Roadtrip

TW: Weapons, Death, Torture, Grief

My smile was larger than life, blonde hair billowing in the wind. My head was out the window, and my eyes were closed.

Beside me, Peter laughed. It was loud and gleeful. I loved his laugh.

He took one hand off the steering wheel to place it on top of one of mine. My other arm dangled loosely out the window; my spirits instantly lifted.

I leaned back from the window for a moment, only to kiss Peter on the nose.

“This road trip was a good idea,” I told him.

He had the goofiest grin. I loved him.

“I told you so.” He winked and glanced ahead. “Left, or right?”

In an attempt to hide my pink cheeks, I tilted my head left, at a sign saying, ‘Welcome to Hillendale.’ We were both extremely curious people, so he excitedly turned the wheel, and into Hillendale we went.

We finally got out of the car, and I stretched my tired limbs, making sure to groan loudly as I did so. I managed to get a chuckle from Peter. He always said I was overdramatic.

“Hey,” he whispered enthusiastically, his warm breath in my ear, causing me to shiver. My cheeks heated when I felt his hands wrap around my waist. He pointed to a building in the distance – it looked like a diner. “Let’s stop here.”

I turned swiftly and planted a kiss on his cheek. Without a word, I started towards it. I didn’t bother looking back; I could already tell he was stammering and stumbling after me.

The diner was spacious and old. A red and white pattern across all of it. We sat at a table with a slightly worn tablecloth. It read ‘Mama’s Diner’.

A dark-skinned man – almost the same shade as my husband, who was looking around with polite interest – approached us, notebook in hand.

“May I take your order?” he asked happily. He was on the chubby side but seemed friendly enough.

I smiled. “Not just yet, thank you.”

He smiled back. “You new here? Haven’t seen you around.”

Peter blinked, a flash of curiosity in his icy-blue eyes. “Do you not get many tourists or road-trippers?”

The waiter shook his head slowly, contemplating something that made me wish I knew more. His smile was gone. “No. We’re a bit too far away. Not even on the maps.” He forced a gap-toothed grin.

Peter gave a small smile and continued looking at his menu. “Chicken wings, please.”

Relieved to have the topic changed, the tension lifted from the man’s face. “Great choice!”

At that moment, the door crashed open. Alcohol filled the air and angry bikers came in.

One in particular came to my attention – bulky, with a jet-black mohawk. He was looking at me in a way I was not comfortable with. His eyes raked down my body, and I sipped the water the waiter had just poured for me suspiciously.

Peter immediately noticed. His eyebrows furrowed and creases formed across his forehead. My police officer husband and his ex-army wife would not be dealing with this crap.

“Hey, little lady,” Mohawk slurred, half-empty beer in hand. I could tell that was not his first.

His big body barrelled into the tables as he made his way to us. His friends plopped into seats beside the entrance. We had no escape.

Peter hastily wriggled into the spot next to me, protecting me.

“Do we have a problem here?” Mohawk demanded, eyes fixated on me, Peter just a problem in his way. “I’m Tank. You’re gonna want to come see what a real man looks and feels like.”

I stuck out my tongue in mock disgust. They didn’t scare me.

Tank, infuriated, drew a large fist back, and just as he was about to hit Peter, a woman’s voice yelled above the others.

“Get. Your. Hands. Off. The. Travellers.” A short, stubby woman with mousy reddish hair stomped over.

She tugged Tank’s ear with alarming force and pulled him back.

“Sorry, Mama,” Tank murmured, rubbing his red ear.

Peter and I exchanged looks of equal surprise and puzzlement. Peter shook his head in disbelief before facing the plump woman.

“You must be Mama,” Peter said, lending his hand. “I’m Peter and this is my wife, Belle.”

Mama gave me a sideways glance. She dismissed me immediately, her focus on Peter. She didn’t take his hand.

“Call me Mama. Everyone does.” She sounded friendly, but I had a feeling she wasn’t even close.

Peter didn’t reply. We didn’t even get to eat. He gripped my hand tightly and led us to the exit. Tank’s friends cooed and teased, but we ignored them. My heart was beating much faster than it should’ve been, and beads of sweat littered my forehead.

“The locals aren’t very pleasant. Watch yourselves! Especially you, darlin’.” Mama’s voice had the hint of a Southern accent as she called after us, just before we closed the door with a defiant click.

