The Trunk - Pt. 1

With this story, I'd like you, the reader, to tell me how it should end. One providing the best one will be acknowledged as co-writer. No sexual themes, profanity, or gross violence please. Please send submissions to: patrickbp@boydcomputersvcs.com . Thank You.

 

She opened her eyes to find herself sitting up. Looking around, she realized she was in a car. It was an old car, with that musty smell of dust, oil and age. She was in the driver's seat. The steering wheel was huge, with three spokes and wood grain around the rim. The dashboard was gray and spacious. There was an old radio set in the dashboard. No cassette, no 8-track (thank God), but alas, no CD player. The windows were dusty, the windshield streaked from the corroded wiper blades.

Where was she? She rolled down the side window and looked out. A ribbon of highway stretched from left to right to infinity. The air didn't move, it was a dry heat. It was hot, and it almost choked her. She looked to her right and saw a building in the near distance. It was a gas station. Abandoned and closed up years ago. The islands where the gas pumps should have stood was bare. An old “Burma Shave” hung by one chain, a lop-sided call to close shaves. She noticed a tire rack, with old, dilapidated tires sitting askew. The heat shimmered off of them.

The car was reasonably neat. No trash lay anywhere she could see. The keys were in the ignition. There was a soft ticking noise she didn't recognize, until she did. The engine was cooling, so she must have stopped here moments before. But, she didn't remember a thing.

The gas gauge read one-quarter full, so she realized she didn't stop here for gas. She removed the keys from the ignition. It was a set of keys of different shapes and sizes, most of which she didn't recognize.

She pushed the big door outward and got out. She looked down to see she was wearing: a striped blouse, with jeans and red sneakers. A big leather belt held everything together.

She wiped her brow, and felt the sweat on her arms. Man, it was hot today. Then she noticed something else, a smell she had never smelled before. It was ramcid, and it brought nausea to her throat. What was that? She stumbled away from the car and turned.

She was driving an old 1967 Buick Wildcat. It was a two-door model with a huge trunk. The tires were whitewalls and it was a primer gray. The long, sleek lines of the car didn't interest her. She wasn't a car girl, but yet, she was driving this old classic. Its back window flowed down to the trunk and ended with big taillights, dual mufflers under the rear bumper. It's rear wheels were half-covered by the fender, giving it an elegant look.

As she approached the rear of the vehicle, that smell was getting stronger. She jiggled the key ring, thinking. She was going to have to check the trunk, but she was filled with trepidation. But, she steeled herself and inserted the key.

The lock turned haltingly as if it were rusted. Then the trunk sprang open. The horrible smell smashed into her like a fist, pushing her back a few steps. It forced her eyes closed with the stench of decay. Rotten eggs? Vegetation? She opened her eyes and screamed.

There was a body in the trunk. It was obviously dead. Her artistic mind recorded the dead man's black suit, the plaid red vest and the dark blue tie with a white shirt before she slammed the trunk lid down. She felt the bile in her throat as she tried to shake away the gruesome image of the dead bloated face from her mind.

Who was this man? Where did he come from? Why was he dead? In my trunk?

She thought maybe she should go to the police. But, what if she killed him? Was it self-defense? Was it murder? She didn't know, but she didn't recognize the face she'd seen. But, suddenly she was afraid. Maybe someone was trying to frame her. She wondered how she will sound if the police questioned her. Her lack of knowing how she got to where she was would raise their eyebrows and cast suspicion. What should she do? She didn't even know if the car was hers.

Wanting to get out of this Twilight Zone-ish space, she got back in the car and started it. The engine turned over with a roar, the rumble of the exhaust burbling and vibrating everything. She put it in Drive and started down the abandoned road.

She was in a desert somewhere, she knew. There were cacti along the road, among the rocks. The hills sprouted a quarter mile away. She pushed the car up to 60 and kept on the gas. She knew it wasn't economical, and that she would need to stop for gas after some time. She was hoping to make it to the next town.

In the haze behind her, she saw a shadow appear over the rise she had just passed. It's lights were flashing, alternating between blue and red. It was a police car, with its sirens on, but no sound. It approached her car very quickly. She pulled over slightly to let him or her pass, but the car slowed behind her and followed her. She realized it was stopping her.

She pulled to a stop, turned the car off and waited. She didn't know if she had a license or registration of the car. She didn't even know if she had insurance. She couldn't remember.

The police car opened, and a booted foot came out and landed solidly on the ground. The car's weight shook as the burly police officer got out of his vehicle. His door closed. She could see his legs and feet in the side mirror. She didn't glance back, afraid.

The officer waited a moment, then began walking toward her car. She heard his boots crunch and kick the small stones that lay on the shoulder. He moved steadily at an amble. Finally, she heard him stop just behind her driver door, as police were trained to do. He leaned forward, his bulk shadowing the sun for a moment.

“May I see your license and registration, please?” He asked politely. She turned to face him. Despite the hat and the mirrored glasses, she recognized him as the man in her trunk.