Hollister - A Short Series, Part 2 of 3

     We were immediately met by the cold.  A cascade of snow swept up from the sidewalk and buried itself in my beard.  I looked up the street and saw Mickey’s Chevy resting comfortably at the curb.  It was a beat up thing, well over 200,000 miles.  The base of the frame was rusted, matching the truck’s already copper tone.  It was ugly, but sturdier than just about any vehicle on the road. 

     Julie was surprisingly swift.  She pulled open the cab door, climbed in, and held out her arms to receive Mike.  We slid him in.

     “Keep the towel on his neck,” I said.

     She clamped her hands around the towel.  Mike’s lips had gone purple and his breathing grew shallow.

     I rounded the truck and jumped into the passenger seat.  

     Mickey placed the key in the starter and turned.  And, like something out of a bad dream, the engine clicked and whirred, but didn’t start.  He tried again.  Nothing.

     “What’s the problem?”  I asked, hearing my voice crack like a twelve year old.

     “I don’t know.”

     I scanned the streets.  There were no men with masks.  There was no flannel.  There were no sets of bloody tools.  But, still, I was terrified.

     Mickey threw open his door and was gone before I had a chance to call him back.  I saw him lift the hood and then he was gone from my sight.  I could hear him fiddling around and then he called:          “Try it now!”

     I turned the key and the engine coughed to life.  Even over the roar of the engine I could hear Mickey’s laughter, pure elation.

     “C’mon!” I called.

     Mickey lowered the hood and I heard the smallest gasp emit from Julie’s lips.  It was as if her entire body contracted in one instant and she was frozen in horror.  Standing behind Mickey, no more than a foot away, was the man exactly as she had described him.  He was very large, towering over a 6’2” Mickey.  He wore bright red flannel and had a pillowcase with two slits for eyes covering his face.  In his left hand was a knife so large I guessed it must have weighed close to ten pounds.  

     I tried to point, but my muscles refused to cooperate.  

     Julie screamed.

     Mickey didn’t have a chance to turn, and, in a way, I’m thankful.  He escaped the terror of what was to come.  He didn’t have the chance to let his bowels drop or bladder release.  It was as quick as it could have been.  The man with the red flannel jabbed the knife into the side of Mickey’s neck.  I saw the pointed end of the blade break through to the other side and a brilliant display of blood rained down on the truck’s windshield.  

     Mickey staggered to his right, one hand on the hood of his truck.  He grabbed at the knife, confused, before he finally toppled over and was gone from my view.

     The man in red stared at us longingly, cocking his head, as if inviting us to play. 

     I jumped over to the driver’s seat.

     He reached for the latch under the hood.

     I threw the truck into first.

     He lifted the hood and reached inside the engine.

     I stepped on the gas and the truck lurched forward.

     He grabbed the front grate.  The truck took off, but he kept his hand inside the engine.

     I swerved to the right, narrowly avoiding a nearby station wagon.  I shifted into second gear, but the truck lost traction.  We fishtailed to the left.  The wheel spun out of my hands and I thought the truck was ready to tip.

     The man in red tore a cable from the engine and the truck began to sputter.  We were losing speed.  The man in red was hanging on, but I could see his hand start to slip.  I pumped the gas, but the truck was dying.  The truck straightened out, sputtered again, and then it finally died.  The truck veered for a telephone pole.

     “Get down!” I cried.

     I didn’t turn back to see if Julie listened, my eyes were fixed on the man in red.  He turned to look behind him, to see his looming fate, but before he had a chance the truck struck the pole, sandwiching him in between.  His body spasmed, his head rolled to the side, and then slumped forward onto the hood.

     I pushed open the driver’s side door, jumped out, and pulled open the back cab.  

     “Mike’s not breathing!” Julie cried. 

     “We have to move.”

     “Get up, Mike, get up!”

     But Mike was unmoving.  His skin was as white as the falling snow and his body was terribly still.

     “I can’t leave him!” 

     The night was incredibly dark, but from the warmth of the streetlights reflecting off the snow, I saw him.  He came on slow, almost plodding.  He was only an outline, but then he became incredibly clear.  The second man in flannel, this one dressed in green, was approaching us.  He was wielding something that looked like a double sided scythe and had that same pillowcase mask draped over his face.  His slits were narrower, long running lines that ran north to south and were barely visible through the storm.

     “Julie, we have to go!  He’s coming!” 

     She looked out the back window, saw the man in green, and screamed an impossible scream.  

     I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her from the cab. The man in green continued toward us, walking with slow, but deliberate steps. “Hurry!” I told her.  The bar was in sight.  Light streamed out of the front door window, a beacon of hope.

     “We’re almost there!”

     But so was the man in green.  He trudged toward us, phosphorescent light reflecting off his scythe as it cut through the snow.

     I grabbed hold of the handle, threw open the door, and pushed Julie inside.  I felt a brief tug from the other side of the door handle.  I pulled back and threw the latch.  My breath had fogged up the porthole shaped window and I quickly wiped the fog away.  Staring back at me through his two slits was the man in green.  He tilted his head to the side as if inspecting every inch of me.  And then, like a casual window shopper, he turned away from the window and headed off down the street.