Underpass

The engine roared as he turned the key that rested in the ignition of his 2003 green Subaru. Before backing out of his driveway he adjusted the fedora on his head to fit accordingly. As he maneuvered his way into traffic, he could hear the light scratching and pounding from the man inside the trunk. He was too experienced to let a sense of worry overtake him.  

Knowing that it was just a matter of time before it stopped, there was no room for panic. The thought briefly entered his mind to pull over and put him out of his misery. It bothered him that he let the man suffer, that was never his intention. In fact, this had never happened to him before, and it became clear that he would have to be more careful the next time around.

After reaching a stop light, he turned his body around with his safety belt still buckled and tossed the towel covering his arsenal of tools aside, deciding which to use for the next victim. In his mind he had already made the decision and covered them back up with the towel. The blue Oldsmobile that was behind him in line honked their horn at him for taking his time at the light. He waved his hand out the window with his middle finger stuck proudly in the air before slamming on the gas, screeching away.

He made a left turn and drove towards a bridge underpass. The gravel popped beneath his tires as he crept forward and eventually came to a stop. After turning the car off, he left the power on and turned to the local oldies station. Rock On by David Essex was playing when he noticed that the struggle in the back of his vehicle had come to an end, so he unlatched the seatbelt before rising from the seat. After pulling the trunk button, he walked over to check on the state of the man inside. Upon opening it, he saw that the drifter was no longer breathing and immediately slammed his coffin closed.

The green underpass was breathtaking in its own way. The desolate area was very peaceful, almost serene in nature. He gazed at the sign up above that condemned any vehicle over fourteen feet, six inches.

In the distance he saw another man picking up bottles and cans and dumping them into a shopping cart. With a devious smile painted on his face, he gripped the back door handle and again fiddled with the tools of his trade. He reached for the pickaxe and placed it behind his back, resting in the back of his jeans and up his shirt.

He was careful in his motion, stepping with light grace as he made the man’s acquaintance during his search of the items he’d return for a nickel a piece. He shouted to him to get his attention once within ear shot.

“Hey! I got a whole bag of cans here if you want ‘em!”

The homeless man strolled over to him while pushing the shopping cart.

“Come on, leave the cart there! It’s a bag, you can carry it!”

Leaning against the car, awaiting the homeless man’s arrival, he nodded his head along to the sounds of One Toke Over The Line.

“You like this song, bud?” he asked as the can collector finally greeted his presence.

“Never heard it.”

“What? You can’t possibly be serious. Well, now you have. Come here, the cans are in the trunk, I’ll pop it now so you can grab them.”

As the sounds of the music blared throughout the open area, the homeless man did not verbally acknowledge his instruction, but instinctively waited for the trunk to thrust open. Once it did, he let out a gasp and stepped backwards and received a blow to the back by the man wielding the pickaxe. He dropped to his knees and the man swung back again, this time with the force of a professional ball player. The axe stuck in his back to a point where he had to lay him down on the rocky road below and step an inch or two from his wound and rip it back to remove it.

He was gargling blood, spitting up, trying to crawl away from the scene. He only made it to the front end of the car before losing his battle with the inevitable. His last words were why, in which the killer replied, “Because I had to.”

He bent down to check his pulse and it was confirmed that he was dead. Without hesitation, he lifted him up and placed him next to the man that he would ultimately spend eternity with. After slamming the hood shut, he again opened the back door but this time he fetched a new shirt to change into after the one he had on was plastered with blood stains. The chilling breeze forced him to grab his sports jacket that he hadn’t worn in months. He tossed the old one into the river that was a few feet away from the underpass and drove off, trembling.

For reasons that were unclear to him, this one really unnerved him. Perhaps it was the idea that he led an innocent man to his death with a promise of financial gain, no matter how minuscule it may have been. He was back on the open road and pulled into a gas station that was less than a mile, give or take, from the murder scene.

In order to settle himself down some, he went into shop and asked for a pack of Newport 100’s, but when the cashier asked for his ID he realized that he had left it resting in his glove compartment. The glass door swung open as he exited the store and walked to the car. A woman passed him by and dropped her lighter as she going through her purse for what he assumed to be her cell phone.

He waited for her to pull out of the lot before stepping over to the dropped Zippo. Picking it up and examining it closely, he read the initials ‘SCBH.’

“What kind of inscription is this?” he asked, under his breath. He placed it in his pocket and retrieved the ID card. As he stepped back into the store and handed the cashier the card, the worker looked at him and chuckled.

“Your name is David Ducketts? What kind of name is that?”

A disgruntled look came over his face and he snatched the card from his fingers. David placed a twenty dollar bill on the counter and said to keep the change before storming out of the establishment. Night fall came quick in what seemed to be a slow paced afternoon. The street lights turned on as soon as he turned into oncoming traffic yet again.

He lit a cigarette and drove onward, eventually coming across a man with his thumb sticking out, begging for a lift. Before stopping aside him, he chucked the butt out the window.

The driver pressed down on the button to roll the window down and speak to him. He was bearded, looked like a drifter, and would be an ideal candidate for his third victim of the night.

“Where ya headed?”

“Wherever you wanna take me, I’ve been walking since last night without rest.”