VIC SHUFFLED OUT of the Ellensburg bar at 9 p.m., weary from the booze and the cross-state drive that began in the morning. He needed to crash and recalled a rest area before reaching Snoqualmie Pass. His mid-90s Chevy Impala glided over a recently paved surface and the engine had a low and restful hum. Everything was quiet in the car, except for the intermittent rattling from the buckle on the rear seat belt assembly that had been getting on his nerves all day. He turned on the radio to muffle out the sound, but only got a few scratchy country western stations or talk shows. He wished he’d taken the time to fix his CD player so he could listen to some jazz or classical music.
He parked in the rest area and stared at the only other vehicle in the lot, a beat-up Econoline van. Now he imagined deranged sub-humans inside the van waiting to rob lone travelers like himself. He considered driving away but was too exhausted to do so. A minute later, he fell asleep.
He woke up with a start at 11:30 p.m. Out of habit, he checked his cellphone for messages but got no signal. Now he sensed someone, or something, watching him in the darkness and creeping closer. He screeched out of the area and back onto the Interstate.
As he powered up the grade toward the summit, a dull thumping noise preceded the rattling every time he turned the wheels along the winding road. He'd been aware of the damn noise for weeks and had been meaning it fix it—probably only needed to tighten a few screws on the hinge—but had never gotten around to it. Like so many things in his life. Now the contraption was on the verge of falling apart.
He switched on the radio again but got nothing but static. He was in a dead zone now, with no radio or cellphone reception. More rattling. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. He reached far back with one hand on the wheel, grasped the offending buckle, and pulled the strap attached to it from the wall. That worked and he continued up the ascent toward the pass.
Very soon thereafter though, the sound came back again: thump-thump rattle-rattle, and then again. He stifled growing anger and stepped harder on the gas. More than anything, he just wanted to get home and craved the thought of his favorite whiskey burning down his throat. Eventually, the grade flattened out as he approached the summit. On the opposite side of the road, he passed by a few dark ski-complex buildings. A foggy mist swirled in the overhead lights.
That infernal rattling continued to torment him.
Still only static on the radio. He punched in the preset stations and—voila—out came some classical music: a rich, lush orchestration accompanied by a chorus of voices, sounding like a piece from Respighi or Debussy. He must've gotten a bounce from being on the summit. There seemed to be something strangely synchronistic about the music and the dark and misty scene outside.
He lost the signal as soon as he descended. He adjusted the knob and turned up the volume, desperately searching for a station. Even within the static, he heard the rattling. For a moment, a garbled, shrill voice cut within the static, but he couldn't make the words before it faded away. After he turned off the radio, the rattling increased in intensity—like pins and needles being pierced into his skull. He flashed back to the time in the Ellensburg restaurant when that old man next to him tapped his spoon incessantly against the cup. At least there he could walk away from it, but not in the car. He felt trapped and tortured in his seat like an Inquisition victim .... thump-thump rattle-rattle.
In a tormented rage, he lunged back and tried to grab the buckle, except this time he couldn't find it. He snapped off his safety belt so he could reach back a little farther, but it still eluded his grasp. In desperation, he turned around and saw the thing, a-glistening in the darkness behind him. He jerked it from the wall again—but with such force that the assembly broke off from its hinges.
When he turned back to face the road, he saw with sudden panic a near-hairpin turn ahead. He slammed on the brakes but spun out of control on the wet and slippery pavement. The big Chevy busted through the flimsy guardrail and went careening down a steep embankment. With the safety belt off, he grabbed the steering wheel to keep from being thrown out as the car tumbled round and round and down, amid the deafening racket of crunching metal and broken glass. Sharp jolts of pain wracked his ribs as the steering wheel pushed deeper into his chest. Glass and metal flew around, gashing into his head and arms. More jolts of pain in his chest. Careening round and down. Until the car crashed to a body-crunching stop.
For the first few moments, he dared not move and tried to gather his senses. Somehow, he was still alive and conscious. The car landed right side up but angled upward. A single dimmer light barely illuminated the area. Only the sound of a nearby flowing river broke the silence of the space.
Now he couldn't help but think about the day and all the fatal little choices that pushed him to this point: the stupid, split-second impulse to take his eyes off the road; drinking too much in the bar; and the decision to eat at a Café. For some reason, he thought about the waitress there, Marie, and her troubled expression when he left. Her haunting countenance remained fixed in his mind — and provided some degree of peace and comfort — as he thought back more on the day, which seemed to have gone by in a blur. . .
