The February Featured Story is by Martin Shelby

Please feel free to email Martin at: mshelby88@gmail.com

MIDNIGHT PASSAGE

by Martin Shelby

Lightning raced across the night sky, illuminating to Jon the dark silhouette of the man walking steady through the soft rain towards the Texaco station. Some traveler stranded at this god-awful time of night and weather, no doubt his car broken down and his family stuck inside it. Jon glanced up at the cheap white clock that hung above the rain-dewed double doors. The hands indicated the time to be 12:45 a.m., but he knew it ran a bit slow. He absently stuffed the twenty he had lifted from the register into his pocket and closed the cash drawer. Lightning cracked again, followed close by a rattling clap of thunder that shook the window panes. Jon saw that the man had almost reached the far edge of the parking lot. The rain might be soft now, but Jon suspected it was going to start pouring hard any minute. The last thing he wanted on a night like this was some stranded, deviative soul.

Jon settled back on his stool, sighed, and leaned over to grab his bottle of Cherry Coca-Cola. At least he had some coffee brewed. Midnight travelers always wanted coffee. As slow as nights were, that usually meant some pretty old coffee for the poor bastard. Tonight’s guest was in luck in that respect, at least, since Jon had set the pot less than an hour ago. He had just grabbed the phone book with the Coke bottle held dangling between his teeth and was flipping the pages to find the number for Rick’s Towing, just to be prepared, when he heard the punctuated low voice.

“How much for a coffee?”

“Huh?” Jon’s head jolted up. The Coke bottle drifted into free-fall before bouncing across the floor and erupting into a fountain of creamy foam that shot across the tile.

“Shit!” He reached down and scooped up the spewing container in mid-spin, felt the stickiness of the soda spill over his fingers. It was the man he had seen walking, of that he was sure, but how had he gotten inside so fast? Hell, he already had a cup of coffee in his hand. Why hadn’t the door chime gone off? He threw the Coke bottle into the trash and wiped his hand against his jeans. He had a bare moment to glance outside to check his sanity, where he saw nothing in the darkness, before he was beckoned by the man again.

“How much for a coffee?” the voice, slick as oil, asked again.

Jon shot a short furtive glance at the clock. 12:45. Dead batteries.

“Oh. Uh, sorry. Didn’t hear you come in,” Jon said, still trying to wipe the tacky feel of the soda from his hand. He adjusted his Orioles tee shirt and swept one hand back through oily brown hair. “Ninety-five cents.”

A hand, glittering with diamond rings, counted out four bright coins that looked as if they might have been minted yesterday. Jon collected the change, which felt warm against his palm. He rang the transaction through, and as he started to hand the difference back he mustered up a concerned voice before politely inquiring, “So, your car break down?”

The man waved off the change.

“Don’t own a car. Death contraptions the way I figure it. You never know when you might get caught in some accident. Ever seen some of those people that get tangled up in those wrecks?” The man removed his hat, and there was something wrong with that image, but Jon couldn’t place his finger on it. The hat reminded Jon of those old hats they used to wear in gangster movies, a fedora. Underneath, the man’s hair was jet black and short-cropped. He had a static smile that didn’t seem natural to his face. Rather it was a face that might be more accustomed to the yelling complexions of a drill sergeant.

“Of course,” the man continued, “you don’t have to be in a car to actually be involved in an automobile accident. Sometimes people just get hit.” The man leaned ever so slightly over the counter towards Jon, as if he might be about to share a story, or a secret. “You ever seen someone hit by a car?”

A shiver ran down Jon’s spine. He had never felt so uncomfortable around someone, and he glanced towards the door. “No, I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that.” Lightning flashed outside and the lights flickered before returning to a steady burn. Jon coughed. “Pretty rough night to be out on foot isn’t it?”

The man shrugged out of his trench coat and folded it over the arm holding the hat, and one diamond encrusted hand brushed back through his own dark hair in a fair imitation of Jon. He wore a black shirt and pants, and a silver belt buckle that also looked like it was embedded with diamonds. “Well, I’ve been through worse than this, let me tell you. Sometimes you just have to face your fate, take what God throws at you and spit it right back at him. You know—“

The man stopped and glanced over as the door chime rang, a look bordering on annoyance crossing his face. When he saw the little rounded man standing there shaking rain from his shoulders, the previously unwavering smile slid completely off his face.

