by JC Gatlin
He had been in a bad mood for months now. Yesterday it peaked. Or was that a low? He wasn’t sure.
While shaving, he’d gotten a good look at the threads of gray in his sideburns. He’d never noticed the gray hair before and it threw him for a loop. He’d been in an extraordinarily foul mood ever since. He remembered his father turning gray at forty. Owen still had seven years to go.
But he was aging fast. He knew it. And it made him mad.
Rayanne had taken the brunt of his bad mood. She always did. He didn’t deserve her. He knew that. In fact, he’d always known—from the day he first laid eyes on her. And if it hadn’t been for luck, he never would’ve landed her. She was a whole ’nother level than the girls he normally dated back then.
If not for luck ….
“Luck,” he said softly. Luck got him a basketball scholarship to Duke University. There, he met Rayanne. He couldn’t believe it when she fell for him. As soon as they married, fortune smiled on him again. He found a lottery ticket worth five hundred thousand dollars.
He used that money to buy a beautiful home, pay for Rayanne’s education, and start a construction company. Life was good to them and blessed them with a son, Connor.
It was in Vegas, two years ago, when the luck ran out.
Rayanne called, interrupting his and Darryl’s turn at a craps table. Connor had drowned, she told him. He flew home to his distraught wife.
Almost immediately, the economy collapsed and put the construction company out of business. As he struggled to pay the bills, Rayanne’s depression grew worse.
It was a Sunday morning, the first anniversary of Connor’s death, when he found his wife in the bathtub. She’d cut her wrists. He rushed her to the hospital, and later had her committed for depression. When she was eventually released, Rayanne returned to a home that had been foreclosed by the bank and to an out-of-work husband who was dealing with his own demons.
He wondered if that’s what those punk kids were—his demons. If he was honest with himself, he knew what they were after. But he didn’t have anything to give them. Nothing but bad luck. The thought made him chuckle.
An extraordinarily atrocious run of bad luck. That’s what he had.
And he couldn’t give that away. Not now. Not even if he wanted to.
Owen shifted in the seat. The motion sent a shockwave of pain through his shoulder, which caused him to flinch. That reopened the wound in his stomach, and he cried out in pain.
After a moment, it subsided. His blood pressure returned to normal. He could breathe again.
He looked out the window at the rain. To his right, he could make out only a gnarled wall of branches. Sticks and leaves scraped the window like fingers trying to scratch their way through the glass. Out the driver’s side, he could slightly see the slope of the ditch. Water was streaming in little rivers through the mud and pooling under the truck. He knew at some point he would see Rayanne return from that direction.
She’d slide down through the mud, into the ditch. Perhaps the sheriff or the fire department would be behind her. Or maybe some joker who had driven by as she stood on the side of the road waving her arms, begging for somebody, anybody, to stop. At some point she’d return, so he concentrated on the thought of her. Her smile. Her voice. Her feet on his dashboard. He jolted again, realizing he’d dozed off. But only for a second. He had to watch for Rayanne.
Owen let out a long exhale, realizing he felt marginally better. The catnap helped. At least his leg no longer felt like someone was shoving a hot poker into his calf muscle. It had calmed down to a continuous, painful throbbing. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.
He decided he didn’t care anymore, so he listened to the rain. It made a constant thumping above him that was at the same time relaxing and migraine inducing. But there was nothing he could do, other than endure it.
Endure. He had to endure.
He wondered again when Rayanne would return, and turned his head the best he could to look out the driver’s side window. A rock was sliding down in a stream of rainwater. Mud and a larger wave followed, perturbing the smooth grooves the running water had carved into the slope.
Adrenaline filled Owen’s veins and he sat up, unaware of the pain this time. Someone was coming. He could hear the sloshing splash of boots making their way down into the ditch. He saw them—dark and muddy—and knew instantly it wasn’t his wife. It was someone else. Owen tensed. His left leg pressed against the guitar lying on the floorboard as he readied the shotgun to fire. He knew it was a matter of time before the teenagers found him. Now they would kill him. Even if he had what they wanted, he knew he wasn’t leaving this truck alive. At least he’d be taking one of them with him.
