Fellow Travelers

It was chilly. A persistent rain drizzled on and off. Mark winced with annoyance and wrapped himself tighter in his old, yet deeply cherished leather jacket, even though he was sitting inside a warm cabin heated by a massive engine. It was actually quite stuffy, and he felt a constant, nagging thirst — thankfully, he had plenty of water bottles with him, so there was no need to look for a roadside convenience store to stock up. He didn’t have a passenger fare, so he was just driving along the wet road, entirely deserted at this late hour. He knew perfectly well it was a waste of fuel, but he simply liked the feeling of moving forward. Low music was playing, but when a track came on that somehow reminded him of his younger years, Mark turned up the volume. After another half hour of driving, the man’s eyes began to heavy. He seriously considered looking for a truck stop, or better yet, a motel. He could take a hot shower, stretch his legs out properly on a bed, and have a warm breakfast in the morning… Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t immediately notice a sudden movement on the road ahead. Focusing his eyes, he realized it was a person, waving his arms quickly and rather desperately. Mark immediately decided to pull over and see if the man needed help. — Driver, you’re a lifesaver! — babbled the stranger, a man in his early thirties, completely soaked through and shivering slightly from the cold. — My phone died, and I can’t call anyone. Could you drop me off by the old highway? You know, the one near the shoe factory — there’s an abandoned mine shaft close by. You know the spot, right? Just drop me off there, and I’ll figure it out and walk the rest of the way myself. Mark simply couldn’t say no to such a request. He was driving aimlessly anyway, and this passenger could help pass the night. Seeing the inviting gesture, the man climbed into the cabin, dropped a large bag at his feet, and offered a smile along with his hand. Mark shook it and gave his name, and a moment later, he learned his passenger’s name too — Hugo. The men spent the next forty minutes or so in almost complete silence. The car bumped occasionally on the potholes. Mark cursed under his breath, but he knew the other roads had been washed out by the downpours. The silence was broken only by old songs playing on the radio — Mark had decided to turn it up a bit louder for his passenger — and the rumbling of thunder. — You’re listening to the midnight news! — a cheerful voice declared from the receiver. — The first days of this month haven’t brought us great weather, but we can assure you that by next week, we’ll be seeing heat so intense you’ll be wishing for these rains to come back!.. — They’re lying through their teeth, I bet, — Hugo suddenly muttered with a smirk. — “Wishing for these rains to come back!”, — he mocked the presenter. — He might as well have said we’ll be so desperate for a drink that we’ll be ready to lap water straight out of the puddles! The joke struck Mark as flat, but then again, he was no comedian himself, so he just let out a quiet chuckle. On the air, they talked a bit more about exchange rates, then moved on to cars, and eventually transitioned to gardening tips. — Now is the perfect time for planting beets, radishes, and turnips. The harvest will be outstanding! But you should definitely hold off on planting tomatoes and peppers for now… — I never understood people who like digging in the dirt, — the passenger offered another comment, staring out into the dark woods. — I remember when I was a kid, my parents sent me to the countryside for the whole summer. Man, I hated working in the garden! I remember my grandad telling me to dig holes to plant cabbage once, and I dug them so deep you could have built a bunker in each one! — Hugo finished with a laugh, waving his hands around as he tried to show Mark the size of those holes. Mark smiled indulgently and tried to remember: had he been like that when he was thirty? He took another sip of water, enjoying the pleasant moisture soothing his parched throat, and decided: no, he had never been that way. He had mastered the truck-driving profession back in his twenties, and by thirty, he had become calm and measured, just like the road, even developing his own “philosophy” of life. The news segment ended. Upbeat eighties music filled the cabin. Mark even started humming along, pleasantly surprised when his passenger joined in. And so, they sang as a makeshift duet until they both grew tired, and Mark felt the urge to drink again. Taking gulp after gulp, he watched Hugo out of the corner of his eye, who was still bobbing his head slightly to the rhythm of the melody. — How do you know all these songs? — Mark asked, setting the bottle down. — Oh, I love traveling and trying new things. I was at a village dance once — my friends and I were staying in that area, went hiking in the woods there too. Anyway, we went to this club. The heat was unbearable, and the place was so packed, we were crammed in there like sardines. I couldn’t even push my way to the exit, I thought I’d be trapped there forever! — The storyteller waved his hand and smirked. Then he continued, — For a split second, I actually thought the locals lured guys like me into confined spaces on purpose. Oh, by the way, take the clearing up ahead… Though, you probably know the road better than I do. Mark frowned. A sharp tightness gripped his chest, but it passed just as quickly. A fierce, sudden thirst hit him again. He obediently turned onto the clearing road. After all, he hadn’t been on this road in a long time, yet the path felt hauntingly familiar. The music faded out. And abruptly, the silence was pierced by the announcer’s voice: — …Police are still searching for the fugitives Andy B., Leslie K., and Jack S. But today, another name has been added to the list: Mark Z., who escaped from the psychiatric hospital. He may be unpredictable and dangerous. Please remain vigilant and cautious… The presenter kept talking, but Mark sharply twisted the knob, cutting off the radio, and clenched his fists with a death grip. He frantically