A Rental Car Takes a Left Down Rake Street and Disappears: Chapter 2

Gravel drove up into Nat’s bare feet as they slammed into the ground. He gripped the top of the door and hauled himself upright. The dark chittered and mumbled, whispering at him and trailing along his arms leaving goosebumps, then with a giggle spoke out loud.

“Nat. Nathaniel.”

“What does he think he’s—”

“Awful, filthy child.”

Oh, God, this had been a mistake. Oh, fuck, he shouldn’t have opened the door. But what else was there to do? Voices howled and whirled from the car behind him. They rushed in to fill the space he’d left. Forward, forward, forward. Nat sucked a breath in through clenched teeth and went forward, plunging into the night, shapes and shadows nipping at his heels.

Had he—had he been in a car? No. Yes. Things were slipping from his brain even as he fought with all his might to hold onto them. Gaudy leopard print steering wheel cover, smeared windscreen from too-old wipers, radio, hazard switch—

In a mumbled monotone, “Better move.”

In a wailing cry, “Stop, stop, stop, out, out, out, out—”

In mocking laughter, “Go!”

Nat pushed himself to run. Pushed through the lashing ache of his muscles, the agony that threatened to send him buckling. Shit, shit, shit. He clearly hadn’t used his legs in forever. He was an easy target out here in the open. He was doomed.

Could he really see them or was just his frenzied mind projecting? Darting figures in the black distance, skittering jubilantly, closing in.

Nat ran. Nat sprinted.

A barrage of worst-case scenarios careened through his mind. Him, captured and strapped down and shrieking while some mad scientist performed excruciating experiments on him. Him, hunted through the wilderness by crazed killers and strung up and disembowelled. His head sawed open. His fingers pulled from their homes. Some alien chip implanted in his brain clicking on in a burst of spiralling electricity, overriding his consciousness and taking over his life and—

Nat laughed despite himself, a maniacal, cackling thing, a breathless, terrified thing, a thing that was almost a sob, at the absurdity of it all. God, would anyone even notice? Was anything really lost? The closest things he had to friends these days were a couple of neighbours he rarely spoke a word to and Diana, the slightly-less-terrible of two managers at work, whose surname he still didn’t know after five years.

If a life was taken over by an implanted alien chip in a forest and no one was around to hear it…

A rock slammed into Nat’s foot. The ground rose to meet him, clattering into his knees first and skinning them through his work pants and clattering further still into his jaw and cheek. Gravel gnawed gleefully up through his flesh and the whole world rang in bright, brilliant noise.

A wail tore out of him. He curled to his side, his hands groping for his injured foot and clasping it against a fierce new pain and a dampness. Bleeding. Stubbed toe. Broken toe? Fuck, he had to move, he had to move—

Something in his middle twitched. Organs spasmed and squirmed. A voice pushed through his head, a different voice, not part of the chorus, not part of the pattern. Guttural and strange, speaking foreign syllables into non-fluent ears. The sound of it tugged at something deep and primal in his gut, an ancient fear centuries in the making.

And then he could see. His vision pierced the night effortlessly, the blackness melting down and settling into a familiar street. The colours were muted and dull, but he could see—every jerk and stab of the gravel, every curling edge of every blade of parched grass, every bristling tree speckled along every rolling hill that lay beyond the mesh fence. He knew this place.

Outer Brayfield Reservoir. There was a thin and winding unnamed dirt road off the edge of Rake Street that led to the southernmost gate, and he drove past it twice every work day.

He was still less than five minutes from Stop ‘N’ Go.

The simple, heart-wrenching realisation that he was this close to familiarity, to civilisation, to—God, whoever was on the night shift when he wasn’t, Vikesh, maybe?—was enough to push him back up, to set him hobbling forward on his mangled foot despite the agony. He was so close. He was so close.

“You better go faster.”

“No, he’s not going to make it.”

“Nathaniel breathes in—”

Nat went faster. He stumbled to the side of the road, hands outstretched, feeling for the mesh that corralled the reservoir. He touched it, grasped it with fingers sliding through, let himself be strung along and guided towards Rake Street proper.

