Road Trips (2 page)

Carly froze as she heard the spring on the outside door
twang. A rush of cool air slithered up her legs.

Quickly, she sat and hoisted her feet, hoping whoever it was
would not know she was there. Labored breathing, like the sound of someone who
had been running, came from the door.  The person stomped in, and Carly could
see the shoes of whoever stood beside her. She tried to recall what kind of
shoes Peter had been wearing.  She could not. But mud caked the shoes outside
the stall.

Men’s shoes.

A pain like fire inched through her chest as she held her
breath.  How long had it been?  She wondered. How much longer would the person
wait?  The fire swarmed further through her chest.  She could feel her body
ache to exhale.  She began to count the seconds…one-one-thousand,
two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand…

Tears began to form in her eyes and her throat ached.  Carly
clenched her teeth, forced her tongue to the roof of her mouth.  She shut her
eyes and listened.

The breathing outside continued, labored, heavy.

Her chest seared.

Carly heard the feet shuffle, dragging across the floor. 
Then she felt the whoosh of air as the outside door opened and slammed shut.
Her tears fell from her eyes as she sucked in air, stifling the need to cough.

Carly lowered her feet and slid her clothes up.  She paused,
placing her hand on the stall door, and then slid the lock open.  The uneven door
swung open on its own.  She peered around the edge of the door as it swung. The
room was empty.  For a moment she questioned if anyone had ever been there. 
Then, just outside the stall, she saw muddy footprints, the only vestige of her
nightmare.

She leaned against the main bathroom door and listened
momentarily. Then, confident that no one was outside, she burst through it and
bolted toward her car.

The chorus of crickets filled the night air, and then
suddenly stopped. Carly paused, sensing movement off to the side of the
building. And then, the snap of a twig, roaring like a falling tree.

She turned.

The dark outline of a man emerged from the shadows, arms
outstretched. He towered over her, his face concealed by shadow and a fedora
cocked over his forehead.

“No!” She stumbled away, and spun toward her car, feeling
his presence inching closer. She slammed the car door shut behind her and hit
the lock. She grabbed the handle and rolled up her window, voiceless, unable to
scream.

The shadowed man shambled closer. His palms faced her,
dripping—she could not tell what in the darkness.

Watching him through the window, she tried to force the key
into the ignition, but she kept missing. A frustrated scream finally erupted
from her mouth. She pulled her eyes from the approaching man and focused on the
ignition. Her trembling hand worked the key into the slot. She cranked the
engine, the starter wincing as she ground it. The man’s hand smeared across the
window as the car tore out of the parking lot.

She sped along the dark road for an hour, watching her
rearview mirror for headlights that never appeared. She felt hopelessly lost in
the stalks of corn and roads that cut seemingly endless lines through the
fields. The urge for a cigarette finally overwhelmed her, and glancing in the
rearview more once more, she braked but did not dare to put the car in park. She
leaned her head against the steering wheel for a moment. She turned to face the
window and shuddered looking at the smear, realizing, it was blood.

She reached in the backseat for her bag. Her hand drifted
across the fabric and landed on a wet, sticky puddle. She pulled her hand back,
the palm coated in blood. She turned in her seat and gazed into the back. She
clawed at the door handle, and fell onto the pavement as the door opened. Carly
crumbled to the ground, moaning with her bloodied hand held away from her body.
As the car rolled away, the door slammed shut and hid Peter’s head, propped in
the backseat, where her cabbage had been.

Originally published in
The Weekly
.

If you enjoyed this story, you may enjoy
Red
Haze
.

Dark gray clouds stretched the horizon, blotting out the red
shards of the setting sun. In Maude’s mind, the red slants of light looked like
the tentacles of a sea anemone, searching for prey. Throughout the day, Maude
had watched from her window as the clouds proceeded toward her. They had
gathered into a herd then as the wind picked up, they stampeded. Great
raindrops bombarded the ground, kicking up dust clouds, as the line of rain
moved toward her.

Her window on the fifth floor was a single blinking eye in
the countenance of the dark edifice. Large raindrops, sounding like gravel,
pelted the window. Against the force of the howling wind, the glass rattled.
Maude scurried to a dark corner of the room, sat with her knees huddled to her
chest. She felt sweat beading on her forehead, felt her pulse race in her neck.
She wanted to scream.

The rain always made her want to scream.

Maude was fiddling anxiously with the dial to her car radio.
The first rays of the morning sun broke the seraphic spell of the nighttime sky
as she found a song she liked.
Moonlight Sonata
entranced her as she
strained to keep awake. Looking down the winding road ahead of her, she yawned
and rubbed her eyes. It had been a long night.

A cocktail party had been thrown by one of the senior
partners of her law firm. Having only been practicing with the firm for a short
time, she was excited at the chance to mingle with the important partners and
clients. She knew she was about to become a member of the inner circle. Life
was finally blooming; sacrifice was yielding reward.

