and admired the clean hubcap, shiny as a mirror—now is not the time, he reminded himself. He heard another footfall and knew that the man would soon be coming around the corner of the rusting tank. With sudden decisiveness, he pushed himself up by the elbows, flung open the door of the shiny red car and heaved himself into the passenger seat. How soft the leather was! But now was not the time. He searched for a weapon, anything—nothing. An empty bottle in the cupholder, a fountain pen, a small paperback novel—none a match for a bullet. But wait—he looked again. The keys were still in the ignition!

He didn’t think—he didn’t have time. His hands worked automatically, turning things and pushing things, and his eyes could only look in wonder at all the wonderful things he was doing. The car roared to life, a beautiful purr, clean and full of power. He cranked the wheel hard and shifted into reverse. And right in front of him was the man in black, wide eyed, and suddenly he was staring straight down the barrel of a gun—

He pushed down on the pedal as hard as it would go. The car whipped around backwards with a violent start just as he heard a tremendous noise, a booming clap, and he saw the hole punch into the windshield and send a great crack sprawling across the clean glass. Then he was in drive, going forward, turning again, and he looked to see the man aim the gun one last time. He heard another cracking pop and he saw something go by fast in the periphery of his left eye. He must not be a very good shot, he thought. And he was screeching away, climbing to sixty, leaving the filling station and the retreating black figure swiftly behind.

Hell, he thought, I’ve messed this whole thing up. I hesitated too much and he got wise. How the hell am I going to explain this? I didn’t kill the guy but I got his car? Goddamn it. They’re going to think I made some kind of deal with him. Now somebody’s going to have to go back and find the guy and shoot him instead. Why’d they make me do it, anyway?

And then he took a moment to enjoy the fine car he’d somehow managed to get away in. It was pristine, in mint condition not counting the bullet hole in the windshield. The engine leapt at the slightest touch of the pedal, and he felt as if he were holding back a great stampede of horsepower, a bubbling moiling mass of gasoline and Italian metal. He pushed down on the gas as hard as he could, just to see, and couldn’t help but smile at the resultant vibrating hum of energy. He’d never gone so fast in his life—over a hundred, the gilded speedometer said. The steering wheel was covered in a white sort of leather to match the seats, which were exactly as soft and comfortable as they looked. Besides the fountain pen and book, there was nothing in the passenger seat or the floorboards. He turned to see if there was anything useful left in the backseat and caught a glint of sun on glass far away down the road.

And suddenly he realized that he was not alone in the desert. Four or five cars, old and black, were peeling out from behind a lone tree. Their engines growled like starved beasts. He could see them in the rearview mirror, jostling each other and jockeying back and forth like a pack of hyenas. The sun flashed off of the windshields haphazardly, flashing into his eyes. They were gaining. And now he remembered, at the makeshift campsite just four or five hours ago, while they were still making and finalizing plans for the killing, how Buck had brought the other guys over and explained to them the rest of the plan: “If this guy runs, and there is a good chance he will run, we’ve got to chase him down. Now he’s got a real nice ride, and I’d bet anything it’s faster than any of our old secondhand jobs. So don’t run up on him or he’ll scare and bolt. Follow from a distance and bide your time until he gets lazy or has to stop for gas.  Follow me down the road aways, and we’ll find some place to hide and ambush him if he runs. We’ll make two groups, one for each road: You five come with me, the rest follow Nash south. Put the best shooter in the fastest car.”

They think I’m him, he suddenly realized. They think I’m dead and the man got away in the car and they’re going to chase me down and shoot me.

And so he cranked down the window, eased onto the brake, and stuck his head into the hot rushing air.

“Hey,” he yelled, “don’t shoot, It’s me. I’m in the car.”

And he heard some great insect whiz right by his face, rippling the air. It wasn’t until he heard the distant crack of a pistol and cranked his head around to see the tiny glint of a rifle that he realized the insect was not an insect, but a bullet.

“Hey!” he yelled again, and his words were swallowed by the rushing air and silenced.

Again, he felt a whizzing by his head, and this time it nearly gave him a haircut. Another cracking report followed. “Damn it,” he said only to himself, and he pulled his head back inside and cranked the window back up. “They’re going to shoot me. My own guys are going to shoot me.”

He looked at the fuel gauge. Just about full—it must have gotten topped off at the filling station. He would have a good while to think, then.

