vehicle being driven at speed. At first he looks around inside the dark trunk for answers on where he might be but quickly turns his attention to the front of the vehicle. He bangs his clenched fist against the metal sheet dividing the compartments but he gets no reply. He imagines the gear stick in fourth, the steering wheel favouring the right and an empty driver’s seat. He looks across to the console and recoils when the image of the Gargoyle seating in the passenger seat facing him invades his mind. He turns toward the back of the car and trunk lid, leans forward and presses his face to the locked opening. He screams at it but the sound of the roaring engine drowns his voice out. The car goes over a bump and he is thrown upwards. His head collides with bare steel and he falls backward into the hole. Gingerly he cranes his head backward to stare at the bench seat. With one last exhale he submits to the ride.
The Driver shoves his hand under his body searching for his back pocket. His fingers slide inside it and search for his deck. They find nothing but sand. His heart sinks. His hands venture out and search the cabin. Pushed into one of the corners they find a scrunched up piece of cloth. He unravels it, pulls it over his shoulder and covers his body.
When he wakes again the car is no longer moving. He hears the sound of a body shifting around on the springs of the driver’s seat, use the handle and open the driver’s side door. He hears boots find their way onto gravel. He tracks the figure as it edges around the vehicle towards the trunk. The Driver stiffens and turns to look at the lid. His eye widen but the figure crosses behind the back of the vehicle to the other side. He hears the pop of the petrol cap followed by something metallic being shoved inside it. Above the lid a familiar ting-tinging sound begins. A loud final ting rings out and the figure removes the pump from the side of the car. It then crosses back behind the car but stops at the trunk lid.
The Driver shifts himself as far back into the hole as he can and takes a deep breath. He watches the lid as the figure stands still for several moments. He dares to take a shallow breath. Suddenly the figure reaches out and pops the lid into its palm. White light penetrates the darkness and the Driver raises his hand to cover his eyes. He squints at the opening and sees the silhouette of a slim waist on the other side. His pulls the cloth tight to his chest and reaches out. His mouth opens but nothing escapes. Without warning the lid of the trunk slams shut and the figure moves away from the car.
In the distance the sound of a bell over a door makes the Driver’s eyes grow wide. The image of the old petrol station and the dead clerk behind the counter confront him. He raggedly exhales the word no into the darkness. He reaches forward to the lid of the trunk and pushes it out of prostration. The metallic creak of steel hinges scrape the air as the trunk lid opens. The midday sun immediately claims his body. His dry eyes bake as he tries peering through the overpowering glare. As they slowly come back into focus, a sign materialises. It reads “Last Chance.”
As he steps from the trunk and turns toward the one-room store, a familiar figure drifts through the aisles. He looks across the thin weatherboard cladding to the far right window and where the counter would be. To his shock the Driver sees the figure of the Clerk sitting comfortably behind it speaking to the approaching customer. He can only make her out from the waist up but she bares no signs from recently being shot in the chest. He looks back at the man as he reaches the counter and begins to the confront the Clerk. He watches as the man reaches to his back pocket and pulls out a deck of cards. From under the man’s jacket he sees the firm handle of his Mateba Model 6 Unica.
The Driver instinctively sticks his hand deep into his pockets searching for his own deck. He removes them from his pants and then the cards from the packet. He shuffles them unconsciously as he watches the scene inside the store. The cards feel strange and uncomfortable to his hands and he abruptly looks down at them. He fans the deck out in front of him and almost instantly notices one card is missing. He looks up into the store in fear just as the figure inside is removing the gun from under the back of its jacket. The Driver looks down at the cards in his hands. He rubs his thumbs along the faces of them. The paper is novel and cheap. He looks back up and sees fear on the face of the Clerk and pity seeps into him. As the cards slip away from grasp and drift to the ground, the Driver makes his way up to the smudgy glass doors.
The bell above the entrance rings.
The Driver throws himself into an aisle full of confectionery, chips and chocolate before anyone can react. For a moment he sits and listens to the conversation. He winces at the hollowness of the exchange and how arbitrary his earlier actions seem now. He hears the pain in the old lady’s voice and how she was doing her best not to get shot by some random joker. He shakes his head as hears himself pronounce,
“... the only freedom we have is what we do with what has been done to us.”
The thought hits him like the light penetrating the darkness inside trunk. He looks across the aisle and sees the hook where the vintage pack of cards once hung. The image of a sandy grave on an unmarked stretch of highway and the covered corpse of a nameless person fade into his mind. The sound of a black-winged Gargoyle echo in behind it. The Driver smiles. He looks again at the place where the old cards came from and sees a fresh, vacuum-sealed packet hanging on the next metal arm. They are as crisp and inviting as new hundred dollar bill. The Driver stares at them with contempt. They taunt him, offering him a another ride. He doesn’t move. They scream at him to break the seal and play another hand. The Driver gives them one last look, and shakes his head in banishment.
“This isn’t a game.” He whispers. Then he stands up to say it again.
Two shots ring out. The first one neatly finds a home above the heart of the man who has just spoken. The second punches through the ribs on the back right side of the man at the counter. The Driver is thrown through the cheap overpriced food behind him, the shelving collapses on top of him as he lands. He is dead before he hits the ground. He doesn’t hear the parting profanity of his former self. He doesn’t see the ineffectual footfalls as the other man crashes through the porn section of a magazine stand. He doesn’t feel the loving arms of the Clerk as she pushes away the items covering him and cradles his unmoving corpse. And he never hears the last thing she ever said.
“Courage.” She cawed.
Back on the counter, sitting alongside an unopened packet of vintage playing cards and several miscellaneous goods worth seven-fifty, the Ace of Spades lays facing down. Outside the store, high above the petrol pumps and the handwritten board, a rusty sign creaks in the wind. It reads ‘Blackbird Gas’.
Acknowledgements
This story doesn't happen without several key individuals: Fly, as always you made the words fun and fight fair. And thanks for the brilliant cover photo. Button, when the nights are hard, you make them easy. Jad, the fights just mean we are brothers. Bloopy, the edits were as tight as the stairwells were treacherous. Moo, your sister has a great sister, and I'd join your team any time. To my friends and family who take the time to read the rantings and let me know how it made you feel, I do what I do for you.
More things @ www.stevenzelko.com
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