Sports Car

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. The place smelled like blood and motor oil.

“Maybe if we stack each other up, we’ll have enough leverage to reach it,” Berners choked out the words, having been almost overwhelmed by the fumes.

“We’ve got to do something quick. I know they advised us to not open the door, but it can’t be any worse than this,” Freda announced. A mischief of rats had formed in the corner. Their squeaks seemed amplified as they nibbled on the corpse of their fallen friend Fillian. Now, the odor of fishiness began to engulf the nostrils of Freda, Berners, and Kenda.

“I don’t care, Kenda,” proclaimed. “I’m not dying in this garage. The regular door won’t open and we’re left to open the untouchable hatch. What else can we do?” Her voice quivered a bit.

The three young adults all began to stand on each others’ shoulders. A bit wobbly, Berners still managed to crank the circular vent in the ceiling. He opened the door and tried to maintain his bearing. Instead he slipped and cracked his head on the cement floor. Freda and Kenda dragged his body over to Fillian and escaped being bitten by the rats.

Like a cascade of inky blackness, whale oil rained down on the two women. They swam through it as if it was a thickness that they had never experienced. They gasped and tried to rise above to find oxygen. It would not be possible. They took their last breaths with their hands clasped together in one last act of bonding in life.

After the deluge of whale oil, the garage saw a cleaning like none other. All that remained were clean lights and a sports car. It looked as spotless as a brand new coin.