The Horsemen of Route 116
by Devon Carey
Chapter 1
Dead Too Soon
I couldn’t stop laughing and holding my sides, feeling dizzy, wanting to vomit. Wow. I had way too many shots of Jim Beam. Closing my eyes, I fell back in my seat, threw my head up at the ceiling and screamed.
Don sat next to me and snickered, his hands tightened on the wheel, the wasteland on both sides flying by. I had no idea what the hell was going on or where we were going, but through blurry vision I saw a distant body of crystal-clear glowing water centered in the desert.
"Yeaaaaah baby! Speed the hell up,” I screamed, and we passed the Badwater Basin.
I’d already lost feeling in my arms and legs; my mind drew a-blank—couldn’t feel a bit of pain as we accelerated faster, the engine revved louder. And I fuckin’ loved it.
Don over there screamed like a cowboy that had just caught himself a wild bull. "Look at this fine ass."
I jolted upright and saw a girl wearing a white blouse and blue jeans, a black backpack slung over her shoulders walking on the side of the road.
"Oooooooh snap. That’s her, that’s the bitch, that’s Scottlynn Kennedy!"
"That’s the bitch, you sure that’s the bitch from the Cafe?" Don howled.
“Fuck yeah that the bitch tit of--”
"Wooooo! I’ma give ole’ bitch tit Scottlynn a hard attack."
"Quit playing. You won’t do sh--"
"Wait!" he looked at me, stupid bearded grin, tongue sticking out like Gene Simmons. He swerved, gaining momentum.
Closer to the girl, closer still, I rolled down the window and stuck my head out like my Labrador, Kcuf, does sometimes on trips. Me n’ Don thought it’d be funny to name him that since it’s “Fuck” spelled backwards.
He disappointed me, fixed himself back in the center of the road. Scottlynn glanced over her shoulder, last thing I saw were wet eyes and a frown.
“You’re such a pussy.” I spoke too soon before seeing her face, forced him back over and onto the sand and rocks. The truck hit Scottlynn; she screamed. My heart raced with the silence that followed.
Vomit seeped up my throat, making my eyes water as it tried to find its way out of me.
“Stop the car,” I sat tense, window felt hot in one tight hand, the seat felt warm beneath my fingers in the other. “Stop the fuckin’, fuck, fuckin, f-car!”
Don slammed the brake, tires screeching over asphalt. I threw myself out of the truck before it came to a stop. A burnt rubber smell consumed the air. I ran toward the girl and my legs died halfway there, but I continued to wobble, belched a little, knew I was going to vomit those hot dogs, nachos, and shots of Jim Beam I had back at the bar. I was so drunk, but this realistic nightmare flooded my mind so much.
I gawked in horror at Scottlynn’s dying blood-filled, wet eyes; her cheek was pressed hard into the pavement in a pool of blood, twisting her face into an angry, sad expression; her legs tweaked on the sand and rocks. Her blood-drenched chest heaved—how she was slipping away fast; her arm outstretched above her head in an ‘L’ shape; the bone in her forearm stuck out of her elbow.
"Hooooly shit,” a panicked scream. I stepped back and almost fell. “Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God.”
This wasn’t happening. “Scottlynn’s d-dead. She’s dying.”
The world spun around me, hands stuck to my forehead. A car came for us, an ugly brown Station Wagon. A handsome man with combed hair sat behind the wheel, his mouth gaped in shock and disgust. Paranoia kicked in. This man knew what we’d done.
I hauled ass back to Don’s burgundy Toyota Tundra, thinking the man in the station wagon was already on the phone with the cops, telling them everything.
“Don, get in. Get the fuck in.”
Don got in.
“Scottlynn’s so fucked.”
I climbed into the passenger seat, almost fell out. Then I jumped back in and burped. My throat burned with the aftermath.
I fell out of the truck and onto my chest, scrambled halfway over to the twitching woman on my hands and knees. At this point, I could barely stand.
“The fuck you doin’, Ace?"
“We can’t just leave her here.”
“Well, we can’t take her with us, either. Get in, get in now! We ain’t gettin’ raped in prison!” I hesitated, popped to my feet like a whack-a-mole and sprang back to the drunk trunk like an Olympic Gymnast—or maybe I was the drunk one, the world kept spinning around me.
Vomit exploded out of my mouth and onto the dashboard as he hit the gas and the door slammed shut; tires screeched as the truck swayed down the street—leaving dust, smoke, the smell of burnt rubber, the oncoming brown station wagon, and Scottlynn Kennedy dead in the rear-view mirror.