This story is told in five chapters. Click ‘Next’ at the bottom to continue reading.
Chapter 1
Ansel Rademacher’s knuckles whiten on the leather steering wheel. “I killed her! I FUCKING KILLED her!” His voice slams against the windshield, filling the dark void of the empty sedan.
No wife beside him. And there never will be a smiling child in the back seat again.
Never.
“SHE’S FUCKING GONE!”
Tears of an ugly cry stream down his rough, scratchy face. He can smell the vodka, his vision blurs.
His black car races down the perimeter highway, the needle buried. For the first time he wishes for a large, noisy engine to occupy his racing mind. The car is too quiet to be going this fast.
“I WAS NEGLECTFUL! WILLFUL NEGLECT!” he screams, banging on the wheel, punctuating the syllables.
His phone buzzes. Work.
“AWW FUCK OFF!”
A red rim around his phone pulses quickly, indicating an upcoming crowd-sourced radar detector and he has got to pull it together.
Hard brake. Down to the limit.
Ansel rubs burning eyes, drags a sleeve across his face. It’s the fourth ring already.
“Hi Marvin,” he says. “What’s up?” His breath hitches and he tries to keep his voice even.
“HR approved your leave,” Marvin Goodfellow says, a friend and confidant sharing a Robotics Engineering path. Carefully, he ventures “You know, it wasn’t your fault. No matter what Miriam says.”
Ansel’s head shakes, his eyes closed, the man he had been only weeks ago a fading dream.
Yes it was.
Ansel’s breath shudders, the hybrid humming like a ghost.
“Thanks Marvin. Don’t be paranoid, you android.”
Silence fills the void while Marvin thinks, weighing his words. The police ruled the death an accident. But that doesn’t make the loss any less.
Ansel wipes his eyes, slows to turn a corner and realizes he’s riding the middle line.
Thank god there are no cars.
He slowly pulls himself into his lane. It’s just a straight shot now. It isn’t until now that he realizes where he is heading.
“You call that therapist yet?” asks Marvin.
“Yeah.” No.
“Just…think about it, alright? It’s really too bad about Miriam. God, I feel for you man. This situation just sucks.”
His eyes start a fresh leak from the genuine compassion, and his chest silently heaves with sobs.
Though the tone of his voice stays measured.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
The vodka wears off and grief creeps back in. He grips the thermos, takes a swig. The Grey Goose goes down smooth, tasting like oranges. A small part of him can’t believe how quickly his life has vanished into the abyss.
“Up for a round of Call of Duty later?”
“Probably not. I’ll be off grid in two hours.”
“Larkwood Lane?”
“Yeah. Winterizing. I’ll call when I’m back in town. Thanks.”
“Anytime, Ansel.”
The call drops. Minutes later another rings in with the caller ID showing ‘Miriam’.
“Ohhh…you…fucking…”
He feels his pulse in his eyelids. He exhales slow and accepts the call.
“Hey.”
“Just so you know,” she says. Her gentle voice—he had fallen in love with her voice. He had made vows, had a child, felt whispers of love between silky sheets with this voice.
But that was a ghost story now, and she the ghost.
“I’ve paid half the mortgage. You’re on the hook for the line of credit, credit cards, and the car.”
“What? I’m sorr…what? You were taking a week to pack—are you talking to a lawyer? Why am I paying—”
“You make twice what I do. My lawyer says it’s fair. Just letting you know how that meeting went. Better get a lawyer if you haven’t already. Byeee.”
The call ends.
He stares at the highway sign.
Three kilometers to a turn-off.
But his mind—his mind is far beyond that.
He pulls over, tires crunch in the sand and salt on the shoulder. It begins to snow hard ice crystals that tap at the windows like a thousand knives coming to stab him.
Her verbal onslaught disorients his mind, and right now he just wants to sit. Trying to drive would be dangerous.
He needs, he needs…
Until the call, she had blamed him and dangled divorce over him. Now, the blade has fallen.
He doesn’t know what he needs. A child? Gone. A wife? Nope. That’s gone too apparently.
Don’t know? Have a drink.
The sweet, strong orange lubricates his clanging mind. He sets the thermos down in the cup holder, his hand on the top, holding it down.
11:11 AM.
He blinks.
The clock has changed, but his gaze on the clock hasn’t.
5:24 PM.
His stomach knots and his breath surges, doing 190 clicks on the perimeter again. His hand is extremely sore and his back aches. There’s no alcohol in him anymore, and his body feels strange. It’s been weeks since he was lucid.
What? What just happened? It was 11:11. Easy to remember. The day is gone?
Panic gives him an electrical shiver that won’t shake. A tone sounds in his head, almost like tinnitus, but centered, not in the ears.
The heated steering wheel was off, cold against his imploring fingers. Snow has collected on the hood, a small square of a melted warm spot and a single set of bird tracks cross the hood.
“Jesus Christ. What just happened?”
His eyes dart left, right, to the dash.
Miriam. I was going to call Miriam. Wasn’t I? Or did she call me?
He closes his eyes, trying to draw the shape of the memory. His mind is clear, empty almost. Clearer than it’s been in a while. He shakes his head slowly.
There. Something flickered.
Not a voice.
A moment?
No.
A texture.
Char. Smoke.
Something…burned. Into wood maybe? Or something written that looked burned? Calligraphy? No, not flowing like that. Sharper. Some kind of ancient Germanic script. Nordic?
The twang of déjà vu oscillates his mind, but ethereal fingers still the string and the almost-moment is gone into the same abyss as the last six hours.
An engineer doesn’t just lose time.
His palms together, he surveys outside the car, trying to get a grip. Those bird tracks look almost like those of a meadowlark.
He checks the thermos. Ice still clinks inside.
His phone shows no calls, no texts.
The hybrid’s gas gauge, unchanged.
“Have I been anywhere or used my phone at all for the past six hours?” he asks the custom AI on his phone.
“You have been stationary with no activity,” it replies.
Jesus Christ on a stick. What just happened?
He shakes his aching wrist.
“Have I really been sitting here for six hours?”
He thinks his wrist has something to say about that. Spreading pain in his back adds more conviction. Pressure in his bladder confirms it.
A white Fiat streaked with brown trundles by, and the snow-blind horizon swallows it up.
“Christ,” he sighs, his breath hitches. He rubs his face, hard.
Get moving, asshole.
He signals, pulling onto the road. But his hands are sweaty, his pulse erratic. He doesn’t feel as crazy as he did this morning…but maybe a different crazy now.
He’s about to dictate a robotics podcast but instead, he hits the brakes to a hard stop.
His eyes land on the Yeti thermos and he sighs.
“You. Are the temptation of a siren.”
The casing is the same temperature as the cabin, but the clinking inside reminds him something an engineering professor said; design is intention.
And what is my intention? What life am I designing out from here?
Thermos is a good brand, but not worth this.
The passenger window hums down. The thermos dangles in his grip.
“I never should have started in the first place. What was I thinking?”
With a flick of the wrist, he sends it flying.
The snowbank didn’t flinch. It just absorbed.
Without resistance, without echo.
Like it had been waiting.