Good afternoon.
If you’re new here, this is Sleep Tight, the section of Kindling where I publish original short fiction. This one is a couple of years in the making. I submitted it to all the places, and they said no, so today, I bring you Flat Tire, Over—my first science fiction story.
It’s strange how stories come about, how they originate in truth and grow into a myth. I think it’s how humans capture the strange chaos of the world. We order it into narrative and make meaning where there might be none.
I say all that to tell you that Bob is based on a real person of the same name. He was a friend of my dad’s. I’ve never met him. He exists only in stories to me, but his story was tragic enough to have burrowed its way in deep in my memory. One day while driving I thought of him, and the words you are about to read popped into my head. Most of this is fiction, but the seed of it is the truth.
When I read it now, I have a hard time telling the difference. Earlier this year I talked with my dad and confused real details with what I’d written. And so it goes.
Fiction is the truth inside the lie.
—Stephen King
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
It was a hot one and not even twelve. Blazing strips of light rippled across torn beige upholstery. The boxy Civic was still trucking, well out of the eighties and into the nineties, just like Bob. He patted the empty passenger seat affectionately, then leaned out the driver's side window and gave a whoop. His voice caught in the wind and blew past. He imagined it floating above the white strips dividing the old desert highway lanes. Forever hollering to the dirt and sage brush of southern Colorado.
The road was empty. It was like that most of the time, and always at midday, especially once he got off the main drag and hit the old road back to his place. To nowhere. At least nowhere as far as truck routes and tourist destinations were concerned. For him it was everything. Necessity. Survival. Not even close to paradise, but salvation hardly ever was. And after all, that was the problem. Too many people running after comfort. Refusing to do what it took to live. To make it.
A horn blew behind him and Bob switched to the right lane. Let a black Ford truck blow past at a million miles an hour. A young guy, maybe seventeen, rolled the window down and held out his clubbed fist, a middle finger elongated as his hand wobbled in the wind. He yelled out what Bob knew was a Fuck You, but it swept past just like his earlier whoop, a ghost sound on worn out highway.
Bob laughed. Couldn't help but remember himself at that age. Full of the energy of a young male lion looking to take over the pride. Looking to take on any old guy who would barter his place in line. If he won he could stay put and take the females for himself.
"Do something 'bout it!"
His old man's voice rang in his ears. That echo from the past that had pushed him out on his own as a fledgling and into the big bad world of Chicago. Then New York. Eventually Los Angeles where he had his first son. His only son.
There was a dull, low wave of radio static. Bob had let it run in the background since leaving town and forgot that it was on. A piercing pitch wailed over the speakers and made him jump and swerve a little. He went right first into a patch of sand on the shoulder, then hit the breaks too hard. The tires thumped against asphalt and started to slide. He let off and yanked the wheel left, but he was too jumpy. The little Civic started to fishtail.
Bob was a good driver. He hadn't been in any accidents. Had faced big city traffic in L.A. and San Fran. Had driven mountain passes in dead winter. Crossed the country half a dozen times in cars with bad ignition switches and brakes that were down to metal. He had never overcorrected this way. Not even in pools of water that sent other cars hydroplaning, careening off roads and bridges.
"Today is not your day."
It was his old man's voice again. It came over the radio loud and clear, just in time for him to turn the wheel right, a last attempt to even it out, cool this ride down. That was the move that sent him spinning. Did the tires squeal like in the big action movies? In the hours that followed he would remember that they did. But memory is near totally unreliable, even more so in traumatic situations.
"The brain fills in the gaps for you."
His therapist had told him that. To account for his hyperthymesia. He had found it on the internet. Brought it to her to help her help him. It meant that he remembered every detail of everyday of his life. His therapist called his self-diagnosis grandiose thinking.
"There's nothing to fill in. I can remember all of it."
She didn't look at him when he said it. Her hand worked the pen in erratic strokes, and she focused her energy there. She tore a sheet from a pad and handed it to him.
"What is it?"
"A prescription. To help with the thoughts."
The car didn't slam into anything but clouds of dust. Small rocks peppered the windows and doors and the world went swirling beige before the car stopped and came to a halt, bumping over grasses and sagebrush. His foot was flush with the floor when the car finally slowed to a stop. The Civic heaved forward, tipped off the back wheels for a second, then sat down hard. Bob grabbed at his chest. His heart hurt, thumped wildly against his rib cage. The radio static rolled on like ocean waves, rising with the murmur of distant voices, then puttering out to near silence.
The dust was starting to settle. Bob could see pock marks on the hood and spider webs in the windshield. He breathed out and unbuckled. His hands shook when he went for the seatbelt, his thumb hovering then dodging the square metal, three, then four times before he unclipped. He opened the door. Misty dust inhaled into the car, then settled on the upholstery, blending in to more of the same gray brown.
Bob waved his hand in front of his face when he stood up, fanning dust particles away from his nose and mouth. He could taste it, the blonde Colorado dirt. It burned his eyes. He closed them for a few, pointed his face to the sun and stared through reddened lids. When he opened them the dust cloud was gone.
He was facing the road, empty ten or fifteen feet beyond. The front of the civic was pointed towards desert, unending film rolls of sagebrush and cactus. He looked like a guy about to make a run for it, a bank robber from the Old West come to life in modern times. He laughed a little, and felt the shaking in his hands steady.
