Joy Ride II

“C’mon, one more. Then burgers. Please?” Margrett begged, whispering, as to not wake their potential victims sleeping in the motel. Cindy crossed her arms and set a stance of evident refusal, but then softened.

“Okay, but it has to be that one.” she whispered back, pointing at a white 1973 Volkswagen Beetle hiding under the only darkened light in the lot.

“Sure.” Margrett responded, cheerily, estimating that she could talk Cindy into at least three more cars before getting food, “Keep an eye out?”

But her excitement built as she was getting closer. This car was ancient but in good shape. Like, really good shape. This was a show car which probably meant old people traveling, with maybe a lot of cash on hand.

“Cindy.” Margrett calls in a forced whisper, already sitting in the driver’s seat of the bug with the passenger window rolled down, “Cindy”, then, louder, “Come here!”

“What? I’m the lookout, hurry up!”

“Cindy! It’s 2 am, it’s fine!” Gesturing frantically over the hood of the stubby car, “Come here!”

“You’re really getting fast with that thing.” Motioning vaguely at the slim-jim now resting between the seats as she settled down on the passenger side.

“It was unlocked.” Margrett dismissed, with hushed exuberance, “but” she pointed at the keys dangling from the ignition. “AND!” she held up the huge wad of cash that she had just pulled out of the glove box, grinning.

“Holy shit, no way!” Cindy nearly shouted, tears of joy immediately sparking in dim light.

“This is it!” Margrett declared flatly, “We’ll ditch this car after it runs out of gas and hitchhike.”

She grabbed the ignition key, but hesitated, searching her friend’s eyes for answers, but only finding the same unexpected hesitation.

“Do it!” Cindy finally broke, despite the feeling that something critical had just snapped into place. It almost felt like they were about to be surrounded by blaring sirens and flashing lights as soon as the key was turned.

But the engine just purred into life.

It was barely audible as they crept out of the parking lot, flicking the lights on once they finally hit the road and headed for the highway.

The (now previous) young owners of the car, Alice and Patricia, were sleeping huddled together in their dank twin bed of the decaying motel. Fists and jaws clenched tight in anxiety from their haunted sleep. As their car silently rolled away, however, every fiber of their being eased with blissful, unconscious relief.

“This thing really does get good gas mileage, though.” Magritte remarked for the third time, now muffled from around her partially masticated hamburger, “Or the gauge is stuck, but 50 miles and the needle still hasn’t budged!”. The pair had stopped for some golden-arches drive-thru and were now idly rummaging through the car as they ate.

“Do you think these are the girls we stole it from?” Cindy asked, holding a photo booth printout of two girls in various silly poses, “They’re kinda young but it was the only other thing in the glovebox, aside from this black notebook.”

Margrett chewed, considering the question.

Cindy continued undeterred, “The book is full of names and addresses, all crossed out, except this last one. Here.” She pointed, holding the book for her friend to see. “We’re close, we should go check it out!”

“How would you know if we’re close?” Magritte asked, laughing, near hysterically from the boundless adrenalin of this unbelievable night, “You got an iPhone you’ve been hiding?” But she became very serious when Cindy pulled a map from the glovebox to offer as an explanation. Magritte began to stammer, “But you didn’t even look at it. Can you even read maps? And Didn’t you just say there was nothing else in there?”

Discomfort at the wrongness of everything suddenly weighed heavy in the silence. But then, Magritte was grinning widely again. She threw her greasy wrapper out the window, “Heck, lets go!”, and smoothly set the car lurching off towards the address, despite neither having consulted the map.

They pulled up to a rundown farmhouse, dawn just threatening to break on the horizon. A single light in the house spilled from a window. Cindy popped the hood of the bug and pulled out a tire iron. It was the old style, shaped like an L, with one end for the lug nuts, and the other pointed to pry off the hubcaps. Their hearts fired like pistons as they trotted towards the door.

A squinty old man answered their knocks, in robes and slippers. Gripping his coffee with shaky hands he blinked at them from the other side of a dusty screen door.

“Need some help?” He asked the unassuming young ladies on his porch, “Car trouble?”

“This you?” Magritte asked, holding up the little black book so he could see, “Are you Alexander Schmidt.” Then, after referencing the book again, “Big Eddie?”.

“No.” The old man barked out weakly. He wasn’t answering them, though, but was instead talking at the sleepy-looking car idling in his dirt driveway. Magritte and Cindy exchanged looks that reflected both confusion and understanding.

“No!”, he repeated, with only slightly more force.

“Yup.” Cindy said smoothly as she pushed the sharp end of the tire iron through his screen door, and his right eye, and his brain until it finally chunked against the back of his skull. She did this with inhuman grace, as though nothing but the old man’s skull offered more resistance than open air. Even then, you would have questioned if stopping there was simply her choice, rather than a physical necessity.

The two friends headed back to the car as the guttural vocalizations and sound of thrashing limbs died down.

“There’s another address now,” Cindy observed, though not with any real surprise.

After only a moment of consideration, Magritte replied, “We can make that by sundown.” Both were grinning insanely as they kicked up a massive dirt cloud peeling down the driveway. No dust stuck to the car's immaculate finish. “One more isn’t gonna hurt. It's what Buggsie would have wanted."