He drove on old back roads that cut through rolling fields of wheat and hay and parched dry lands of lifeless brush, until at last the darkened silhouettes of the Cascade Mountains appeared on the far horizon. He was almost halfway home. He took this side route instead of the Interstate, thinking that the new sights would take his mind off the stressful visit with his ex, Annie, the day before, and trying to make amends with Jake, his teenage son. As the drive progressed, however, he couldn't shake the anger and frustration about the visit.
He rolled into Ellensburg about an hour later to fuel up and get a bite to eat. He stared at the nearby Cascades in the west as he filled the tank. A thin blanket of snow covered the crests of the craggy peaks. A chilly gust of wind coming from the mountains wrapped around his body like an icy shroud. The faint orb of the sun hung low in the late November sky behind a light gray overcast.
“Any good steak places around here?” he asked the clerk at the station, an older Native woman with deeply etched weathered skin and long silvery hair.
She sized him up with a knowing smile before answering. “Go to the old café across the street and down a block,” she said, pointing with her thumb in the general of it. “The place with the glowing red sign.”
He left his car at the station lot and waited for a few trucks to rumble by before he crossed the street. He was the lone pedestrian in the area. Crows squawked loudly by a dumpster in an alley as he passed. A dog barked from somewhere. The café looked to be an unassuming little place, tucked in the corner of a two-story redbrick building. He tried to spot a name on the façade or the window but only noticed a neon sign above the door reading Café in glowing red letters. He peered into the window before entering. Sure enough, a crowd of hungry souls consumed food and drink at the booths and tables. He hesitated for a moment, opened a squeaky door, and entered.
The smell and sight of food kicked in his appetite right away. A Johnny Mathis piece played on the jukebox. In fact, the whole place looked like something out of the 1940s and 50s. Vintage movie posters and cigarette ads hung from the walls, along with other pieces of retro kitsch like a big Route 66 sign and a Mobil Exxon horse replica. The Formica tables and chairs, sitting on a scruffy black and white checkerboard linoleum floor, were an odd mixture of pastel colors in a variety of shapes and sizes.
The customers gaped at Vic with blank expressions as he stood by the door. All the booths were occupied so he headed toward the counter near the back.
The waitress gave him a curious stare as he sat down.
“Something to drink?” she asked.
He glanced at the selection of beers on the menu but decided against ordering one, knowing it would lead to more. He just wanted some food and coffee in his belly so he’d have enough energy for the final push home.
“Coffee's good,” he answered.
The coffee came in a wide-rim porcelain white cup, with a little spoon on the saucer. He clinked the spoon against the cup just to hear that ting. Coffee always tasted better in cups like those. He ordered a steak, with mashed potatoes and vegetables.
Later, the waitress came by with the coffee decanter in hand
“A refill?” she asked.
“Sure.”
He stared at her lean, toned arms as she poured. She appeared to be in her late thirties-early forties and the half-sleeve on her blouse partially covered a floral tattoo below her shoulder. He noted her name on the tag pinned to her lapel: Marie
“Just passing through?” Marie asked.
“Yeah.”
“Going east or west?”
“West. To Seattle.”
“Heard there's a big front coming over the mountains tonight.”
“Thanks for the info.”
“There's some decent motels close by if you want to play it safe.”
He briefly considered the possibilities before responding. “I'll think about it.”
She was about to say more, but someone signaled from the tables so she left. Her sultry voice resonated in his mind.
The gas station attendant was right. The T-bone steak was a perfect medium rare, and the mashed potatoes were smooth and creamy. A tasty hollandaise-like sauce topped off the fresh, steamed vegetables.
In the middle of the meal, the music stopped right before the squeaky door opened. A cold gust of air whooshed into the place. An old man stood in front of the door looking for somewhere to sit. He shuffled his way across the room and sat at the other end of the counter.
“The usual?” Marie asked.
“Uh-huh,” the old man muttered.
The jukebox kicked in again: a Roy Orbison song.
Marie served the man a slice of apple pie and turned to Vic.
“How's everything?” she asked.
“Good. I'll have a refill please.”
He settled his gaze on her thin, red lips and the little cleft on her chin as she poured.
“Think it might snow?” he asked.
“Not here, but you never know up there.”
“Maybe I'll miss it if I leave right away.”
“Take your chances,” she said, and walked briskly away to serve the tables.
The old man tapped a little spoon against his coffee cup. The annoying tapping continued as he ate. He glared at the old man, who was lost in his own imaginary world, staring straight ahead with glassy eyes.
“Could you lighten up with the tapping, please?” Vic asked.
