Cheryl Tardif - Submerged

“It’s okay, honey. The road’s a bit rough.”

It wasn’t the road that had made the sedan lurch. The bastard truck driver had hit the back bumper of her car.

Rebecca’s pulse raced with fear. She thought about all the horror movies she’d watched growing up. The ones with the psychopathic truckers who hunted down innocent victims with their big rigs.

Jesus!

Checking the mirror, she watched in horror as the headlights from the truck behind her grew larger. He was taking another run at her. She pressed her foot to the gas pedal, weaving along the unpaved road until they were enclosed by bushes and trees. She had the high beams on her car to guide her along the rough road, but the rain made visibility almost nil.

She was lost. There were no signs. No houses. No streetlights.

“Mommy, why are you driving so fast?” Ella asked.

“I want to get to the hotel,” she said in a faux cheerful voice.

God, how she wanted to get to a hotel. Or a gas station. Anywhere there were people. And a phone.

She thought about her cell phone. It was in her purse, which had landed on the floor of the passenger’s seat when she’d veered around the last wild corner.

“Mom, there’s someone behind us,” Colton said in a nervous voice.

“I know.”

“How come he’s so close?”

“He wants to pass us, but there’s no room.”

The truck loomed closer. With the trees and brush around them keeping away much of the rain, she could make out a row of lights on the top of the truck, the kind hunters used. With these and the truck’s headlights on high, the light converged into one eye-piercing beam.

She tilted the rearview mirror so the light wouldn’t be in her eyes.

The truck hit them again, harder this time.

In the back seat Colton let out a yelp. “Mom?”

“Sit back, honey. I’ll find a place to turn around.”

Branches whipped at the side of the car as she steered it deeper into the woods. She wanted to cry. Scream. Turn around and go home. But those weren’t options. All she could do was follow the road to God knows where and pray that there’d be help at the end.

What did the trucker want with them?

She glanced in the rearview mirror. Ella was awake now, playing with her Barbies, oblivious to the danger that was hot on their trail. Colton wore a fearful expression. Oh God. He knows.

“It’s okay, honey. We’re―”

The truck slammed into them. She heard Ella and Colton scream. There was nothing she could do except scream with them as the car pitched forward toward a dense wooded area and branches scraped along the outside of the vehicle.

The front end slammed into a solid mass, the impact knocking the breath from Rebecca’s lungs. As rain climaxed into a crescendo on the roof, she was thrown into the steering wheel. Pain rippled through her chest and ribs, and she fought to stay conscious. Her vision wavered, distorting everything in front of her.

Colton… Ella…

Darkness engulfed her.

Marcus had a mere hour and a half left on his shift. For some reason he was feeling antsy. He blamed his edginess on all the coffee he’d had during his shift. Tiredness had crept into every joint of his body, and caffeine was one of few stimulants he could use nowadays.

Leo had given him a hard time this shift, telling him he should cut back on the caffeine so that maybe Marcus would finally sleep.

Marcus stared into his empty mug. Maybe Leo’s right.

He definitely felt jittery. Last time he’d felt like this he’d been injecting himself with codeine. Stronger drugs had followed.

Look where that got you.

Quitting hadn’t been easy. He still had cravings. He remembered quite clearly the sense of ethereal peace he’d felt while flying high. Nothing had bothered him. Until he found he couldn’t function without it. Without the rush that burned through his veins.

He’d almost lost Jane as a result of his addiction.

The phone rang, and a small light on it flashed. It was an inner office call. Shipley.

“Need something, Pete?”

“Time for your weekly piss.”

Marcus sighed. This game was getting old.

“Fine. I’ll be right there.”

As he headed for the men’s washroom, he wondered what in God’s name had possessed him to promise a weekly drug test.

You needed the job. That’s why.

Besides, Leo had suggested it was the only way Pete Shipley would welcome him to the center, and it wasn’t like Marcus had a lot of options. His very public and humiliating suspension from EMS had limited his choices. Since he could no longer work as a paramedic, 911 was the closest thing to the rush he’d once felt working the job. He’d whizzed through the training in no time.

Now he was whizzing in a cup on command.

Suck it up, Marcus. You made your bed.

He pushed open the washroom door.

“Here,” Shipley said, handing him a sealed plastic cup. “Make it fast. I’ve got work to do.”

“Urine my way.”

Shipley gave him a tight smile. “Good one.”

Marcus headed for the closest stall.

“Keep the door open,” Shipley said.

“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill.” Marcus glanced over his shoulder. “Wanna watch?”

Shipley’s face turned beet red, and he shifted uncomfortably. “Hurry it up.”

Marcus had to go, but he held it in and whistled one of Ryan’s favorite songs. This is the song that never ends… It was from a TV show his son had watched when Ryan was a preschooler. The song was a never-ending loop. Fun for kids, but irritating as hell to adults.

It had the same effect on Shipley.

“Jesus Christ, what’s that garbage you’re whistling?”

Instead of answering, Marcus continued whistling and finally filled the cup halfway. As an added bonus, he splashed a little on the side.

What’s a little urine between friends?

“Hurry up. And can you quit with the whistling?”

“I could,” Marcus said, “but then I’d have to kill you.”

“Ha ha. Very funny. You done?”

“What, this little pissing contest? Yeah. I think I won.”

Shipley’s mouth was pinched tighter than a Scotsman’s wallet. “Pass it to me.”

Marcus planted the cup in Shipley’s palm. The man’s eyes flared when he realized the cup was wet. Shipley used his fingertips to pick the cup up by the lid. He set it on the counter, washed his hands thoroughly, then picked up the cup with a piece of paper towel.

“Same time next week?” Marcus asked innocently.

Shipley clenched his jaw but said nothing.

Marcus smiled. “Nice doin’ business with ya.”

The fury that raged in Shipley left no doubt in Marcus’s mind that his supervisor was imagining various methods of tortuous payback. He’d better watch his back.

Shipley exited the washroom, leaving Marcus alone and somewhat dissatisfied. He washed his hands, stared at his reflection for a few minutes and tried to ignore the twinge of fear.

He enjoyed goading Pete Shipley, but one day he’d go too far. And where would that leave him? Without a job. With no one to be accountable to except maybe Leo. Without a life… or a reason to keep living.

Marcus shook his head. “Enough of that.”

He leaned in close, noting the bags under his eyes had deepened. There were craters in the craters, and no amount of Prep H would change that fact. He needed to sleep.

“No rest for the wicked,” he reminded his reflection.

Then he went back to work.

Ten minutes later, all hell broke loose.

While Marcus finished dispatching emergency crews to the scene of an overturned oil truck, Leo was handling a fire.