Disappearance (6 page)

Ten miles to go. I've already reached my anticipated point of failure. Every mile from here on is icing on the cake. I look at the gas gauge and it points even farther left than what is considered empty. The red warning light is a reminder of anxious times from years past.

Five miles to go. I know it has to be any second now. It's been several years since I've run out of gas, but I know there isn't much time left. Five miles isn't too bad. That's only a couple hours of walking. "Come on Chevy, keep pushing. Just a few more miles." I think about how five more minutes of driving would save me three hours. Oh, how underappreciated cars truly are. I touch my hand to my forehead and notice I'm sweating. I'm actually sweating, I'm so anxious. My heartbeat feels like it's pounding through my chest. Regardless of what happens, I know this experience will take at least a couple months off my life from the stress.

One mile to go. I see the exit up ahead. Oh thank the Lord! How did this miracle ever happen? One mile of highway to go, and then maybe a couple more miles once I get off the highway. I'm looking at about an hour of walking time at the most. I start to get greedy now, thinking I'll make it all the way home. It's not just the walking; it's my car being stranded on the road that bothers me too. If I wake up tomorrow and everything is somehow back to normal, I don't want my car towed. Of all the things to be worried about, it even surprises me that this is toward the top of my list.

"Please Chevy, just a little farther."

As I approach the exit, I flick on my turn signal with force, indicating my excitement. The exit is a small downhill ramp, and I put my car in neutral trying to squeeze out every last ounce of gas I can by coasting down the hill. I gather speed as my car moves down the ramp. I can barely keep the car on the road at this speed, but I keep focus and see the grocery store I was at earlier up on the right. I kick my car back into drive, push down on the gas pedal, and drive a few more seconds before the inevitable happens. My car lets off a few spurts, choking to let me know it's using its last few ounces of gas. As it does, I turn off of the road and into the grocery store parking lot where it dies.

I let out a big sigh. OK, this didn't end up being as bad as I thought. I'm less than a couple miles from my house, and a little exercise never hurt anybody. I get out of my car and notice I've stopped in the middle of the lane, not actually inside a parking spot. As much as this shouldn't bother me, it does. I put it in neutral and try to push the car into a spot.

After a few hard pushes, it doesn't even budge. "What a pathetic little weakling I am!" I say, as I start huffing and puffing for air. If my car gets towed, I'll happily pay the $150 fine. Hell, at this point someone can take the damn car for all I care. I just want to go home and lie in my bed with beautiful Abby next to me. What I wouldn't give to caress her hair and give her a big kiss. The power can stay out forever as long as she's here with me. Some of my best memories with her are lying in bed with no TV, Internet, or any other distractions, and her and I just talk and laugh about nonsense things. Abby is the funniest girl I know and always finds a way to make me laugh.

I look in my car to see if there's anything that I want to take with me on the way back. I grab my coat and reach to shut the door until I realize something else I might need - my keys. Someone seeing keys in the ignition and stealing the car wouldn't bother me nearly as much as walking two miles home only to realize I don't have a house key.

As I make my walk home, it doesn't take long before I realize just how slow walking actually is compared to driving. After five minutes, when I normally would be all the way home by now, I look back and laugh as my car is still in full view. Maybe this is going to take longer than I thought.

Considering that I'm walking instead of driving, I think about my route home and whether or not there are any corners I can cut. After all, it's not like I have to walk on the road the entire time. I can cut through yards and make a straight path to my house if I need to. When I think about it though there aren't very many timesaving opportunities.

It's a funny feeling walking in the middle of a road that's usually lined with cars. I look around and see lots of little stores I never knew were here. There's a strip mall with a BBQ wings joint. I've never seen it before -- Is it new? I would love to eat some wings now. Thinking of food makes me realize how hungry I am. Because I normally have an early lunch, I have an early dinner on a normal day as well. If I hadn't already been walking for fifteen minutes and too lazy to go back, I might consider trying to break into the grocery store and grab some food. I daydream of my little Cavalier smashing through the grocery store's glass doors at top speed, doing no damage to the car or me. Now that would be fun!

