I remember it being a cold night for the Nevada desert. I was thundering down Highway 95 at over 100 miles per hour, hell-bent on reaching Las Vegas before the sun rose. My hotel room was waiting, and I was dead tired after the series of meetings I had been in the previous day. A bottle of fine, single malt liquid courage sat in the cup holder next to me, and I could already feel the buzz coming on. I was a sane person, district manager for a big Nevada corporation, but I understood the importance of making the hotel for the 11 AM meeting. My black BMW’s engine howled across the dark landscape as it tasted the high speeds. If I hadn’t been high on alcohol and raw adrenaline, the wailing may have spooked me.
The speed had just peaked at 108 MPH when I nodded off for a moment, jolting awake when the car started to swerve. I saw something in front of the car for just a split second. The brakes screamed as I slammed the pedal, and a loud thump jolted the BMW. The car went into a wild swerving that quickly became a God-awful roll. I was flung around the cabin like a goddamn white-trash trailer in a tornado. My head hit the dash at an extreme speed and darkness came over me.
I came to God-knows how long later, hanging upside down in the car. One headlight was still on, the only other light in the already full moon lit desert.
“Jesus, I hope the skinwalkers don’t see me,” I thought.
I reached around and unbuckled myself, falling straight on my head. After righting myself, I crawled out of the wrecked vehicle through the broken window. The scene was grim, to say the least. Steam poured from the underside of the hood, broken glass was everywhere, and the back fender was about 50 feet back toward the highway. I looked myself over and was briefly startled by a large wet spot across my torso. It was just the whiskey.
A terrifying coldness began to creep into my brain. What had I hit? I looked back to the highway, not sure what to expect. After five solid minutes of staring, thinking “Jesus, now I look like a skinwalker,” I walked back. The sight was bleak: 150 feet of tire marks and a large blood splatter. There was nothing but that. No body parts, no animal, nothing.
A fear gripped me as I began shaking widely. What the FUCK had I hit?! I began walking both sides of the highway in my search for something.
There it was. Christ. There it was. A barely recognizable smear of human remains dashed across 50 feet of highway. I emptied the contents of my stomach. God knows who the poor bastard was. A drifter, probably. But that didn’t matter. All that did was that I had just hit and killed him.
I walked back to the car and crawled back into the cabin to grab a few things. The pain in my head was immense, and I cursed myself for not remembering to buy aspirin in Reno. There was no doubt as to where I would end up if I went to the police: federal prison for years. So I came to a resolution.
I searched around for a few minutes until I found what I was looking for. The spare tank of gasoline that I kept in the trunk was lying near the road, and the matches were still in the glovebox. After taking the plates off, I grabbed what little I needed from the car and dumped the gas all over it, striking a match and setting it ablaze once my task was complete. It burned bright against the dark night as I turned to walk away.
With any luck, I’d be able to get into Las Vegas without too much trouble. I reeked of alcohol and was cut up pretty bad, making it obvious that something bad had happened. It was imperative that I avoid everyone until I could get to my hotel room and start to sort things out.
I was startled out of my thoughts by the appearance of headlights far in the distance, approaching fast. The plates weighed heavy in the duffle bag as I dove for cover, hiding behind a mesquite bush. The sound of the car thundered closer, the headlights starting to light up the terrain around me as I crouched down lower. Just when I was sure it was stopping, it roared by, heading for the site of the wreck. I watch it as it slowed down, then stopped by the still burning remains of my car. I hurried out of there, not keen on being around when the police showed up, but not before burying the plates under a bush. I kept walking.
I had to hide again a little while later when several Nevada Highway Patrol cars went by, an ambulance leading them as they roared down the highway, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Once they were out of sight, my God-awful stumble down the side of the highway continued. Somewhere in the distance, something howled, chilling me to the bone. What the fuck howled like that? I didn’t know, but I did know that the eerie shapes that punctuated the darkness were just the towering Saguaro cacti, their arms looking like scarecrows in the bleak desert.
Hopefully, at least, because I really couldn’t tell. Did Saguaro cacti grow this far north? I didn’t know.
Dawn came, slowly over the flat horizon of the desert. How far had I walked? Impossible to tell. The sun crept over the horizon, blinding me when I turned to face it. It’d be harder to hide now, but not impossible.
I realized that I’d have to find an alternate plan. Sun meant heat, and heat meant death for me. I had a water bottle in the bag, but nowhere near enough to get me through a scorching day in the Mojave Desert. My only option seemed to be to flag down a car.