The black beast, the mass of cars behind, seemed content to match his speed some hundred meters back. There was no way to lose them—there was only one road, one direction to go. It rolled out before him, perfectly straight, like a crusted carpet, white lines weaving and flashing impossibly fast below him. The black tar pavement stretched far out into the horizon and on into infinity. The sun was a little ways above the crease of the horizon, a little to the left. He had a while until sunset. He knew that there would be no civilization for hours upon hours—the gas station has been chosen as a meeting spot because of its remote location: right on the edge of a vast dead desert, the last reaching outpost of humanity before a sea of dirt and death. The ground here was cracked and furrowed, littered with the skeletons of generations upon generations of bison, coyotes, Indians, and who knowns what else. Now and then, a limp cactus stood wretched against the white sky, a black mar on the wispy ether. Way off to the west there were more clouds, towering and rolling clouds, dark and tall and rough. The distant clouds boiled slowly, distant and untouchable as the stars themselves. He could see the faraway mist of a thunderstorm, and even occasional flashes of lightning, but there would be no rain here. He knew the storm clouds were many miles away.

With nothing else to do, the young man sat and drove for quite a while. Every now and then, he would hear the crack of a gunshot, and he knew that they were trying to get him again, but after the first four times he began to understand that they had little hope of actually hitting the car. They were too far away to get a good shot in, and if they dared to try and close the gap, he would simply match the increase in speed. They were only wasting ammo. Let them do it.

I won’t let them out of my sight, he decided early on. I can’t just jet away and escape. If I just run off with the Continental and turn up a few days later, they’ll never trust me. I’ve got to wait for—something – them to run out of ammo or something, and then I can slow down and explain the whole thing to them. I’ve messed this up badly enough already, and I’ve got to salvage what little credit I still may have.

After a long time—he lost track exactly, but the fuel gauge was now just over half and the sun was starting to dip below the horizon—he began to have really crazy thoughts. He began to hallucinate cars on the highway, coming the opposite direction: a cop, an ambulance, a civilian—but they would invariably vanish into a misty blur just before they were within proper viewing distance. Road phantoms, he called them, just to call them something. He told himself that they were ghosts of motorists who had died in grisly accidents and now roamed the empty highways forevermore, terrorizing the automobilists and truckers. He would look back every now and then, and still the cars were there, ever-present. They had stopped shooting quite a while ago, which was bad. He really didn’t know what the plan was now. To slow or stop meant to risk death, to speed away was to risk—something else, he didn’t really know. But for whatever reason he kept on telling himself that he just had to keep driving, stay at a good speed, don’t fall asleep, and eventually things are just going to work themselves out.

“Hey this is Crawford. We got some kinda situation out here.”

The young man started. How much time had passed? It was now darkening out, and he suddenly became aware of a dull pain in his lower back. He tried to fix his posture as best he could. All at once he realized that he had heard a voice, a real voice, he had not imagined it.

“What kind of situation?” Came a crackling voice. It was the radio—or rather, a small humming box attached above it. One of those hobby trinkets the old folks use to listen in to cop chatter. He hadn’t noticed it before. In ecstasy, he almost jammed the talk button, but just as quickly he realized that a cop was not the kind of person who would be particularly understanding in this sort of situation.

The first voice came back. “There’s a truck in a ditch out here, a brown pickup. bullet holes in the sides but no driver. Looks to me like a gang hit.”

And the dispatcher returned: “I’ll send out an investigator. What’s your location?”

“Some old backroad off of 160. Bout ten miles behind some old filling station, just turn off when you see it and go north a little.”

“Will do.” And the line was silent once more.

And the young man was suddenly thinking of late nights in the cool desert, when the inner circle of the group would sit around with strong coffee and orchestrate. He didn’t even really know the extent of what sort of things were being done. He was only permitted to sit in the thick canvas tent, lantern off, and listen to the muffled voices discuss matters. But most importantly he remembered how on some occasions, when the atmosphere was particularly tense and there was a general air of resolution in the camp, when it was whispered among the lower-downs that an operation—a sting or a robbery of some sort—was being carried out at that very moment, those in the inner circle would talk to a battered old radio-box that they positioned in a prominent location by the fire. “Ten four,” Buck would say any chance he got. He said it just for the joy of saying it: “Ten four. Let us know if you see anything.” This night was undoubtedly one of those terse nights. Perhaps they would have a channel open—

Cranking the dial to a channel at random, the young man jammed the talk button. “Hey,” he said, suddenly aware that he hadn’t thought of what he was going to say, “is anybody out there?” He waited, and the air filled with crisp static. He waited some more. Nothing.

