The Voice

CW: Violence, blood and gore, and murder

"Well this is exciting." The voice startled him. Miles of dark country backroads lit only by a sliver of moon and the sporadic headlights of the occasional pickup truck from the opposite direction had lulled him into a deep roadtrance. "Jesus H Christ, don't these fuckers drive anything else," the voice said. He glanced at the rearview mirror into the empty back seat. He wasn't expecting to "see" anyone. He had stopped "seeing" for almost a year. But the voice had continued. Granted not as often but enough to be, let's call it an issue. As he navigated the sweeping left-hand curve a sudden flood of memories poured into him. Excitement, curiosity, exhilaration, confusion, anticipation, fright and a multitude more that he could not expressly identify but knew full well they were a part of the thick slurry of energy he now found himself swimming through. It was like being thrown into a pool of Jello. Each emotion mixing with the others to form a thick, heavy, gelatinous mass, surrounding, engulfing,

even at times suffocating him. I mean not that any of us actually KNOW what it's like to be tossed into a pool of Jello, short of maybe a few Girls Gone Wild, participants. Right? Anyway, forget the Jello. Let's just say, he was feelin' some shit. Fair enough?

At first he took the faint flashing amber lights as a road sign or traffic barricade. Slow Curve or Roadwork Ahead. As he got closer his own headlights reflected off the chrome rear bumper of a brown and tan, you guessed it, Ford F150 pickup truck on the gravel shoulder. The fact that the bumper was actually chrome told him this was a truck with many more years and miles on it than the two girls attempting to operate the widow-maker bumper jack behind the right rear tire. He took his foot off the skinny pedal, coasting through the curve as he surveyed the scene. Two girls, mid 20's at most, looked up as he rolled past. The skinny one holding the cellphone light,

standing behind the other one, a bit "thicker" as his father used to say, crouched down near the rear. The girl's eyes followed his car as he rolled through the corner and past them. It was the gaze he knew well. A gaze, a look, a plea for help. 2 sets of eyes that pierced the night and came directly into his heart that screamed, "We're stranded. We're scared. We need help." He recalled the first time he had seen that look, 45, maybe 50 years ago. He was riding shotgun as the family station wagon pulled onto the loose gravel shoulder. He remembered the voice, as it broke the silence.

"Ya don't drive past this kind of situation. Stay in the car. I'll be back in few minutes."

He pulled his own car onto the gravel shoulder. He pushed the shift into park, turned off the engine and leaned over to open the glove box. The interior light had burned out years ago and he never replaced it.

Didn't matter. He knew what he wanted. What he needed. He rummaged through the dark void and found what he was looking for. He pulled out the faded blue and silver Ray O Vac headlamp, did a quick test to make sure the batteries were still good then slid out the passenger door.

He walked towards the girls, adjusting the elastic headband and clicked on the flood setting. He approached the pair slowly, the way someone might approach an animal in trouble but doesn't want to spook them or make them nervous. " Need some help?" The one on the ground looked up and shielded her eyes from the headlamp. "Sorry," he said as he reached up and turned the brightness down . Again he looked at the ladies, girls actually and recognized the look. It was certainly a cocktail of different feelings but the base ingredient he knew. And he knew it well. He'd seen it before. Many times actually. It made him

feel good. It made him feel complete. It was the feeling that he's here and that everything is going to be ok. He smiled which immediately got the attention of the skinny one. She had moved the focus of the tiny cellphone flashlight from her partner on the ground, up to him. It was a dim light compared to his bright headlamp but it was enough for her to see the faint smile that he thought went undetected.

"What the fuck you smiling at?" Her eyes narrowed as she spoke. She had been holding the phone with both hands but now seemingly out of reflex rather than thought moved her right hand from the bottom of the cellphone to her back pocket, or where her back pocket might be had she one, almost as if she were reaching for something. The girl on the ground spoke up.

"Jesus, chill out. The guy stopped to help us and you..." she paused and looked up at him. "You did stop to help us, right?"