What the fuck was happening to him? That hellish voice, the movement inside him, his vision… his body and brain felt untethered in different ways to usual. Then again, high stress always screwed with his head, and he’d been told people were capable of immense feats when adrenaline really kicked in. Surely perfect, physiologically impossible night vision was a different ballgame to lifting a car off a trapped toddler, though.

Pain snarled through his brain again, this time continuing out into his ears, his cheeks, his nose, down into his mouth. As if on cue, another flurry of incomprehensible words bubbled up, bulging through neural pathways not built to accommodate them. Nat choked on a startled cry but kept staggering on. He clawed at the fence, leaning heavily to keep himself upright.

So close, so close, so close.

Whoever had done this to him, whatever had done this to him—oh, he knew they could see him now. He knew they could hear the ragged gasping of his breath, the erratic pounding of his heart. He knew beyond a shade of doubt that they knew him inside out and intimately—that they were made of the same stuff that wriggled and wrestled inside his veins, that was kneading at his organs, that was rumbling against the insides of his ears. They knew him. They had him. They were him.

By the time he neared the edge of Rake Street, his night vision was beginning to fade. Dark fingered through his hair, trailed nails over the back of his neck. The hum of Rake Street’s streetlights was leaking into his eyes now to make up for it, and he practically sobbed in relief when he stepped from the gravel onto asphalt. His foot felt glowing and swollen. He was afraid to look at it, but if he could just make it back to Stop ‘N’ Go he’d be—he’d be—

Safe? Safe was a stretch.

He’d be no longer alone in this, at the very least.

The familiarity of Rake Street embraced him almost tenderly. The left side of the street and its mesh fences penned in the reservoir while the other yawned open with parklands and sporting facilities. Nat hobbled on, and on, and on, and soon the greenery to his right peeled away from him, dirt and grass giving way to footpaths, kerbs, buildings. Familiar storefronts, their blinds down. They were all empty at this hour, but they peddled some illusion of safety at him, offering it with eager hands, urging him onwards any way they could.

His chest twinged. His stomach flipped. His right wrist jerked, muscles spasming involuntarily. That voice squirmed and thrashed in tongues. His tongue squirmed and thrashed against his will. Nat bit down onto it to hold it still until it subsided.

He let his mind cloud over as he moved; it was the only way he could keep moving. He forced himself numb to the burn in his muscles and his smashed foot. Forced himself detached, indifferent, forced himself brave. So close—

And then he was there. Nat lurched into the car park of Stop ‘N’ Go, lurched against one of the pump stations, dizzy and blurry-eyed. He gave himself just a moment—fuck, he needed just a moment—then pushed himself off and into the final leg of his journey.

Nat half-fell forward against the glass of the night service window, his forehead knocking against the cool translucence all bathed in neon light. His palms thudded to the glass and he choked out what he intended to be a cry for help, though it emerged as barely more than a wheeze.

There didn’t seem to be anyone inside. The lights were on, though, so—

He tapped on the glass, then tapped a little harder. Then crashed a fist against it, rattling it, desperate.

“Hey!” Nat cried out, his voice tearing at his raw throat as he raised it. “Hey! Is anyone there? Vikesh? I need help!”

No response.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen any cars on his way over, either…

“Fuck,” Nat hissed under his breath, his eyes welling with tears. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, f—”

A familiar head popped up on the other side of the glass, bony-cheeked and clad in a bulky knit beanie and headphones.

“Jesus!” Nat jolted back, his heart skipping several beats.

“Shit!” the employee he recognised as Beck yelped, equally surprised by the sight of another living soul. He dropped the refill of serviettes he was holding. His eyes went wide as he took Nat in, the filthy, frantic, shambling thing he was, and then Beck was diving for the phone behind the counter, ripping his headphones free.

“Beck!” Nat squeaked out. He took another hurried step back and raised his hands, palms out, an attempt to appear placating and non-threatening. He swayed a little, weakly, but managed to keep himself upright and conscious. “Beck, it’s just me! It’s Nat! It’s fine!”

Beck’s hand froze at the phone. He edged to the window again and eased his forehead against the glass to get a closer look. Recognition landed on his face an instant later and he wrenched the window open.

“Holy shit,” he said. “Nathan, what the—?”

“Oh, thank God,” Nat gasped. “Beck, I’m in trouble. I’m—my foot is fucked, I ran from the reservoir, I—I don’t know how I got there and I don’t know what’s going on and I—”

“Hold on, I’ll open up!” Beck swung back away from the window. “You better get inside, yeah?”

