Ten Miles Until Empty

Driving his new, silver Nissan Roadster, Connard Armstrong is starting to feel the effects of four glasses of Cabernet imbibed over the past three hours at the Sky Lounge.

Driving his new, silver Nissan Roadster, Connard Armstrong is starting to feel the effects of four glasses of Cabernet imbibed over the past three hours at the Sky Lounge. Although now diluted with four additional cups of strong coffee, he feels in control of his actions along with a relaxed calmness and an unfortunate full bladder.

After traveling west on I-20 in downtown Atlanta, GA to get home to Douglasville, he looks down at his gas gauge. The marker is close to empty with the digital readout announcing ten miles left. He looks up pondering his next move.

His eyes catch sight of a BP station sign off the shoulder of the mega highway. He decides to make a move towards the exit inching over the multiple lanes. About halfway into the downward, curved ramp, his front left tire catches a pool of scrap metal like someone purposely timed trouble to plant havoc in this spot. He hears and feels the wobble of possible damage to his tire.

Now recovering control of the vehicle, he arrives at the off ramp destination. He makes a left turn under the bridge and follows further signs to the BP. About three quarters of a mile on the right is the brightly lit sign; however, the place is closed for business. In fact, the building's outer appearance shows marks of vandalism complete with boarded up inserts that use to be glass windows.

Connard pulls the car into the vacant parking lot. He gets out and examines the definitely, damaged tire. Now getting down to observe the tire more closely, he hears the slight hiss of it going flat. He stands back up. His facial expressions show a combination of exasperation, fear, and panic. With now only the fading sounds of the interstate traffic, the environment around him begins to reveal a mixture of impending gloom.

He looks about his location scanning his eyes left to right like an owl moving his head and neck to accommodate a 180 degree span. Then, he turns around to observe his backside this time looking from right to left. He tries to filter out the traffic sounds. Finally, he begins hearing the mysterious sounds of footsteps in the darkness like someone is too nervous to keep still.

Soon, his eyes spot multiple sets of eyeballs apparently taking in his unfortunate dilemma. The eyes now appear to have personalities all their own. Some look open with wide expression; some show sly squints; and some even appear indifferent surrounded by darkness.

The footsteps now appear to be getting more numerous and increasing in volume. Connard senses that unseen enemies are moving into his direction. He hurriedly jumps back into his car, locks the doors, and just as several large African-American figures of various heights and weights start pounding on the vehicle.