“Shit,” I yelled as I ran to the parking lot in a torrential rainstorm. Just my luck, I muttered to myself.
I had been working late in the kitchen. I had to change my clothes before departing. I put on the suit, not liking the feel of it. I’m not a suit kind of guy but sometimes it’s necessary.
The glistening, larger than normal drops of rain were coming in sheets making me feel that I was at the bottom of a waterfall. I couldn’t have gotten any more soaked to the bone if I’d jumped into a swimming pool. That’s what the parking lot looked like, but more shallow. I could feel the water above my shoes as I splashed with every stride. Normally I love the rain, but at present it seemed more like a water demon delaying me from reaching the car quickly.
Finally, I was there. I unlocked the car door and threw myself into the front seat. My wet pants hitting the plastic seat made a fart noise. I stared into the rear-view mirror and saw that my hair looked like a thoroughly wet mop. I sure as hell didn’t look like a businessman in a gray, double-breasted suit. I couldn’t help myself thinking that double-breasted suits should be for women only. But now was not the time for distractions.
The car took three turns of the key to start. Moisture from the heavy rain, I guessed. As I backed up, the distorted parking lot lights in my windshield and the light reflections in the pools of water vanished. The place had lost electricity just after a tremendous bang of a close lightning strike. The whole building went dark, but the sky lit up brightly. I backed up then put the car into drive mode and exited the parking lot.
It felt good knowing I’d gotten things completed before the loss of electricity and that the loss of electricity didn’t affect me because I had car lights and interior lights. It was a delightfully safe feeling when the heavy rain sounded like machine gun bullets bouncing off the car. I breathed a sigh of relief, which didn’t last long because this was a new car, and I wasn’t used to all the buttons, gadgets, and remote-control systems in it. I found the headlights knob and pulled it out easily. I turned on the interior lights and saw the auto-seat adjustments buttons, the remote window open and close lever, the auto rear, and side-view adjustment buttons. Fuck that, I thought. I don’t need any of that now, plus it’s not safe to fool with that stuff while driving, especially in a furious rainstorm that was like large, fragile, and clear marbles shattering on the car.
It was later than I had expected to leave, so I was in a hurry to get away, though I checked that desire and purposely drove at a safe speed, dreading the consequences of an accident. It made me smile to see no traffic on the road. Nice.
For some unknown reason I thought of the kitchen smells. Working in a kitchen all day with smells of cheap food, grease, oil, spices, nearly spoiled produce, bowls of salad dressing and more, combine to smell disgusting, especially when burned food is added to the mixture. Some days the smell was so strong it was like getting punched in the nose. But there are disadvantages to most jobs. One big advantage for me, however, was my weight loss. I didn’t have an appetite, so I lost weight and was happy to look slimmer. Some of my cooks had flabby stomachs drooping over unseen belts. Unappealing. Gross.
I wouldn’t call myself a chef, though it says that on the daily food board. Chief or Head cook is more accurate because I was the most experienced and had seniority. At least I get to boss people around. At times that’s good entertainment, I thought with a deep throated chuckle.
The rain was constant. The wiper blades, even on high, couldn’t keep up with the rain. I would have thought it would ease up a little, but Mother Nature must have a full bladder and had been holding it too long. Guess she was pissed-off at something. If it weren’t for humor I’d have died or gone insane long ago.
I could feel the loud, vibrating splashes against the underside of the car. The road was getting flooded. In some parts there was enough water to splash as high as my side window. I made a further attempt to stay alert and keep my eyes carefully on the road and the weather conditions.
Weather conditions made me think of the news channel. I turned on the radio and pushed buttons randomly thinking I would find a news station. Apparently, my fingers seduced Lady Luck and pushing her button produced a delightful orgasm of news. Continuing adverse weather is all that was being reported as well as consequential road closings and reported accidents to avoid.
I had driven for an hour. My wet clothes were irritating my skin. It even seemed as if the pants had shrunk tightly, especially in the crotch area, that sensitive nether region. The uncomfortable wetness was increasingly irritating. My shirt clung to my skin, my wet socks sloshed, and slid around in my shoes as if they were wet sponges. The heavier cloth of the suit felt heavy, restrictive. I needed to distract myself. I immediately thought of having a glass of Southern Comfort whisky, on the rocks. I could imagine the cool feeling, as the liquid, like syrup, descended my throat, turning warm as it emptied into my stomach, then spreading its pleasing, comforting sensation. My mouth watered. I swallowed with a gulp as I saw a figure up the road. Looking closer, it was human, not animal. As I approached, I saw an arm raised shoulder high and a thumb sticking out at about ear level. A hitchhiker, I thought. Then, WTF. I tried to brake due to being startled, but the car skidded past the person and into the opposite lane.