Nat let out a blubbering noise of relief. Nat could have kissed Beck on the lips. Nat might have, if he’d been close enough to try. He used the wall to prop himself upright as he made his way to the door. Beck was there to meet him, unlatching the lock and holding the way open.

“Thank you,” Nat said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

Fluorescent light swarmed in on him as he limped into the store. His veins jolted. His head pounded.

“Jeeeesus,” Beck exhaled as he saw Nat in full for the first time. He locked the door behind him. “You look like hell.”

Nat managed a few quivering steps before his legs bailed on him at last. He stumbled to a nearby display of tuna tins, reaching for something to break his fall.

Two absurdly muscular arms dug under his own and hauled him to the wall instead. Beck’s golden tan shimmered in the convenience store glow as he helped Nat down and his voice, though jokey, was tinged with worry.

“Marie spent all afternoon stacking those tins,” Beck said. “She’ll kill me if I let you knock them over.”

Nat laughed, which turned into a fit of coughing.

“Where have you been?” Beck asked. “What happened to you?”

“Ugh.” Nat squinted. “Why’s it… why are you here? Doesn’t—doesn’t Vikesh do nights when I don’t?”

“Your nights got shoved on him, yeah,” Beck said. “But after a full week of them, he refused to do any more. Nathan—”

“A full week? I’ve been—” Nat collapsed into more ragged coughs. “I’ve been gone a week?”

“Ten days. Your last shift was the 11th, yeah?” Beck winced sympathetically. Then, “Come on, talk to me.”

Nat ground his teeth. “I don’t know,” he said. “I… was on my way home after that shift Tuesday then I… then I… I don’t know. I was just in the dark like this. Walking. Running. Beck, I think someone—”

His throat burned, refusing to be ignored any longer.

“Can I…” he said. “Can you…” He wheezed and craned forward over himself, his throat feeling like it was going to tear. He jabbed a finger, pointing across the store.

“Water,” Beck said, clambering to his feet and making a beeline for the fridge section. “Right. Of course.”

“Sugar,” Nat croaked. “Please.”

Beck was back a few moments later with a bottle of creaming soda and a packet of plain chips. He barely had time to offer the drink before Nat snatched it from his grasp and twisted the cap off. Nat shoved the bottle to his lips and drank, tilting his head back and draining almost all of it without pause. The carbonation sparked painfully at the inside of his throat but he didn’t care. He was fairly sure he’d never been thirstier in his life.

“Nathan,” Beck said. “This is… messed up. Should I… I’m going to call the police, yeah? And an ambulance.”

Panic unfurled in Nat’s chest all over again; a knee-jerk reaction sent his hand flying out to grab Beck’s wrist, to stop him, to keep him as far away from that phone as possible. No cops. No ambulances. It was a curious kind of panic, one without rhyme or reason, and no thought accompanied it. Pure instinct. Pure adrenaline.

“Nathan?” Beck pressed worriedly, glancing between Nat’s white-knuckled hand round his wrist and Nat’s face.

Nat had no words for him. The panic began to sink downwards again, faltering into common sense. His hold on Beck released and went for the packet of chips instead. He was fairly sure he’d never been hungrier in his life, either.

It's Nathaniel. And after you’ve got that handled, it’s just Nat. Irritation brought the words to the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t say them. He sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Mm. We should… we should cops. Ambos. I don’t feel good.”

Beck nodded, relieved, and bustled off towards the counter again. “Hang tight, Nathan.”

Nat ripped the chips open and crammed several into his mouth. He crunched them viciously. “Nat,” he mumbled around his mouthful, too quiet for Beck to hear.

Alone again by the door, anxiety nibbled at him. Beck was only a few metres away, still visible if Nat twisted, but he wanted Beck close. He wanted Beck within grasping distance. He was vulnerable here. Exposed. Easy pickings.

“I think someone took me, Beck,” Nat said, though he wasn’t sure his co-worker heard. “I think—I feel like I’m being watched, but I’m—”

What? Nat thought bitterly, cutting himself off. Prone to paranoia? Full of patterns? Completely unsure how psychotic I am right now?

