Wasteland

There it was again. That damn sign. “Rest Stop, 1 Mile.” He’d been driving for hours and hadn't seen a rest stop of any kind. No off-ramps or distant towns far as the eye could see, but there it was again. That goddamn sign.

Looking down at the gas gauge, the tank was a little less than halfway full, and this didn’t sit well since he had no idea where he was and chances of siphoning gas off an abandoned vehicle out here were slim. He’d left the canyon hours before, but the further he drove, the more worried he got. Everything blended into itself in every direction.

He’d seen at least a dozen “Rest Stop, 1 Mile,” signs since he’d turned down this road, and he was starting to feel unsettled. If it was the same sign, he had to be going in circles, but that couldn’t be right. He hadn’t taken a single turn for hours, and the road stretched far in front of him in a perfect line until it disappeared from view. It was impossible to go in circles on a road as straight as an arrow. This much he knew.

But if these were in fact different signs, the bizarre nature of that scenario was hard to grasp. Were they haphazardly placed to confuse and madden the sad sacks that lost their way? That seemed an elaborate hoax, but he couldn't be sure, and a small panic began to fester. He’d been driving for hours, accumulating mile after mile, and there’d been nothing so much as a tumbleweed, far as the eye could see. Just him and the vast, sprawling desert. His eyes blurred as he drove, and he felt dizzy.

He’d been partying for three straight days out at Diablo Canyon, a popular spot among burnouts and low-lives who’d failed to comply after the world rebuilt itself and became outcasts. The well-oiled machine that was, The Society, functioned much better without these people—the last of the old generation—and so, they chose to fry what was left of their brains on their own terms. Eventually, they’d be gone, but until then, their marathon desert parties raged on.

Although he’d been to the canyon dozens of times and knew the road like the back of his hand, his sleep-deprived, drug-altered mind had clearly had other plans. It’s a shortcut! he’d thought in his stupor, and he wasn’t one to turn down shortcuts.

“We still driving?” said a voice, suddenly.

He looked over at the passenger’s seat, but no one was there.

“What's this, the scenic route?" said the voice raspily. "That’s cool, Cash. I’m in no rush. You take all the time you need."

Cash looked into the rearview mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead and were rolling one by one into his eyes, burning with every blink.

“You alright?” said the voice. “You look like hell.”

He scanned around for the source of the voice but couldn’t see anything. As more sweat fell into his eyes, the car swerved slightly, and Cash's heart fluttered.

“Whoa now, Cash. Eyes on the road.”

A lanky-looking fellow lay across the backseat, wearing a black hoodie that covered his face and jeans so dirty they may as well have been black too. When Cash finally spotted him, his eyes went immediately to his hands, which were chalky-white with long, thin fingers.

“Who the hell are you? said Cash.

“What?” said the voice.

“I thought I was alo—who are you?” he said again panicked.

“Cash, old pal, might I kindly suggest you pull over before you run us off the road? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Cash looked in his rearview and pulled over. The car slowed and gradually came to a stop on the shoulder. He turned off the engine, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. I'm losing it, he thought. Opening them again slowly, he turned to look at the man in the back seat.

“What the hell is this?” he said.

The man sat upright.

“Well, isn't that a strange question," said the man.

“Why are you here? Did you hitch with me from the party?"

"You could say that," said the man.

"Look, this ain't no time for funny business. I don’t know where I am. I’m exhausted and I'm almost outta gas.”

“No time for funny business indeed,” said the man.

“I thought I was headed home,” said Cash, exasperated. “But I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Well see now that’s real good, Cash," said the man. "I was worried that you’d lost all sight of our final destination."

Just then, a car whirred by. The first car Cash had seen in hours. Desperate to make contact, he fumbled with his keys before the car reluctantly started. This clearly looked like someone who knew where they were going. I've gotta catch up, thought Cash. I have to catch up. But they were going too fast. Cash floored it, but it was no use. They must have been going over 100 mph because, by the time he managed to build up any speed at all, the car was far off in the distance, nearly out of sight.

"Goddammit!" yelled Cash. "Where the hell'd you go!?"

After ten minutes of frenzied driving, he knew they were long gone. His car was old and shook if he went above 80 mph. Not wanting to blow the engine, Cash ended his pursuit. He didn't know how the car managed to disappear so quickly, and he was beginning to wonder if his mind was playing tricks on him. What he could see, however, plain as day, was another “Rest Stop, 1 Mile” sign coming up on his right. He looked down at the gas gauge. Just under a quarter tank.

In the excitement, he’d forgotten all about the man in his back seat.

“Hello?” he said.

No one answered him.