The idea held no appeal, but it was all I could think of. I used part of the water bottle and a mirror from my bag to wash the blood off my face, and I changed into the other set of clothes. I buried the ones I had been wearing, hoping I was far enough away for a police dog to lose the scent.
My path changed from the shoulder to the side of the highway as I walked on, hoping a car would come by. Of course, I’m sure I looked like some kind of crazed ax murderer hitchhiker, but obviously, that was the least of my concerns at the time. A glance over my shoulder showed me a car approaching fast, and I gave a thumbs up to it.
It roared past, damn. But could I blame whoever was inside? Shit.
The next two or three cars were all busts, but my lucky day came in the form of an open-topped, blue convertible that was about to pass me by. He slowed upon seeing my thumbs up, stopping fifty or so feet ahead. I ran to the vehicle.
“Need a ride?” said the man in the driver’s seat.
“I could use one,” I replied.
“Well, get in then, what are you waiting for?”
I opened the door and climbed into the passenger’s seat, stowing my bag on the floor of the car.
“Watch the seats there, that’s real leather,” said the man.
My benefactor didn’t seem like the type to pick up a hitchhiker, with his tailored suit and what I thought was a Rolex watch.
“So what, did you run out of gas or something?” he said, coolly.
“Yeah, something like that,” I replied.
“Happen to catch the wreck back there aways?” he asked. “It looked pretty bad to me.”
My blood froze as he said that.
“No, I didn’t. Must’ve happened after I went by.”
“Shit, how long have you been walking for, then?”
“Most of the night.”
“I never saw a car alongside the road.”
“Must’ve missed it, or maybe it got towed or something.”
“I don’t miss things, must’ve been towed. Tough luck, pal.”
“Yeah, tough luck indeed.”
There was silence in the car for a while, before we finally spotted Vegas on the horizon. We rolled into town, and the guy dropped me off at a gas station on the outskirts of town.
“Sorry bud, this is as far as we go together. I’ve got an appointment over at the Bellagio at noon, can’t miss it. Good luck out there.”
Without waiting for a response, he rolled away, leaving me standing at the station with nothing more than the clothes on my back and the duffle bag in my hand. My stomach rumbled, so I crossed the street to a greasy spoon. A cute waitress showed me to my table, but I barely paid attention. My gaze was fixed on the TV on the wall, which showed footage of a crash somewhere outside of Vegas, my crash. I ordered coffee and kept watching, the subtitles providing the audio. The report was saying that police were still investigating, but that the accident was believed to have been a hit and run incident.
Shit. I hadn’t expected them to figure that much out that fast. It was only a matter of time before they figured out that the burning car belonged to the person who had hit the man. That is, if they hadn’t already figured it out. The waitress returned with the coffee, and I pounded back the entire cup right there. Looking mildly disturbed, the waitress asked me if I wanted another cup. I nodded, and she poured another.
Shaken, I perused the menu for a moment, eyes darting to the news to see if anything was said about the wreck. Nothing else came on. I ate what I apparently ordered and paid the bill, leaving a pretty good tip. After all, I might be in prison soon, so what’s the point of not?
I walked back out to the street and decided that I’d need a place to stay. The hotel was always-
Ah shit, the hotel! I was due for a meeting at 11 AM there. I figured that it couldn’t hurt to attend, I mean, it would just give me more people who could attest to me having been in Vegas, acting normally.
I hoped.
I walked into Vegas proper, struggling to remember the address of the place. I checked my phone to find that my emails had it, and I made my way there.
It was 10:30 AM when I arrived and started to seek out where my hotel room might be. I checked in and found my way to the fourth floor. I left my duffle bag there, took a quick shower, and then put my same clothes back on. They were clean enough, I supposed, and besides, they’d have to do. Leaving the room behind, I found my way to the conference room where the meeting was taking place, recognizing a few of my coworkers.
I hesitated for a moment and then walked in. My coworkers looked at me and raised their eyebrows.
“Where the hell were you?” one of them, Jim, asked me. “We’ve been waiting around all morning for you.”
“Slept in,” I replied. “Can we just get this over with?”
The meeting came and went, boring as I had expected. I came off as neurotic, I think, just counting the seconds until I could get to another TV and see how far along the police were in their investigation. I left as soon as it was over, practically running out of there, leaving my co-workers puzzled. I stopped only to grab my duffle bag from the room. I walked briskly down the street, finding my way to another small greasy spoon. Another cup of coffee later, and I knew that the police had determined the incident to be a hit and run, and they believed that whoever had hit and killed the man, still unidentified, had attempted to burn his car to hide his tracks.
