by Rik Hunik
The man laughed. "No need for that, I have a can of the stuff in the back. I can give you enough to get into town."
"Hey, that's great. Thanks a lot."
While the man dug his gas can out of the recesses of his home-on-wheels Darien went to the back of the Trans Am to open the gas tank, concealed behind the license plate. As he reached for it he stepped back in surprise. The number was now 664-DCD. A shiver ran up his spine.
What the hell? It definitely wasn't his memory; he knew the letters were changing too.
The old guy showed up so Darien swallowed hard and tilted the spring-loaded plate down, unscrewed the gas cap and used it to wedge the plate open.
The old guy set the red plastic container on the pavement and said, "You'll have to do the honors. Gas fumes make me sick."
"No problem, sir." He deftly opened it, fitted the spout in place, and started pouring the gas. The old guy stood well back, smiling broadly. He seemed extremely pleased with himself for doing this good deed.
"Go ahead and dump it all in. I can get it refilled when I stop for gas in Quesnel."
"Hey man, thanks a lot. You're a real lifesaver. I didn't know what I was gonna do. Thanks again." He emptied the gas can, reversed the spout and screwed it closed, then replaced his gas cap. His hands smelled like gas now but he was so happy to get gas he didn't much care. As he carried the can back across the road he casually asked, "How much do I owe you?" He started digging into his pocket.
"Aw shucks, forget it. Just seeing that car brings back all sorts of memories." He chuckled. "Not all good ones, mind you. I once had a car just like that one. My mother kept telling me it was my coffin and I would die in it, but I just laughed at her until I crashed it back in ‘79. I spent twenty-two hours trapped in the wreckage with a bottle of water and a box of Ritz crackers. That slowed me down a bit, even after I bought another Trans Am. Now that I'm old I'm a lot less like a rabbit and more like a turtle." He gestured at his massive motor home and grinned.
Darien laughed out loud, less at the lame joke than the way it was said. The guy had actually said shucks. "Hey, thanks again, but I gotta get going, I'm already running late."
"Sure thing." While the old man stowed the gas can Darien ran across the highway, jumped into the black car, started the engine, waved, and roared off.
Chapter 4
A few minutes later he pulled into a gas station in Williams Lake, where he filled the tank, used the washroom, flushed his eyes again, and scrubbed his hands. He still smelled like perfume and gasoline but it was faint enough to be tolerable now. He bought a bag of chips and a bottle of Coke and hit the highway again.
He was impatient with the seventy-kilometer speed limit that extended too many miles south of the town but he obeyed the signs. He had his driver's licence, and there were valid insurance and registration papers in the glove box, but he didn't want to be pulled over for speeding and have his name associated with this car after it was reported stolen.
The joint and the chips made him thirsty; and the Coke wasn't enough, so he pulled into an all night convenience store in 150 Mile House, stopping in the slot right by the door, even though it was clearly labelled as handicap parking. What did he care? There was nobody else around, let alone any crips.
He bought some milk, a bottle of water, a couple of sealed sandwiches of dubious merit, and a bag of chocolate chip cookies. As he stepped out of the store with his purchases he couldn't help reading the license plate. 665-DDD. It had changed again. He didn't know how or why, he just knew it was downright freaky, but he wasn't about to ditch the car because of it.
When he first stole the car he had anticipated a joyride to Kamloops, and a big payoff. Now he just wanted to deliver the car, grab his money, and be rid of the damned thing. He didn't dare ask himself what else could go wrong. He'd already had enough bad luck for three trips. He just got into the car and drove away, with the steering wheel in one hand and a sandwich in the other.
He was still eating when he came to a slight hill and the car slowed down. That couldn't be right. He knew the engine had enough power to handle steep hills at full speed. He stepped on the gas, heard the rpm's increase, but the car continued to slow down. He pulled over yet again, finished his sandwiches and milk, and smoked a joint.
