American Night- a Web Novel

A man returns home one early morning hour to find his fiancée sprawled in a pool of blood. What else could he do? He takes to the road -two-thousand three hundred and forty-seven miles- to avenge her death. Caught in the no-man's-land between loneliness and blood-lust, this wronged lover has to decide at every turn whether the road to vengeance will ever bring him back to what he's lost. Or will he become lost? -somewhere out in the American Night. All materials © SethJ 2006.

Thursday, August 30, 2007

A thought comes to the hitchhiker, but it is not as comforting as he would have hoped. They will probably have to stop at some point in the night. This guy, the driver, has proven himself to be pretty steady behind the wheel, but no one can go on however long it’s been –at least twenty-four hours since Barstow, plus however far he had come before that- with just a few hours sleep. He looks worn, beyond worn, but also determined; and in someone who sets off at a moment’s notice across country –it is here that the hitchhiker realizes that it can be for no other reason than a) he’s on the run or b) he’s on the chase- it is usually the latter that wins out.

All of that comes out in a dramatically tired drawl. “Reckon it’s about eight a clock?”

“Ah dunno. Could be anytime, the way ahm feelin.”

“Tired?”

“No. I’s tired about two days ago. Now ahm juss….ahm juss goin.” There’s the determination, or the ability to ignore one’s own body, that the hitchhiker feared. He takes a page from the driver’s book.

“Is it fer family that yer goin up ta Michigan?”

The driver ruminates on this, but it’s not in the panicked way that got the hitchhiker into such a deep hole.

“You could say that.” With further thought, and a self-amused tension through his cheeks: “In-laws, acshully. Gonna pay them a visit.”

Maybe he said too much, but the past day and a half of running over the plot again and again, has gelled it into its own entity. It now exists outside of the driver and he’s starting to feel like he can controls who knows about it as much as he can control the weather. He’s almost so certain of the plan –constant repetition has smoothed out all the pesky, unknown variables- that it’s only a slight exaggeration for him to believe that it can carry itself out on its own.

Regardless, the hitchhiker senses that the terms of the conversation –a “verbal standoff” might be more accurate- however so slightly in his favor. It’s time for him to tease out his suspicions, and get a taste for the card up the driver’s rolled flannel sleeve.

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