For the past seven years, Maude had scraped to make ends
meet. Her husband had left her and her daughter without so much as a goodbye.
No one could find him; and with no child support or alimony, she had finished college
(she had, of course, dropped out when she married), then completed law
school—and the entire time, she still kept food on the table. But the circle
was almost complete; she was getting what she deserved.

So all night long, she had sipped martinis, chatted with
clients, and told illuminating tales to partners. And as the sun blazed red in
the sky, she was coming home to her daughter. She hated leaving her daughter,
Angel, with a nanny so often, but she had no choice: They had to eat, so she
had to work. But soon it would all pay off. Soon they would have everything
they had longed for. She rubbed her eyes again, and let them close for a
moment—

—Maude lay on the beach with her husband. They were entwined
in each other’s arms, kissing, tasting the salt of the surf from one another’s
lips. Sand clung to their wet bodies, the water lapped at their naked flesh,
like pearls dancing across their skin. The sand moved under them, shifted,
pulling away with the tide.

Screams filled the air around her; Maude froze, uncertain of
the origin. Maude cringed as the beach morphed into darkness, apparently
disintegrating with the tidal pull. The horizon mutated, pulled in toward her,
and became the walls of a dimly lit room. The sand fell away, revealing a
cushion beneath her.

She lay in a hospital bed, strapped down. Maude realized,
then, that the screams were her own. Maude strained her neck, lifting her head
toward the window. Hard raindrops pummeled the glass; the daytime sky was dark
with gray, rolling clouds. A streak of lightning lit the room momentarily,
followed by a crack of thunder, deafening and strong.

A white-arraigned apparition floated into the room with a
dagger-like needle. She placed the syringe to Maude’s arm and injected a fluid.
Maude stifled her screams and closed her eyes.

Maude’s eyes bolted open.

She looked around, realizing she was in her car, on her way
home. She couldn’t believe she had fallen asleep; she had meant only to blink.
Home, she didn’t even remember most of the trip. Turning into the driveway,
Maude’s front tire hit the curb and she was jolted, hitting her head on the
roof. She rubbed her bruised head, groaning.

Climbing out of her trusty Escort, she looked at the
brooding, rosy sky. She thought whimsically,
Red in the morning, sailors
take a warning.
Yet, the forecast had not called for rain. Seeing Angel’s
bike lying in the yard, Maude smiled.

Maude gave a cursory glance around the yard, then to her
watch. It was nearly eight-thirty. Angel always woke up early. Maude had
expected Angel to greet her or at least to be on her bike. She walked to the
house.

Inside the house, Maude dropped her small purse. It made a
hollow thud on the floor. The light shining through the window caught air-borne
dust particles, making the room look hazy, surreal. The house was silent.

“Angel?” Maude called.

No response. “Mary?” She called for the nanny.

No response.

Maude’s heels clicked on the wood floor as she searched the
house. She found only the television on. A tape was in the VCR playing a recording of Maude with Angel. Angel was years younger, a short time before her
father left. Maude was playing with her, twirling the girl’s blonde curls
around her fingers. Over and over, Angel gleefully squealed, “Rubber baby buggy
bumpers!”

Maude turned off the television. The house filled with a
stygian silence. She backed away from the TV, then bolted up the stairs. “Angel?”
She cried.

Her daughter’s bed lay empty and unused. Maude felt the
clench of fear tighten around her neck, suffocating. “Angel,” she screamed.
Only her echo responded. Maude stumbled backward, felt as if the room was
reeling. She rambled down the stairs, slipping, and ran into the kitchen,
looking for a note—some indication where they might be. She found no note.
Walking toward the garage entrance, she found a small trail of blood. The door
handle to the garage was smeared with the viscous fluid, dripping. Maude
reached out her hand to turn the knob, but could not touch it; she could not
open the door.

A sedan of dizziness and panic broadsided Maude. Fear
consumed her, rising to her mouth with the sick taste of bile. She stammered to
the bathroom. As she knelt, her vomit splattered the toilet, floor, and wall.
She moaned in pain. “Where are you?” She crumbled to the floor in despair. “Where
are you?”

Curled in the fetal position, Maude rocked herself.
Suddenly, she was struck with the realization of urgency. She jolted to her
feet, rushed to the phone. She was a good mother. She had to save her daughter.
She fought with the tangled phone cord, tapped out 9-1-1.

“911. What is your emergency?”

“My daughter,” Maude whispered. “Help me save her.” She
collapsed to the floor—

—Painful light bore into Maude’s skull as she languorously
flicked her eyes open. She was strewn across a hospital bed. She was confused.
She had just been at the party—no! She had just been home...Angel! Oh, her
precious child! Maude tried to sit up. Heat seared through her arms.

She looked down at her wrists. Bandages crisscrossed them.
Craning her neck, Maude looked to the man sitting in the chair next to her. It
was her husband, but he was dressed in a policeman’s uniform. He glared down at
her. “Why did you do it?” He spat.

Maude shook her head feebly. “Do what?”

“Why did you kill your daughter?”