When he felt sufficiently calm he started the engine. It sounded fine. He put the transmission in drive and let off the brake. The car didn't move. He stepped on the gas, revving the engine, felt the car try to move forward but fail. It was obviously a transmission problem.
He put the car in park, popped the hood and checked the level of transmission fluid. It didn't even register on the dipstick. He checked under the car with his penlight and found the problem. The transmission line had come loose and was still dripping viscous red fluid. He crawled underneath and tightened it with the crescent wrench. All he needed now was several liters of tranny fluid.
Of course he didn't have any in the car. He looked at his watch. Half past three, the dead of night, with virtually no traffic. He sat in the car and pondered for a while. Then he reclined the seat as far as it would go, leaned back, got as comfortable as he could, and waited for some traffic to flag down.
The highway remained dark and silent.
# # #
When a car with a bad muffler roared past Darien woke to the gray light of a cloudy spring morning. His watch informed him that it was already 6:55. He swore softly. By now Eddy would know the car was gone. Then he relaxed. There wasn't much Eddy could do even if he did suspect Darien had taken it.
At least there was more traffic now, so he had a better chance of getting a lift back to 150 Mile House to get to a gas station to buy some tranny fluid. He got stiffly out of the car and stretched painfully. He was just contemplating crossing the highway to hitch a ride when an orange car pulled over and stopped behind the Trans Am. It looked like a Nova from the late seventies. There was no rust visible but it needed a new coat of paint.
A kid with a chubby face and a headful of curly blond hair got out. "Good morning," he called cheerfully.
Darien was not a morning person at the best of times but he forced a reasonable facsimile of a smile onto his face and replied, "Morning." Nothing could make him call this morning good.
The kid walked around the car, not paying much attention to Darien. "Wow. I've never seen one of these in such good shape. 6.6 liter engine," he read from the front fender. He peered inside. "Is the interior original?"
Darien shook his head. "No."
"Well it looks great. Too bad it's an automatic. That takes half the fun out of driving."
"Yeah, it sure does."
"So what's your problem? Out of gas?"
Darien let out a sardonic laugh. "Not this time." He explained about the loose line and the loss of transmission fluid.
The kid gave him a comradely slap on the shoulder. "This is your lucky day."
Darien winced but the kid never noticed. "How so?" He hated to be touched and the kid's cheerfulness grated on his nerves.
"It so happens that I have a whole case of transmission fluid in my trunk. My dad and I fix up a lot of old cars and it's cheaper to buy that way. I'll sell it to you for cost."
Darien's mood lightened immediately and this time his smile was genuine. "You got yourself a deal, kid."
The fluid was soon poured into the Trans Am. Darien handed over the cash, anxious to get going, but the kid hung around.
"Say, if it's not too much to ask, could I take her for a little spin? Just down the road a bit and back. It'll only take a couple of minutes."
Darien let himself be talked into it. Normally he would consider a kid like this to be nothing more than a snot-nosed punk, but this one had really saved his ass and he was grateful. He sat in the passenger seat while the kid, with obvious glee, drove the car half a mile down the road and back.
Darien thanked him again. They said their good-byes and the kid sped off in his Nova. Darien followed at the speed limit. He was hun
gry so he munched on his bag of cookies. In about half an hour he would be in Lac La Hache where he could have a real breakfast.
Chapter 5
He encountered some foggy patches and switched on the headlights. The fog got thicker, but despite the reduced visibility he maintained his speed of one hundred kilometers per hour. He turned on the radio and found a good station. It played a good set of classic rock songs and he found himself speeding along with the music. Then a political talk show came on at eight o'clock and he slowed down a bit while he searched for a better station, keeping half an eye on the road, but all he found was commercials and talking.
A big truck came at him in the opposing lane, crowding the centerline, at the same time a shadowy shape in the fog ahead resolved into two kids on bicycles, riding side by side on the shoulder. One kid looked back at the approaching car, wobbled and swerved across the white line.