The rain intensified, blurring the gray woods. He heard movements outside of the truck. Heavy footsteps splashed near the driver’s side door. The handle jiggled.
Owen’s arm trembled and he aimed.
* * * * *
Rayanne huddled in the back of the yellow Volkswagen, wishing Owen’s worn-out T-shirt provided more warmth. She drew her arms through the sleeves, to the core of her body, and wrapped them around her chest. She knew she was wasting time. Valuable time. Every second counted, and she was cowering from the dark and rain like a frightened schoolgirl. Her husband was waiting for her. Needed her.
Could she really walk through the woods at night, though? Even if the rain stopped, could she make it to the county road through the darkness?
Bringing her knees up to her chest, she pushed back against the seat as far as possible. It pressed hard against her back and somehow felt comforting. She listened to the rain hit the roof and could see out the window across from her. Night seemed deeper in the woods. Like a thick, living thing surrounding her.
She shut her eyes, blocking it out. Her stomach growled, and she remembered the granola bar in her jeans pocket. She thought about opening it, eating it, but the thought made her stomach turn. So she let it be.
She focused on Owen and wished she was with him now. She should’ve never left him. She knew better, but she caved in to his demands. He wanted her to go. He wanted her to get help. And she relented. She always relented.
She hoped this time it didn’t kill them both.
Silently in her head she prayed, asking God to protect her and to watch over her husband. She asked Him to lead her out of the woods to find help. She waited for an answer.
Lightning brightened the sky and thunder rocked the Volkswagen. For a second she could see the junkyard, then it went dark. She twisted her body so she could plant her face into the back of the bench seat. It felt brittle and dirty. It smelled of mold, but there was also an inherent safety within the car.
Then, phantom spiders crawled up the nape of her neck. Rayanne swatted at them.
She’d wait out the rain, she told herself, summoning her courage. Then she’d climb out of the car and head back into the woods. She’d find that dirt path again—it would be slick with mud by now—and she’d follow it to the paved county road. She’d follow it until she came to that windmill, like some kind of protective sentinel watching over the forest. And she’d wave down a passing car. She’d find help.
Lightning crackled, bathing the interior of the car in a flash of blue light.
Then darkness.
Wait out the rain, Rayanne told herself again, and shut her eyes. Wait out the rain.
* * * * *
Aiming the shotgun, Owen again heard someone outside jiggling the driver’s side door handle. This time, a black mass stepped within view of that window.
Owen’s finger trembled on the trigger as lightning lit the woods. In the flash he saw a familiar face pressed against the glass. Owen put down the gun and exhaled a long breath.
“Darryl,” he said, his voice choked. “Darryl …”
Owen wanted to cry in relief. He’d never been so happy to see his buddy. For a second he thought he might be dreaming.
The door opened, letting in a wash of r
ain and wind. Darryl poked his head in the cab as water spilled off the bill of his ball cap. He looked at the crunched steering wheel pushed down close to the edge of the driver’s seat. He turned toward Owen.
“Bud?” Darryl’s voice cracked. It was more of a whimper than a greeting.
“You look like hell,” Owen said. He couldn’t believe what he saw. Darryl’s right eye was swollen shut. Beneath, it looked like there was a shard of glass lodged in his cheek. The bridge of his nose was cut open. His mouth was bloody and he was missing a front tooth.
Darryl looked toward the back, and he folded the driver’s seat down to squeeze into the space. He reached over the seat to shut the door, locking out the rain. He leaned back and gave Owen a faint, painful smile.
“You don’t look so pretty yourself.” Darryl’s voice was lost in his throat and he struggled to get the words out. “You okay?”
Owen shook his head. “My leg’s bad. Real bad. But I’ll live.”
