Page 57 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. V #3

his father went to work and he got hot and thirsty and bored and all he could hear all day long were cars whizzing by out on the interstate and the German Shepherd locked in the trailer next door to him, barking, barking, barking at whatever moved: insects, shadows, sunbeams, dust motes, or maybe just the ghost rabbits he saw in his head.
He was startled then by the slam of a car door and an engine starting up. He peeked over the side of the truck, watched as the cop car pulled out onto the road, scattering some pebbles. The patrol car peeled off up the hill and was gone.
Of course, he could always go out in a blaze of glory, like Rod Chapel tried outside of that con- venience store, where the Devil finally caught up with him.
The old man was shuffling slowly toward Benson, clutching a pink piece of paper in his hand. The light from the dying sun wrapped him in a pecu- liar glow, as if he had at that very moment mate- rialized by the side of the road, from no known world, for no known reason. The kid stood up from his crouch and just stared. His gun was at his side, pointing downward, forgotten. His arms and legs were trembling.
Benson snuck a look through the rear window. The old man was in the passenger seat of the cruiser, staring straight ahead, while the cop was talking into his radio mike. Well, that’s that, the kid thought. He’s calling for reinforcements.
When the old man saw Benson, he stopped and rattled the sheet of paper. “Welp, fella, turns out you can so get a ticket for driving too slow. Sono- fabitch gonna cost me thirty dollars.”
The cop began writing on his clipboard and Ben- son used the moment to take hold of his gun and slip out the passenger door. He crept along the side of the truck in a crouch. His heart was hip- hopping wildly in his throat but his hands and legs were surprisingly steady, his senses keenly aware. The sun was low in the sky now, behind and to the left of the cop car, a burning orange ember that seemed to set fire to the wooded hills as it descended. The rocks and dirt crunched crisply beneath his boots. The air smelled of sweet pine pitch and horse manure. A slight breeze cooled the sweat beading up on his brow.
~
Near the end of the pickup, he paused and knelt down. He cocked the hammer of his pistol and then held the gun against his cheek with both hands, waiting for the sounds that would tell him what to do next. He ground his knee into the gravel, felt the sting of a sharp object stabbing through his jeans into his leg. The pain was like a slap to his face, made him hiss and clench his teeth. He looked down at his knee. With a shak- ing hand he withdrew the protruding tiny sliver of glass, its tip red with blood. He tossed it away, watched it flash and disappear into nothingness.
The old man left Benson off at a truck stop in Wells River with all the cash he had on him, which wasn’t much. In return, the kid gave him the gun. It was after dusk when Benson stuck his thumb out on the interstate on-ramp. The big tractor- trailers had their lights on and were moving around the truck-stop parking lot in the darkness like big predatory animals. The driver of one, a crew-cutted fellow with a large belly, stopped and said he’d give Benson a ride if the kid promised to talk to him to keep him from falling asleep at the wheel. The kid said it was a deal. He guessed he had a few jokes and stories he could think of. He’d talk for as long as he could, for as far as he could. After that, they could always try the radio.
Young is a broadcast journalist and ction writer. His broadcast journalism has garnered him many prestigious awards, and his c- tion has been published in EastLit Journal, Drafthorse Journal, and Falling Star Magazine.
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