“Whatever, dick. I’m not staying. I’ll drop your wallet off and then I’m goinghome.”
“Famous last words,” he laughs. “I’ll tell Carl to save you a seat in the VIP lounge. You good on baby oil, bro?”
I want to fire something smart off at him when I spot something up ahead.
I slow the truck. “Fuuuuck.”
“You good?”
“Yeah, just a damn elk in the middle of the road,” I mutter, easing my foot onto the brake.
Correction: not justanelk. It’s a family reunion. A whole elk congregation crossing the street like they own it. The big one at the front gives me a look, like I betterwait.And I do. Because I respect nature.
I respect the hell outthesebig mother fuckers, too.
As they disappear into the trees, something catches my eye.
There’s a car in the ditch off to the right. Nose down, hazard lights off. Are they tryingnotto be rescued?
“Hey, let me call you back,” I say, cutting off whatever Drake’s still mumbling.
I hang up, throw the truck into park, and grab the axe from behind the seat. Not because I’m planning to use it, but because if someone sketchy’s inside that car, I’m not about to walk up unarmed.ThisBlack man will never be the first to die.
The ground crunches under my boots as I make my way down the slope. The car’s dark, except for the interior light blinking on and off like it’s doing Morse code. I see movement. Arms are flailing, like someone’s either panicking or fighting off an attacker.
Then, the light shuts off completely.
Ohhellno.
I pick up the pace. Either someone’s in trouble or I just walked into the cold open of a Netflix true crime special.
As I get closer, the movement stops.
Dead still.
I knock on the window, gentle at first.
Nothing.
I knock again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
I lean down to the window, trying to get a better look, and then it hits me—I probably look terrifying. Big Black dude, long hair, beard, middle of the woods. The fullBlair Witch, horror movie package.
The person inside must be thinking the same thing because they let out a scream so loud and piercing, it could raise Whitney Houston from the dead.
RIP to the Queen.
The woman in the car is still screaming and I stumble back, hands up. “Whoa! Hey!”
She’s flailing again, yelling something completely incoherent. Is that…is she speaking in tongues?
I lean closer, trying to catch her words.
“Mama say, mama sah, mama koosa!”
Is that...Michael Jackson?
