My world had changed. I struggled to understand the voice that whispered in me…this might be pretty nice. I was halfway from Los Angeles to Sacramento when I realized I’d passed the last gas station for fifty miles. The thin orange needle teetered over the white “E” at the bottom of the fuel gauge. It was just after midnight and my old pickup truck began to cough and sputter as its insatiable thirst for gasoline was no longer quenched.
I cursed the wretched thing and looked ahead. Maybe the next exit would have an unadvertised gas station. The headlights flickered and I knew the choice had been made: exit ahead, hope for some luck. The truck wheezed as I pumped the gas-down, up, down again-desperate to squeeze any drop of fuel that remained to move myself a little further. I’d barely come around the exit’s curve when the engine finally died, and I coasted less than half a mile before the truck rolled to the shoulder. I peered into the darkness of what seemed to be the meeting of a cotton field and a jungle, two scenes I was fairly sure didn’t belong together. I sighed and reached for the door handle, which came off with the frightening sound of breaking metal. “Can it get any better?” I wondered. At least the latch had released before it broke, so I stepped out.
I decided to open the hood and stare at the murk of the engine compartment in spite of the fact that I knew there was nothing wrong with the engine. I squeezed the latch until the hinge popped-rather loudly-and startled me. The emptiness of the scene had made the noise seem louder than it was; I sighed with relief before I pushed the hood up. It rose with a groan as its angry, rusted steel cried out against the darkness like an abused and neglected lover who has finally had enough. Then I heard them.
The roar of an engine and the squeal of tires emerged from the road behind me. I turned to see what I hoped would be my savior: an old Cadillac convertible with headlights so intense I was sure they would burn my retinas. It raced toward me with the pounding bass of a stereo probably worth more than the car itself. The raucous cackling of a half dozen teenagers echoed as the car accelerated, and I waved in hope that the driver was sober enough to stop without hitting me. A shot rang out in the darkness. My blood froze as one of the truck’s rusted hood springs snapped and rocketed into the night. My heart leapt as the hood crashed to a close and tires screeched. Blinded by the Caddy’s headlights I was barely able to see the hole in the Cadillac’s windshield, made by the broken spring as it sped to kill the young driver. Out of control, the car accelerated into me with a force that can only be described as a Cadillac.
“Oh fuck!” I cried. Warm steel broke and I felt the odd sensation of the Cadillac’s bumper twist around me. The car’s engine and transmission pushed backward into the cabin with a horrible noise like the mating of steel and flesh. A young girl flew into my chest with a look of horror; I felt a crunch and a snap as her head twisted in a horrifically unnatural way and her body crumpled to the dirt. Another girl screamed as she hit the dashboard, blood splattering everywhere. I cried aloud as the back of the car rose from the ground, tipping its occupants toward me. Out of instinct or fear I threw my hands up, gripped the hood and somehow slammed the car to the ground.
Death, blood, crushed steel: these stood before me in unimaginable horror, yet all I could think was “I’m not dead?” “What are you?” a young man cried from the car. He was drenched in blood, but I tried to reassure him. “I didn’t know!” I began to sob; then he spoke again. “Monster!” he screamed, “I’ll tell them!” he cried as blood and tears covered his face. Fear rose within me; I reached for the boy, begged him to stop, to understand, but his hysteria only grew as first he raged–then so did I. Tears fell from both of us as my hands gripped his neck, twisted with a force that had never been mine. As one, two then finally three vertebra broke I felt something…powerful. The boy’s body shuddered and went limp as I cried out an echo of the boy’s question: What am I? in the moments before the peace came.
A new voice answered in me as I started off into the darkness—this might be pretty nice.
*Author’s note: This story has been substantially re-written from its original posting, as the first version was, for reasons I couldn’t sort out at the time, driving me bonkers. I’m still not sure how much I like it, but it’s better now.