This is from Ivan's Perspective
The world's weight seemed to press down on my shoulders, constricting my lungs as I shuffled along the highway. My gaze locked onto the distant sign of the truck stop, staring at it with every blink of my eyes from all the smoke and sweat. It was a beacon in the ocean of chaos. It showed me exactly where to go. After what felt like forever, it didn't come any closer. The stupid sign was mocking me! It just kept remaining just out of reach no matter how much I pushed myself forward.
I sighed deep in frustration and instantly coughed in pain from the smoke going deep in my lungs again. The sound was lost in the vast emptiness around me, echoing off the sound wall and empty cars. The sign seemed frozen in the distance, a cruel illusion that made it seem like I wasn't making any progress.
I looked down, bent and trying to steady my breathing while staring at the gritty asphalt beneath my boots. They were getting their first real workout, too. After a minute or two, I shuffled forward, each step kicking up a small cloud of dust. I focused on the rhythmic shuffle of my boots against the black asphalt. With my breathing steadying, I lifted my head and froze in my tracks. The sign seemed closer.
I guess Aunty was right: stop looking at the pot, its shy and won't boil.
Looking back down, I focused on breathing and stepping for another minute. Feeling anxious, I risked a glance, half expecting the sign to have moved backward. But no, I was making progress now. Out of nowhere, I felt a surge of energy and power in my legs, turning my shuffles into full strides as I stared down and counted the pebbles to occupy my mind.
After about fifteen to twenty of these "time skips," the truck stop was no longer a distant mirage but a tangible destination within my reach. I found myself standing at the top of the off-ramp that led down to the truck stop. Seeing it in person, it looked just as dirty and gritty as I remembered it. I remembered every reason I never stopped by here. I paused, debating if I wanted to go to the place I had developed a unique disdain for over my years on the road.
My stomach growled, and a cramp in my leg was all the argument I needed to make my way down the ramp and to the truck stop.
The walk down the ramp was a battle in itself. Each step sent a jolt of pain through my worn-out legs. The injury also reminded me of the few miles I had already covered. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to keep moving.
I really need to get in shape... that's not round...
As I neared the bottom of the ramp, I could look around the street. Several cars were scattered around the pump area, their doors ajar and engines silent. One of them, a family-style wagon, stood out with a bike rack strapped to its roof.
I glanced up and down the cross streets, my eyes squinting against the thickening smoke. The intersection was a graveyard of abandoned cars, their occupants nowhere to be seen. It was eerily quiet. I live in the sticks, but this kind of quiet is eerie. Even the gunshots haven't been heard for a long time now.
The smoke was getting thicker, filling the air with a harsh, acrid scent that made my eyes water and throat itch. I checked my shirt to ensure it was still over my nose, trying to filter out the worst of it, but it was futile.
With a shallow sigh, I pressed on, my eyes fixed on the truck stop ahead. I was on guard, looking for something that felt or looked out of place. Fortunately, everything was still.
The dingy place I had once loathed now seemed like an oasis. I wanted to run for the shelter it offered, for a chance to rest my aching legs and catch my breath. But this horse had no strength to run faster to the stable. I just hobbled along. One foot in front of the other.
The simple act of stepping up onto the sidewalk felt like climbing a mountain. My aching legs protested, sending a sharp jolt of pain through my body that made me yelp. The sound echoed off the silent buildings and cars, a blunt reminder of my solitude.
After a few seconds of calming and coercing my body, I started walking again.
The cars at the pump station looked almost normal from this distance. The only strange things were the ajar doors and open windows. It was a scene straight out of a movie, the kind where everyone suddenly vanished, leaving their lives and belongings behind.
With a deep breath, I shoved my own thoughts and emotions out of my mind. No need to scare myself more than was needed. As I neared the family-style wagon, I noticed something that made my heart sink - people were sitting inside. My initial disappointment was quickly replaced by a sense of dread. If there were people here, why were they not inside? Why was everything so quiet? And were these the kind to be violent without authorities?
I took a few steps further from the car and scanned the doors of the truck stop, looking for any sign of life. But there was nothing. There was no movement, no sound, nothing but the oppressive silence and the thickening smoke in the air.
Confused, I glanced back at the occupants of the family-style wagon. It took me a moment to realize what I was seeing. The occupants weren't just sitting there - they were dead. Bullet wounds marred their faces, blood splattered, meat hanging out with a few insects finding the meal, a gruesome testament to their violent end.
My body froze as my mind raced with images of my dead parents and cousin. Shot dead to make a point. My hands went numb, my legs burnt, and my ears began to ring from the blood rushing around my body, preparing me for a flight response as I clawed desperately to rip the memories from my mind's eye.
I recoiled, stumbling backward as the reality of the situation hit me, my legs tripping over one another. The windows of the car weren't open - they were shattered, shards of glass littering the ground and the bodies of the unfortunate victims.
"This isn't my family...this isn't my family...this isn't my family..." I just kept repeating in a hushed breath as I clutched my chest and stared at the bodies, unable to force myself to not stare.
The harsh, metallic sound of a shotgun pump racking a shell snapped me out of my daze. The sound echoed through the empty gas station, snapping me to reality and dissolving my memories into mist. Without thinking, I scrambled for cover behind a nearby pump, my heart pounding in my chest.
"You better not be here to steal! It won't go good for you!" a gruff voice yelled.
Confusion swirled in my mind. "I'm not here to rob anyone!" I shouted back, my voice echoing off the deserted buildings. "I'm just trying to take a break!"
The voice responded with skepticism. "Oh yeah? And what's your proof?" I thought I heard a chuckle.
