Story code: ST-000100
Part 2: End of the Route
The Hyundai’s suspension groaned as the tires left the salted asphalt of the main avenue and slammed onto the rutted, ice-packed gravel of the industrial access road. Chain-link fences topped with razor wire blurred past the windows, boxing the sedan into a desolate corridor of rusted shipping containers and abandoned warehouses. The deeper Wayne drove, the darker it got, the towering shadows of the decaying factories swallowing the pale afternoon sun.
“Hey! Are you deaf?” the passenger shouted, his voice cracking with sudden irritation. He slapped the back of the passenger seat. “I said pull over at the store. Where the hell are you going?”
Wayne did not answer. He kept his eyes fixed on the narrow dirt track ahead, dodging a massive, ice-filled pothole that would have torn the undercarriage out of the cheap commuter car. The river was just ahead, a gray expanse of churning water choked with jagged sheets of winter ice.
“Turn this garbage car around right now,” the kid demanded. The sound of the door handle clicking echoed in the cabin, followed by the dull thud of a shoulder checking the door panel. “Why won’t this open? Hey! Unlock the door!”
Wayne maintained a steady thirty miles per hour. His pulse thumped heavily in his ears, drowning out the rattling of the dashboard. He had driven this route a dozen times before, back when he hauled lumber for the stalled riverside development project. He knew this stretch of the waterfront was entirely dead. No security cameras. No passing traffic. Just acres of contaminated dirt, frozen weeds, and silence.
“Listen to me, you psycho,” the kid sneered, though a thin wire of panic had finally threaded its way into his nasal tone. “You have no idea who is in the back of your car. My father owns half the real estate on the west side. You think you can just rob me? Is that what this is? You want a shakedown?”
Wayne’s jaw tightened. He reached over to his own phone, still mounted on the dash, and swiped the device into airplane mode. The gig app vanished. The connection to the dispatcher, the GPS tracking, and the endless algorithm evaluating his worth all ceased to exist.
“I am calling the police,” the kid announced, the threat loud and deliberate. “I am pressing send right now. They will have a helicopter over this junk heap in two minutes.”
Wayne’s heavy work boot slammed onto the brake pedal. The Hyundai’s anti-lock brakes stuttered violently as the tires locked up on the frozen gravel. The sedan fishtailed, skidding to a violent halt inches from a crumbling concrete barrier at the edge of the riverbank.
The sudden deceleration threw the kid forward. His smartphone slipped from his fingers, bouncing off the center console and landing on the floorboard in the front passenger side. Before the kid could scramble over the seat to retrieve it, Wayne snatched the device. It was a heavy, expensive model, encased in sleek black leather. Wayne rolled down his window, letting in a brutal blast of sub-zero wind, and casually tossed the phone out into the churning, gray water of the river.
“Are you insane?!” the kid screamed, shrinking back against the rear passenger door. “That was a thousand-dollar phone! My lawyer was on speed dial!”
“You won’t need a lawyer,” Wayne said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
It was the first time he had spoken since the young man got into the car. The sound of his own voice felt foreign, completely devoid of the polite, deferential tone he was forced to use to protect his app ratings.
Wayne threw the car into park but left the engine running, the heater still fighting a losing battle against the cold seeping through the floorboards. Outside, the frozen river groaned as massive slabs of ice ground against the concrete retaining wall. The isolation was absolute.
“Look, man,” the kid said, raising both hands in a placating gesture, his previous arrogance beginning to fracture. “If this is about money, just say the word. I have cash in my coat. I have a platinum card. I can pull out five grand at an ATM. Ten grand. Just name your price and take me home.”
Wayne stared at him through the rearview mirror. The kid was shivering now, though whether from the dropping temperature or the dawning realization of his helplessness, Wayne didn’t care.
In his coat pocket, Wayne’s own burner phone-the prepaid brick he used strictly to communicate with the clinic-vibrated. He didn’t need to look at the cracked screen to know what it was. It was Thursday afternoon. The weekly billing department automated text. A reminder that his sister’s bed in the long-term care facility cost two thousand dollars a week. If he failed to pay, they would move her to the state ward, a place notorious for horrific neglect. He needed this driving gig to keep her alive. If he went through with whatever dark, violent impulse was currently flooding his veins, he would go to prison, and his sister would be left completely defenseless.
The cost of this detour was immense, heavy enough to crush him. But then he looked down at the kid’s lap. The silver canister was still clutched in the young man’s left hand, the etched logo glinting in the dull winter light. It was the exact same container they had found on his sister’s nightstand the night her heart stopped for three minutes, burning out half her brain function.
“Pass it up,” Wayne commanded.
“What?” the kid stammered.
“The silver tube,” Wayne said, turning his body fully around in the driver’s seat, resting his thick, calloused forearm over the headrest. “Hand it over.”
The kid looked down at his hand, then back up at Wayne. A flash of stubborn entitlement flared in his bloodshot eyes, temporarily overriding his fear. “No way. This is mine. I paid a premium for this. You want a tip? I’ll give you cash. But you aren’t touching my stash.”
Wayne unbuckled his seatbelt. The metallic click echoed like a gunshot in the silent, freezing cabin. He reached down beside the driver’s seat, his fingers wrapping firmly around the heavy steel shaft of his tire iron.