Liquor Run

Rain came down on Karmen’s windshield as her old Chevy truck rattled along the two-lane blacktop. No other cars passed as she squinted through the darkness. She kept to a slow speed to ensure that she didn’t collide with any of the critters that liked to skitter across the road at night. Her head began to pound and she rubbed her temple, grimacing. On her left she passed the old green dented mailbox that belonged to no one in particular. It had been there as long as Karmen could remember. The throbbing in her head announced its presence more loudly, and she gritted her teeth, finding it difficult to stay in her lane. The pounding reached a crescendo as she pulled up to the ancient tree with the gnarl twisted in the shape of an owl. She let out a groan, but the pain suddenly dissipated as she drove past the tree. She shook her head and breathed out slowly, feeling a lightness that allowed her to release her tensed up shoulders. Karmen put on her left blinker even though no one was around, and eased into one of three parking spaces at Mr. Jenkins' Liquor and Bait Shop. The time on the dash read 6:00, right on time, just like every Saturday.

Karmen turned the key, shutting off the engine and flicking off the lights of her truck before stepping out. The door shut with a whack that broke through the night air. The one street lamp out front of the shop buzzed and flickered as moths and other entranced bugs beat their heads into the bulb.

Karmen opened the door. The fishy scent of bait hit her nose and a bell clanged against the door as it shut behind her. She had met those who didn’t care for the scent of fish bait, but to her it brought back memories of times gone by with friends and family, lazing by the lake with poles stuck in the dock and line wrapped around one’s toe as they dozed and baked in the sun.

An older man stood behind the counter. Mr. Jenkins was short and thin, balding on the top, and he had puffy bags that had been parked under his eyes ever since Karmen was a young girl. He smiled and nodded to her, and she did the same in return. Shuffling across the dusty floor, Karmen walked the same path she had many times before. Reaching out, she grabbed the bottle of Fireball, feeling its dust on her fingers. The old floors creaked as she walked to Mr. Jenkins.

Mr. Jenkins paused a moment as he did every week, and scratched his patchy grey beard, “Hmm, that’s usu’ly eight ninety-nine, but seein’ as how yer one a my regl’rs, I’ll give it to ya fer seven ninety-nine.” Karmen smiled and handed him a ten, waiting as he counted back her change. Mr. Jenkins put her bottle in a brown paper sack and held it out to her. Smiling her thanks, she took it and turned, opening the door to be met by cold rain, the bell clanging against the glass. From somewhere in the woods came the cry of an owl. Karmen wrapped her jacket more tightly around her and climbed in her truck, placing her package on the floor in front of the passenger seat.

Her headlights illuminated the falling rain and dark road. Shadows of trees emerged on either side of her as she turned right onto the beaten-up old county road, doing her best to avoid the numerous pot holes. The heater turned the chilly outside air bearable, and Karmen relaxed her grip on the steering wheel. In her peripheral, she caught the old owl tree illuminated by her headlights. She turned her head and squinted her eyes at it. Had the old gnarl become more… pronounced? Was there something sticking out of it? Something seemed different about it, but she shrugged it off and kept driving.

On down the road a ways, she met with the old green mailbox again. Had that bullet hole always been there? She shook her head and kept going, looking forward to getting out of the cold and unwinding by the fire with a glass of Fireball in her hand. She might even work up the nerve to invite her roommate to join her.

A light flickered somewhere up the road, and she cocked her head. She knew there was no other light on this road other than the one back at Mr. Jenkins'. The one that… flickered. Under the lonely light she could just make out the faded rusty sign “Mr. Jenkins' Liquor and Bait”. Almost instinctively she pulled into the parking lot. Looking down she saw that the passenger floorboard was empty, and she could feel her hands begin to shake. She knew she had put her whiskey there… surely she had.

Hopping out, she ran inside. There was Mr. Jenkins who nodded and smiled to her without saying a word. Karmen walked to the shelf at the back and sucked in a breath. There was her bottle of Fireball, sitting at the front just as proud as could be, dust and all. She knew Mr. Jenkins didn’t restock that fast. Her breath came in a ragged hiss as she grabbed the bottle and headed back up to the front.

