FATE'S PAST

by Jason Huebinger

  She kept searching, and as she passed 100 MHz, she heard something: a brief and soft sound. She scrolled back, and again heard the sound. The sound only emitted at 100 MHz, so she left the radio on that frequency.

  Carrie put her ear near the stereo, which did not affect the volume. Though too soft to decipher, it was high-pitched and came in short intervals, with a pitch range akin to a bell curve. She listened harder, and the noise hit a crescendo. It seeped into her subconscious, dancing its way through Carrie’s every hair, pore, and nerve. She felt paralyzed, trapped by the overwhelming, undetectable sound. The sound crept close and deep, and she could not even move to stop the subconscious invasion.

  * * *

  The growl came from Cameron’s back, and he turned to meet his attacker. There was nothing behind him. He turned to his left and right, but all he saw were trees.

  He shook his head and rubbed his temples. There’s nothing there. It’s all in your head. His craving for a cigarette rushed back, and for a moment he contemplated searching for his discarded pack. But it was too late—he had no idea how long he had been away from the car, but he assumed it had been long enough for Carrie to worry if he didn’t return soon.

  Cameron turned to head back to the car, but stopped when he heard the growl again. It was behind him once more; faint at first, the growl amplified. He knew he didn’t have enough time to turn; his attacker was closing, and closing fast.

  He burst into a full-on sprint. He didn’t know if he was running in the correct direction, but whatever awaited him was better than what pursued behind.

  As he ran, the growl grew louder and louder. No matter how fast he ran, the growl was faster. No matter how hard he pushed, the growl pressed harder.

  Cameron felt the curvature of an unusual object under his right foot; his ankle turned, and sharp pain followed. Unbalanced, he flailed his arms outward, trying to regain control, to no avail. His head struck the hard earth, causing his vision to swirl. Warm liquid poured from his forehead. Pain reverberated from his top and bottom, but his fear of the growl trumped both.

  Face down on the ground, he heard the growl above his helpless body; warm breath tickled the back of his neck. Drops of moisture spotted his nape—he assumed they fell from the teeth of his attacker.

  He had little time to think. Bracing his hands to the ground, he tightened his muscles and flipped his body while swinging his right arm. He pressed his arm hard and expected to punch the face of his mysterious assailant with the back of his fist; instead, his hand cut through the air until it hit the ground on the opposite side of his body.

  As he lay, he felt sharp pain from his temple, ankle, and fist. But the silence washed away any discomfort. He remained motionless for a few moments and soaked in the joy of his unexpected solitude.

  It’s all in your head.

  He pressed himself to a sitting position and rubbed his forehead. When he removed his hand, blood covered it. He wiped his hand on the ground and rubbed his injured ankle.

  He rose to his feet and rotated his ankle. As he stretched it, the pain dissipated. When he was ready, he walked over to the object that had caused his fall.

  Below him was a baseball. He bent down and grabbed it; as he massaged the ball’s pearly exterior, he realized how much he had missed the feeling of a baseball in his grips. Through the spaces between his fingers, he noticed something strange. He moved his hand and a letter “C” revealed itself.

  Unwanted memories rushed through his conscious, memories long buried. In a rage, he flung the ball as far as he could. The memories joined the ball. Dullness stayed with him.

  After he had collected himself as best he could, he looked around for any sign of Carrie or the car. In the distance and through the trees, he saw both.

  * * *

  The indecipherable sound surged through Carrie’s essence, and in her paralysis, she could not even cover her ears. She could not blink, fidget, or breathe. Her organs clenched and her mind ran wild. Doubt about her survival and existence overtook her, and the agony of her mind coalesced with that of her body to form a sludge of misery.

  Her heart pounded against her chest. Everything around her blinked and blurred. Darkness invaded. She suddenly realized how easy it would be to let go. To just slip into the nothingness. To just fade away and leave everything behind.

  But through the darkness and the noise, she heard a voice. A distinctive voice. A comforting voice.

  It was her mother’s voice. Keep living, Carrie.

  Carrie remembered a promise she once made. It was a promise she did not intend to break.

  Keep living, Carrie.

  With all her remaining energy, Carrie fought. She struck back against the dark and light crept back in.

  Keep living…

  Her sight cleared and her finger trembled.

  Keep…

  The noise dissipated and her awareness heightened. Each sense flickered, and she regained control of her functions. She focused her mind, and with the entirety of her remaining strength, thrust her arm towards the door. She opened it and fell out of the car; while falling, the noise faded away.

  She lay on the ground and enjoyed the slight discomfort of the scratches she suffered during the tumble out of the car. She shut her eyes and appreciated every bodily function, voluntary and involuntary. She breathed deep and long and held her breath and lungs at capacity.

  When she opened her eyes, she reached for the silver locket around her neck; she turned and opened it, and when she did, she saw the loving eyes of her mother.

  Living…Carrie.

  Cameron’s yelling interrupted her serenity.

  “Babe, you okay?” Cameron asked as he sprinted over to Carrie as she lay by the side of his car. When he reached her body, he noticed that she nodded with her eyes closed.