Darien had no time to think and he had no intention of hitting a big truck head-on so he just held the wheel steady and drove straight through. He felt a bump as the side of the car clipped the cyclist. In the rearview mirror he saw both boys and bikes go down in a tangle of limbs and wheels, already fading in the fog.
"Damn, I hope that didn't scratch the paint."
He considered stopping but he couldn't do anything to help them if they were injured, and there was no point if they were already dead. And if they weren't dead he didn't want them to see him and remember him and describe him to the police. Too many people had already seen him in this car.
A few minutes later he drove into Lac La Hache, but he postponed his breakfast in favor of putting some distance between himself and the cyclists. 100 Mile House was only fifteen or twenty minutes away. He could grab something to eat there, and if he drove faster and got there sooner he was less likely to be connected to the accident. He stepped on the gas and the needle crept up over seventy miles per hour.
He was negotiating a long curve and the car was holding the road beautifully until it suddenly decided to go straight. The steering wheel turned in his hands and he could not turn it to direct the car back onto the road. The car flew off the road over a steep embankment. One part of him dreaded the crash at the bottom while another part marveled at the amount of air time he as getting. The car bounced, the front end hit a boulder and the car flipped end-for-end. The T-roof panels popped out and he was flung from the vehicle. He thought, with genuine regret, that he should have used his seat belt.
He smashed into the ground.
# # #
When he came to every part of his body hurt. His hair felt wet and his head was at an awkward angle, but morbid curiosity made him look down at his body. Jagged shards of bone protruded from his left forearm and blood oozed out, but the bleeding didn't look too bad. He was lying on rough rocks and it felt like his other limbs were bleeding and broken too, but he wasn't sure. He just knew it hurt too much to move.
All his clothes were soaked with blood. He didn't know how long he had been unconscious but the fog had mostly burned off so it must have been a while. He wasn't bleeding very much now because he didn't have much blood left.
He could hear traffic on the highway but couldn't see it. Nobody stopped or even slowed down. Apparently they couldn't see him either. Nobody was going to stop to save him. Nobody knew he was down here.
It hurt to breathe and he felt his life ebbing away with the last of his blood. He couldn't call for help but it didn't matter because nobody could hear him.
Despite the pain he looked around and found the car about thirty feet down the slope, resting against a huge boulder. Every part was dented or smashed. It was a write-off, just like him.
He saw it now. The damned thing had had it in for him right from the start. It had done all this to him deliberately. He should have left it on the side of the highway the first time it tried to strand him, just outside of Quesnel, with a flat tire.
The license plate had changed again.
As he stared malevolently at it he noticed for the first time that all the ornate gold lines between the bumper and the trunk were fancy letters, what they called Gothic. It was hard to read at the best of times but he persisted, one letter at a time, "L-U-C-I-F-E-R-'-S H-A-M-M-E-R."
"Damned car," he muttered.
"It's not the car that's damned."
Darien's heart leaped. "Help me." He couldn't turn his head to see but the speaker stepped into Darien's field of view. "Uncle Bill."
The little man with thinning hair said, "I tried to help you but you kept doing the wrong thing." He squatted by Darien. "Didn't you see what was happening? You flattened a poodle, you got a flat tire. You blinded someone with your high beams, your battery went dead and you had no lights. You told that girl you were out of gas, you ran out of gas. You parked in the handicap zone, your car was disabled."
"It was a setup."
Uncle Bill nodded. "Indeed it was, but all you had to do was turn around." He stood up. "I'll call a tow truck."
"An ambulance."
Uncle Bill shook his head. "It's too late for you." He pulled out a cell phone and headed up the slope toward the highway. Darien was too weak to protest.
He heard curious grinding and scraping noises coming from the car. He saw some of the dents push themselves straight and broken parts moved into alignment. The last thing he saw as his consciousness faded was the back license plate. The number now read 666-DED. It was a good joke, but it was at his expense, he was all alone, and it hurt too much to laugh.
The End
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