“WhooEEE! Quite the night out there. Nothing like a good storm to revitalize the earth,” the new arrival said. He flashed them a good-humored, warm smile. He pulled off a pair of fogged spectacles and rubbed them against one sleeve. “Good to be in out of it, though.”

The man plopped his eyeglasses back on his nose, smiled once more, and walked over towards the coffee maker. The dark haired man rapped his knuckles across the counter, snapping Jon’s attention back to him.

“Well, Jon,” the dark man said, “I believe I’ll just go over to one of those tables there and enjoy my coffee for awhile, if that’s all right by you.”

Jon nodded. “Sure.”

“By the way, my name is Prziel. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.” The smile was back in place and he tipped the hat back on his head. He walked off towards the tables lined against the windows, his boots clicking solid across the floor.

Prziel? Jon wondered. What kind of name was that? Must be French or something. And foreigners had strange ways. He didn’t know what one would be doing out here in BFE, but it might explain why he was out walking in the rain. Jon had heard of people who walked from one side of the country to the other for charity or causes. This man didn’t strike him as the charitable sort, but maybe it was for some other reason. Or maybe he was just weird.

Jon would just be happy when he was gone. He noted without surprise that Prziel’s boots were black as well. Maybe he thought he was the second coming of Johnny Cash. Jon smirked at his own humor. Something else occurred to him as he was preparing to focus on the newest arrival. Jon didn’t wear a name badge. There was little point in a small town. He looked back as Prziel was taking his seat. “Hey, uh, Preezil? How’d you know my name?”

Prziel’s smile increased minutely, and he pointed a long white finger to an area just behind Jon’s right shoulder. Jon cocked his head to look. Behind him on the wall hung a corkboard with various items pinned to it—liquor license, phone numbers, the previous night’s winning lottery numbers.

But most of the space was filled with pictures: Ray, the store owner, with last season’s trophy buck, Susan and her two boys at a Ned’s fifth birthday party, and regular customers with their small town accomplishments and celebrations. Not only was Ray’s the only gas convenience store for the town, but it was a place people liked to come. Ray welcomed them all. Each picture was labeled and dated with a black marker. Tucked down low in the left hand corner was a picture of Jon standing with a giant flathead catfish that came close to rivaling him in size. Even holding it up to head high level, its tail nearly brushed the ground. It read “Jon Michael – Big Game Hunter, 7/12/05.” He couldn’t imagine that anyone would have paid that kind of attention to the board, but it did satisfy the question. Maybe he had one of those photographic memories or the like.

“How much for a coffee, young man?”

Jon’s eyes turned to his newest customer. He was a frazzled looking old man, perhaps sixty or so Jon guessed, and was cloistered inside a beat-up raincoat. He was balding, and what little hair he had left was plastered around his head from the rain. He held his coffee just under his chin, as if to warm his face. His eyes were bright and alert, however, and he smiled genially.

“Ninety-five cents.”

“WhooEEE!” the little man let out again, apparently taking delight in this expression as he dug one hand into a pocket. “I can remember when it was a nickel a cup. Times have changed, I suppose. Let me see here, I know I have one in here someplace….My name is Dahaviel, but you can call me David. Or Dave. Did I catch your name right? Jon, wasn’t it? Ah, there it is.”

Dahaviel pulled out a damp dollar and laid it on the counter.

“Yeah, Jon,” Jon confirmed, taking the dollar. Didn’t they say trouble came in threes? What weird name was coming through the door next? It was times like this he wished the store wasn’t located right off the highway.

“Quite the pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Jon,” Dahaviel said. “Hope you don’t mind if I rest myself a little over by one of your tables.”

“Go right ahead,” Jon nodded, returning a nickel to him. “I didn’t see you pull in. Are you walking too?”

Dahaviel winked. “Nope. Flew in on the wings of angels. Ha! You believe that?”

“Not quite,” Jon said, returning the man’s smile.

“And you’d be right! Angels don’t have wings. All those pictures just drive me silly. Like an angel would need wings to get around.” Dahaviel rolled his eyes and took a sip of coffee. “You do believe in angels, though, don’t you?”