Relieved that I hadn’t skidded off the road, I took a deep breath, then looked in my rearview mirror. I saw a thoroughly soaked male, standing still, and staring at the car. Good thing there was no traffic, I thought, after I wondered WTF was someone out hitch hiking in a bad storm like this. I pulled up next to him, so he was at the passenger side front window. I couldn’t find the remote window button, so I yelled for him to get in. He opened the door and plopped down on the seat making a fart noise. Then he tried to close the door quickly, but the handle slipped out of his hand. On his second attempt he slammed the door closed. When he resettled himself, he made another fart sound, but this one sounded wet. I knew it wasn’t because I had done the same thing. Apparently, we both had gas floating around cheek to cheek.
He looked straight ahead, said nothing. I drove off and both of us remained quiet for five minutes. I glanced at him and said, “It’s a hell of a rainstorm. Kind of foolish to be out on a night like this hitch hiking.”
His silence made me nervous, so did the hoodie. It was soaked and clung to his face and shoulders. I wondered why he didn’t pull it off. It had to be irritatingly soggy. I told myself to settle down. Hell, I was doing a good deed for someone in trouble.
After another quiet interval I stated, “I’m Dan.”
“Name’s Brad. Thanks for the ride.”
“Why are you out on a miserable night like tonight?”
“Uh … Going home to my mother’s funeral. Live out of town and don’t have a car.”
“Bus?”
“No money.”
It still didn’t sound like a good enough reason to be out in this storm. He must have known the roads would be untraveled. Few people wanted to be driving in such a storm. That would mean few travelers and that would dramatically decrease the chances of getting a ride. Strange.
We passed the next twenty minutes quietly, then I asked, “How far are you going?”
“As long as you’re driving east or northeast that’s good for me. Otherwise, I’ll have to get out and continue hitch hiking.”
“OK,” is all I said, but the strange feeling about him increased. I glanced at him sideways hoping he wouldn’t notice. He looked older than he probably was due to the deeply lined facial skin, the black stubble beard and mustache, the long, wet hair, strong chin, and lips that looked like a permanently hardened scowl.
“Do you mind if I change the channel to some music?”
Before I could answer him, the news station had an announcement. A sweet, melodic female voice said, “This news just in. Our local state prison has had an escape. The man’s name is Ronnie Coleman, a convicted serial killer sentenced to life in prison. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous. He is said to be in his late thirties, average height, about one hundred fifty pounds, with brown hair and eyes. Report any sightings to your local State Police.”
He looked at me and saw me glancing at him as he was reaching for the radio buttons.
“That’s not me. I’m not that escaped prisoner. I really am heading home to a funeral.”
“No problem. I believe you. You don’t look the type,” I responded.
“Thanks,” he replied laconically.
He continued changing to a music station. My damn luck — Lady Luck wasn’t there — he chose a Country Music station with some awful yodeling and twanging guitars.
I tried to act casual until I saw him reaching under his hoodie sweatshirt. I braced and my foot hit the gas pedal harder, so we burst forward. I caught myself and relaxed my foot. He pulled out a container of breath mints and offered one to me. I took it and enjoyed the cool mint flavor as I wondered which one of us he thought had halitosis. After a while, my taste buds felt like they were fighting over which one of them could get the most flavor.
Suddenly he got tired of the music, reached over the console, and went back to the news station.
“Didn’t care for the music,” was all he said.
This guy is a weirdo, I thought.
There was another news bulletin with a slightly better description of the escapee. Some of it fit him except for brown hair. But a soaking, wet head of hair often looks black. Too dark to tell eye color, height, and weight, though he looked slim.
He started to fidget, nervously wringing his hands, and rolling his neck so the bones popped. Probably taking drugs and maybe needed a fix. Maybe he loved his mom and fell apart when she died and didn’t know how he would act at the funeral. I didn’t envy him. Sad situation for him, I imagined. But he really didn’t need to worry so much about it. Everyone died.
I don’t like nervous, fidgeting behaviors. He had been useful by helping me stay awake and careful. But now I was going to have to kill him. It was necessary. After all, even serial killers have a routine to keep. I busied myself as to the when, where, and how of Brad’s death. I might as well use the prison kitchen knife that I had taken before I escaped the prison, knocked out the administrator and took his suit. Jesus, I needed my fix, too.
The crack of Dawn would be happening in an hour or two, so I had time to plan my eighth kill. Dawn, my girlfriend, would be my next victim for betraying me. I thought, the crack of Dawn, and my nasty laugh threw spittle on the windshield.
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