Beck was speaking on the phone. His voice was muffled, swimming in and out of focus. So was Nat’s vision.

“It’s the Stop ‘N’ Go on the corner of Whitmore Avenue and Rake Street, Outer Brayfield,” Beck was saying.

“He ran here, he’s all bloody and limping,” Beck was saying.

“He’s—no, yeah. Stressed out, not violent,” Beck was saying. “He’s just Nathan. My co-worker, Nathan Fitch. Good kid. Good kid.”

“Finch,” Nat corrected, still too quiet. Inexplicably, he felt he wanted to cry for completely new reasons. Good kid. Good kid.

He munched on a few more chips to try and keep himself awake, but the floor looked enticing and it would be deliciously easy to tip sideways and lie down. Hungry. Thirsty. Tired. Sore. He wondered how long it would take emergency services to brush his story off as deranged delusional rambling or the tail-end of a bad bender.

Nat, too, wasn’t sure how much of his story to brush off as deranged delusional rambling. Panic and stress tended to climb on top of him bit by bit. Panic and stress tended to twist all kinds of everyday events into all kinds of unnatural, terrifying shapes. No matter how he tried to spin it and even at his lowest, panic and stress had never left him like this before.

“I think his foot is broken. Head looks banged up, too,” Beck was saying.

“Nathan?” Beck was saying. “Hey—”

“Uh, he just went down,” Beck was saying.

Ah, so that was why everything was sideways. Nat couldn’t remember tipping over, but he was in a foetal position on the tiles and sleep was crowding at the edges of his mind. The open bag of chips had spilled its contents out onto the floor.

What a stupid waste, Nat thought, and then he was gone.

Nat didn’t recall much of what happened next.

He dipped to-and-fro from consciousness, and his brief windows of consciousness were almost more dreamlike than his unconsciousness. He recalled voices swirling and clamouring above him, moving from the mouths of EMTs or paramedics or whatevers they were. Calm, urgent. He recalled hands nudging at him, pulling at him, moving him into a different position then a different position again. The inside of the petrol station was too bright, too colourful, too plastic. A little moving diorama display of his life.

Look at this fucking loser. Grimy hair and—

At some stage, he was moved outside. He must have been moved outside, because he recalled the poster advertisement on the window—buy-one-get-one-free meat pies. Vikesh had complained about the stupid thing a while back, about how one corner kept rolling undone. Nat couldn’t place when he’d last crossed paths with Vikesh on a timeline. He could no longer place anything on a timeline.

Ten fucking days?

“It’s because you’re so stingy with the Blu-Tack.” Nat fumbled with the words, listened to them come out of his mouth feet-first and upside-down.

“I’m sorry?” One of the other voices looked down at him.

He looked up, because he was on his back on a stretcher and didn’t have a choice. The night sky was shimmering black cellophane.

“You heard me,” Nat said.

At some point, his vision landed on his injured foot for the first time. Two toes going the wrong way. Odd lump under the skin. Blood and dirt. A protrusion of white that could have been bone.

More words buzzed above him. Dehydrated. Malnourished. Broken. Possible concussion. Shock. Something about being incoherent. Something about drugs that lilted up on the last syllable like a question.

Nat couldn’t recall whether cops had shown up to the scene or not. By the time he thought to try and sit, try and look for them, he was watching the inside roof of the ambulance. Perhaps they’d spoken to him already, Nat reasoned, amid the flurrying commotion. They could have melted right into the same hurricane of lights and voices as the ambulance.

Or perhaps, he’d reasoned next, a burst of social anxiety accompanying the thought, he was supposed to speak to them later. Would they contact him or was he supposed to contact them?

One minute he was in the vehicle, the next he was in a room. One minute he was filthy and bloody, the next he was clean. One minute his foot was there, the next it was hidden from him, wrapped in white. People in scrubs tried to pry a reasonable explanation out of him. Nat’s story sat just behind his teeth, but he was too tired, too muddled, now, to start reeling it out. He was poked, prodded, examined. An IV found its place in his arm.

His body and mind collapsed under their own exhausted weight and he surrendered, with relief, to a black sea swallowing him whole. Nat slept deeply and properly for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

His dreams were filled with lattice-like treetops, pinpricking red light, and the tastes of rot and honey dancing together on his tongue.