The Ash Projekt

[Destined]

The Ash Projekt

Gray snow drifts and demolished vehicles line the ice covered highway as if in a line to take part in a grand feast.

There is no banquet, only more snow and winding roads.

Mile markers stack upon miles as states and border crossing signs vanish into the awaiting grips of Mother Nature.

I subconsciously reach down to turn on the radio, but my hand hovers above the knob, realize that I’ve not turned it off in ten days. Ten days, ten days worth of static bleeding from the speakers…it seems like yesterday the world of Billings Montana was digging themselves out of another three feet of storm front, I was beginning my seminar on the Industrial Revolutions impact on the world economy...but that was two weeks ago.

Yesterdays no longer exist. Live here in the now. You don’t even know if you will wake up able to survive tomorrow while ever second wasted marks the end of another dream.

Through the blinding snow I can make out the faint outline of a once green road sign. The exit number is illegible, shrouded in snow while situated beneath two spray painted orange crosses is situated the most beautiful image I’ve seen all afternoon:

Gasoline Next Right.

Just past the sign, a small pinprick of red fire begins to form which only intensives as I drive closer. The fire soon becomes not one enormous bonfire, but a dozen or more pair of brake lights. I release a sigh; it’s the first sign of working vehicles in days. My SUV begins to slow as the traffic grows before me. I steal a precious glance down inside my inner right jacket pocket, where a black revolver snoozes. I glance up, seeing no movement from the procession, examine the gun’s chamber:

Seven bullets.
Seven divine revelations….ironic.

The wind picks up as the line of vehicles slowly crawl forward. How did it come to this? Some said it was karma, others said it was only a matter of time; either way we’ve been changed forever with no going back, no mulligan.

Ten minutes pass by slowly as if even clocks have given up caring what happens to themselves or us. Down the off ramp my SUV travels, as a blinding flashes reflect off my side mirrors from behind me. I gauge their speed as my hands instinctively tighten on the wheel; my booted foot pushing the brake pedal further into the subflooring, any outcome is going to be grim.

The first car speeds past the exit before slamming on its breaks and begins to try and slide toward the exit while the car behind it either wasn’t paying any attention or had a death wish, plowed into the side of the first car sending both cars careening down the embankment at well over a sane mans speed. I gulp as the cars spin down the embankment and pass my fortress, the van three cars ahead is not so lucky as it is side swiped, yet the extra collision doesn’t sent any cushion as the two cars plow through our lane. The first car crashes into the cement barrier first, choking out fumes and liquid as the second car pays no attention to the barrier, and slams through. Shattering the frozen pond below.

No one moves. The van struggles to start as I see the driver side mirror laced with glass spider webs and a body hunched over the steering wheel. The passengers inside seem to be not crying, but arguing. A shiver runs down my spine as the driver’s door blasts open and the body of a woman tumbles out.

No one rushes from their cars to see if she is all right, 911 isn’t dialed as the van flashes to life and returns to its original spot. Darwin was right, survival of the fittest.

What has happened to our society? Have ten days truly removed every ounce of compassion from out souls? No…not all of us, I remind myself as I adjust the rear view mirror toward the bundle or blankets and towels huddled in the backseat. To anyone driving by, it would appear to be a heap of possessions, but it’s something more.

To anyone that would ask, I’m not sure how to explain how our paths crossed three days ago, but a hidden ounce of compassion in my cold heart decided at that moment to protect her.

Judge
Jury
Executioner
Savior
Mortal

A small gas station grows in the distance, shining like El Dorado for the miniscule and the unworthy. Will the fates grant their precious gifts upon the poor and weak? I can’t answer that until I stand before the metallic alter to plead my soul.

Mecca calls to its followers with glowing neon orbs of hope blinking toward the heavens in a failed attempt to contact reality.

Three cars.
Nine vans.
One cargo truck.

This is what stands between me and life. The fates will either allow me to continue onwards, or solidify our names in Satan’s getaway retreat for all eternity.

A lone statue stands on the right side of the crowded road, as if my magic it awakens and throws off its cloak of snow as each car pulls up along side of it and produces a calculator.

Damn. This is going to be all or nothing. I’m beginning to sweat as the fates above or below begin to roll their dice and place their bets. Minutes continue to slowly die away as my turn on the chopping block rolls around. The snow man ritually creaks to life, slower now as if the constant snow has wormed its way into his joints and gears. I lower the passenger side window, granting access for the biting winds to terrorize my sanctuary, the blankets quake silently, I want this over quickly.

The man peers through the window hesitantly, I don’t blame him, a vehicle this size could be chalk full of problems. A great crater rips along his thick beard, revealing raggedy canyons of teeth. “You aiming for trouble?”

“No sir, heading anywhere I can.”

The wind begins to waltz with the edges of his coat. “Alone?”

“Less baggage the better.” I lie. I don’t draw attention to the backseat. My answers seem to please the snow man.

“We aren’t the charity kind, most folks around here have all ready seen to that, what have you got to trade?”

Slowly, even slower than the setting moon, I pull open the left side of my jacket, revealing the handle of a brushed steel Beretta.

The gun seems to freeze the man, who begins to slowly lower his own hand towards his back.

“It’s empty; the clip is resting on the passenger seat. All I ask is a tank and I’ll be gone.”

The suspicion is bleeding off the gatekeeper. “That thing been used?”

