A teen was working the morning shift. He had bitten on his fingers until the dent marks had left scars and subsequently burnt his fingers, shakily sliding the paper coffee cup in Heather's direction.
Frost flowers danced across the window facade. Heather pulled her beanie deeper and wrinkled her nose in goodbye.
When the door clattered shut, she faced the dusty parking lot. Some mongrel couldn't resist yapping at the only other two men. Welcome to Utah, Heather thought.
The dry cold stung in the nose. Lips recoiling upon contact with the coffee, the low hanging sun blinded her. Her eyes flitted over the dog (visibly pregnant and infected with fleas) then rested on her steaming car. They didn't seem like friends, the other two. Heather ignored their argument erupting near the car vacuum.
Today I'm in Green River, she calculated. Then tomorrow in Colorado, Sunday in Nebraska or Iowa, if I'm lucky. Which has never happened before.
“Hey fuckface,” yelled the first man in the background. Heather chased a cough away with a sip of the brew, then opened the trunk.
Inventory includes a blanket and enough water to last the next two weeks. Shopping has to be done somewhere in New York. She scoffed. Crazy how it never ends. You can die tomorrow but you won't escape the chores. She hesitated. Maybe, when she would reach the coast, she could take herself out for dinner. Pork sisig and lumpia. To come home for one last time. She shook her head. Ridiculous. They could never get her mother's sauces right. It didn't matter anywa-
Heather flinched at the sudden noise: A punch, a yell, a bang. Then another.
The two had progressed past unfriendly greetings. One of them (bloody and bruised) leaning onto her car – the other (sweaty and panting) looming dangerously above him.
“Whoa! Wow, wow, wow!” She slammed the trunk shut. “What the fuck do you think you're doing there?”
Heather's feet acted immediately on instinct. Just like her mouth: “What the hell?! Move before I fuck you up!”
But the bigger man simply rolled his eyes at her, sneering: “Relax, doll. It's just a scratch. Did you enjoy the show?”
Heather's ears kept ringing. There was a pathetic lump cowering on her hood. She picked him up by the collar. His head lifted, barely conscious.
“Not on my fucking watch,” she hissed, turning around, but the other man had already vanished.
“Ey!” She yelled into the empty parking lot, “Hey, whose fucking weirdo is that?”
The dust didn't answer. And she couldn't understand the dog.
“Oh, my fucking god, no. Absolutely not,” she whispered to herself.
Her disgusted fingers released his shirt. Immediately, he slumped back against the engine cover. Blood rushing through her ears, Heather chewed on the lining on her mouth. Then, against her better judgement, she scraped him back up.
“I’m not fucking responsible for you.” She threatened, but he couldn't even answer coherently, only vague noises exiting his mouth. “What?! Speak up!”
Not that that helped.
Heather turned around, throwing a hand up in the air. “I’m leaving you here. Good luck!”
It seemed to activate him. Shakily, he held out his hand: “Argh. Ey. Hey, hey.”
Heather spared him a glance and he smiled drowsily: “Hi.“
“Go back to sleep,” Heather spat before falling into the driver's seat.
The man blinked slowly. “Are you, like, God?”
Ice pricked her skin. Molten eyes watched his spindly arms as he smeared his bloodied hand across the windshield, mixing dust and antifreeze until her vision was red, red, red, frozen in place.
The man gasped, then coughed. “Shit. Am I dead?”
It fixed her rigor. “What? No,” appalled Heather, “Dying feels different, don’t worry. Get off my car.”
He didn’t budge a bit. “But… you’re gonna save me, right?"
She sighed. “I just told you, you're not dying. Move.”
And like as if a grand inspiration had just revealed itself to him, he slapped his long fingers over his forehead and chuckled: “Oh! Okay, I get it. You're dead.”
Heather swallowed. The dust had clogged her throat.
“No, I am not dead either,” she rasped. It didn't matter. His eyes remained shiny with hope.
“You’re gonna save me, right? Right?”
Heather looked at him. His hair tawny and unwashed. His teeth just as yellow. He drooled onto the paint. Heather had made the mistake of consideration. Was she? Was she really going to save him? A mean thought stuck itself to the crevices of her brain. She turned away and focused on the road ahead.
“You don't have half a clue, do you?” she breathed, “Get in before I change my mind."
The man's smile was ugly. His lips were bitten into an angry red shade and his eyes stayed distant. Nevertheless, he stumbled over to the back seat: "Whoa, thanks dude."
Heather took a deep breath.
Then she engaged first gear, put down her foot and drove.
Luck. She thought. Luck was all it took never to step a foot into Utah. Luck and a little bit of common sense. She gripped the steering wheel tighter as her mental counter hit the thirty minute mark. Still no hospital in sight. Luck. Heather broke the speed limit and kept crawling through the landscape like an ant through molasses.
Endless silence filled the car ... until: "Hey, uh, where… where’re we driving?"
She caught a glimpse of him in the rear-view mirror.
