by Mike Duran
“I need to sit down,” she said, and did so on the spot.
The emergency vehicles pulled next to them on the shoulder. Red and yellow lights pulsated across the underbelly of the overpass. Two men came towards her from the ambulance, briskly, one with a black pouch.
“She’s just dizzy, or something,” the Lexus man said to them. “She’s been kinda lost. Incoherent. In shock, I guess.”
“C’mon!” It was the lady in the Lexus, chomping away at her gum, with her head out the window. “C’mon already. Geez!”
“They’ve gotcha now.” He bent over, patted Eunice’s back, nodded to the paramedics, and jogged to the other side of the Lexus where he got an earful from the driver.
Eunice leaned sideways, smiled and waved at him, mouthing the words, ‘Thank you.’
The paramedics helped her up and got her car to the shoulder. They checked her blood pressure and pupils, asked some questions, and then gave her a slip of paper that, she was sure, would translate into a hellacious bill.
She knew better than to tell them anything about Winterland.
By now, the sun had set. The smog was brown against orange. It appeared that miles of headlights were stacked behind them. Drivers were rubber-necking, angry eyes wanting to put a face on the last thirty minutes of stop and go.
While one of the paramedics finished the paperwork, the other watched her. But his gaze was not that of a man looking for a hot date. She made eye contact with him, and he looked away. His partner tossed the clipboard on the dash and climbed into the vehicle, waiting for his buddy to finish. Eunice and the paramedic stood together on the shoulder, awash in headlights.
“If you have any sensations of light-headedness again, pull over right away.” He paused and she thought he wanted to say something else.
“Thank you. I will.”
He nodded and turned towards the ambulance.
“Was there something else,” she said. “Something you wanted to tell me?”
The paramedic turned to her. He was nervous, she could tell. “Go ahead,” she coaxed. “What is it?”
After her excursion in Winterland, Eunice was ready for anything.
He cleared his throat. “This is the fourth time this year we’ve been to this same spot,” he said. “Some of the guys say it’s haunted.” He tried to sound professional, but couldn’t hide his humanity. “Same thing, every time: a guy ran in front of a car and got hit; traffic’s backed up for miles. But no one was hit. No one was even there.”
“Really?”
He squirmed. “Last year, some guy jumped off the overpass here, just a kid—killed himself.”
They stood for a moment in what seemed reverent speechlessness.
A horn sounded and they both jumped. And laughed.
The paramedic shrugged. “Have a good evening, ma’am.” He jogged back to the ambulance without looking back.
Eunice walked to the driver’s side, opened the car door, and looked east. The sky was almost completely dark. Stars peeked through the veil of smog and a chain of wispy clouds with orange underbellies followed the foothills to the north. Hundreds of headlights shone her way. She stared into them and thought about Winterland, overlapping their world. Intersecting occasionally.
Then Eunice got in her Audi and drove to the hospital. She remained in the slow lane, for there was no need to hurry.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MIKE DURAN is a novelist, blogger, and freelance writer whose short stories, essays, and commentary have appeared in Relief Journal, Relevant Online, Novel Journey, Rue Morgue magazine, and other print and digital outlets. He is the author of the supernatural thriller THE RESURRECTION (Realms, 2011) about an unlikely woman who raises a boy from the dead and rouses something beyond her control. Mike's novels explore the boundaries of belief, the fragile tether between science and superstition, the depths of despair and the reaches of faith. You can learn more about Mike, his writing projects, favorite music, cultural commentary, and arcane interests, at www.mikeduran.com.