“What was that about?” I demanded when we got back in the car, braiding my hair nervously.

Peter sighed apologetically. “I didn’t like the way they were treating us, and that old woman seems like the ringleader.”

A thin smile split across my lips, more forced than willing. “I could’ve handled myself.” Sometimes, he was too overprotective.

He laughed quietly. Lovingly. “I was saving their butts from you more than I was saving you from them.”

I allowed a small giggle to escape, before allowing the anxiety to seep in.

Peter noticed instantly. He cupped my cheeks in his hands and pressed his big lips to mine. “Let’s go set up our tents before nightfall.”

I nodded once. I couldn’t speak. I was flushed. And worried.

After a lovely afternoon of marshmallows, pizza and “scary” stories, Peter and I called it a night around 11pm.

We slept in separate tents because Peter had accidentally bought small ones. I didn’t mind. I needed me time.

I was awoken around 2am, quickly glancing at my watch before grabbing my torch and jumping up. I’d heard a muffled yelp coming from Peter’s tent and rustling from the bushes moments before.

I slipped silently out of the tent and pressed myself against the nearest tree, eyes darting around. Where was Peter?

There.

He was being dragged out of his tent, kicking and shouting. His thigh was bloody, and I didn’t dare imagine why.

I knew better than to rush to his defence. The army does that to people. Makes them think before acting.

It’s smart.

I sucked in a deep breath and held it as I hurried around our tents to get a better look at our attackers.

I stifled a gasp.

It was Tank and his friends.

Each one was armed with a gun, knife, or spear. Tank, in particular, had a gun. It was an average pistol, but it was terrifying.

I exhaled slowly, in an attempt to calm my pounding heart.

I pursed my lips and assessed my options. I picked up a thick stick and hastily sharpened it with my pocketknife.

I would throw it to divert the attention.

I held it behind my shoulder and just as I was about to throw it, it was tugged away. I barely got to turn before my own stick was stabbed into my shoulder. I cried out in pain as red-hot pain seared up my arm.

I spun and grabbed the gun hanging from my attacker’s pocket, shooting him in an instant. I didn’t even feel guilty.

My cover was blown, and I was seriously injured.

I ran out. Irrational, I know, but what else could I have done?

Peter’s eyes widened when he saw me, pleading for me to run. I couldn’t leave him. I focused on him as I darted and dodged, weaved and ran. Peter couldn’t run – not with that thigh. It was useless.

Unsurprisingly, a heavy body covered mine and I could no longer move. A bag was placed over my face and Peter’s horrified expression was the last thing I saw.

I awoke to Tank, leaning over Peter.

“Who sent you?” he asked, fury blazing in his beady, black eyes.

Peter was opposite me, and I caught a glimpse of his sad eyes when he shook the messy, brown hair from his face.

He met Tank’s eyes. “Bite me.”

I sucked in to stop myself from crying. They didn’t know I was conscious. Yet. Tank inhaled sharply. His hands shook as he drew his arm back, muscles bulging.

He punched my husband directly in the nose. Peter cried out as I heard a crack.

“Like I’m going to buy that you’re just travelling,” Tank spat.

“We really are. We mean no harm, just let us go. Please?” I piped up. I couldn’t watch anything else.

Tank’s head whipped around. A crooked grin was plastered across his pudgy face.

“Little lady is awake,” he said.

“Let us go,” Peter said, venom edging into his unwavering voice.

Tank turned and slapped him. Peter whimpered as a red mark showed on his cheek, blood dripping from his broken nose.

I bit my tongue to keep the scream at bay.

The ugliest pout expanded across Tank’s mouth.

“I’m bored.” He pulled his pistol out of his pocket and shot Peter.

Directly in the head. Everything stopped. I couldn’t hear my screams, but I knew they were there. Tears ripped out of my eyes as grief tore a hole into my heart, my soul.

Memories flooded me and the pain of losing him was suddenly unbearable. I shouted and screamed until Tank hit me over the head and I was knocked out cold.

I awoke in a small ditch. I was laying on my husband’s body. I felt the sting of my physical wounds but the real thing that had me in agony was my husband.

His blue eyes – the same eyes I used to get lost in – were glassy and unblinking.

With a huge hole in my heart, I dragged my struggling body out of the ditch. I covered him in leaves and sticks, then set my mind on revenge.

Our wedding rings were missing, and I’d get them back.

Tank was going to pay.