I lower my eyes, he’s trying to judge my character, see if I’m the murderous kind. “My brother in law was a cop in Boulder…it’s seen its share.”

Boulder. The simple word freezes the man, connecting with memories of pain and anger. Sad that it is a lie, I have no brother in law. Stiffly he stands up, causing a minor avalanche to cascade down his back. He nods his head, taking the pistol and clip from me and motions us through.

My pulse settles as I creep toward a prophetic pump as I hear that man tell the car behind me that they are out of gas.

Satan, I’m standing you up.

My gaze shifts to the backseat as a pair of questioning eyes stare back silently. I shake my head and readjust the sleeping revolver in my right jacket pocket. “Just filling up. I’ll see if I can get us some food as well. We’ll be gone in no more than ten minutes, I promise.”

The eyes say nothing as they vanish back within their dark cavern.

How did it come to this?

[Takushi Rena]

Wow. That is quite the excellent story you have there. This is very intriguing and just this chapter alone has me hooked and seriously wanting to read more.

The only criticism I can really offer [though i'm not quite sure if it's criticism at all...] has to do with the part where all of the cars were colliding. It felt very sluggish and seemed like it should've been faster; shorter, swifter words seemed like they'd fit in more there.

Otherwise, this is absolutely brilliant! It's well written, enigmatic, and I seriously can't wait to find out what happens next.

[Destined]

Eight minutes tick by as I hand pump gasoline into the thirsty steed. The biting cold inevitably calls me into the small gas station. I lock the SUV as I push open the bullet riddled station door.

It’s as though Ellis Island teleported to Eugene Oregon. All around me, emigrants and immigrants alike wonder the isles of food as though an everyday luxury is a trap waiting to sell them out. The television is a blurred mess, an old analog receiver that survived the Great Digital Purge of 2008 dangles from the corner above the cash register. Images criss-cross the screen, yet are always covered in layers of delusional static.

Behind the Frankenstein creation stands a sheet of plywood covering a shattered window, thumbtacks and index cards announcing obituaries, family members listed as missing and a stenciled outline of the States, seventy percent of which is cloaked beneath a charcoal ash colored stencil.

Red X’s mark above the graves of Denver, Cheyenne, Salt Lake City, Billings, Boise, Reno.

The ounce of warmth that kept me strong dissolved into an empty cage floating in a suspended imagination.

Billings.

My childhood, my family, memories; gone. Images I couldn’t recall from the last twenty three years slowly unfolded across my mind as if they are heading to the gallows.

A gruff voice weasels its way through the procession, dragging my numb mentality back to the now. The hard emotionless voice of the clerk roars again as his eyes dig into my soul. “I’ll say again: do you have any information to pass on?”

I shook my head, loosening the cobwebs as a single word claws its way from my heart. “Billings.”
He mumbles something to himself before moving on to another patron. My world slowly begins to crack as people swarm around me, buffeting my fragile ship out to sea as they stretch to reach a last lifeboat. I reach my left arm out and take a hold of a bag of pretzels and beef jerky; suicidal martyrs always ready to sacrifice themselves for the greater good.

Another clerk sees me and thrusts out his hand, barking out unintelligent demands. I pass him a few bills without waiting for change, I exit the Alamo.

It’s odd to picture the landscape a lifeless snow covered hollow paradise. Skiers should be standing at the bus stops preparing to shred the latest powder, not huddled inside of a gas station waiting for deliverance.

Gray snow begins to cover my blood stained overcoat as I struggle through the parking lot, one hand is wrapped around my revolver as the other encompasses the feast. No one is laying in wait. Everyone is only interested in their own problems, fine by me.

I reach the back passenger door and pretend to adjust to get my keys from a Levi abyss as I lightly knock on the door five times. The bundle inside turns ever so minutely as a slender hand snakes its way amongst the canyon of blankets to the driver side door release.

I open the door as the hand returned into the shadows, the car keys resting on the passenger seat. I pick up the keys, recalling the smell of pot roast slowly browning while autumn leaves cascaded toward the monochrome ground. Travelling along the outskirts of Pictograph Caves State Park, basking in the beautifully powerful mysteries of Nature.

Home…

A slight tug pulled me back to the cloth upholstered driver’s seat. I look down to see a battered cell phone screen is glowing emerald green, preparing to speak its mind.

Everything ok?

I nod, handing the cell phone back. “Just thinking of what to do now.”

The car cranks to life as the dead snow bleeds away from the windshield as a clattering of buttons can be heard echoing inside the sanctuary.

The phone reappears as I pull out of the stall, allowing safe passage for the next weary traveler.

Did they know anything?

“Everyone is scared. Denver and Salt Lake are gone; the ash cloud is spreading past the Mississippi. Mexico has closed its border and Canada is under Martial Law. They say that other countries are sending aid while others are preparing to invade. It looks bad no matter where we sit.”

Will we be ok?

The rhythmic orchestration of the windshield wipers beats away the seconds it takes for me to respond. “I promised I would get you to Seattle, back to your parents.”

The texts stop as Interstate Five unfolds before us as the ash continues to fall, blanketing the Western United States in a death shroud.

Salem 67 miles
Portland 112 miles
Seattle 286 miles

[Ban Mido]

Man,I need to make more time to read your stuff, man. Great work.

[Lectori Salutem]

Amazing!!! I Really like it !!!

It makes me remember a documentary film (or something like that) I saw some years ago, though...