Jon didn’t want to hurt the old man’s feelings, but he didn’t want to get drawn into a religious debate either. He could see this conversation continuing no matter how he answered, so he kept it simple. “Not really.”

“It’s okay to believe in some things, lad,” Dahaviel said, a bit more serious now. “Otherwise this world will just swallow you up whole. You just have to watch out for those artist types. Poets and painters. They like to gild the lily, so to speak. But that doesn’t mean the underlying truth isn’t still there.”

“Maybe so,” Jon said, hoping that would end it.

“I’ll be over there at the table drinking my coffee, if you want to talk,” Dahaviel said, tilting his head. He wrinkled his nose as he looked. “Don’t think I’ll sit next to that tall fellow, though. He doesn’t look so pleasant.”

Jon nodded and tried to keep his expression neutral. Looked like he was stuck with Mr. Creepy and Born Again tonight. He better make some coffee if these two were going to stick around. He circled the counter and reached towards the coffeepot, picking it up and preparing to dump what was left.

“Oh, and Jon,” Dahaviel said, “you should really put back that twenty you pocketed. Internal theft is one of the most crippling things there is for a business.”

“What?” Jon nearly let the coffeepot drop from his hand. A quick juggle brought it back under control, but he could tell he would have a blister on at least one finger. He stuck the finger in his mouth and stared at Dahaviel. The little man just winked at him and continued on his way to a table.

Jon stood for a few seconds, watching him sit and scoot into one of the table benches. How had he known? He must have been outside and watched him do it. Had Ray caught on to his thieving and sent these two to spy on him? Jon hastened himself into nervous action, prepping a new coffee filter and starting a new pot. He returned to his stool behind the register and sat, trying hard not to look at Dahaviel. He found he couldn’t do that, and his eyes crept to look at him. But the little man wasn’t watching him, he just stared into his coffee cup and every now and again took a sip. And Prziel’s gaze seemed to be riveted on the building storm outside, as if at any moment some monster would come rolling out of the flashing darkness. He was smiling.

Jon forced his attention away from the pair. He didn’t like thinking about them. Then he realized he was fingering the twenty in his pocket. Had Prziel really read his name off the corkboard? And all that talk about car wrecks and accidents. Something was very strange here, something that made Jon distinctly uncomfortable. He pulled the twenty out of his pocket. Sure, he had lifted some cash every now and then, but not very often. Only when he needed it. He just voided out a sale or two to help balance things out. But not too often, or Ray might get suspicious. Jon didn’t think he paid much attention to the bookkeeping anyway, but best not to press one’s luck.

Still, it wasn’t right, was it? And okay, sometimes he snacked on the food during the late hours, like that Cherry Coke, but he always paid it all back when his paycheck hit, didn’t he?

He held the twenty, peering at its woven texture. He had once heard that money was some of the dirtiest stuff you could handle, because it was handled by everyone and it just soaked all that germy crap right in when people didn’t wash their hands and such. You might wash your hands when you’re finished in the restroom (although practical observation at the station had proven to him how few people did even that), but who washed their hands after handling money? He hit the No Sale key—K-ching!—and placed the bill back in the tray. He glanced at Dahaviel, and thought he saw the barest of smiles on the old man’s lips.

Jon sighed and leaned back on his stool. A few minutes passed, then close to an hour, when out on the highway he saw a pair of headlights approaching. Finally, someone with real transportation. Maybe these two, even one, could hitch a ride if these folks stopped. As he watched the headlights grow closer through the driving rain, it finally struck him what had been wrong with Prziel earlier when he had taken off his hat. He hadn’t been wet.

The car wheeled into the parking lot, hardly losing speed and almost fishtailing into the gas pumps, and Jon felt his heart skip a beat as it slid to a halt at the front door. He could see there were at least two people in the car, but only the passenger side door opened to let someone out. The man passed in front of the dripping headlights and stepped inside the store, heading straight for Jon. Jon was having trouble making out this new man’s features, they were all blurred. He barely recognized that a gun was pointed at him. Everything was happening so fast. He was still trying to make out the man’s face, when he realized the man had hose pulled over his head.

