         -* The Long Cold Ride - A Short Story by Jack Flack/SaZ *-


   Phil reached down with his free hand and pressed in the cigarette lighter
while still steering with the other.  He felt the breast pocket of his shirt,
searching for the last pack of nicotine satisfaction to his name.  Nothing.  He
stuck his hand into the breast pocket of his overcoat, feeling the corners of
the cold, sewn lining.  Nada.  The frost from his breath slowly began to fog up
the windshield once again.  Phil rolled down the window of his Buick to let the
windows unfog.  Phil sighed and leaned back into his seat, wishing for just one
moment of salvation.  The cigarette lighter popped out of its holder.  Phil
looked down, and back at the cold, winding road.  He reached down with his hand
and tossed the red hot object out the open window.  Phil smiled when he saw the
red ember bounce in the road in his rear view mirror.

   Phil checked his watch again. 2:42. A.M.  What the hell was he going to tell
his wife this time?  Car trouble again?  She wasn't that dumb. At least he had
covered up all the lipstick and perfume this time.  Staring ahead in the cold
and open road, Phil saw a truck stalled on the side of the road.  The hazards
flashed at a weakened pace from the weak winter-strained battery.  Phil slowed
down to look inside the truck to see if anyone was still in the truck.  There
was no one in the cab, but after passing the vehicle, Phil saw a man working
under the hood.
   "Better him than me," Phil said to himself, and kept driving.
   Phil kept on in his bee-line for home.  He shifted into low to tower an icy
hill, and glanced in the rear view mirror to take one last look at the truck
that he had left sitting in the winter cold.  As he topped the hill, his heart
stopped.
   The road swung wildly to the left.  Phil pulled the wheel to the left, but
the car continued it's path to doom.  He instinctively whipped the wheel back
to the right to counteract the spin, but it was too late.  The car smashed into
the side of a huge wall of snow and ice, lodging the car against a metal rail
and destroying the two right tires.  A huge wall of snow came crashing down
upon the car, locking it in the frozen hell.
   Slowly, Phil lifted his head, and looked around.  Looking out onto the road,
he could see the last life of his head lights fading slowly away.  He turned
his head to the left, and quickly felt pain throbbing to the temple of his
head.  As he raised his hand to his forehead, the sticky, warm blood attached
itself to his palm.
   After fastening his coat, Phil got out of the car and tried to quickly asses
the damage.  Deciding quickly that the car would stay there until at least
spring, Phil considered his options.  He couldn't be that far from a gas
station, and even at this time of night, he should be able to find a pay phone
quickly.  The cold bite of the wind squelched his adventerous thoughts.  Phil
got back in the 76' Buick and tried to start it, so he could run the heater.
Switching on the key only caused a faint buzz from the starter and nothing from
the inside lights.  He knew he was in trouble.

   After sitting inside the frozen cell, Phil noticed a faint but definate set
of headlights approaching from the rear.  Phil jumped so hard in his seat he
hit his head in almost the exact same spot on the door jam of the car.
   Hurriedly getting out of the car, Phil stepped into the icy roadway and
waved ferociously at the oncoming driver.  The car approached, and then began
to slow.  Phil's salvation had arrived.
   Phil looked closely at the vehicle which was now idling in front of him.
Although he had been interested in cars and restoring them, he had never seen a
pickup quite like this one before, and recognized it as the truck he had seen
earlier on the side of the road.  The windows were tinted so darkly that it was
impossible to see inside.  The black shiny finish of the truck (which was
exceptionally clean, considering the weather) sharply contrasted against the
red pinstripes and flames which adorned the metal.
  "Hello?" Phil asked to a window which he could not see through.
  The window cracked ever so slightly that a man not so desperate might have
never noticed the difference.
  "Thank God you came by. I was starting to ..." Phil began, but was quickly
interrupted.
  "Get in," a voice whispered from the cracked passage.
  "Ok, thank ..." Phil started as he tried to open the handle, but found it
locked.
   "Back." the voice whispered, again.
   "Back?" Phil said, unbelieveing of the man.
   Without an answer, the window rolled shut and the engine of the terrible
beast roared so loud Phil could actually feel the vibrations in his gut.
   Without thinking twice, Phil hopped in the back of the truck.  Almost
immediately, the truck took off, throwing Phil against the bed of the truck,
and dumping a ton of snow on top of him.
   "Jesus!" he shouted, mostly to himself.
   Phil leaned on the back of the tail gate, and felt the cold air whipping at
his face, tearing at his warmth.  He wasn't too fond of his new ride, but it
was better than walking for a mile or two.
   Colder and colder it got as the truck accelerated.  The more Phil noticed
the temperature, the more the truck speeded up, and the more Phil noticed the
speed, the colder it seemed.
   Phil, in his cloth trenchcoat, crawled up next to the cab through the snow,
and tried to bang on the window of the cab.  His hands were beginning to become
numb from the cold air, and banging on the window only made them hurt more.
   "Hey, what the fuck are you doing!?" Phil screamed at the driver of the
truck.
   The yelling only caused the driver to push the accelerator to the floor,
throwing Phil back once again into the bed of snow.
   Phil began to shake uncontrollably.  He was quite sure he had never been
this cold in his entire life.  He could not feel any of his extremities
anymore, just a mild tingling that started in his fingers and toes and was
slowly working it's way inward.  He curled up against the cab of the truck, and
closed his eyes.
   Quickly, Phil opened his eyes.  The truck was flying now, at an incredible
speed.  Phil wasn't sure if he had fallen asleep or passed out, but he knew he
had been in the truck for some time by the hum of the engine.  Phil sat up, and
began to panic.  His hands were actually starting to turn a light shade of
blue.  This almost made im grin, as it reminded him of the cartoons he had
watched as a child.  The moment of humor was gone when he noticed his
surroundings.  As far as he could see ahead was straight road.  His watch had
stopped due to the cold, but read 5:30 a.m.
   "I'm gonna jump," Phil told himself, but due to the rate of speed, he knew
it would be impossible.
   All of a sudden, Phil collapsed.  His legs finally gave way to the frostbite
setting in.  He laid back down in the snow, which didn't even seem cold to him
anymore, and asked himself what would have happened if he would have picked up
the driver in the first place.
   Phil closed his eyes, and began to shake, uncontrollably again.  How ironic,
he thought, that I'm going to die in the back of this truck with no walls
holding me in.
   Phil felt the cold air start to slow down his heart.  There was no going
back now.  His arms and legs were shot, and soon, he knew, he would die.
   Suddenly, the truck came to an abrupt stop.  Phil, helpless to do anything,
was thrown face first into the back of the truck.
   Phil opened his eyes, and tried to roll his half frozen neck around to see
what was happening.  He heard the soft whirr of the window motor as the tinted
shade of glass came down.
   Strands of long, blonde hair flew from out of the window.
   "So, you son of a bitch, car trouble again?" his wife said.
   Phil's eyes opened wide, he felt a sharp pain in his lungs which spread to
his chest.
   And then he died.
   "Oops, forgot your car," she said slyly, and began to turn the truck around
to put Phil back where he belonged.  Out in the cold.

Jack Flack - The Long Cold Ride - SoulZ At Zero 94'
 