The man turned to him with an icy stare and a scowl, revealing his stubbly wrinkled face and stringy unkempt hair.
“To hell with you,” he rasped.
“The hell with you too, old-timer. Have a nice day.”
“Oh, I will,” he said and turned away. “I will.”
He started tapping again, and with a half-smile that exposed his crooked, yellow teeth.
Vic tried to ignore him as he ate.
“Anything else?” Marie asked as she cleared off his plates.
“No, I'll take the check now.”
“Good luck the rest of the way,” she said, with a troubled expression that he found almost disconcerting.
There was a chill in the air and the gray skies had darkened so he searched for a weather report on the car radio, to no avail. He wanted to get home that night, but Marie put enough doubt in his mind to make him hesitate so he decided to hit a bar for a quick drink and to find out more about the weather from the local news.
He nestled up to the far corner of the counter in a truck stop bar and ordered a shot of Tullamore Dew, chased with a beer. The barkeep switched on the weather channel for him. He was soon relieved to see that the latest front would bring in rain but no snow in the mountains, except in the highest elevations.
As he nursed his beer, he dwelt on his life situation. He'd reconciled himself to the fact that he got shafted on the divorce three years before; she ended up with the house, the alimony checks, and custody of Jake, but at least he got to keep his modest pension. He could only blame himself. He waited until his mid-thirties before settling down, thinking he'd outgrown all his bad habits. He did everything right in the first ten years of the marriage, but then those old habits started creeping back like a bad dream: the drinking and the gambling and, worst of all, the philandering. Marriage counseling didn't help so they made the split official. At first, things were okay because at least he got to visit Jake a couple of times a month, but the situation got worse after they moved away from Seattle earlier in the year after she got a job for a rural Whitman County school district on the other side of the state. He felt more unwelcome in their presence during each visit. Their breakfast together in the morning was tension-filled and terse.
A wracking pain around his ribs and chest cavity where the steering wheel jammed in jolted him out of his reverie. He wondered how long he could last. Surely, someone would see the broken guardrail and investigate the scene below. Maybe if he remained still, he'd be able to hang on until they came. He reached for the cell phone in his jacket. No signal.
Now he felt a sharp tear inside his chest, followed by a warm sensation around his ribcage. A moment later, his throat tightened and liquid trickled into his mouth and down his chin. Blood. His throat kept tightening so he took in short, shallow breaths.
He stared up at the sky in this desperate condition, trying to calm himself. The sound of the flowing river nearby helped a little. It reminded him of the times he went hiking to some of the many alpine lakes in the area with Jake and his friends a few years before and camped by a river. For the longest time, he'd been a good father and they did many things together. Hell, he even coached Jake's soccer team and could tell he was getting good at it. He doubted they had soccer teams where Jake lived now, but wasn't sure because he never asked him. That wasn't the only thing he never asked him, and sensed Jake was unhappy living there. It all seemed so clear now. He needed to sit down with his son and talk to him about stuff, to clear the air between them and let him know he still cared. He made a vow to do so next time—if he could only hang on!
A few flashlight beams shone from far above, followed by the sound of voices, punctuated by a single “hell-oooh.” He tried to yell back, but only mustered out a few muffled coughs—he couldn't speak. How to signal them? The horn! He pushed the knob. The horn blared briefly, then shorted out.
The lights from above were getting closer. Another muffled voice shouted out something like “We're coming down!” Were those ambulance sirens in the distance?
Every breath was painful now. He tried to hang on with all his strength but soon felt dizzy and disoriented. Somehow, in this state of disembodied unreality, he sensed the end was near. He couldn't fight it anymore. It was time to just let go — a strangely comforting realization. Now he felt a kind of growing fullness swelling up from deep within his gut. Something large and undefined. Rising up, ready to release.
As Vic struggled for breath, a cold but gentle breeze penetrated through his clothes and caressed his broken body. He discerned the sudden sight of ghostly steam emanating from the ruptured radiator, faintly hissing. And fainter still, another sound came from within the car — from an object behind him dangling in the wind.
It was the last thing he heard before everything went black: thump-thump rattle-rattle... rattle...
— A.R. BENDER
A.R. Bender is a writer of German and Native heritage now living in Tacoma, Washington, USA. His short stories, flash fiction, and poetry have been published in numerous literary journals, most recently in: Pulp Modern, Close To the Bone, Thriller Magazine, Sein Und Werden, October Hill Magazine, Mystery Tribune, Madcap Review. In his spare time, he enjoys hiking off the grid and coaching youth soccer.