Washed in Red

So that red light was a Coca-Cola sign after all, his heart cheered triumphantly. A Coca-Cola sign meant he had reached civilization. It meant that his mechanical night journey down the seemingly endless dark country road had reached a pleasant stop. The radiant sign was the only source of illumination in the place. The sweet taste of the cold bottles of Coke exhibited itself then and there. But why is this gas station plunged in darkness except for… he murmured to himself. The red sign gave him reassurance and he did not care why. Shortly he squinted his eyes to read, “Jimmie’s Resting Place,” scribbled on the store front adjacent to the gas station. “Huh! The double meaning of it,” he reacted.

Then, he started filling his car with gas, thinking of the storekeeper to pay, when a gunshot sounded from Jimmie’s. The bang echoed to the heavens above ever so gruesomely and landed in our man’s ears ever so deafening. The gas station lot reverberated still more and stirred something about in the abysmal depths of the flora around. Then, there was ringing in his ears. He waited for the aftermath of the bang in a frenzy to know what was to happen next. And he saw that two dark figures rushed out of the grocery store. Had it not for the clattering they made on their exit, he would have sworn they were apparitions. The two figures struggled to mount their rides, it came apparent to him. “Wait! Somebody’s filling his car!” shrieked one of them when his ride’s headlights rose on our man’s spot. They had not noticed him pull over while they were absorbed in their murderous affair with the storekeeper. “No! I didn’t see anything. No, no, no! I didn’t see your faces. Not yet. Not if you get any closer. It’s pitch black in here. Let’s keep it that way. Please, spare my life! No, no, no! Listen, my name’s Naguib… what am I saying… away with you, devils!”

Only when the trickling of the gas, out of his car’s tank, punctuated the silence that Naguib somehow began to struggle to regain his senses. After much squinting, rubbing and rolling of the eyes, he found that the lot was empty again save of him. He shakily settled his affairs with the gas-filling, promising he would never muster any kind of courage to go see the body of the storekeeper. And the red Coke sign flickered one moment. It disturbed him as it did the moths fluttering about in frenzy.

No, no moon shone for him that night. He stood on the cemented lot of the gas station and its adjacent store, bewildered. His feet itched to take him to see the body. He disobeyed that itch. Suddenly he wondered why the night air was devoid of its usual nocturnal sounds. The gunshot must have scared those sounds off, he thought. It made him sick and lonesome. If he did not call the police, he still had the option of driving away even if it meant he had to endure the windings of the same dark country road.

Hunger toyed with his insides. It exasperated his irritation that the nocturnal sounds had not returned as of then. Go inside the store, do not look at the body, get what you need, drive away were his thoughts in that moment. It snatched a scream from his throat when an alarm clock blared abruptly from Jimmie’s Resting Place announcing whatever time of night it was. It made him think of why he ended up there that night in the first place. Go inside, never look at the body, get what you need, drive away, he repeated in his head. He started pacing aimlessly in the lot when a piercing thought shot across his head that stopped him motionless: No regrets? Oh, there are! And there are, and there are!

Naguib would rather die of famine than enter the store that was full of all kinds of delicacies for one reason: he feared the sight of the cold corpse in the dark. He dragged himself to the car but his hands did not come to his aid when he wanted them to switch on the engine. Oh, did he want to drive away had he not dropped the car keys in a shiver. The man was too shaken to fish the keys out. He got out of the vehicle heavily, and heavily staggered towards the red fluorescent Coca-Cola sign. Taken for an abode, he was all washed in red. He played that night in his head again and again, cinematically. He decided to sleep it off under the sign, not minding the cold. What is pneumonia to the horrors he witnessed tonight, he thought. As he rested his hands on the ground, his fingers felt what it was like weeds to him and he opened his eyes. Yes, he picked those weeds from some crack in the ground and found they were bitter, so he went to sleep with a bitter mouth.

It was dawn now. A velvety gloved hand of a woman, so he registered in his drowsiness, now pressed one of his hands. The gentle touch stirred him but he straddled in a state that wanted to neither intimidate the woman, nor trouble the surface of his sleep. The womanly touch breathed in his weary hand. Now his body was afloat. If he could trade the memory of that night for food… For severe hunger gnawed at him. He heard muffled sounds now, half-awaken. He was glad that the sounds in the air came back to the place. And night was about to give way for day. Suddenly he thought he heard the vrooming of a motorbike, or a motorcycle, reverberating from beyond the pines. It was clear for him there were pines now. The screaming of the two-wheeled engine was getting closer and closer. The closer it got, the more terrified he grew. And soon the two bikers from hell were upon him. And there was he lying, washed in red.