Frantically, I dug into my pocket for my wallet. My fingers closed around a crisp $50 bill. "I have cash!" I called out, holding the bill out from behind the pump. I prayed that the man had enough firearm discipline not to shoot my hand off.
"Slowly, step out from behind the pump!" the voice ordered.
"Okay, don't shoot," I replied, my voice trembling slightly. I raised both hands, wallet in one and the $50 bill in the other. I put my hands out of cover for a few seconds before carefully slithered from behind the pump, slowly revealing myself.
The door to the truck stop was slightly ajar, and an older man stood in the opening. He was clutching a shotgun, its barrel pointed directly at me. His body was mostly hidden behind the glass door, a clear sign that he was ready to duck for cover at the first sign of trouble.
Not before he would pull the finger that was resting inside the trigger guard.
The tense standoff seemed to stretch on for an infinite few seconds. Finally, the man moved his finger from the trigger guard, a small but significant gesture. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice gruffer still.
"My truck broke down a few miles back," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm looking for somewhere to rest and maybe get some food." I didn't dare to lower my hands.
"No funny business, cash only, and no change," he said, gesturing for me to approach with his shotgun. His tone left no room for negotiation.
I didn't move, glancing at the shotgun still pointed in my direction. "You mind putting the killer pipe down?" I asked with a forced laugh and tense smile, trying to inject a bit of humor into the tense situation.
"I do," he replied flatly, not lowering the gun or getting my humor.
My stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, an annoying reminder of my hunger. With a resigned sigh, I started walking towards the man, my hands still raised in surrender. The shirt on my face slipped, exposing my nose. The smoke started tickling, but I didn't lower my hands to fix it.
As I approached, he began to speak. "Last night, a bunch of hooligans tried to raid and loot the store. They shot the folks in the car over there. They tried breaking in but scattered when the clerk fired a shot. This gun is my polite way of telling you I don't want to hurt you, but I have no problem killing you if I have to. Do we have an understanding?" His voice was flat, emotional, and cold. He could be my phone assistant reading the weather with how little emotion he put into what he said.
I glanced at the car, seeing the dead bodies, a stark reminder of the danger we were all in. Swallowing hard, I turned back to the man and nodded. "Yes, sir," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. I had to keep my mind focused on the present, pushing away the memories that threatened to overwhelm me.
As I neared the entrance, the man stepped out from behind the glass door, holding it open for me. I muttered a quick "thank you," lowering my hands and tucking the bill into my wallet. The tension in the air seemed to lessen slightly, but I was still acutely aware of the shotgun in his hands.
As I walked into the store, I started telling him my story. I spoke of the night's events. My voice echoed in the quiet store. It was eerie without the hum of the refrigerators.
I walked over to the cold section, picking out a sports drink, sandwich meat, sliced cheese, and bread. Truck stop food was universal, after all. I also grabbed a cup of coffee. It was cold but still coffee, and I welcomed the familiar taste of my caffeine addiction.
The man followed me to the dining table area, his shoes echoing on the tiled floor. He had stopped pointing the gun at me at some point, but I couldn't say exactly when. He pulled out a tall chair and sat down, his eyes never leaving me.
I placed my bags on one of the chairs by the window and sat at another table. I muttered a quick prayer of thanks for the food, then started making my sandwich. The man watched me in silence, his shotgun resting atop the table.
Contrary to what I had hoped, the food and coffee didn't invigorate me. Instead, it had the opposite effect, sapping my last bit of energy. My body felt like one giant pulled muscle, aching from my toes to the top of my head. The adrenaline that had been fueling me was wearing off and fast, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made my eyelids heavy.
I finished my sandwich, the taste of the cold meat and cheese a welcome distraction from the pain. As I chewed the last bite, I looked up at the proprietor. "Do you mind if I rest here and maybe hang out until the power comes back on?" I asked, my voice almost pleading. "That way, I can call a tow my truck and hitch a ride home."
The man smirked, extending his hand toward me. "Payment for the food," he said, his voice gruff with a tinge of a smile.
I fished out the $50 bill from my wallet with disobedient hands. My brain was too tired to do the math. "Here," I said, holding the bill in his outstretched hand.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "I told you no change. Or did you forget?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
I managed a tired smile. "I didn't forget," I replied. "But I'm sure I'm over $20 and under $50, so this fits."
He chuckled, his grip tightening around the bill. I didn't let go, waiting for his response. After a moment, he nodded. "Yeah, you can rest in the lounge. Let's hope the power comes back soon."
I let go of the bill, relief washing over me. "Many thanks, good sir," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, as I pushed the last bit of breath out of my lungs.
Summoning the last dregs of my strength, I pushed myself up to a standing position. My body felt like a lead weight, each muscle protesting the effort. I tucked my wallet back into my pocket.
With a grunt, I hoisted my bags onto my shoulder. They felt heavier than before. But I ignored the discomfort, focusing instead on following the man to the lounge. He walked ahead, his shotgun now pointed harmlessly at the ground.
The lounge was a darkened sanctuary, the only light seeping in from the doorway that led back to the main part of the store. I squinted, trying to make out the shapes in the dim light. I could just discern the outline of a lounge chair, its plush cushions promising a much-needed respite.
Relief washed over me as I shuffled over to the chair. I dropped my bags behind it, the thud they made on the floor echoing in the quiet room. Then, with a sigh from the depths of my soul, I sank into the chair. The cushions seemed to envelop me, offering a comforting embrace to my weary body.
My eyelids shut as soon as my legs were propped up by the footrest. My brain giving in to the overwhelming pull of sleep.