  “I’m fine, Cam.” Her eyes opened and gazed at him. “You okay?”

  “Never been better.” He extended a hand, which she took. Once on her feet, she looked him over.

  “Cam, you’re bleeding. How the heck did you cut yourself?”

  “Didn’t you hear me yelling?” Cameron asked as he rubbed his head. “Something chased me. Not sure what it was. I never saw it.”

  “No. I didn’t hear you. But that doesn’t explain how you cut yourself.”

  “Well, while I was running away I stumbled over a baseball. Can you believe that? Twisted my ankle too. How crazy is that?” He noticed her brushing gravel off her pants. “By the way, why were you on the ground?”

  She glanced down as she whispered, “Something happened to me.”

  “What do you mean?” He stepped forward and placed a hand on her arm. “What happened?”

  “I was messing with the radio and it made a sound. No idea what it was, but after I heard it, I couldn’t move. It was the weirdest thing ever. I couldn’t even breathe.”

  “What are you talking about? What was the sound?”

  “No clue,” she admitted. “I couldn’t make it out. I was just…I guess, paralyzed by the sound. Am I going crazy?”

  “Not unless we both are,” he joked. “But I’ll tell you what. We can sit here for the next several minutes and talk about whether or not we’re going crazy or we can get the hell out of here.”

  “Won’t hear any complaints from me.”

  He opened the car door for her and helped her in. After shutting the door, he took a second alone to slow his heart. In running from the beast, Cameron’s reactions were primal and instinctive, with little reason to his flight. And as he stood outside the car, he realized that, while he was aware of and remembered what happened to him, he could not patternize the events in any sensible way. His mind was an endless void.

  When Cameron entered the car, he peered out the right side window again and looked for any oncoming traffic. The road was empty. But as he looked forward, he saw something in the distance: a faint light.

  “Hey,” he muttered as he patted
Carrie’s shoulder. When he got her attention, he pointed forward. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?” She edged forward in her seat and squinted her eyes. “I think…it’s a light.”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “You’re right.” He looked over at her and asked, “Want to check it out?”

  “Might as well. It’s not like we have anywhere else to be.”

  “True enough.”

  Cautiously, Cameron turned the wheel and accelerated back onto the road. Soon, they saw the source of the light: a gas station.

  Cameron pulled into the station and parked next to the first of the four pumps. After parking, he gazed at the dilapidated building before them.

  The building was on its last legs. Rotted wood held it up and the roof appeared slightly caved. Cracks and smudge covered the windows. Above the building was a red and white sign that read “ROUTE” with no number under the word. Another sign said “GAS.” Aside from these two signs, the building was devoid of any other markings. Through the broken glass, he saw a lit interior.

  “Yup,” Carrie sighed. “That’s the spookiest damned gas station I’ve ever seen.”

  “No argument here.”

  “Do you need gas?”

  He looked at the gas indicator; the tank was half-full. “Huh,” he said, “I guess I do.”

  “Okay. You pump, and I’ll go get us some water. Deal?”

  Cameron nodded. He thought they should have more gas after filling up in Beaumont. But how far back was Beaumont? There was also something strange about the way the indicator straddled the exact middle of the gauge.

  “Hey,” Carrie said as she pushed him. “You okay, space cadet?”

  “Huh?”

  “You were staring at the dash like you were stoned.” She cocked her head and asked, “You’re not stoned, are ya?”

  He smiled. “Not that I know of.”

  “Alright, then snap out of it and pump the gas like a man.”

  He saluted her. “Yes ma’am!”

  Carrie saluted in return and hopped out of the car. Cameron looked once more at the gas gauge before he also exited and walked to the gas pump. The station did not smell like the one in Beaumont; no lingering aroma of benzene, no stale smell of rubber. As he walked, he could not detect even the faintest odor.

  At the pump, he reached for his wallet and pulled out his Amex. He slid the card into the slot and awaited the automated response; there was no ding of mechanical recognition. The pump’s gauge was backlit, but with no alphanumerical prompt. The pale gleam of the gauge pierced the black of the night, but did not indicate that the machine had registered his card. He tried again, and the pump’s screen remained blank. In frustration, Cameron inserted his card in-and-out to no avail.

  Cameron removed the card and clenched it in his palm, resisting the urge to break it in half. He practiced the breathing exercises he learned in the stupid yoga classes Carrie forced him to attend—deep in, deep out, deep in, deep out. When he felt the rage slither away, the muscles of his fist began to unfeather and he opened his eyes.

  After opening, he noticed the prices of the varying types of gasoline blinking at him below the general transaction screen. He focused his attention on the blinking, but then shook his head in disbelief. Each of the screens, regardless of the associated gasoline quality, blinked with a value of “$00.00.” His muscles tightened; he pounded the middle screen with his exposed palm, but it continued to flash “$00.00.” He hit it again and again, each strike in rhythm with the blinks. When his palm ached, he relented and stepped away.

  Cameron turned his back to the pump. Under the car, he saw a slight flicker of light and the outline of an object.