Darryl glanced at the driver’s seat, the steering wheel mashed into the cushion. “Your truck’s messed up somethin’ bad. Rayanne okay?”
“She went to get help.”
This seemed to cause Darryl physical pain and he leaned forward. “No, damn it. How could you let her leave? Those punk kids are out there. They’ll kill her.”
“No one knows we’re here. She had to get help.”
Darryl shook his head, squinting his left eye. The gash across the bridge of his nose still bled. “How long has she been gone?”
Owen leaned back in his seat again, resting his head. He shut his eyes and tried to stuff down the waves of pain shooting through his body. He coughed, then tried to speak. “Six, seven hours, I guess. I don’t know.”
“She should be back by now.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”
Darryl raised himself up again. He kept his face as still as possible, hardly moving his lips when he spoke. The voice that emerged sounded easily breakable itself. “I better go find her.”
He struggled to move and winced in pain, then fell back in the seat. He groaned. Owen turned his head, struggling to look at him in the backseat. Again he noticed the glass shard in Darryl’s cheek.
“You been beat up somethin’ awful,” Owen said.
Darryl lifted up the front of his blue-and-white striped shirt. Dark purple bruises had formed on his stomach below his rib cage.
Owen shook his head. “Your ribs are broken,” he said. “Internal bleeding.”
“I’ve had worse.” Darryl cleared his throat, coughed, and spit something hard and bloody onto the floorboard.
Owen watched him, and when Darryl looked up, their eyes locked.
“What?” Darryl asked. “It’s not like you’ll be driv’n this truck no more.”
Owen said nothing and just stared at his buddy. Deep lines marred Darryl’s face, sole lines, probably, from one of the teens’ boots. They hadn’t bled, but the indentations stood out on his swollen cheek like map lines showing where the face could be broken apart.
Darryl lay back in the bench seat.
Owen remained still in the front passenger seat, listening to Darryl wheeze as he struggled to breathe. Rain beat louder on the rooftop. Thunder rumbled, shaking the vehicle. Gradually, the rain stopped and darkness settled in the ditch. It blanketed the Chevy. Owen figured the sky was probably cloudy, blocking the moon.
The two men sat silently in the Chevy, waiting. Neither spoke until a sudden cry rang out. Loud and terrified.
The cry continued, and Owen forced himself up in the seat. He looked out the driver’s side window but couldn’t see anything more than a thick blackness.
“Sounds like a coon,” he said.
“A coon mad ’bout something.” Darryl choked when he spoke. He cleared his throat. “Think it’s nearby?”
“Sounds like it.” Owen gave up and turned away from the window. “Sounds like something got it.”
They listened to its cries of agony. It went on for another hour before the dark woods fell silent. Owen suspected that something had finally killed it. Gradually, a symphony of bullfrogs replaced the silence. Owen knew the lake must be nearby.
“I hope Rayanne’s okay,” he said in a soft voice, breaching the uneasy silence in the truck. He turned his head toward the backseat.
Darryl opened his good eye. It looked like he was trying to focus it, as if he couldn’t see enough of Owen, and mumbled, “Me too.”
They said nothing more that night and waited for her return.
* * * * *
When she was sure the rain had stopped, Rayanne climbed out of the Volkswagen and stretched. She looked around. Halfway across the hollow, the upward slope had receded to nothing but a misty outline of trees. A few steps farther and they were swallowed in a thick fog. Rayanne shuddered. She was alone in the dark and she could smell the dampness, the rusted metal, and mildew in the forest. Looking up at the moon shining through the clouds, a solid white light rising over the tree line in the west, she realized she was running out of time. She had to get to the county road. She had no choice but to cross the woods at night.
She slammed the car door shut with a loud, squeaking bam that echoed through the hollow and reverberated in the trees overlooking the dump. She listened to it as she turned and stepped away from the rusted car. The echo gradually faded and then the growling began.