Maude stumbled through the house.
Phantasm
, she
thought. This is all just a bad dream. She had to find Angel before they killed
her. She had to save her daughter. Maude tripped through the garage door as she
pushed it open. She caught herself on the edge of her car, hoisted herself up.
The nanny’s lifeless body lay slumped, hanging in the seat belt. Her hands
flopped over the steering wheel, useless. Ligaments and tendons were cut away.
Blood flowed from her slit wrists, coagulating in a puddle on the floor. Maude
saw her red reflection in the blood and brought her hand up to her mouth to
stifle her scream. Unlike her sanguine image, the nanny’s face was ashen. The
garage burned red. Red like the blood. Red like the nanny’s hair.

Maude stumbled back, slipping in the puddle of blood. Her
body fell back, sliding across the cement floor through the blood. She landed,
looking at the front end of the car. It had been smashed. Blood was splattered
all over the hood and windshield. A sledgehammer lay next to the demolished
car. Hair and brain matter spattered the floor. Thick gore clung to the
passenger side front tire with clumps of flesh and blonde hair. Curled in a
ball, a small, lifeless body lay there too—

“—Why did you do it Ms. Lynn? Why did you kill her?” The
officer screamed. He was no longer her husband, but a young, fierce cop. He
spat his words at her with deep contempt and anger. He ripped his badge from
his shirt. “There’s nothing worse than a child killer,” he cursed. He opened
his clenched hand, slapped Maude.

She fell from the bed onto the floor and a crimson trail of
blood flowed down her chin. “But I didn’t,” she screeched. “I loved her!” She
racked her mind, searching. The nanny—yes, it was the bitch-nanny! She had
killed Angel! Then she killed herself.

“But it was the nanny,” Maude screamed, as if the revelation
would save her.

The officer looked down. His stern gaze was certain. “There
is
no nanny. There never was a nanny.” He hissed a long, drawn out breath like a
devil’s choir. “You smashed Angel’s head in—like with a sledge hammer—bashed
her brains in, scattered them all over. You’re a sick, sick woman, Maude. You
must pay.” His mouth twisted with rage, his teeth gritted in disgust, lips
snarled. In his eyes, blood-shoot, she could see her reflection and his hate
raging. He pulled out his gun, aimed it for her head.

The chemistry of Maude’s brain began to breakdown. It was
lunacy! Conspiracy! Rubber baby buggy bumpers! The nanny—and there was indeed a
nanny!—was not dead...The nanny and the officer were conspiring. Yes! Yes!
That
was the answer. And Angel, she was not dead! They had her. Maude had to get
home and save her daughter. With superhuman strength, Maude leapt from the
floor. She wrestled the gun from the officer, shot him.

Agile as a cat, Maude leaped from the window. Glass exploded
around her, catching in her auburn hair. Safe on the ground, she ran down her
own street. Swerving, an old Escort passed her.

Sable clouds swooped across the sky like raven wings
swallowing the sun. An umbra fell across Maude’s face. A shard of light pierced
the skin of clouds and groped for the street below.

As the sky crashed with thunder and rain pelted her, Maude
screamed.

The rain always made her want to scream!

Transfixed, Maude gazed on as Angel jumped from her bike,
and darted into the palm of the sunbeam illuminating the street. Angel ran to
meet the car; her mouth opened in a large, toothy smile. Then Angel opened her
mouth into a voiceless scream. Rubber baby buggy bumpers on home movies, no
sound, only silent, fuzzy images. What was Angel yelling? To whom?

Maude’s inaudible screams ripped from her lips, forming
stagnant hope in the air. Angel halted at the lawn edge, and then threw her
arms in front of her tiny body. The car jumped the curb, knocking Angel to the
ground, the front tire skidding on her head.

A woman in an evening gown fell from the car. Looking at the
torn body, the woman tossed back her red hair and laughed hideously,
deliriously. Maude stood face to face with her, looking into the lady’s eyes,
unable to see her face, but only her own reflection in the mirror of the
woman’s eyes...

Once again, the white apparitions were upon her. They lifted
their fluid filled daggers high above their heads, preparing to bombard her
flesh. She strained against their clinging hands. She twisted her hands in the
straps that held her. Her screams filled the long corridors around her, “Angel!
I have to save Angel!”

The needles penetrated her flesh. The fluid filled her veins
even as she contorted on the bed. The figures floated from the room, their
white cloaks billowing like pirate flags. They shut the door behind them,
leaving her in silent darkness. The only light was streaming through a small
window in the door and reflecting off the round mirror in the upper corner of
the room. In the concave glass, she could see her distorted image. Her eyes
grew heavy.

Outside Maude’s window, the storm raged, blocking out the
sun. She contorted her body as she slipped into unconsciousness.

Maude was fiddling anxiously with the dial to her car radio.
The first rays of the morning sun broke the seraphic spell of the nighttime sky
as she found a song she liked.
Moonlight Sonata
entranced her as she
strained to keep awake. Looking down the winding road ahead of her, she yawned
and rubbed her eyes. It had been a long night...

Originally published in
69 Flavors of Paranoia
.

If you enjoyed this story, you may enjoy
The
Devil You Know
.