I make a turn left onto a mile-long road that should make up the good portion of this trip. I don't know why, but coming onto this road inspires me to pick up the pace. I break out into a small jog, which feels stupid even attempting. I haven't run or done any formidable exercise since my sports days in high school. Fortunately, I'm blessed with a good metabolism so I stay skinny.

It only takes a few minutes before I start huffing and puffing, which I find quite pathetic. Even in my sports days I wasn't always in peak fitness, but I could run a couple miles without breaking a sweat. Now, I've just run a half-mile and can already feel that pain in the left side of my stomach. Why is it that you always feel that sharp pain on one side? It's as if your right and left abdomen are communicating amongst themselves to decide which one is going to hurt this time. This sharp pain makes me stop to catch my breath. I bend over and start to feel my lunch making its way to the back of my throat. All of this from just four minutes of running, it absolutely baffles me how anyone can run for four hours during a marathon. I bend over with my hands on my knees, something my coaches repeatedly told me not to do when you're tired. I never understood this theory either. I start dry heaving, but I don't end up losing my lunch. When I catch my breath, I continue walking home.

If there's anything that my little run has helped me with, it's that I'm not hungry anymore. I'm more motivated than ever to get home so I can lie on the couch and forget this awful day ever happened. Of course, it's not like I have a lot of bountiful food choices when I get home. It's hard to make anything delicious without a stove, oven, or even a microwave. Monday is supposed to be grocery night after I get off of work but today hasn't exactly been my normal routine. My luxurious food options when I get back will amount to cereal or a couple un-toasted Pop-Tarts. As stressful as today has been, I may give myself a little treat and have both.

As I continue walking I see I'm close to where I would make a right turn if I was in my car, but since I'm not, I can take my first shortcut through a couple neighbors' yards to save time.

Right as I'm about to do this though, I hear something. It isn't the small wind rustling the trees or the sound of birds chirping.

When I turn around, I see it far in the distance. It's making its way toward me down the road I just came from. At first, it looks like a cat but it's hard to tell being so far away. My limited knowledge of cats though knows they are more likely to run away from danger than instigate it. No, this isn't a cat. As it gets closer I see it's a dog -- a rottweiler. A very mean and angry rottweiler that's looking to make me its next meal.

Chapter 7

Judging the distance, I guess the dog is about three quarters of a mile away and closing in fast. Its ferocious barks make it sound like it is very angry with me and seeking punishment.

Unfortunately, I have two fears: a fear of heights, and a fear of being chased. While I sometimes run into my fear of heights when traveling, my fear of being chased rarely comes up. The last time was when some of my drunken college friends and I decided to go to a haunted maze. Everything was fine until Michael Myers came out and started chasing us with a fake chainsaw. Out of all of us, I was the only one who took off running and screaming like a little girl. I honest-to-God thought the guy had a real chainsaw until he got up next to me and didn't chop me in half. He was probably wondering if I was just messing with him; I wasn't. I've never seen my friends laugh so hard.

Now I have this insane dog running at me and my heart rate couldn't beat faster. It's amazing how life-threatening moments can instantaneously take you from very calm to energetic enough to lift a car. Adrenaline has an unbelievable storage system for moments like this.

I turn my head to look for something, anything that can keep me out of harm's way. I know I have absolutely no chance of outrunning this dog so I also look for some kind of weapon I can use. There's a tree next to me with a small stick by the trunk. The moment I pick up the stick I know it would do little good to protect me, so I throw it back to the ground. The tree next to me is impossible to climb -- no branches for at least ten feet. If I somehow had superhuman arm strength, I could wrap my arms around it and climb up, but even with my adrenaline pumping it's too difficult.

About fifty yards ahead is a house with a high fence. I'm not sure if I can climb it but I have no other choice. I look back at the dog, "Oh shit!" he's only a few hundred yards away. I only took my eyes off of him for a second, how is he this close already? His barks get louder and louder, and I've never seen a dog that looks this angry. I might as well call him Cujo.