“Hand over all the cash now, gas boy,” the featureless face said. The words came out a quivering tumble, nervous and scared.

“What?” Jon said. His brain was having trouble processing this all. The gun looked huge, as if it might swallow him whole.

“Open the fucking register, before I blow your fucking head off!”

“Dahev…Dave?” Jon looked hopefully over at the tables, but Dahaviel just looked at him with a certain sadness, and Prziel was looking at his watch as if nothing were happening at all.

The gunman turned his head, feet dancing, looking at the tables and then around the store. “Who the fuck you talkin’ to?”

Jon opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The gunman danced from one foot to another, still looking around. Jon pressed the No Sale key once more—K-ching! The gunman jumped and fire exploded from the gun’s muzzle.

For an instant Jon thought the cash drawer had caught him in the gut. But the pressure was too great for that, sending his body flying backwards to strike the corkboard. He couldn’t control his legs, and felt his body sliding along the wall to the floor. Something dark and heavy fell over him, pushing him further down. He heard the familiar door chime like a distant church bell, the sound of tires spinning on wet pavement, and gravel pecking at the window glass.

Jon tried to pull himself up, but found he didn’t have enough strength. His hand, which had reflexively reached for his stomach, felt warm and wet. Shot. I’ve been shot. For a second he thought he couldn’t see, but then realized it was the corkboard. It had fallen on top of him. He pushed it off and propped it to one side. He let a low moan out and tilted his head back against the wall.

“That’s a nasty wound you have there. Gut shot. Those are the worst. Slow death. Not likely to be anyone through here soon to help you, either.”

Jon opened his eyes. It was Prziel.

“How would you know?” Jon groaned again as he tried to pull himself to a sitting position. He needed to call an ambulance, somebody to come help him, but his legs still wouldn’t cooperate.

“Oh, I just have a knack for things like that. Call it intuition. Just like I know the phone lines went down with that lightning strike not too long ago.”

“Who are you?”

Prziel took in a little breath and squatted beside him. “I want to show you something, Jon.” He grabbed the corkboard and positioned it so Jon could see it. “What do you see on your little board of fame here?”

Jon looked at the corkboard. It seemed no different than it had before. He shrugged. “I need help. You have to get me help.”

“This is important, Jon. Look hard.”

Jon focused on the corkboard once more. It seemed the same…except for one picture. His picture. Instead of standing beside a humongous flathead, it was the broken and bloodied body of a little boy that swung from his fist. Below the caption now read “Jon Michael—Child Killer, 6/13/2003.”

“No.”

“I was there when you ran over that little boy, Jon. Got away with murder there, didn’t you?” Prziel said, his lips close to Jon’s ear as if they might be sharing an intimate secret.

“No. Didn’t…didn’t mean to….”

“Of course you didn’t. Best of intentions. Hell, I’d guess if you hadn’t been drinking, why, you probably would have missed him. But you didn’t even touch the brakes, Jon. That’s really neither here nor there, though. As awful as that was, how did it really separate you from the rest of the greasy monkey turd human screw-ups that bloat this planet? But when you let someone else take the blame, and you skated free, I must say I was highly impressed. That caught my attention. I thought to myself, ‘Now that’s my kind of guy. There’s somebody I can develop and turn into a real soldier.’ I’m here to take you home, Jon.”

Prziel was kneeling beside him now. He dipped one finger into Jon’s wound. Jon screamed but Prziel ignored his pain and licked the blood from his finger. “I can shorten your pain, Jon.”

“No. You…you’re…evil.”

“That’s a matter of perspective.”

“Don’t believe him, Jon. He’s not as smart as he would like to think.” Dahaviel’s voice floated around him, but Jon couldn’t see him.

“Not for a second, Dahaviel. This one is ours.” Prziel looked down at Jon. “No then to a quick death?” Jon only stared back, pain and fear arcing through his body. Prziel smiled. “Very well, then.”

