50 Miles To Morgantown

Contains sensitive content: substance abuse, physical violence, gore, or abuse.

“Put that damn gun away, Bubba, you gonna get us caught.” That was the warning Mary Beth gave her boyfriend just before everything went sideways.

The shattered windshield of an ambulance had replaced the cold glass of their beat up 2004 Toyota Corolla. Three bullet holes tore through it, letting in the torrential storm that had started suddenly and without warning.

Mary looked down at the automated flash flood warning that flashed and blared through the cracks on her phone screen.

“Shut it the fuck off!” Bubba yelled, knowing all too well that the volume switch was broken and that no one could silence government advisories like this one. Mary shouldered into the passenger door as Bubba swerved around the tight corner of a rural dirt road and onto the paved one.

She could smell the tire rubber burning even with the wet road, and through her quiet prayers to the Lord above, the big red and white cube on wheels didn’t overturn. The worn out, fading reflective surface of the green sign stood out against the forests. Morgantown 50 miles.

She needed to tame her shaking hands, so she waited for a straightaway and passed through the door between the cabin and the box. It was hard to ignore the patterned blood that formed a face against the interior.

But the pain medication was easy to find, and even easier to squeeze down her dry throat to take the edge off.

“Hey—” Bubba called out, looking over his shoulder, “Hey—grab me some. I’m the only one doing the hard parts.”

“Fuck off, you junky,” Mary muttered, dumping a few oxycodone into her man’s blood spattered and gun powdered hand.

“Watch your mouth, bitch. You’re lucky I even brought you along for the score. You’d be shaking your little tits off under some dumpster right now if it weren’t for me being so smart.”

Mary climbed back into the cabin and buckled up, fiddling nervously with the wooden grip of the .38 revolver she had stolen during their last home invasion. She rubbed her finger across the scratch marks she had filed into the metal.

“Can’t see anything,” Bubba said as his aggravation and paranoia grew. “You figure the cops ain’t gonna bother following?”

“Cops? You seen the guys driving this fucking thing, and you’re worried about cops?” Mary replied.

“I don’t know!” He slammed his hands against the steering wheel and took a few deep breaths, “They didn’t look like no ambulance drivers to me, neither. That much is for sure.”

“Did you see the driver’s tattoos? Folks like them with normal jobs, they don’t got face tattoos, Bubba. And I ain’t never seen ink shift around and leak out like that.”

“You just got nervous, is all,” Bubba said, unable to control the tight squelching against the drive shaft. “Just got nervous. Freaked out, saw some shit. It wasn’t real. Remember that time out in uh—Charleston. Yeah.”

“Felt pretty real,” she said meekly, sinking into the seat and desperately trying to cover her body with her arms. She prayed her momma could see her from Heaven and would keep her safe, but the only reply she heard was her father’s words wailing like a siren in her head: Ain’t no Good Lord in any version of any world that’s gonna protect you, you fucking thief.

Bubba had continued talking, but Mary tuned him out and tuned into the waxing and waving of the windshield wipers as they struggled against endless sheets of bulleting rain. A different twitch had replaced her usual one. A nagging sensation, not unlike the way the make-believe bugs crawled around under her skin. One that drew her neck to the left, toward the door to the box. She let her eyes drift over her shoulder and glare through the glass, where that blood-stain of a face stared back. There was something good back there. Her bones, blood, skin, knew it. She just had to find it.

Bubba tried to grab her as she stood up again but she jerked her arm from his grasp. Mary didn’t want to hear his demands; to stop, to sit the fuck down, to obey. She kept walking, legs instinctively drawing her to the gurney.

Red lights broke through the rain further down the road; Motel, clean, rooms free, the sign read. Bubba clapped and cheered to himself as he pressed harder on the pedal and veered toward the parking lot. He checked the parking lot for cars—none—and let the engine run while in park.

“Come the fuck on!” He yelled to Mary with no response. He watched her open the back doors to the box and roll the gurney out into the storm. It teetered out of the parking lot, caught in a draft of rain water, and eventually dumped into the woods. He didn’t wait for her.

With his gun in hand, Bubba pulled his jacket over his head and went into the main office. Mary found a latch on the floor, grunting and shaking as she unveiled the hidden compartment. She pulled out the medical cooler inside and stared at it. Two gunshots, muffled by the layers of wall and the sound of the rain, jolted her back to the moment.

She looked over her shoulder. A hooded man looked back at her, tattoos beyond Mary’s comprehension swirling on his face and showing dark, evil things and acts that made her want to retch. The blood-stain face on the wall twisted the same way, some disembodied continuation of the images on the man’s face.

She pulled her revolver and aimed at the figure. He said nothing, only turning toward the storm and slowly wandering deeper within its violent fold. But the blood-stain face continued its pulsating disassembly and reassembly.

Mary looked back down to the cooler and opened it. Inside sat a black marker and an old clamshell cell phone. Its sudden vibrations were as violent as the torrent outside. Her momma’s name flashed on the small, electronic view port, and the blood-stain face spoke.

“Don’t you want to answer?” It teased, “I can give you it. Make it real. Take it. Speak to her. I can give you it. But you must do one thing. A simple thing. For me.”

The seizing in her muscles stopped. She calmed. She looked between the face, the marker, and the phone.

“Just draw. That’s all—just that. Take the pen, and on your face, we may sign the contract between us. You get your mom; I can give you it. As promised. Just draw upon your face.” The space around the marker throbbed and twisted like rays of heat off an asphalt road. “I can give you your mother back.”

Mary looked to the face and when she looked back, her mother held her hands, and the two danced gleefully, wholly, together, once again.

Bubba tapped the barrel of his pistol against his temple in a panic, looking at the body of the elderly man he had just shot in a struggle. “Fuck!” He grunted through barred teeth. He pushed open the door to the parking lot and tucked himself under his jacket.

Mary stepped out from the ambulance, black marker in hand and drawings of a little girl dancing with a woman; an old dog snuggled on a lap; all the things she held dear, spread across her face.

“Hey—what the fuck—” Bubba began. A bullet cut sharper than his words would have, and his blood met the river of rain water pouring from the building’s gutters just before his body met the parking lot. Mary lowered the gun, looking on absently at the carnage of this blessed evening.