14 Life on Mars?
Life on Mars?
“A ride to town would be great ...” Dash grumbles, shoving a rusty chicken cage out of his way.
A giant white feather pokes out of his hair, and I resist the urge to pluck it.
“Oh, no ... we don’t mind sitting in the back with the chickens.” He mimics my voice with annoying precision.
I scoot as far from him as I can get in the jam-packed truck bed but can’t seem to dislodge his elbow from my ribs. “A ride is a ride.”
The dirty white chickens in the cage beside him beat their wings against the bars, sending another batch of feathers into the air. A second one finds a home in his dark waves.
Dash pins me with a glare. “A ride is definitely not just a ride.”
“You should be thanking me.” I awkwardly cross my arms in the tight space, my left butt cheek going numb against the hard steel.
“Thanking you?” His mouth falls open. “For wedging me into the back of a truck filled with poultry and hay?”
I jut out my chin. “For rescuing you from your dead battery.”
Dash laughs, and the menacing sound sends a ripple of heat through me.
“Sure,” he says. “I’ll thank you. If we actually make it to town instead of hanging from meat hooks in Leatherface’s barn.”
I suck in a breath and instantly regret it as the pungent aroma of fresh chicken poop coats the inside of my throat.
Desperate for fresh air, I turn toward the scenery whipping by and get slapped across the face with my own tangled, windblown hair.
Another day, another bad decision. I shift my weight again, wriggling sideways and sandwiching my bag between us like a cushion.
Dash loops a hand through the straps, preventing the contents from flying free. To his credit, he never questioned my decision to bring my tote with Mom’s diary and ashes with us.
The truck jumps over a pothole, and one of the unsecured chicken cages hurtles toward me.
Acting purely on instinct, I kick the side so hard it catapults the rusty thing skyward.
The cage somersaults through the air before slamming into the truck bed, breaking the latch.
The door flies open, and all three skittish chickens escape, wings flapping wildly in the air.
Then the empty crate tumbles over the edge of the tailgate, where it gets wedged beneath the trailer’s wheels.
The rickety trailer lurches to the left before flipping upside down in the road, scattering the remaining chicken cages and releasing dozens of angry birds in a great big chicken jailbreak.
A cloud of dust and feathers trails the green pickup as it pulls away from the shoulder without us.
Dash stares at the taillights until they disappear into the horizon, then turns to me with his eyes narrowed into slits. He studies me until my skin prickles under his intense scrutiny.
Mouth too dry to form words, I shrug. What else is there to say? We’re no worse off than we were before accepting a ride. No harm, no ... fowl ?
As if reading my thoughts, he exhales hard enough to dislodge a dirty feather from his hair. “You”—he jabs a finger toward me—“are a magnet for disaster.”
“Me?” My mouth drops open. “What did I do?”
“You want a list?” Shaking his head, Dash stomps off in the opposite direction.
“Where are you going?” I chase after him, kicking up dust and feathers in my wake.
He picks up his pace. “Back to the car.”
“We’re stranded in the middle of nowhere.” I release a bitter laugh. “Were you planning to fly there, Superman ?”
Dash whips around, and the hurt in his eyes makes me wish I could take back every word. He opens and closes his mouth several times before speaking. “You think you’re the first person to make that joke?”
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“You’re not.” He turns, putting a few more feet between us before turning back. “It’s bad enough when my family—you know what? Forget it. It doesn’t matter.” With another loud exhale, he storms off again.
“It matters to me!” Guilt washes over me as I hurry after him. “Dash. Wait!”
He stops on the side of the road, as motionless as an ice sculpture. “What?”
“I ...” I step toward him, an apology forming on my lips. Then I remember whose fault it is that we’re stuck out here. “I forgive you for letting the battery die.”
A dark chuckle crawls up his throat as he slowly turns toward me. “You forgive me?”
“I-I do.” His menacing grin sends prickles of heat down my spine, and I step back.
Finger extended toward me, he stalks forward, his smile feral. “ You ... ” He takes another step, head cocked to the side. “Forgive ...” He pokes that same finger into his chest. “ Me? ”
God help me, I should not be this turned on right now, but I am. “Th-That’s what I said.” I lift my chin.
“This ...” Dash rakes a hand through his hair, dislodging another chicken feather. It catches the breeze and floats away. “Is all your fault.”
“M-My fault?” My muscles tighten, my insides coiling into a snarled knot. “ I’m not the one who ignored the low battery warnings for God knows how long and got us stranded in the middle of nowhere!”
