THE ROAD TO NOWHERE
By
G
Garnet
The engine hummed
like a beast ready to strike, and I drove through the night with only the
lowlights of the road for company. Miles of blacktop stretched out ahead of me,
the world slipping away in the rearview. That’s how I liked it. I was nothing
but a shadow on the edge of every town, a ghost gliding through the small
hours, the kind of man who left nothing behind but a trail of exhaust.
Up ahead, a neon
sign flickered to life in the dark, bright and gaudy, casting an ugly glow
against the night sky: *Fantasy Ranch*. I snorted. It was the kind of place
that promised you all the thrills for the price of a stiff drink and a
pocketful of regrets. The sign boasted of “Exotic Dancers! Cold Beer! Live
Entertainment!” – as if all that could drown out the quiet dread you’d feel the
second you walked inside.
I pulled my rig into
the lot, killed the engine, and climbed down. The joint loomed in front of me,
rundown and slouching under its neon lights, the air thick with stale cigarette
smoke and the sour scent of too many spilled drinks. It was quiet inside, just
a handful of rough types hunched over their glasses, the kind of men who didn’t
want to be noticed.
I took a seat at the
counter, ordered a coffee, black, and watched the room. The waitress barely
glanced at me when she set it down, her eyes dull, weighed down with the look
of someone who’d long since given up expecting good things from strangers.
That’s when I saw
her.
She was moving
through the room like a ghost, dressed in something too cheap for her, a thin
slip that glittered in the dim light, her hair dark and tangled around her
shoulders. She had eyes like a storm at sea—restless, hiding something dark
underneath. She looked at me like she knew me already, like she’d been waiting
for me to walk through the door.
She sidled up, her
voice low, heavy with an accent that sounded Russian or maybe something else
from that side of the world. “Buy a girl a drink?” she asked, but her voice was
tense, urgent, not the playful flirtation you’d expect.
I nodded, motioned
for the bartender. The whiskey slid over, but she didn’t touch it. Instead, she
leaned closer, so close I could feel her breath on my cheek, her voice barely
more than a whisper.
“Please…help me.”
Her eyes flicked to the corner where a couple of meatheads were watching her
like hawks, their thick necks bulging out of their shirts, eyes hard,
predatory. She straightened up, her shoulders stiff, her fingers drumming
nervously against the countertop. “I am…stuck here. Trapped. I need to get
out.”
Her accent softened
the words, gave them a tragic sort of rhythm, like they were spoken from
somewhere deep, hidden. I didn’t answer right away, just sipped my coffee,
letting the bitterness steady me.
“You expect me to
just waltz you out of here?” I muttered, keeping my eyes on my cup. I was just
a trucker, a guy who came and went, leaving no strings behind. Not a hero, not
some white knight come to save the day.
She swallowed, the
fear flashing in her eyes as she leaned in again, her hand trembling on my arm.
“Please. They brought me here. They…own me.” The last words fell out like
they’d choked her, and I felt a prickle of anger, a slow burn deep in my gut.
She wasn’t playing me. This was real.
Before she could say
another word, one of the goons shifted out of his corner, a mountain of muscle,
his face ugly with a permanent sneer. He lumbered over, eyes cold and flat,
like he’d seen a hundred of me already tonight and didn’t like any of them.
“We don’t
pay
you to flirt with the customers,” he growled at her, his voice like gravel.
The look he gave me
could’ve cracked concrete. I held his gaze, didn’t flinch. I’d been through
enough brawls to know a bluff when I saw one. But he wasn’t bluffing. He looked
at her like she was property, and I felt that slow anger coil tighter.
“Didn’t realize
talking was a crime,” I said, my voice steady, cool. But I was ready, tense
like a spring. I knew what was coming next.
He didn’t waste time
with words. His fist shot out, catching me square in the jaw. Pain exploded in
my skull, and the taste of blood hit my tongue. I staggered back, and before I
could get my balance, he was on me, dragging me out of the joint and into the
mud outside, his grip like iron.
I felt the cold mud
against my face, then a sharp boot to my ribs. The pain was raw, real, each
blow leaving a burning ache in its wake. I lay there, curled up, gritting my
teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a scream. He kicked me again,
his breath heavy, a sneer etched into his voice.
“You don’t belong
here, trucker. Keep your eyes on the road. Stay out of things that don’t
concern you.”
With one last kick
to my ribs, he walked off, leaving me lying there in the mud, gasping for air,
my whole body pulsing with pain. I don’t know how long I lay there, listening
to the night settle around me, the silence thick, pressing in. But her voice
lingered in my mind, her plea echoing, haunting me.
Eventually, I rolled
over, dragged myself to my feet, and stumbled back to the truck. Every step
hurt like hell, my ribs aching with each breath, but I wasn’t done yet. Not by
a long shot.
I climbed up, hands
shaking as I gripped the wheel. The engine roared to life, the sound steadying
me, filling me with a fire that drowned out the pain. I wasn’t walking away
from this.
I swung the rig
around, aiming it straight for the joint. The lights glared in my headlights,
the whole place a bright, ugly target. My foot hit the gas, and the truck
lurched forward, barreling toward the entrance. The windows exploded as the
front of the rig crashed through, tables and chairs scattering like debris in a
storm.
I hit the brakes,
the truck screeching to a stop in the middle of the wreckage, and jumped out,
my eyes scanning the chaos. She was there, her face pale, frozen in shock. The
goons were scrambling, their arrogance replaced by fear. I found her gaze, and
something broke in her expression—a flicker of hope, a spark of life.
“Come on!” I
shouted, my voice rough, urgent.
She didn’t hesitate.
She sprinted toward me, weaving through the broken glass, her bare feet
skidding on the floor. One of the thugs lunged for her, but I was faster,
stepping between them, my fist connecting with his jaw. Pain shot through my
knuckles, but I didn’t care. He went down, clutching his face, blood seeping
between his fingers.
I grabbed her hand,
pulling her out into the night, and we scrambled back into the truck. I hauled
myself into the driver’s seat, gunned the engine, and we tore out of there,
leaving nothing but dust and shattered glass behind us.
The road stretched
out ahead, dark and empty, swallowing us whole. She was breathing hard, her
hands clenched in her lap, staring straight ahead. I kept my eyes on the road,
feeling the adrenaline drain out, replaced by a dull ache in my ribs, a slow
burn of pain where his boots had left their mark.
“Thank you,” she
whispered, her voice barely audible.
I glanced over, saw
the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands were trembling. She looked out
of place in my truck, like some fragile bird perched on a steel trap, ready to
take flight at the slightest sound.
We drove in silence
until we hit a crossroads, the old signs creaking in the wind. I slowed to a
stop, staring at the two roads stretching out into the dark. One way led back
to the highway, to the life I knew. The other was a narrow dirt road
disappearing into the wilderness, a road that didn’t promise anything familiar.
I looked over at
her, saw the way her eyes followed that dirt road, full of hope and fear and
desperation. She didn’t ask for more, didn’t beg. Just looked at it like it was
some kind of salvation.
“What’s your name?”
I asked.
“Alina,” she said,
her voice soft, almost lost.
I nodded, feeling
something shift inside me. I didn’t know what lay down that road, but for once,
it didn’t seem to matter. I threw the rig into gear, turning onto the dirt
path.
“Let’s see where
this takes us, Alina,” I said, and we drove off into the unknown, the road
swallowing us whole.
THE
END