Maybe he'd made the man up, and the car for that matter. It had been days since he'd had any kind of real nourishment, and it wasn't far-fetched to think the two were related. At the canyon, he'd had a buffet of hallucinogens, warm beer, and weed. His mouth was dry as sandpaper and tasted like ass. Remembering a jug of water he kept in the trunk for emergencies, which he was beginning to think this was, he again pulled over the car.

The sky was giving off its last bit of light as the sun sunk below the horizon. It wouldn’t be long before darkness fell. No matter how alone you were during the day, come night, all the leeches came out to feed under the cover of darkness. Wary of this, he walked around to the trunk to see what kind of supplies he had.

"Holy shit!" screamed Cash, as he opened the trunk.

There was someone in his trunk. Their head and feet just visible underneath a blanket.

He stepped closer and slowly went to touch the person's shoulder, but when he did, the body was cold and stiff as ice. Startled, he jumped back, his whole body flooding with panic. A million thoughts raced through his head.

Who the hell is this? How did they get here? How long have they been here? Who killed them? Did I kill them? I couldn't have... I was...

Suddenly, Cash couldn't remember where'd he been. He remembered the canyon, the drugs, the burnouts... but he'd been to so many parties like this before. Now, they all blended together in his mind, and he couldn't differentiate one from another. If he'd come from Diablo Canyon, how had he gotten so lost? He'd never been lost before. It was a straight shot from the canyon back home. One 60-mile stretch of highway. He knew he'd been driving for... a long time, but he didn't know how long, and he didn't know where he was. Nothing looked familiar. Everything was fuzzy.

He recalled the man he’d seen earlier in his back seat. Was it all in my head? No... We spoke! What did he say? Was the man from the backseat the one he'd just discovered in the trunk? He didn't know if he'd recognize him, he hadn't seen his face after all, but he thought he'd better take another look. Pulling down the blanket that was covering their face, he saw that it was a woman with fiery red hair and sunburnt skin. He didn’t recognize her, but that didn’t mean anything out here. You could get killed for much less than this. Feeling drained rapidly from his legs, and he fell to the ground and began to cry. What kind of nightmare is this? he thought.

Just then, he noticed something shiny and silver near his feet. He picked it up. It was a heart-shaped locket with the initials, G.R., carved jaggedly into the center. He couldn't be sure, but somehow he knew it belonged to the woman, and he placed it carefully in his pocket. Not knowing what else to do, and feeling sick to his stomach, Cash climbed into his back seat, curled up in the fetal position, and waited till morning. Not really sleeping, not really awake.

He was all too ready for the sun when it peeked above the horizon the next morning. I've gotta get the fuck outta here, he thought. With no real plan in mind, he got out of the car and walked to the trunk. Should... dig a grave, or just dump the body? he thought. Although for him to dig a grave large enough for a body, in the rock-hard ground, with no shovel, he'd have to get pretty creative. When he opened the trunk, however, not only was the body nowhere to be found, the blanket that had been covering her was folded neatly and placed next to his gallon jug of water. Everything clean as a whistle.

Petrified and relieved, he started to think he was still under the influence of hallucinogens. He splashed water from the jug onto his face and slapped himself a few times. "Snap out of it, Cash," he said.

In the light of day, he could see another "Rest Stop, 1 Mile" sign up ahead, and it put him in an even fouler mood as he started the car and got back on the road. After passing the sign this time, something odd happened. He saw a building. Could it be? he thought. An actual rest stop? Pulling up to it, he realized the small building was a small train station. A sign on front read, "G.R. Line - Southbound, No returns."

Shutting off the engine, his gas gauge was in the red. Wherever this train was headed, it was his only ticket off the desolate highway. Looking at the sign again, he remembered something. G.R. Line? That's strange. He felt for the locket in his pocket. It was still there. Pulling it out, he saw the same initials staring back at him, G.R. Curious, he cracked open the locket, and immediately, a hot red liquid spilled out and was sticky on his hands. When he saw what was inside, his skin went cold.

Just then, he felt a hand on his shoulder and when he turned to look, he recognized the long, thin, chalky-white fingers.

"You made it," he said.

"Wha... what is this? Wh... where am I?" said Cash.

"It's the end of the line for you, I'm afraid."

The hooded fellow walked with Cash toward the station, through the doors, and onto the only platform. The whistle from a train could be heard in the distance, and with it, the faint smell of burning coal. The desert sand surrounding them looked blood-soaked underneath an orange sun. It was scorching outside and Cash was sweating profusely. His body burned, but the hooded man's hand on his shoulder was cold as ice.

"Where am I going?" said Cash.

"Home," said the man.