B.C. Johnson - Deadgirl

Puck slapped the seat with a hand to get my attention. His fingers were inches from the receding shadow line. The hood of the truck creaked again. Closer. Something thumped. The last of the dashboard shadow ended just above Puck’s shaggy gray hair.

“Puck. Puck. Please. What do we do?”

Something thunked into glass, just above my head. I ducked, further down. A muscle in my back twisted.

“Puck!”

A noise like nails on a chalkboard but fifty times louder tore through the cab. I screamed, feeling it stab into my ears. My vision swam, and the tiny cab began to spin. Black dots. Everything tunneled. I could see Puck’s face, twisted not in fear, but in worry.

Glass cracked above my head, and I screamed again. The noise doubled and then popped, and I felt something wet and warm slide down my neck, just below my ears. The world became muffled, wrapped in cotton.

The truck jumped, and my head slammed into the dashboard. A bright lance of pain. My vision darkened, flickered, and came back. Old mummified papers and refuse flew out of the glove box and rained down onto me. Another crack as something rammed the window. I couldn’t see. The blinding light in the cabin flashed with every movement.

And then, Puck went to sleep. My mouth dropped open. He even put his head on his folded hands, the international pillow pantomime. His eyes flashed open, and I understood. Not run. Leave. Shift over. Go home.

I’d never done it without either the sea or the rising sun. If anytime was a good time to try, this was it.

“Puck! I’ll die. I know I’ll die.”

Puck’s eyes shot wide open.

“I’m so cold…I don’t know what to do.”

Puck made a hamburger gesture and bit into it. Then he mimed a deep breath.

“What—?”

The window exploded. Shards of glass buried into the seat, bounced off the back wall. A bright line of fire tore across my cheek.

A white shaft of brilliant light lanced above me and hit the seat. No. An arm. It reached for Puck.

“No!”

Puck closed his eyes and was gone. Just gone.

The arm grabbed the steering wheel and ripped it out of the column. A cry of rage, dampened by the cotton in my ears, tore through the cabin. Then the hand reached for me.

I closed my eyes.

The noise stopped. The sound of tearing metal stopped.

I opened my eyes in the intersection of Gilbert and Broadway. An icy spear of cold ripped through my body, stole my breath and my strength.

Two headlights streaked towards me. I couldn’t get up. I didn’t even have time to untangle my legs when the car hit me.

Chapter Eight

Payments

I could make out the Buick logo on the hood of the car as it hit me.

I felt no pain. I appreciated that. I knew when I opened my eyes I wouldn’t be on the grey shore. And I wouldn’t be in the intersection anymore either. I’d be somewhere white, I hoped, or even somewhere black if it was peace—

A squeal, then a sickening crunch. Metal twisting, being torn apart.

I’d come back to the truck. No!

I snapped my eyes open, but I hadn’t left the intersection at all. Broadway stretched out away from me, empty in the late hours. The glow of orange streetlights in the gloom. A distant traffic signal in another intersection sliding from green to yellow to red. Two red dots—brake lights, a mile away.

The crunch was behind me. I looked down at myself. Nothing. Well, nothing but two black streaks of newly burnt rubber perfectly framing my legs on either side. I didn’t go under that car. It should have hit me.

I spun on my knees. The Buick was wrapped around a telephone pole. I rolled to my feet, but my muscles didn’t cramp, not like before. I’d never been so cold in my entire life—it sucked at me, pressing greedy lips to my neck, taking my life. My fingers felt only a dull ache. My legs were numb, my nose, my ears.

It didn’t matter. I ran toward the car with the knowledge that I’d likely gotten some poor man killed. I ran to the door and looked in the window. I pictured infants, nuns, grandmas. But just one man in his late-thirties, slumped over the steering wheel. A limp airbag draped the wheel like a tired ghost. The man’s back moved. He was breathing.

I grabbed the door handle—

No. The door didn’t open.

“What…?” I mumbled, and looked down.

I grabbed for the handle. My hand went right through the handle, the door, and swung out in a lazy arc. I tried again, grabbing straight out, but my hand disappeared in the door. I felt nothing.

“No!”

My hand slipped through the door like it was smoke three more times before I fell to my knees.

“No…”

The man groaned. Just a rasp.

“I’m sorry.”

The man looked up, one eye lolling, the other covered with blood. A gash in his forehead leaked a long streak of red across his face. I felt tears slide down my cheek, turning to ice halfway down. He looked okay, I realized. He wasn’t going to die.

“…where…”

He mumbled more, but I couldn’t make it out. But when he spoke, I felt something. Heat, just a trickle at first. I pushed my face closer to the window, watching him move, my eyes wide. What? I could smell him, but more importantly, I could feel him. He felt like a guttering campfire, or a fireplace in another room. Just the barest hint of it made my skin tingle. For just a moment, I felt the very tips of my fingers…my legs. Just a ghost.

I tried to open the door, stabbing the air with useless hands. They swept through the door, stirring nothing.

“Come on! Come on !”

Something warm and energetic cracked through my body like a lightning bolt. The rush of power flew out of me just as quickly.

The door flew open, slicing right through me with no effect. It cracked against the fender of the car and stayed open, twisted on its hinges. At the same time, an icy wind whipped at me, plunged me into numbness. I looked down.

I could see the road through my legs now. Transparent.

So cold.

I moved closer to the groaning man, and the heat baking from his body made me shiver. He had a wife named Maria. She wasn’t beautiful, not on the outside, but she glowed inside. She was a perfect mother, but bad with money. I knew she hated peas but loved liver. He…Kent made fun of her for it.

No, not that.

I touched his hand, really touched it. I didn’t pass through him, but settled my icy fingers on his skin. He jerked under my touch, and his skin burned against mine.

I thought of Puck.

Kent had a little brother once. A little brother who had died in a flood. So long ago.

No. I can’t.

Do it.

I clamped my fingers around Kent’s wrist and took a deep breath. His heat flowed up my arm, blasting away the cold, warming everything with a honeyed thickness. Up my shoulder, across my chest, down my legs. My feet, my legs, my nose and my ears and my cheeks. My tongue. I took another deep breath, and the curtain of heat drew itself around me. I was submerged in it, drowning.

Kent screamed.

I ripped my hand away from his wrist and fell backward. I landed hard on my butt, and a lance of pain rocketed up my tailbone. I was solid. And… oww , solid hurts.

Kent slumped back, his mouth open, his eyes wide. A band of black encircled his wrist, and the skin halfway up his arm was blue.

“Kent! Sir!”

I leaped to my feet and ran to him. Warmth filled every inch of me. My head swam like I’d drunk a pot of coffee. I shook him, and he moaned. Oh thank God.

I dug through his pockets and pulled out a tiny black cell phone. I went into his contacts and hit “M.” Maria’s name popped up. I hit the button and pressed the phone to my ear.

A voice picked up. Groggy, muffled, but aware.