“Hmm, that’s usu’ly eight ninety-nine, but seein’ as how yer one a my regl’rs, I’ll give it to ya fer seven ninety-nine.” Mr. Jenkins smiled. Karmen backed away, breathing more shallow now.

“Everythang alright Karmen?” concern shadowed Mr. Jenkins' face. Karmen nodded, aware of how tense her shoulders had become. She reached into her pocket to find the ten from earlier, and placed it on the counter.

“K-Keep the c-change.” She managed to whisper before ducking out again, climbing into her truck, and putting her bag on the floor of the passenger seat. The hollow hiss of a barn owl drifted to her ears as she shut the driver’s door behind her.

The headlights held the rain in their dim rays as she turned right onto the road that was made even blacker by the rain. Mist seeped up from the earth and swirled in front of her headlights. Her breathing was coming more shallow now, and sweat began to bead beneath her arms. A foreboding voice inside her warned her not to look, but she had to. She turned and faced the tree, stepping harder on the brake than she meant to when she saw the old gnarl. A brown wing stuck out of it. Not something that looked like a wing- no- a real wing. It flapped about desperately. Karmen choked on a gasp and coughed. The wing stopped flailing. Karmen’s heart raced. She let off the brake and the truck began to roll slowly forward. It rolled on past the green mailbox, and Karmen knew it had not had two bullet holes in it the last time she had passed.

Her blood turned cold as she saw the flickering light, and her whole body shook as the truck seemed to turn itself into Mr. Jenkins' place. She stared out through the window, postponing the inevitable until she finally forced her gaze to the passenger side floorboard, and there it was… one great big nothing. She crumpled into the fetal position there on the seat and rocked herself, breathing hard and fast.

Forcing her breathing to steady, she stepped out of the truck, her feet crunching wet gravel. When the clanging door slammed shut, Mr. Jenkins was where he had always been, behind the counter, nodding at Karmen with the same unconcerned smile he always wore. This time Karmen ran to the back. Her knees gave out and she fought back tears. Ruefully, she grabbed the bottle and took it to the front.

“Hmm, that’s usu’ly eight ninety-nine, but seein’ as how yer one a my regl’rs, I’ll give it to ya fer seven ninety-nine.”

Karmen slammed the ten on the counter, grabbed the bag, and ran out, the hood of her jacket falling and rain pelting her face. Climbing in the truck she twisted open the bottle and took a good long swig, the liquid fire burning her throat. She put the Fireball firmly between her legs and reversed sharply, this time turning left.

The barn owl’s cry echoed in her head.

Karmen eased along the road, crawling by slower and slower until she reached the tree. She didn’t want to look. She tried shutting her eyes as firmly as she could, but she couldn’t help it. It called to her. Turning her head past her shoulder, eyes wide, she saw the flapping wing jutting out of the tree, and now talons thrashing, defying their wooden prison. Air escaped her mouth in a hiss. Her hands were clammy on the steering wheel, and she took another swig of Fireball. Rain splashed against her windshield, but somehow she couldn’t hear it. Only a strange hiss filled her ears.

Nothing remained of the old green mailbox except for the stand and a shell that had been blasted to bits with a shotgun. Karmen turned her gaze forward, her face drawn and blank as a zombie. She took another swallow of Fireball. The flickering light came into view, and her instincts told her to turn into the parking lot, but this time, Karmen kept on driving. Passing Mr. Jenkins' place, she reached for the bottle, but felt nothing but the fabric of her jeans. She looked down and realized the bottle was gone. Shaking, she thought she may puke, and not from the whiskey. An owl’s hoot reverberated in her ears, making her head reel. She took her hands off of the steering wheel and squeezed them to her ears. She screamed, but what emanated from her lips was a hissing screech like that of the barn owl. One of her tires hit a pot hole and her truck tumbled off the road, rolling into the woods, and cascading into the gnarled old oak.

Sirens wailed through the night, disturbing the quiet town. The call had come from Karmen’s roommate, worried when she had not turned up after her typical Saturday evening liquor run. The ambulance stopped when they saw the battered Chevy truck that had plowed into the old tree. Grabbing their flashlights, the paramedics stepped out into the rain.

They squelched through the soggy grass, covering their ears at the scream of an owl. They shone their lights into the truck, but found nothing but an old barn owl perched on top of the roof.