Dash nods stiffly, then turns on his heel and continues in the direction we left the car.
After following him for miles down the desolate country road, my resolve withers and blows away like those stinking chicken feathers.
My feet ache from the sandbox forming in the soles of my Skechers.
I’d kill for one of those Memphis sweet teas right about now.
Every few minutes, thunder rumbles in the distance, and ominous dark clouds roll in.
I can’t shake the threat of impending doom.
A rainstorm would be the perfect end to a perfectly shitty day.
A banged-up blue hatchback rattles past us, blasting old-school hip-hop from its open windows. Just before it crests the next hill, it stops and reverses, backing onto the shoulder a few yards from us.
The driver pokes his blond head out the window and flashes a gap-toothed smile, reminding me of a grinning jack-o’-lantern. His lips move, but I can’t hear him over the music. After repeating himself a second time, he ducks his head in and cuts the radio. My ears buzz in the sudden silence.
“Y’all need help?” With his close-cropped hair and wire-rimmed glasses, he looks like a redneck version of Reverend Tom.
Despite our long stretch of stony silence, Dash reaches for my hand, clinging to me as we cautiously approach the car.
“Funny you should ask,” Dash says. “We, uh—”
“Whoa, dude ...” The guy zeroes in on Dash’s mismatched irises. “What happened to your eyes?”
Dash’s grip tightens, and he pulls me behind him. “I was born with them.”
“Spooky.” The guy shudders. “So how’d y’all end up way out here?”
“Like I was saying,” Dash continues with cool restraint. “We broke down a few miles from here.”
Redneck Reverend Tom chuckles. “Ain’t that a bitch? Guessin’ you need a ride then?”
Dash turns to me, concern etched on his gorgeous face, and my racing heart stops cold before sputtering to life again.
“Your call,” Dash says, brushing a lock of hair from my face.
Instead of acting on the overwhelming urge to kiss him, I slide my gaze to the crappy old Chevy, every bone in my body rejecting the notion of climbing into the rolling death trap. “I don’t—”
A loud clap of thunder silences me seconds before the sky opens up, pelting us with fat raindrops.
Dash lets out a heavy breath. “We’d love a ride to town.”
“Well, all right! Hop in. I’m Paul, but everyone calls me Itchy.” As if demonstrating why, he drags his nails down his neck, leaving a trail of red stripes on his pale skin.
“I’m Dash, this is Zoey.” Dash pulls the seat forward and helps me climb into the back before folding his long legs into the front with my tote.
“Y’all ain’t from around here,” Itchy muses.
Dash laughs. “Just passing through.”
“Figured as much.” Itchy bobs his head a few times, sliding his gaze toward Dash as he pulls onto the pavement. “Hope y’all don’t mind, I need to make a quick stop.”
Dash straightens his spine and goes rigid in the seat in front of me.
My pulse jumps as Leatherface’s barn pops into my head, reminding me why hitchhiking landed in the top three on Jeanie’s What Not to Do list.
Dash shoots me a nervous glance. “Sure. Why not?”
A few miles down the road, Itchy takes a sharp right onto a narrow side street. With my stomach in my throat, the little hatchback bumps and shimmies around the winding road until loose gravel replaces rough pavement and we pull into a sketchy trailer park.
Rows of ancient mobile homes line either side of the narrow drive.
The little car creeps along, passing several crumbling walkways, at least two rusted-out cars on concrete blocks, and a sad, abandoned tricycle.
The steady rain has turned potholes into swimming pools, and I keep waiting for one of them to swallow the hatchback whole.
At the end of the first block, Itchy parks along the curb in front of a shiny white Jeep Wrangler and leaves the engine running. He reaches behind his seat and grabs a red pizza delivery bag before hopping out.
“Be right back.” He holds the vinyl pouch over his head like an umbrella and jogs up the driveway, but instead of going in through the front door, he disappears around the side.
Using a stray napkin from the floorboards, I wipe steam from the window and scope out the trailer. It doesn’t look much different from the others on the street. The moldy white siding could use some attention, but someone took time to mow and pull weeds from the sparse flower beds.
“That bag didn’t have a pizza in it, did it?” I ask.
Dash snorts as he pokes through the clutter in the center console. “No.”
“Didn’t think so. Maybe he’s dropping off insulin to his sick grandmother, or ...” My voice hitches up an octave. “Picking up Girl Scout cookies?”
He glares out the window. “If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say drugs. Either picking up or dropping off.”
My pulse skyrockets. “I was afraid you’d say that. What are we going to do?”