Immediately, I sprint toward the fence. I have no clue how I'm going to climb it other than to jump, put my foot out, and hope for the best. Halfway to the fence, I look back and wish I hadn't. Cujo is right behind me, no more than a few seconds away. That precious second, I know, is going to cost me dearly. If he gets a hold of me he'll rip me to shreds in no time.

The fence is moments away. With its wooden edges at the top, it was probably designed this way so intruders like me don't try to climb over.

I take one final step and jump with both feet, reaching for the top of the fence and pulling my arms over. I wince as I feel my upper arm being gashed by one of the wooden spikes. With no time to waste, I pull my right leg over the fence. As I do, my left leg is exposed and Cujo jumps to attack. He makes one big chomp but misses. I can feel the hair and slobber from his mouth graze my ankle. I pull my left leg up over the fence and roll over the top landing hard on the other side. Cujo is screaming his fury only a couple feet from me, but there's nothing he can do now. The fence is too high for him to climb and it would take hours of scratching and digging to get through. It was clearly designed for dog owners. This realization makes me dart my head around searching for a dog in the backyard but there's none; I am safe. The fence surrounds the entire backyard and there's a door to get out, but considering I'm only a few feet from Cujo I don't see myself opening it any time soon.

"Shut up!" I shout at Cujo, who is still in a constant stream of barking. I feel like pulling myself up to the top of the fence to mock him at my escape, but I don't want to upset him any more than he already is. He might actually be capable of jumping over this fence as angry as he is.

I look down at my right arm, which is dripping with blood. It goes very well with my leg, which is also starting to bleed again. I press my shirt down over the wound to stop the bleeding. Once that's in place I investigate the surrounding area. The backyard is pretty typical compared to the other backyards I've seen in the area, very small with not much in them. This particular backyard has a small patio and shed where they most likely keep their lawn mower. I make my way over to the shed and much to my surprise it is unlocked. I open the door and, just as expected, see a small riding lawn mower. There's also a gas tank. I lift it up, "Sweet!" It's full! I look down to see how much gas this particular tank has. It's hard to read, but it appears to say five gallons, which is enough to fill up a little less than half of my empty Cavalier. I can only hope the gas is unleaded. If not, I'll get to blow myself up later.

Besides the mower and gas tank, all that's left in the shed is a shovel, an edge trimmer, and a retractable ladder. None of these are useful to me except for maybe the shovel. I suppose I should feel guilty taking the gas tank, after all, it is stealing. I should also be concerned my fingerprints are all over this place but I know first-hand from having stuff stolen from me that police officers don't act like they do on TV - they don't give a shit. Of the three times my car was broken into, they ran fingerprints exactly zero times. In fact, only once did a police officer even come to inspect the damages. The other two times they told me to fill out an online form stating what was stolen so that they could send it to the insurance company. I could have written down that my life's savings was stolen and they couldn't have cared less.

I'm making my way out of the shed, gas tank in hand, when I am met with a nice surprise - silence! I try looking through the cracks in the fence but the wood panels are too close together to see anything. I listen closely but don't hear any movement or breathing. I can't imagine Cujo has given up so quickly, especially considering the closest non-human food I've seen is a cat that's forty-five miles away, but I'm not sure how much Cujo likes Chinese food.

After listening for a few minutes, I decide I have to peek out to see if Cujo really is gone. I walk over to the fence door, pull down the latch, and swing the door open. I take a few cautious steps away from the door. Still seeing nothing, I look around the corner and gasp at what I see. Cujo is standing there on the road. He jerks his head up and his expression immediately turns to rage, running after me like he did before. I run to the door, which is still cracked open. Just as I get in and shut the door, I catch a glimpse of Cujo's evil eyes as his attempt to get me fails for the second time. The door automatically locks in place when I close it, and I am safe once again. Cujo continues barking his fury at me.