I was stunned that they figured it out so fast. I reeled. I left a fiver on the table and hightailed it out of there, intent on finding a place to hide out for the next little while, so that I could think about my next move.
My sanctuary came in the form of a small motel just across the road. Money wasn’t an issue, but my name was. I gave the old woman at the reception desk a fake name and got myself a room in short order. Mr. William Tanner was now occupying room five at the Cactus Sunrise Motel, on the outskirts of our most holy city of Las Vegas. I locked the door and sat down on the bed, clicking on the TV to see if anything new was on.
There wasn’t. All I saw was some talk show.
I thought about my next move. Obviously, it was only a matter of time before the cops came out looking for me and I got hauled off to some federal hellhole. I needed to get the hell out of dodge, but how? No car, but I could get a bus ticket, I figured.
But no, that wouldn’t work either. They’d want an ID, and that would be a dead giveaway. Unless I had a fake ID, which in Las Vegas shouldn’t really be too hard to find. I decided to go down to the Strip that night and find someone hocking fake IDs.
I waited out the rest of the day by watching the TV, waiting for any other word of the accident. Nothing came of it, and the evening news report just said the same thing that the earlier report had said. I ambled down to the Strip once night had fallen, to find the horrors that waited there.
It was a madhouse, drunk lunatics wandering the streets, crazed drug addicts howling from back alleys, and raving salesmen trying to get you in on the latest scam. I found a guy outside Caesar’s who seemed to be the right kind of guy to be selling fake IDs. He looked me over when I talked to him.
“Hey, bud, I need to get something from you,” I started.
“You looking for a fake? They’re five hundred each.”
“I’ll see what I can do, wait right here.”
My mind reeled yet again. Five hundred dollars? I didn’t have that kind of cash on me, and I couldn’t risk using my debit card to withdraw money from an ATM. I walked up and down the Strip a few times, trying to come up with some kind of plan. I put a fiver in a bum’s can along the sidewalk, and nearly got into a fight with some drunk kid as him and his buddies stumbled out of the Mirage.
“Can’t you fucking watch where you’re going?” I shouted after he bumped into me.
“Free love and free drinks, asshole. Beat it,” he cried back as his buddies hauled him away.
Clearly, things were getting unstable in the area, vibes turning bad rapidly. At that moment an idea struck me, and I wandered over to where I found there to be a hospital. I entered the front door and walked right up to the receptionist.
“Sir, there’s a waiting-” she began before I cut her off.
“Look, I’ve got a kidney to sell to you, almost free of charge. I just need five hundred bucks and it’s yours. Surely one of these poor saps,” I said, gesturing to the waiting room. “Could use a kidney from a standup guy like me.”
Her eyes widened as she reached under the desk and did something.
“What the fuck? Are you calling the cops on me? Look lady, I don’t think you realize what’s at-” I was cut off by the sighting of two large security officers advancing on me.
I turned and sprinted out of the waiting room, leaving passing nurses and doctors looking confused. I didn’t stop until I had nearly reached the motel, where I halted by a payphone that began to ring. I turned toward it and shuffled over to answer it.
“This is Dr. John Carmichael, Nellis AFB. Is this Mr. William Tanner?” a voice on the other end asked.
Through gritted teeth, I spoke.
“Yes, this is him. What the hell is the meaning of this? Do you understand the situation I’m in here?”
“We do, wholly and completely, Mr. Tanner. We’d like to help you out. Get to Lake Mead, post haste, and we’ll have a car waiting there for you. West side of the lake, can’t miss it.”
The line went dead, and I was left alone in the payphone booth. I hailed a passing taxi, directing him on where I needed to go. The whole ride was silent, with no words passing between the two of us the entire time.
I arrived at the west side of Lake Mead, and the taxi dropped me off. I threw a few bills in his direction, hoping that the tip would keep him from reporting me to the police if he, God forbid, saw my photo on television. Lake Mead was still as glass with no waves whatsoever. I walked up to where a TV was sitting on the shore, assuming that it would have information about where the car I was supposed to take would be. I turned it on to find nothing but dead air, a pattern of static that gave noinformation about my particular situation. I was about to turn and leave when a flash came up from the far side of the lake, blindingly bright.
