• Chapter One

    The Windy Road

    By: Kyle Gray


    The yellow lines blurred like never ending snake trails that stretching the length of the road, and more. They were moving, pulsating, even multiplying in the dark, but at the same time, they were normal and calm. Liquor might have been the cause of these moving lines, but by no means was it the problem that I had restlessly sleeping in the back of my mind.
    The speed in which I was traveling also might have had something to do with the lines, but that too, wasn’t the problem I was facing. For that matter, I hadn’t the slightest knowledge of the acceleration the vehicle was traveling. The speedometer had long been broken from over exertion in the lost past of the old lanky car. The door was whistling, while the muffler was chiming along to rocks that jumped up from the road to peck it ever so softly.
    To add to the persistent noise, the broken A/C hissed constantly from is lack of proper knobs and gadgets. Though most of the cars interior features had broken over the years all the essential levels and gages are still there, they had just been replaced with duck tape, copper wire, and many parts found at the home depot.
    Regardless of all the noise happening around me, I didn’t hear any of it. My window was down. Hot, dry, manure filled air swarmed into the car like a hawk swooping in for the final dive that would silence the dying reptile.
    The Viper I’m driving was the only recollection I had of the night before. There were so many drugs in the air that night, it seemed like music. All around there were blurry images, nude bodies, and noise that I just cant describe.
    Pete was there, that’s how I got this car. It had belonged to him in the past, and more recently, his brother. He ditched the car after a little scuffle with the local authorities; I guess he thought there’d be no crime if there was no car.
    Pete’s friend was also there, he said it shouldn’t be anything I couldn’t handle. The car had the old Dodge Plexiglas body was replaced with a custom made steel cover, made to resemble a low profile Mustang, or at least that’s what Pete’s friend told me. In addition, it was also suited with a new paint job that would hide its unseen make shift interior. His friend told me not to tell Pete about the new renovations he made, that he doesn’t agree with the same “qualities” that he does.
    The memories are hidden, I can’t even recall if that’s what really happened or not. It seems that long I think about it, the more I remember, but the more my hangover becomes apparent.
    Wallis… Wallis. Why is this name rolling in my head? 62 West Water Street. West Water Street? Is that where I am going? But… why? I don’t even know where that is. I don’t know anything. This place, this car, all of this is new too me. It feels like I am in some kind of dream, but at the same time, I feel as if I should be here.
    Like an alarm clock ringing after a long nights slumber, something caught my attention. In the rear view mirror, illuminating the dark atmosphere around it, shined the symbol of truth that most citizens would respond hesitantly too.
    “Arg,” I said rolling my eyes, as well as my head. Doing that, of course, with my present state of mind, sent the car swerving into the opposite lane. With a minor correction I was back on my side, but that slight swerve it seemed was enough to have the highway patrol notice something was amiss.
    Lights crept in from the back windshield; my shadow was cast to the front. What a predicament, no license plate, no insurance, car that isn’t mine, heck, a car that isn’t even on the market. Or maybe I do have a license plate oh this thing, maybe this is my car, and perhaps… “ahhh!’ I said with a grown.
    “I’ve arranged you some “Cop Stoppers” in the car,” I remember Pete’s friend saying a few hours earlier, but, what was that? I looked over to the passenger seat as if lusting to find answers. On the floor, next to a crowbar set an open six back of beer, but was that all? I reached across the seat and grabbed a bottle to inspect it. Inside the brown slender were arranged nails, screws, what looked like a wadded up paper towel, and a zip lock bag full of a green liquid. “Give it a pitch if you’re ever in a bind,” is what he said, I think.
    Almost forgetting about the cop, I jumped as I looked in the rearview mirror. There he was, getting closer and closer on my tail. Holding the bottle in my hand, I knew I shouldn’t throw it… but at the same time, I didn’t know why.
    As the cop came to pass me, probably just to tell me to pull over, I saw as my hand chugged the bottle out the window. As if I were in slow motion, the world stood still. The bottle left from my hand, nails clicking the glass, screws poking at the bag of liquid, the tires from the cop car starting to squeal as if he saw it coming a mile away. The bottle tumbled, fell, and shattering on the pavement. The paper towel hit first, it sparked, and burst into sparks. The shattered glass, nails, and screws, broke the bag of liquid, which feed to the sparks like poisoned cheese to a rat.
    The next few seconds happened so fast, it was like time was trying to catch up with itself. Before I knew it, the nails and screws blew the tires under the patrol car, which had already burst into flames by that time. The car swerved off the road, hitting a drainpipe and turned end over end before coming to a stop on its roof.
    “Oh my God.” I said gripping the steering wheel, “What have I done?” I looked in the rear-view mirror once more to see if it was a hallucination, or if what I did was a reality. To my dismay, the flaming car sank into the distance, still burning, now even brighter than before.
    I laid my head against the broken headrest, “no worries right? There is no way to track that it was me, all I need to do is sink the car in a creek,” I said aloud to myself, as if that would calm me down. “What about saying that there was a broken bottle already on the road, it just had screws and nails in it.
    Yeah, some stupid kids having fun. I don’t know, why would some kids have nails? No I don’t think they meant for it to happen.”
    My God, was I really carrying on a conversation with myself?
    “I need to get my head straight,” I said. “Coffee, yes coffee, coffee will help me get my head straight. Maybe I can find a map, find out where West Water Street is.” But wait, why do I need to go to there? I don’t know that road, I don’t know those people. I don’t even know what happened two hours ago. “But,” I said, “what if they do?”