By complete happenstance, the only structure for miles sits empty and hollow to my left. It’s an old, long-abandoned diner. Half of the building’s windows are boarded up, the others are obscured by graffiti, and the parking lot is cracked and sand-swept. Yellow weeds have reclaimed the broken cement and made themselves at home. A huge neon palm tree serves as the central feature here, the wordsTROPITOPIA CAFÉscrawled across the wall in colorful glass tubing, but neither of these pieces is lit. Not anymore.
This place is nothing more than a skeletal shell, dead and hollow.
I march around to the back of the truck, feverishlytelling myself this is just a little hiccup in an otherwise smooth transaction, a turn of events I’ll probably laugh about when the job is finished and I’m safe at home with five million dollars nestled peacefully in my bank account. I silently manifest that the body of Eddie Michaels is exactly where it should be, certainly not lying a few miles back in a roadside ditch.
Everything is fine.
When I round the corner, however, reality hits me like a bucket of ice-cold water.
Eddie’s shelf is empty, a pair of loose straps hanging down and snaking across the floor.
“Holy fuck!” I exclaim, my legs wobbling beneath me.
I say it again, then again, acting as though this little phrase is a magic incantation that will turn back the clock and undo any terrible mistake.
Unfortunately, the spell doesn’t work.
Action works.
I sprint back to the cab and leap inside. I’m already hatching a plan in my head, gaming out every step before it occurs like some grand, expanding web of potential futures. The first thing I’ll do is flip a U-turn and head back the way I came, hunting for any sign of rock star roadkill.
I’m abruptly struck by yet another jolt of panic, however. My hand moves toward the truck key, wrist turning instinctively and then fumbling when all I find is empty space. I try again, awkwardly feeling along the edge of the steering column, and when this kinetic process yields no results I lean over and give it a look.
The keys are gone.
In a flailing panic, my hands begin to dart from pocket to pocket, hunting each fabric space and coming away with the same fruitless outcome. I run my palms along the back of each seat, then desperately flip over both floor mats to reveal nothing but crumbs and dust.
I exit the cab once again, as if a new standing position might somehow lend a bit of clarity to my search, but nothing changes.
Pull it together! You’re a fucking shark.
I feel anxious heat blooming within me, consuming my senses. The energy is almost too much for my small frame to contain, compelling me back and forth in a desperate pace.
“No, no, no,” I repeat under my breath. I keep saying the word over and over again, the repetition now interfering with my breathing patterns and causing a distinct lightheadedness to take hold.
Suddenly, my own hand flies up and slaps my cheek with a resoundingsmack, a movement so violent and abrupt that it stops me in my tracks.
“Pull it. The fuck. Together,” I state, firm and unwavering.
I center myself, pushing aside the worried part of my mind and allowing the previous occupant back into my cerebral driver’s seat.
There’s always a way out. The real issue isn’t that people get trapped, it’s that most people aren’t willing to make the sacrifices needed to escape. If I have to walk all the way back down this road step by step, find Eddie’sbody, hoist it over my shoulder, and then carry him to the truck, that’s exactly what I’ll do.
I rearrange the checklist in my head, adding a few more steps and preparing to mark them off. “Let’s start at the top,” I declare.
First of all, my keys didn’t just disappear; that’s impossible. If they’re not in the cab, the next place to search is in the dirt along the side of my truck.The moment that I find—This thought is cut short by a spontaneous flicker of light to my left, then a grand eruption of neon yellow and green. I glance over to see that the Tropitopia Café has sprung to life, the once-dark remains of the abandoned diner now reanimated through the power of electrical current. A cartoonish rendition of a massive glowing palm tree towers before me, flickering sporadically as it struggles to illuminate the darkness.
Approximately half the light fixtures are working inside the restaurant, which creates a series of strange, angular shadows that flow from booth to booth through the shattered windows.
Gazing at this haunting structure against a sea of black, I feel an odd kind of certainty take hold. There’s a way forward now, a concrete mystery to unravel with at leastonesingular truth at its core: someone is fucking with me.
I march around to the opposite side of my truck, throwing open the passenger door and dropping the glove box with a thud. I reach in and pull out my handgun, leaving behind the holster this time.
I close up the truck, hoping to make it as inconspicuous aspossible if highway patrol comes cruising by in my absence.
My weapon gripped tight, I cautiously approach the Tropitopia Café, scanning every nook and cranny of the long-defunct structure. I’m hunting for the slightest hint of movement, but other than that, I have no idea what to prepare for. This little detour is certainly too fancy and prolonged for a police sting operation, which means whoever’s behind it is probably working with the buyer.
Or maybe the truck straps broke again, I lost my keys, and a power surge turned the lights back on at just the right moment after years of darkness.