Jon lay there, Prziel crouched and watched, and it seemed as if time might be stretching out into eternity. And then he heard the clock chime. It only chimed once, and Jon knew that couldn’t be right, it had to be way past one o’clock. He saw the expectant smile on Prziel’s face fall for the second time. Jon’s eyes glanced around, but all he could see was the top edges of the cash wrap. How much time had passed? Too much, Jon was certain. Time enough for atonement? Or would he just be one of those hypocrites who repented all their sins on the deathbed, just in case? Was true repentance even possible at this point?

He had tried so hard to forget the boy, whose name had been David, but he still sometimes came in his dreams. What the boy had been doing out so late, he didn’t know. He shouldn’t have been out, that’s what he always told himself. Where had his stupid parents been? Didn’t really matter. Dead was dead.

No matter how drunk he had been, he had never been able to forget the feel of the boy’s body catching the fender, or the image of his bloodied body flying up over the windshield and back into the street. He had been too terrified of all the possibilities facing him to admit his guilt—the family disgrace, the social stigma from town and friends, his entire future voided. Jail. What future would he have had after that?

And so he had managed to cast that bad fate on someone else. Donnie Cope, a high school buddy, was now paying the sentence for all those woes. Even if he could forget the boy, there was still the thought of Donnie, serving his time one county over, to remind him. Donnie had felt so guilty before the trial he tried to kill himself with an overdose. Donnie had been so drunk that night he didn’t know any different. He had been in a blackout, and it was easy to incriminate him for the accident. After all, it had been his car. Donnie cried at the trial and said how sorry he was.

And that had all been for what? Now look at the future he had saved for himself. A pathetic college drop-out working a gas station in his old backwater home town. He had never been steady at anything since that accident.

“Hello? Is there anyone here?” A woman’s voice drifted tentatively through the air. “I need a gallon of milk.”

Milk? Who needed milk at this hour in this weather? Once he would have wondered at the strange drives that made people go out in the middle of the night for things that could wait. Now it was sweet music.

“Help…,” Jon managed. He could see a weave of blonde hair on the other side of the register.

“Hello? Hello? O Lord.”

The woman was standing over him now, and Jon smiled. Dahaviel had been right after all. Some people would say their whole lives led up to singular points in their careers and whatnot, but Jon realized that the only singular point to be reached was where he was at now. People called it death; some said it was an end, others a beginning. And what you left behind could be just as important as what you took with you. It might even be the same thing.

“Hold on, hold on. I’ll call an ambulance,” the woman was saying, her hands flying around the counter and fluttering with nerves as she searched for the phone.

“Phones…out. Come here…please.”

The woman paused, then came and knelt beside him. He had recognized her at once, for she was in his dreams too. But instead of standing there with tears streaming down her face condemning Donnie with her anguish as she had in that courtroom years ago, it was him she spoke to. The sorrow, he thought, had never really left her face. She had moved on, but the pain lingered.

“For…give me.” His face felt warm and wet now, and he realized he was crying.

“What? Jon, what?” She bent closer. He knew she had felt ill against him, too, these many years, because he had been in the car too. He couldn’t blame her, but she had to know the full truth.

“Wasn’t…Donnie…ki…David. Me. Forgive me…so…sorry.” Jon looked into her eyes with his own and would not let go, but he could say no more. Only try and desperately convey what he meant, what he needed, through that connection of windows into each other’s souls. He owed her that. Owed Donnie that.

She seemed far away now, and he focused harder. He saw the cloud of anger twist her face when understanding dawned, and thought he felt her clench him tighter in that anger, but it was gone then and tears welled out of her eyes. Her head dropped, the blonde hair falling about her face so he couldn’t see her eyes any longer, and he felt himself slipping further away. He didn’t know how long her head hung down like that, there was no sense of time and every moment was an eternity. When her eyes raised up, she reached out and touched his forehead. “I forgive you.”

Jon heard Dahaviel’s call his name, and he let go of the world.

Born in Missouri, Martin Shelby developed a love for dark fantasy and horror almost since the time he could read. In 1988 he won first place in the Central Missouri State University journalism competition for editorial writing. He graduated from CMSU with a B. S. in the Administration of Criminal Justice with a minor in psychology. He enjoys billiards, RPGs like World of Darkness, and an occasional foray with an Xbox when he isn’t writing. He is working on several writing projects both large and small, and this is his first professionally published work. He currently resides near Nashville, Tennessee.