"I did," he replied. The smile returning to his face, this time a bit larger and more noticeable.. He turned his attention from the skinny one in the tight pants to the one on on the ground. "Do you know how to use that thing?" he asked, pointing to the jack jammed under the bumper at a very precarious angle.

"Not a clue. She's been trying to find a video to show us but coverage out here sucks balls. Fuckin' Verizon."

"Lemme give you a hand with that. First thing you need to do is crack the lugs before you put it up in the air. These jacks tip if you fart too loud." He looked at the skinny one who just rolled her eyes. "Sorry." He took the tire iron and quickly cracked lose the lugnuts from the flat tire. "Go make sure the emergency brake is on. We don't want this thing rolling off the jack "

"Yea I did that. "

"Ok. So now we get this thing up." He took the base of

the jack and scrapped away a flat spot in the gravel. After placing the base down and the jack into the base he carefully slid the lip of the jack under the bumper and slid the tire iron into the sleeve. "This is where you need to be careful. These things can spring back and smack you in the melon or fly up and catch you under the face. Either way it ruins your whole day. Actually, promise me after all this you'll pickup a scissors-jack. Much safer and easier to use. I really don't want to see one of you get hurt."

"Oh please," the voice said. He quickly raised his had to cut it off.

"Stop," he said, forgetting not everyone here was in on the conversation. The one girl looked at him, eyebrows raised slightly. "Damn mosquitoes," he said.

He carefully levered the iron bar up and down, slowly raising the truck off the ground. Once the tire was off the ground a few inches he removed the iron from the jack and quickly removed the lugs. Once the lugs

were off, the old wheel removed and the spare mounted he replaced the lugs and tightened them by hand before returning to the jack to lower the truck. "This is the tricky part. When yer goin' down it's easy to catch it in the face."

"Tell me about it," the one holding the phone said.

"Seriously?" said the other one, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

As he continued to lower the truck, his mind slid back to that night 50 years ago. The voice playing in his head, so loud, so clear he thought that's what those toothbrush things the kids use in their ears to listen to music must sound like. He remembered watching in the mirror as the events played out. He could see their faces in the small side mirror. The look of fear, relief, nervousness. He strained his eyes in the tiny side view mirror to watch every detail of the scene. Watched every step of raising the car, changing the tire and lowering the car all with the speed, precision

and efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew, minus all those other guys. He chuckled quietly as he thought about the comment. "Going down. Really easy to catch one in the face. Tell me about it." He felt his face warm with embarrassment as he realized what she had meant. His mind's eye quickly refocused to that night years ago. He saw his mother finish with the last lug, place her hands on her knees and push herself up. She turned to the girls, shifting the tire tool from her right hand to her left in order to shake one of the girl's outstretched hands. The second girl had already reached into her pocket and produced what he thought was money. He saw his mother put up a hand and block the attempted transaction. She appeared to push one more time only to have his mother smile and shake her head. He remembered the looks of gratitude and relief the girls exchanged as they both turned to walk to the front of the car. His mother, being left handed, was in a perfect position as she swung the tire iron and buried it deep into the temple of the

girl closest to the car. Blood, hair and chunks of bone splattering the girl on her right. The girl on the right blinked a few times and put her hands out, palms to the air as if to say, "is it raining?" She looked to the sky then to her left. Not seeing her friend she looked back then to the ground where her friend lay, gushing blood like an open can of red paint that was just tipped over. As he watched the scene playout in the tiny side view mirror, it seemed like a fraction of a second from final lug nut to bloody rain. If he had blinked he probably would have missed the entire opening act. But the second act? The second act was different. Time stopped. He sat in the front seat, face pressed tight against the passenger window trying to get as close as possible to the tiny oval mirror that was his viewscreen to what he could only describe as the greatest show on earth. Fuck you Ringling Brothers. Fuck you, Mickey. My mother has all you assholes beat, he thought. He watched as the girl's eyes opened wide enough to see white all around the