let go of the steering wheel — his palms were slick with sweat. Fortunately, the road was empty, and besides, he knew how to fix a car. Not long ago, the suspension had come loose, but he had bolted it back on, though he cut himself a little in the process: a long, faint scar showed pale on his wrist. “Wait…”— Mark cut his thoughts short, feeling a sudden chill freeze him from the inside. —“What does the suspension have to do with anything? What did they call that guy? Mark Z.? Just like my name… No, that’s ridiculous. I’m just an ordinary driver.” Mark stole a glance at his passenger while taking a frantic gulp of water. The man sat relaxed. It seemed the broadcast hadn’t fazed him in the slightest. “But he hesitated before giving his name,”— the thought slithered into the man’s mind like a venomous snake. — Nor would I want to cross paths with that psycho on the road, — Mark forced the words out aloud, eyeing Hugo warily. — No kidding, — the man replied instantly. — Though it might be hard to spot him. Some of them act completely normal — just like you and me. But if you ask me, an escaped convict, especially a disoriented one, wouldn’t be out catching rides. He’d hole up deep in the woods and sit there with his tail between his legs. Mark flinched inwardly. Everything this guy said seemed logical, but the cabin suddenly felt unbearably, nauseatingly wrong. In a loop, he replayed their entire conversation in his head.“Lap water from the puddles”,“holes deep enough for a bunker”… — Hey, how about I drop you off at the police checkpoint? It’s not far from there, — he suggested, feeling a frantic, suffocating pressure expanding in his chest.“Please say yes, please say yes!” — Are you crazy? That’s like five miles away, and the downpour is starting to pick up, — Hugo dismissed it sharply. — Man, it’s stifling in here, I can barely breathe! Can we roll down the windows? Mark felt like he truly, physically couldn’t breathe, and it had nothing to do with the stuffiness. His throat was bone-dry, his temples throbbed with a vicious ache, and his fingers were going numb on the wheel. “There’s a tire iron to the left of my seat,”— he thought with a cold, detached clarity. —“If it comes down to it, I’m broader in the shoulders and my arms are stronger. If I hit his head… He’s keeping his hand in his pocket. What’s in there? A gun? No, he just escaped from a psych ward, where would he get a gun? A knife? That’s more like it. Then it all comes down to speed. Only speed… I just need to get him deeper into the woods, farther away…” It was getting harder to breathe, his head exploding with pain. Mark yanked the handle and rolled down the windows — damp night air flooded the cabin. He glanced at his passenger again. — Much better! I was starting to suffocate. Thought I was developing claustrophobia there for a second, — Hugo raised an eyebrow, staring intently, unblinkingly at Mark. Mark swallowed hard. He had to end this. Damn it, why did he even get into this car tonight? Why did he feel this wild urge to go driving without even changing out of his usual work jumpsuit, the one reeking of engine oil and gasoline? He looked through the windshield. No, they hadn’t been driving toward the shoe factory for a while now. They were cutting deep into a place where Mark knew for a fact it was absolutely quiet and dark. This guy wasn’t getting out of here alive. He frantically searched to the left of his seat. His fingers brushed against something that felt like a hair clip. He felt a fleeting surge of surprise at the find, but there was no time. There were also a few bottles, a jack, some napkins, and — oh, finally — his left hand wrapped around the tire iron. Heavy, solid, factory-cast steel. One swift, crushing blow. Mark looked at Hugo — at the man he now, in his panic, believed to be the real Mark Z. The passenger’s face had completely hardened, freezing into a dead, expressionless mask. In the dim light, he could see the extreme tension in Hugo’s other hand, the one he wasn’t keeping in his pocket. “Now or never!”— Mark snapped mentally. With a screech of brakes, he slammed on the handbrake, whipping out the tire iron, ready to bring it down on the maniac. And froze. Staring back at him was the cold, black barrel of a gun. On trembling, foreign legs, Mark stepped out of the cabin into the pouring rain. He looked around. The surrounding area was familiar to the point of nausea… Meanwhile, Hugo stepped down onto the wet earth, never lowering his weapon, his heavy bag gripped in his other hand. Mark wanted to bolt, but his legs suddenly turned to jelly, and his temples felt as if they were locked in an unyielding iron vise… Still keeping the driver held at gunpoint, the man ripped open the zipper of his bag, pulled out a small photograph, and shoved it right in front of Mark’s face. There was a woman in the photo. She was sitting on a couch, laughing radiantly… She was familiar to Mark. He couldn’t remember how he knew her, but he knew her, without a doubt! Did they go to the same school? Were they coworkers?! The man abruptly shoved the photo away and yanked a folding trench shovel out of the bag. He threw it at the driver’s feet. The metal gave a dull clink against the mud. — You hid the hatch well. But you brought me here yourself. Your hands remember the way. Now dig, Mark. Dig! She has very little time left. And in that exact instant, the dam in his head broke. “Ann… That’s the woman’s name. The one he loved. The asylum… those sickening white walls, those horrific pills, and the exhausting, never-ending interrogations. Ann… he couldn’t accept her rejection. Love had twisted into a maddening obsession. This place… here, in the middle of nowhere, he had dug and built a bunker to keep his beloved. So she would never leave him for that perfect, successful Phil. Ann… who had been locked in this bunker for three days now. Without a single drop of water.” With a wild gasp, Mark snatched the shovel from Hugo’s hands. The metal slammed furiously into the wet earth. Dig. Dig. Dig! Until, with a dull thud beneath the blade, the heavy wooden hatch of the bunker finally exposed itself.