I squinted at the growing light, wondering if the Nellis people were picking me up in some kind of goddamned spaceship out here in the warm Nevada night. But no, NO! There in front of me, once the light went down, sat a mushroom cloud of epic proportions, the remnants of a nuclear bomb blast.
They really had it out for me, deploying nuclear weapons to try and take me down. I sprinted from the lake, with several more flashes starting up from behind as I ran. Good God, is this what they’re using OUR taxpayer dollars for?! I didn’t stop running until I reached Boulder City, where I turned around and screamed.
“How do you like THAT, you military shits?! You think can kill ME that easily?! Think again, assholes!”
I got a cab and rode back into Las Vegas, still on the lookout for any more weapons. Better to be in a more populated area, they wouldn’t nuke it. Would they?
My supposed car being a trap, I once again decided that I needed to get the money for the fake ID. I figured that a casino would be as good a place as any. Being centers of crime themselves, surely they’d be willing to help a potential felon like myself. I got myself dropped off by the cab at the Bellagio, as it was closest, and wandered in.
Inside was a wretched sight. The smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol perfumed the air in a foul cloud as dead-eyed people started at slot machines, endlessly putting money in and getting nothing in return. I decided to try for the blackjack tables, as they seemed to be the best bet for the amount of currency that I had on my person at the time. After converting approximately half of my current personal funds into chips I sat down and was dealt into the game, hoping for great luck in this case.
The first hand came, and then the second. Both unfavorable.
“What does it take it make in this town?” I thought to myself.
The dealer eyed me.
“Just need some cash friendo, you see what I say?” I said to him.
He said nothing back, just watched me and dealt the cards.
I found the third and fourth hands to be more favorable to me and was about to be at the start of a winning streak when he walked in. I recognized him instantly from the car ride into Vegas, the man with the convertible. And by God, he looked right at me. A glimmer of recognition came from his face, and he seemed to start toward me. I grabbed my chips and ran, straight out the casino doors and clear back to my motel room. I laid down, needing to clear my head of the craziness of the night. Just what was it with people in this town? I thought back to the hospital, and the scene the receptionist had caused there.
“Good God, my photo will probably make the national headlines,” I thought as I laid down.
Better to sleep, sort it all out in the morning. I slept.
That morning, I turned on the news to a horrible sight. My face was on the headlines, all over them. Some lunatic apparently had walked into a hospital the night before and tried to sell his kidney for five hundred bucks. My face went pale. I wasn’t even at the hospital, and they had my picture up there? False accusations all the way around, under the sun and all day long. The police would be coming any time now, so I grabbed my bag and made my way back to Las Vegas, and into a back alley that maybe the Creator himself led me to.
“I need a gun,” I said to the Man-by-the-Dumpster.
“I got what you need, smelling what you’re selling, you dig?” he replied.
“I feel you, hand over the goods,” I said back.
I handed him a twenty and he passed me the biggest gun I had ever seen. A massive .44 magnum, sure to stop anyone who tried to interrupt my flight from the city. I decided it was time, and walked down to a rental car place. Once inside, I told the man at the desk that I was looking for something very fast, as I needed to exit the city post haste. He told me that he wasn’t so sure about that, so I flashed the gun.
“LVPD Homicide Division, Officer Harvey. Going to need a car right now, got some bad hombres out there in the desert that need to be brought to the proper justice of the law.”
He looked scared out of his mind.
“What, never seen a gun? Here, take a look,” I said, unholstering the weapon.
I was pointing it in his general direction, just to show him it was real, when the gun went off. The back of his head, and front too come to think of it, flew off and splattered the room with gore. Screams echoed outside.
“Doesn’t anyone have any respect for the law?” I shouted.
Sirens, suddenly. The sound of police outside. But how had they got here so fast? They must’ve been tracking me, I figured. A helicopter sounded overhead, like a machine gun out of some Vietnam nightmare, circa 1968. I peered out the window and a bullet flew past me, just barely missing.
I returned fire and caught one of them in the shoulder. A lightning strike of pain flashed through me, and I stumbled backward. Shit, this was it? There wasn’t even a TV to watch. They’d surely find me now, my last thought went.
“Jesus, Colin, take a look at this.”
“What is it?”
“Look at this poor bastard’s brain. See that hemorrhaging? That’s one of the worst cases I’ve ever seen.”
“Jesus, that explains a lot. What do you think gave him that?”
“Some kind of blunt force trauma, maybe a car crash or-”
“What is it?”
“Grab the phone, get me Williams. I think he’ll want to hear this.”
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