He was alright. He glanced at the car then, making short steps, bending into a squat to examine the damage here and there. The bottom was scraped up, a victim of sharp brush branches and yucca plant, but there was no permanent damage to speak of. Until he came to the passenger side. The back tire was flat, rim to the earth. That was the thumping he had heard when he first swerved. Probably the reason for the whole accident to begin with.
Bob squatted and touched the tire, searching idiotically for the hole, the nail that had led to the tire's demise and his near death experience on the road. What if it had been moments before when the truck tore past? What if his hatchback had swerved, been eaten up by the speeding black monstrosity carrying those boys to god knows where?
He breathed out and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw that his palm was resting on a giant tear in the tire wall. It wasn't a nail. The old thing had puffed out and blown to bits. He looked behind him towards the highway and saw waves of heat dancing skyward. He felt the hot sun on his back, and realized that it was his fault after all.
Not a rogue nail or screw in the Hank's Hardware parking lot back in town. Just his own idiotic procrastination, no, refusal to put new tires on when he should have. His sigh came out in a groan. He walked around to the hatchback and popped it open. Supplies from his morning run into town littered the trunk. Bob pushed aside boxes of canned goods, two cases of water, and a bag of batteries. A boxy cutout with a pull tab was underneath.
He pulled the strip of fabric, and the false floor lifted, revealing a bowl compartment for the spare. When he bought the car it had come with one. He remembered the owner had opened up every nook and cranny to show him exactly what he was getting. Even had him peer into the gas tank to see that he was an honest seller looking to offload a beater that had treated him right for years.
Bob had seen that tire twice. The day he bought it four years earlier, and the day he threw it in the old catchall shed on his property. He needed space for survival gear. In case he ever had to hit the road in a hurry.
There were batteries, triple A's, double A's, and 9 Volts, scattered like Halloween candy the day after. There were two flashlights, military grade. A half dozen MRE's, the new Army issue pizza variety, thrown on top of bundled paracord and stacks of chocolate bars. Boxes of matches. A Swiss army knife. A hunting knife. A plastic poncho. An emergency blanket. A First-Aid kit, the kind he used to take camping with his son. Iodine tablets. A transistor radio. A prescription of Penicillin, expired, but still useful in a crunch. A sewing kit, some fishing hooks and wire. And finally, the gun.
Sunlight hit it for the first time in years. It winked black and shining, a diamond of reflected light moving as his head turned to take it in. He had forgotten all about it. Everything in there in fact, but especially the handgun.
He gripped onto the hilt, the cold metal smooth in his hands. He let go of it and stepped back a pace. His hands rested on his hips, his head lowered in thought. He glanced back at the highway. No cars had passed since his run-in with the young bucks in the truck. It was high noon in near desert. Bob knew he had to get out of the sun. In the trunk, shoved into the back right corner, was a crumpled straw hat. He leaned in and grabbed it, felt the sunken hole where a tire should be outlined against his thin belly.
The image of the gun flashed in his mind when he felt metal against his hip. The thought of it made his skin crawl. He shot back up with the hat in his right hand, and punched into the center of the woven disc. The crown popped out like a magicians top hat.
"Wanna see a magic trick?" he said in Bug's Bunny voice.
"You learned that trick from me," said his old man.
He inhaled. The words had come through on the radio again, surrounded by peppered static and the ghost voices of crowds of others. He hadn't turned the car off.
"God damnit," he said, and marched to the driver's side, dropping the hat in the dirt as he went. He turned the keys and the engine went dead silent. He sat in the seat, his head leaned back and eyes shut. The heat was closing in man. Closing in for good. It wouldn't ease until evening, and at this time of year, dead center of July, that meant seven at the earliest. He needed a tow truck, true. But he needed shade while he waited.
He opened his eyes and stared out at the stunted brush. The succulents clinging to ground, adapted to high wind and zero rain. Sharp brush stuck out jagged and dry as bone. The sun was perched directly overhead. The light bore down. There wasn't a shadow in sight. He pulled out his phone. Zero bars. No Service was splashed across the right corner next to the grayed out squares.
"Jesus, man."
He stood up and went back to the trunk. There was a tarp and some paracord. He could make a shelter with that. Stay out of the direct sun while he waited for the heat to let up a little bit. He wasn't organized by nature. He kept stock of what he had and where he had it, a mental inventory that he spent minutes or hours checking over nearly everyday. Had quit his job to make prepping a full time venture.
"Some people invest in stocks. I'm investing in the end of the world."
All his eggs in this basket. Relationships sacrificed. His career, if you could call taxi driving a career, in the toilet. He wasn't the only one doing it. He learned from a few guys online. Serious ex-marines and green berets who lived off grid all over the country. All of them tuned in and sensing the reality that the sheeple couldn't see coming. So many would die because of their arrogance. Their misplaced confidence in the fragile system that had dulled their senses
One guy had taught him about food storage. The right five gallon buckets to buy. The importance of mylar bags in food preservation. Another emphasized learning hunting and trapping. Fishing if you lived near water, which this far south near the New Mexico border, he didn't. His place wasn't completely off grid either. He had some solar panels and a backup generator. Was building out cisterns and rain catchment systems. But the rain hadn't come for a few years. At least not enough to sustain regular showers and clothes washing. Of course he wouldn't worry about that when it was go time.
Really enjoyed this Shaina. Looking forward to the next chapter 👍🏼
Oh what an auspicious introduction to your central character and the world and time he has chosen to inhabit! I am so hooked!