And so the young man began the process of scouring the channels one-by-one. After the first few times he really had down what he would say: “Anyone there? This is Rawlings. Anyone there?” He would repeat it twice for each channel, leaving enough space for a response before trying again. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Just layer upon layer of empty static.

By now it was fully black. He had flipped on the headlights at some point (he didn’t remember when), and he could see in the mirror that his pursuers had done the same. It was a windless night. The black asphalt snake rolled out restlessly beneath the tires, sending vibrations from the rocks and uneven bumps reverberating up through the wheels, the shocks, and the seat and up through the legs and arms of the driver until they wormed their way into his brain, a kind of music. He felt as if he were captaining a small ship on smooth black waters. He checked the fuel gauge for the first time since the sun had begun to set: three-quarters empty. Damn.

One or two of the pursuing automobiles might have turned off for want of fuel by now, but it was hard to tell: the collective headlight glares all melted into the same burning point in the background.

“Anyone there?” said the young man. “This is Rawlings.”

He was about to say it again when suddenly the radio creaked to life—he nearly steered off the road. “Who?” It was Buck’s voice. The young man choked down a joyful yell. He jammed the talk button with fervor.

“Buck,” he shouted, “it’s me it’s Rawlings I’m in the car the guys are chasing! I’m in the car! You’ve got to tell them to stop it!”

“What the hell?” The response came. “Rawlings? Where the hell are you? We thought you spilt.”

“I’m in the car!” The driver shook with excitement. “I’m in the car you’re chasing!”

“What car? You’re in what car?”

“The red car! I’m in the car that you guys are trying to shoot at! I’m driving!”

“You took his car?” And before the young man could respond: “Are they chasing you?”

It suddenly dawned on the young man that Buck was not in the procession chasing him. He must have been back at camp. His group must’ve been on the wrong road.

“They think I’m the other guy,” he panted, and he managed for the first time to keep his voice to a reasonable decibel level. “Your other group of guys—Nash and Bulldog and the others—they’re chasing me cause they think I’m the other guy, and they’re trying to shoot at me.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Can’t you just slow down and let them see you?”

“I tried that—they nearly blew my head off. You’ve got to help me. Can you get to them somehow? On the radio or something?”

“I can’t reach them,” came the answer, “you’re just going to have to run them off. Can’t you outrun them? I know that’s a nice Italian engine. How’s your fuel?”

“About a quarter left.”

“And you’re on the highway? The one through the desert?”

“Yes.”

“Christ.” The radio was silent for a minute, then: “You’re not going to make it. You haven’t got enough fuel to get out of the desert.”

The young man suddenly realized that he had known this, he had done the mental calculations, but his own mind had hidden its conclusions from him, in some desperate attempt to salvage ignorant hope. Of course he wouldn’t make it. He probably only had a few hours now. Damn imported cars, all fuel-inefficient. A frenzied panic began to well up in the young man. His arms trembled on the steering wheel. I’m dead, he thought. They’re really going to catch me and shoot me and there’s nothing I can even do about it. I want to go home. I want to go home.

“Are you still there?” It was the radio again. “Don’t panic.”

“What am I going to do?” He didn’t mean for it to sound as violent or accusatory as it did. He took great gulping breaths, but the air refused to fill his lungs, just in and back out.

“I don’t know,” said Buck. “I don’t know.” And he was silent for a minute.

What on earth am I doing here, he thought. I shouldn’t have waited so long to shoot the guy. I shouldn’t have volunteered for this stupid thing. I shouldn’t have gotten into all of this right from the start. But hey, dammit, isn’t this what you wanted? Car chases and shootouts and killings? Isn’t this just like the movies? But hell, the movies are just movies and after they’re done the actors can go back to their stucco mansions and grand hotels. I don’t want to die. I want to go home.

“I’ll be back”, said the tinny radio voice. “Just keep driving. “I’ll go figure something out.”

Damn it, thought the young man, he’s given up on me. He’s really leaving me. And the radio hummed in contemplative silence.

