Story code: ST-000323
Part 2: The Dead Screen
The sharp hiss of carbonation filled the cramped cabin as dark foam bubbled over the center console. Mateo stared down at the footwell through eyes that refused to focus. The screen of his dropped phone flickered erratically under the puddle of ice and liquid sugar, flashing a strobe of harsh white light against his shins before going completely black.
His lifeline to 911, his GPS, and his digital wallet all vanished into the dark.
A sickening wave of dizziness washed over him, forcing his head back against the headrest. The gray static at the edges of his vision pulsed in time with his erratic, hammering heartbeat. He needed sugar. He needed it three minutes ago. His right hand, slick with spilled soda and sweat, flailed blindly back toward the thermal delivery bag on the passenger seat. His spasming fingers bumped against the heavy cardboard takeout box.
He dragged the box across the console and into his lap, nearly steering into the next lane as his left hand fought to keep the steering wheel straight. The rain hammered against the windshield, the wipers squealing loudly against the glass, a rhythmic sound that scraped directly against his raw nerves. He jammed his thumb under the cardboard tab of the box and ripped the lid backward.
The scent of garlic and grilled meat flooded the car. Mateo stared at the contents, his brain struggling to process the shapes through the creeping fog of his hypoglycemia.
It was a keto platter.
A bed of steamed spinach. Six pieces of grilled chicken breast. No fries. No rice. No bread. Not a single fast-acting carbohydrate in the entire container. He stared at the dark green leaves, a whimper tearing its way out of his raw throat. He plunged his sticky fingers directly into the hot chicken, tearing off a chunk and shoving it into his mouth. He chewed frantically, his jaw trembling so hard he bit the inside of his cheek. The sharp tang of copper instantly mixed with the garlic, but he forced himself to swallow the dry meat.
It wouldn’t work. His body was screaming for simple glucose to stop the rapid plunge of his blood sugar levels. Protein and leafy greens would take hours to break down into anything his starved brain could use. Hours he did not have. He had minutes. Maybe less.
The numbness in his lips was spreading outward, crawling across his cheeks and down his neck like thousands of tiny, freezing needles. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sodden sleeve, leaving a streak of grease and blood across his skin. He needed to get off the highway. His foot hovered over the gas pedal, feeling completely disconnected from his brain, as if his leg belonged to someone else.
Through the smeared windshield and the blinding glare of oncoming headlights, a towering, illuminated sign materialized in the downpour. *Crestview Pharmacy – Open 24 Hours*.
It was perched right at the top of the next exit ramp. Mateo flicked his blinker on, his arm moving with the heavy, sluggish resistance of being underwater. He jerked the steering wheel to the right, cutting off a dark SUV. A horn blared behind him, long and angry, but the sound felt distant, muffled beneath the roaring rush of blood in his own ears.
The sedan hit the curved exit ramp far too fast. The tires broke traction on the rain-slicked asphalt, sending the rear of the car sliding toward the guardrail. Mateo stomped heavily on the brakes, his wet sneaker slipping off the edge of the pedal. The anti-lock brakes engaged with a violent, grinding shudder. The sedan fishtailed, throwing Mateo hard against the driver’s side door, before finally catching grip and lurching up the incline toward the surface streets.
He blew through the red light at the top of the ramp without looking, his eyes locked entirely on the glowing white halo of the pharmacy sign. The sheer exhaustion settling into his bones was paralyzing. His eyelids fluttered, suddenly weighing a hundred pounds each. The biological imperative to just close his eyes and sleep was overwhelming, a siren song promising instant relief from the terror and the shaking.
“No,” Mateo rasped aloud, his voice slurred and thick. “No, no, no.”
He bit his lip again, using the sharp spike of pain to force his eyes open. He wrestled the car into the empty expanse of the pharmacy parking lot, ignoring the painted yellow lines entirely. He threw the gearshift into park, leaving the engine running and the headlights blazing directly through the store’s sliding glass front doors.
He reached for his door handle, but his hand froze halfway.
The reality of his situation crashed through the thick, cloudy haze of his dying brain. His bank account was negative twelve dollars. His phone, which held his only credit card on its digital wallet, was completely dead, drowned in the footwell. He patted his wet jeans pockets with frantic, uncoordinated slaps, searching for a stray crumpled bill, a forgotten coin, anything.
Nothing. His wallet was back at his apartment, completely empty anyway.
He stared through the rain-streaked windshield at the brightly lit aisles of the pharmacy. Rows of candy bars, emergency glucose tablets, and glucagon pens sat just fifty feet away, completely out of reach behind the barrier of commerce. Without a phone or a single dollar to his name, walking through those automatic doors meant crossing a line he had never crossed in his entire life.
A violent tremor racked his entire torso, knocking his shoulder hard against the window glass. His vision contracted into a tight, gray-edged tunnel, the fluorescent lights of the store pulsing like a fading heartbeat. If he stayed in this car, he was going to slip into a diabetic coma before the police ever found him. If he walked into that store, he would have to take what he needed to survive, in full view of the cameras and the cashier, without a dime to pay for it.
Mateo gripped the door handle with both hands, pushed his weight against the heavy metal, and forced himself out into the freezing rain.