Rayanne froze and fell back a step. All her muscles tensed. She listened, and heard it again: a low rumbling growl. Her neck twisted to the left, then to the right. It was too dark to see. She squinted, her heart thumping.
The mist shimmered between the trees. It reminded her of smoke, like remnants of a campfire, and she imagined the entire forest smoldering.
Then, from the mist, Luger stepped into the moonlight.
Rayanne’s heart stopped. “Dropp’n F,” she whispered.
17
The large Rottweiler at first resembled a black apparition forming from the mist. It stood compact and at attention, its muscles taut beneath the black fur. Its eyes focused on Rayanne.
She knew dogs could smell fear. She had to stand strong, stand her ground. Her legs trembled anyway. She couldn’t help it.
“Luger?” Her voice trembled. “Good doggie?”
She backed up a step. The dog crept forward. It crouched, like a lion stalking prey. Its head lowered toward the ground. Its growl rippled through the low mist, but its pitch never changed. It took another step forward. Rayanne took another step back.
Reaching behind her, she felt the trunk of the Volkswagen. Her fingernails scratched the flecking paint. That was enough to break her nerve. She turned and dashed for the driver’s side door.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Luger bolt down the slope, into the hollow.
Her head turned, Rayanne saw the dog coming as her feet slipped out from under her in the wet weeds. She slammed her arm against the back bumper. Pain shot through her forearm. She shrieked, but recovered and jumped to her feet. Diving for the driver’s side door, she fumbled at the latch. She struggled with it. The door wouldn’t open. She glanced over her shoulder. The Rottweiler was racing toward her. She turned back. Pulled on the handle. The door wouldn’t open. In seconds the beast would be on top of her, tearing into her.
She pulled with every ounce of strength she had left, and then the door gave. It opened with a rusty, exaggerated creak. She scrambled into the driver’s seat. She let out a long breath and realized she could feel her pulse beating in her temples above her eyes. She plopped down, almost collapsing into the seat.
Reaching for the inside handle, she got a glimpse of Luger charging at her. All she could see were teeth in a blur of black. She yanked the door shut with both hands. It squeaked in rusty protest as it slammed into the frame with a heavy, solid thud, and then there was silence.
She didn’t hear the dog. There was no growling. No barking. It was gone. Rayanne inched toward the window, looking out. Luger’s foam-covered face popp
ed up in the window, larger than life. Huge jaws opened and shut against the glass. It barked with a savage rage, thumping its muddy front paws on the glass.
Rayanne screamed.
The dog stopped barking and its face disappeared from the window. It had dropped to the ground.
Rayanne gulped another breath. She watched the top of the dog’s broad back over the curved hood. It was going to the other side of the car. Rayanne looked to the passenger side—at the open window.
She threw her upper body across the center console and passenger seat, flinging her left arm in an involuntary rage of panic toward the window crank. Her fingers grasped the lever and she turned it. The window hadn’t moved in years and it creaked up, ever so slowly. Rayanne forced the crank to turn, and grunted when Luger leapt at the glass.
His snout pushed through the closing gap, snapping at her. Rayanne screamed and moved her head, then fought harder with the crank, turning it again. Luger got a paw on the top edge of the glass, then his other. The glass fell a notch with his added weight. Luger thrust his head in farther, barking. Slobber dripped from his mouth.
Rayanne pulled her hand back as the window dropped again. Luger lunged. She leaned, scooting away from him, pressing her back to the driver’s side door. Luger clawed at her, snapped his jaws. His upper body was coming through the window. The glass broke under his weight, shattering, and the dog’s underbelly hit hard against the door. That didn’t stop him, though. She could feel his hot breath as he neared and hear his back paws scraping against the outside metal. He was climbing inside.
Her eyes locked with the dog’s. It barked, lunged for her again. Her left hand clamped onto the door handle. She opened the driver’s side door and fell out backward on her butt just as Luger’s hind legs made it to the top of the passenger door. He was in the car.