"Does your head hurt? We're still looking for a hospital. And I’m driving."
"Yeah, can’t let the dead guy drive! That’d be… crazy, dude."
Another deep breath. “I'm not your... dude.”
“Sure”
"And I told you; you aren’t dead."
"Well," he slurred, "I’m only gonna believe that, when a doctor – a qualified doctor, yes? – diagnoses me with life. Hey they should diagnose you with life."
"Uh-huh," she let her eyes drift back onto the road. Straight ahead, still straight ahead. Forever straight ahead. The man made a strange noise.
"Hey, hey, hey! At least try not to bleed onto the leather"
His eyes remained shut. Twenty minutes ago he had started complaining about the heat, until he had undressed, only to complain about the cold. "Hm. Mhm… But it’s so comfy."
"I will fine you."
"Hm… Nice stranger who’s saving me from the cost of an ambulance threatens to fine me… sure."
"They don’t take dead guys in ambulances, by the way."
"Maybe… But I’m tired," he smiled.
„Could you not?“ she shrieked.
„What?“
„Fall asleep, Jesus Christ,“ Heather swore, overtaking a Ford with shaky hands.
She looked at him, really studied him through the mirror. How he had sprawled out on the seat, green and blue littering his appearance. How his brows frowned. How he laughed. Deep and sincere: „I’m feeling vaguely close to death.“
„Oh, come on,“ was her only retort, „Don’t… don’t be such a pussy.“
„But I’m so tired,“ he whispered.
„No, you’re not!” Yelled the panic clawing up her throat, “Hey. Look at me. No, you’re not.” It tied her tongue, “You will finish what you started!“
He blinked slowly into the silence.
„How many people tell you, you look like an angel?“
„I, what? None!“
„Well up that number by one. ‘Cause you do. ‘Course you do. You’re beautiful.“
„Oh, fuck off.“
„No, not in that sense. I’m not hitting on you.“
„I don’t care, either way.“
„I mean it,“ he shrugged.
„As do I. You think you can walk?“
“Sure, sure,” said the man and buried his chin in his sternum. “I’m feeling better already,” he slurred, “Angelic voice. Are we there yet?”
Heather set her jaw. “No. Do you have any allergies?”
He laughed: “What, you want to take me to dinner?”
“No, not while you’re bleeding out on my backseat.”
“Nah. Not that I know of any.”
“Okay.” Breathing in, Heather gripped the steering wheel tighter. Breathing out, she accelerated. “What’s your blood type?”
His screeching laugh rang between them.
“Girly you’re asking questions! I don’t know! What’s yours?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Her voice shrilled.
“I just thought we were making conversation.”
Heather sighed. “Alright. We’re trying this town next.”
The man grinned. “Oki-doki!”
There was no escaping Utah.
The parking lot they stopped at looked exactly like the one they had just left.
A grazing cow followed their commotion with curious eyes. Heather's icy fingers bent clumsily over the handle, ripping until the door sprung open. Immediately, the man toppled. Bloody hands clung to her sweaty shirt for balance.
Heather pressed her teeth together. “Come on, idiot. You gotta finish what you started”
Her steps carried double the weight over the gravel. And when they finally reached the ratty entrance, the flimsy door flicked open with the draft – the smell of winter replaced by overtones of sick.
Heather stood and cried: “Help." It came out feeble.
“Help,” she tried again, the words dying in her throat. The man's weight rested on her vocal box. Her knees wobbled. His breath panted unsteadily against her neck, unfocused eyes gazing up her cheek. One hand traced wet lines over her ribs. She could smell his blood. His hair scratching her chin. Rough and cold.
Dead already. He had stopped twitching.
“Hey,” she rattled him around, head lolling from side to side.
Her voice crumbled: “You have to finish what you started. You,” she took a rattling breath, watching the veins behind his eyelids. “Are you fucking with me. You cunt!" Heather's fingers buried into his hair, gripping tight and pulling his face into the fluorescent hallway lights. He did not even flinch. "You have to finish what you started!”
Then, Heather took his hand slung around her neck between her teeth and bit down onto his fingers.
It was music to her ears, the symphony of screams that followed.
“What the fuck?!” He must have yelled. Or maybe it was the nurse the corridor down. Or maybe it had been the older woman reading the paper. Maybe it had been herself. It couldn't matter; she took his chin between her fingers: “You gotta finish what you started,” Heather cried before a pair of hands dragged her backwards.
“Enough!” Growled a burly man, holding her to his chest, “This is no boxing ring! Are you injured?”
“He had-”
“Are you injured?” He repeated. Louder. Angrier. Heather grew number. She shook her head.
Her fighter had collapsed onto the floor. Pasty skin on dirty concrete. Two doctors were bending down to him.
“Great,” concluded the man holding her, “then you can wait outside.”
By which he scruffed her neck, pushing her through the rattling door back out into the freezing air, where Heather ate dirt and didn't get up.
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