And then, perhaps just out of plain desperation or perhaps as the result of some divine realization, he closed his eyes and began to fervently pray. Please, God, please get me out of this. I don’t want to die. Please get me out of this. I’m so young, God, please. I don’t deserve it. No, I do deserve it, but you’ve got to forgive me for it please. I always believed in you, God, even if I didn’t go to church or didn’t think about you, I always knew you were there somewhere. You know my thoughts. You know I’m telling the truth. Please, God, get me out of here.

And then he opened his eyes and realized he was halfway off the road and the car was swerving and bucking wildly as it careened over small rocks and lumps of soil. Damn, he said to himself as he wrestled the beast back under his control. That was stupid.

And then for some reason he was thrown into a memory of sunny New Haven, South Carolina.

The young man was a young boy, skinny and destitute as a beggar’s boy. He was taking the back way from the schoolhouse, through a quiet whispery grove of willows and lush draping creeper vines. Sea-wind blew in above the treetops, carrying with it a salty warmth and the thunder of distant waves. The backs of the laundromat and general store, plain and dirty brown, turned away from the quiet pathway. This was not the way he normally went—he prided himself on being unafraid of the bigger, meaner kids and was known to pick a fight with little to no pretense. No, he was not here in fear or cowering. He was going this way because he was on a mission: The Wellers had a rabid dog. Filly had been bit by a fox or something and come out of the woods foaming and snapping. Tom Wellers told all at school the following day: how they didn’t want to put her down but didn’t know if they had any choice, how they were keeping her in the old chicken coop in the backyard for the time being, and how a group of them should come over to see.

When the young boy arrived at the Wellers’ backyard, there were already four or five there, tightly circled around the shabby rotting wooden coop that had for years fell out of disrepair with neglect and rough play. He shoved between two others to see the dog herself: cowering, crazed and growling, speckled with cuts and dyed brown with thick crusted mud. One of the younger boys was crying.

“Let it out,” said the boy, and he felt the thing that was in his front right pocket.

“Let it out?” Tom Wellers looked at him half laughing. “You crazy? She’d bite our faces off.”

“It’s wild now,” the boy said. “It knows it’s gonna die and it wants to go off into the woods to do it. Let’s let it out.”

Tom looked a little uncertain. “We’re a-gonna take her to the vet. They gonna fix her up.”

“Maybe,” said the boy, “but I heard when a dog gets rabies you can only put it down. Why do you think they’re bringin’ it to the vet?” And again, he reached down and felt the cool metal.

Tom looked horrified at the thought. “They—no, they gonna fix her up.”

“Let it out. It’s the kind thing to do.” And the boy reached for the simple metal latch that held the coop door firmly shut.

Tom reached out with a cry of dissent, but the door was already springing open with springlike energy. And the dog that had been so pitiful was suddenly a shooting mass of fur and mud and claws and teeth, bounding out of the shoddy coop and rounding on little Nick Wellers, and the boy pulled out his brand new hunting knife with excitement—

How long have I been asleep?

Where—

His eyes opened slowly, and for a moment he thought he was still on his hard bedroll beneath the tarp in the camp, with coffee and biscuits ready for the morning and a cool morning breeze blowing on his face. But then he looked around, and saw the steering wheel clasped in his skeleton grip, the white leather seats and interior, and the highway ripping by at a tremendous speed beneath him.

The sun was beginning to rise over the distant storm clouds. In the virgin light, the barren plains looked even more dead and empty—flat and pockmarked as they would ever be. The sky was overcast, with slanted beams of light slipping in between the sickish grey slabs of steam.

His foot was jammed squarely on the gas pedal. Most of his body was numb: his fingers, his arms, his legs.

And he now saw that he was definitely slowing down. He glanced down at the fuel gauge: empty. Way below empty. Completely spent. He watched with dazed complacency as the car drifted, clipped a stone, crossed the median and rolled to a gentle stop on the shoulder. He cranked down a window and felt the cool breeze wash over his features like baptismal waters. He heard the field-grass rustle gently in the breeze, and he heard the approaching rumble of the cars that were still following him. And he heard with listless disinterest the screech of tires, the slam of a car door, the talk of tired voices. He heard the crunch of footfalls on the hard dirt, and he opened his eyes to look at the man standing at the window. Nash stood for a minute, in thought or maybe waiting for something, then asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”

BIO: Ryan Larson is a poet and writer who is currently a student at Christopher Newport University. In addition to releasing over ten albums of original material so far, he is working on publishing a novel.