  * * *

  Carrie stood outside the door of the gas station and peered inside through the dirty windows. Smudge distorted her sight, but through the grit, the interior appeared empty. Aside from its emptiness, the gas station looked open—the lights on, the shelves stocked, and a neon sign inside the door glowed “OPEN.”

  Carrie looked over at the broken area of the window as unease tiptoed through her. But after the events of the eve, a broken window would not deter her from finding normalcy.

  She took a deep breath, attempted to relax her shoulders, and reached for the door handle. She turned the handle and pulled; the door was heavy, but it opened silently. She walked inside and scanned the interior.

  Unlike the exterior, the interior of the gas station was clean and organized. The expected products were in their expected areas, and a modern looking cash machine sat in the cashier’s area with no cashier to man it.

  “Hello!” she yelled, but there was not even an echo in response. “Anyone here?” Again, nothing.

  Carrie strolled over to the cashiers’ area and leaned over the counter. “Anyone?” she tried once more.

  Carrie reached into her purse and grabbed her wallet; after opening it, she pulled out three dollars and placed them next to the cash machine.

  She walked over to the beverage area, scanning her surroundings as she did so. When she arrived, she reviewed the contents of the multiple storage units. After bypassing the carbonated and sugary beverages, she found what she was looking for.

  She pulled back the handle of the unit containing the 12 oz. bottles of Ozarka. She did not feel the crisp breath of machine-produced chill or hear the constant blow of a commercial grade refrigerating unit. But she also didn’t sense the odd, artificial warmth created by a busted unit either. Instead, the interior of the unit was the same uneventful temperature as the gas station and the world outside it.

  Carrie opened the door to an adjacent unit—it also was devoid of all chill, warmth, or racket. Undeterred, she reached for a bottle of water and pulled it out. The bottle was not cold or hot; no watery residue spotted its exterior. Aside from its size and shape, it possessed none of the normal attributes of her beloved bottled water.

  Though she was not thirsty, and despite the bottle’s strangeness, Carrie decided to try it. She unscrewed the top and peered inside; the water was clear and appeared clean, but there was something unnatural about the way it sloshed about inside, like its flow was too slow.

  Carrie lifted the bottle to her lips and took a swig—she felt the normal bodily functions associated with drinking water; she detected the pressure of the liquid on her tongue and sensed it flow down her throat as her esophagus expanded and contracted. The water itself, though, was vacant: no taste, temperature, or consistency.

  She lowered the bottle, shook it, and took another drink—her second gulp was the same as the first. The liquid maintained its evanescent properties.

  While reviewing the liquid, Carrie heard a noise from behind her. She turned, but saw nothing except for the candy aisle. After shaking her head to chase off the mental phantoms, she heard the voice a second time to her right. She refocused in that direction, but saw no possible source of the sound.

  The voice erupted all around her; she dropped the water and bowed her head while covering her ears. She jogged away from the yell, but noticed in her lower periphery that her steps created no ripples in the water splashed on the ground.

  She ducked in the corner of the gas station with her eyes closed and her ears covered; for a while, she heard nothing. In the silence, she tried to recall what the voice said, but her efforts were in vain—the first time she heard the voice, it was too soft to be decipherable; the second, it was too loud. Whatever the voice said, it terrified her.

  Eventually, she uncovered her ears, opened her eyes, and stood to face the emptiness of the store. She looked all around, but did not see anyone or anything that could vocalize.

  But then she heard it. The voice was audible, high-pitched, and determined.

  “Why?”

  * * *

  Cameron kneeled down to search the undercarriage of his vehicle. He reached for and grasped the object under his car. When it was in his hand, he caressed its exterior and noticed that it pos
sessed no discernible temperature. The shape of the object was his sole means of detection, but given its unusual dimensions, Cameron knew what he held in his hand.

  He pulled out the gun from under his car and sat with his back to a wheel. It took little evaluation for him to determine the gun’s make and model—it was a Smith and Wesson SW99 revolver. He was familiar with the make and model because he had held one in his hand before. He had had this exact gun in his grip on one of the most important nights of his life.

  There was no chance it was the same gun he held on that fateful night, but it was very similar. He remembered everything about that evening, including the nicks on the gun; and upon inspection, the gun he held looked to possess the same imperfections—scratches on the butt and the right side of the barrel.

  He even remembered the gun’s serial number: BV0330. That series of numbers and letters had haunted him since, invading both his waking and sleeping hours.

  No, Cameron concluded, it’s impossible.

  He gripped the gun in anticipation. Slowly, he rotated the device so that the bottom of the barrel faced up. Character by character, he read the serial number.

  “000000.”

  He heard a noise in the distance; he stood and searched for the sound, but there was nothing in the empty blackness encircling him. Gripping the gun in his hand, he readied himself in the event the sound returned.

  He heard a growl to his right and past his car. He raised the gun and walked towards the snarl; the muscles in his arms tensed and his hands trembled as he approached. He looked forward, but could see nothing in the distance except for his outstretched hands and the gun they held.

  Cameron lowered the gun and his head. Snap out of it, goddammit. The unusual events of the trip and the surroundings wore on his psyche. Little about the evening had made any sense, not that he could make sense of the world under normal circumstances.