colored part. He watched as she stared directly up into his mother's face, their eyes locking onto each others gaze. He saw her mouth open wide enough to see she had two fillings on her back molars. Turning to make her escape she locked on to the tiny side view mirror. He wondered if she could actually see the huge smile that dominated his face. She hadn't taken but maybe half a step when the tire tool came down into the top of her head. Even with the windows rolled up he knew that sound. It was the same sound he got when he connected with a slow hanging curve ball his buddy Swede would serve up during baseball practice. CRACK! He watched as the girl collapsed into another lifeless lump. And then everything went quiet. Quiet like when you turned off the power to your stereo while the album was playing and then just as the music faded you turned it back on. Oh yea. Before digital and mp3 and all that other horse shit there were albums. Black vinyl discs you played on a turntable. The sound was richer. Warmer. More

dynam... Forget it. Just Google it. You'll see what I mean. Anyway, he sat frozen in his seat Mesmerized. Hypnotized. Tranquilized. His mother opened the car door, pushed the back of the driver's seat forward and tossed the tire iron on the back floor. It landed with a thud that shattered his trance. She settled in behind the wheel, eyes fixed on the windshield. After a second or maybe an hour, it could have been either, she turned slowly to face him. He turned to his mother to see an utterly expressionless face devoid of feeling, emotion, or even life itself. Except the eyes. The eyes were on fire. The eyes danced with an electricity and a power all their own. He loved seeing those eyes. He wanted to have those same eyes. "Well?" his mother said. And as a very faint shadow of a tiny, almost imperceptible smile began to appear on the boys face, she uttered two words. "Dairy Queen?"

"I want a strawberry sundae...with a whole bunch of extra strawberry sauce.

The final scene of his childhood premiere slowly dissolved from past to present. As the last lug nut was torqued into place he caught a glimpse of the sideview mirror on his own car. This time, along with the voice he saw his mother's face. It had been awhile but he could again see her. She beamed with excitement and pride.

"Batter up!" The voice was loud and he was certain both he and the girls could hear it. Oh to hell with it. Play ball, he screamed...in his head. The "plan" if you want to call it that was crack the thick one first. Once that's done he imagined that one hand would easily fit around that skinny neck. It had been a minute since he had actually gone hands on. Be good to get back to basics. He took a deep breath. He was rather surprised to find this much adrenaline, anticipation and pure excitement all fighting for equal time within his body. He grabbed the curved end of the iron and

placed the thin end on the ground using the iron like an old man using a cane to get out of his chair. He turned to face the girls who were standing behind him. The thick girl had been behind him watching the order that he used to tighten the nuts. "Oh it's like a star pattern," she commented as he stood up. The skinny girl was behind her and to her right. He shifted his grip on the iron. The curved end now hanging down around his ankle. As the girl in front of him reached into her back pocket to retrieve her wallet he took a quick glance at the other one just to make sure everything was a go.

The feeling was hot. No not hot. It was searing. Like someone had just pushed a white hot iron through his belly. Somehow a spider must have crawled up into his shirt while he was on the ground. He raised his hand to squash the little bastard but found something hard, wooden actually, between his hand and his

body. He tried once more but still no contact with his body. He looked at the girls who were looking at him, both with puzzled, confused looks. The skinny one asked, "What the fuck is he doing?"

"I don't know. This is a first."

He looked down at the handle of what looked like a cross between a machete and a sword, sticking out of his shirt. The blade of which had gone through his torso and was now lightly scratching the side of the truck bed behind him.

"Holy shit! You made it all the way through," the skinny girl said.

"Yea. Another first," as the two girls fist-bumped each other they turned their attention back to him. He looked at them both, then back to the handle. He blinked a few times to try to clear his vision. He looked back at the mirror on the side of his car. His mother's face looked back at him, head shaking slightly with that look of disappointment all mothers are capable of.

"See what happens when you stop practicing."