Wiley laughed. “You’re joking.”
“No, seriously. It is.”
And he was serious. “Do you know what Hades is?”
“Greek god, or something like that.”
“Well, our departed Christian friends would also refer to Hades as Hell.” Wiley laughed again. This was surreal. Maybe he was in a dream.
“I know, but I’ll stick with the Greek god idea. Anyway, my friend told me the road was named after a local farming family who also made hats. He also mentioned the hell idea and said people confuse Hades with Hell. He reckons they’re two different places. One refers to the grave, the other to eternal punishment.” Bruce gave a quick ‘are you impressed’ look, then leaned forward. “The driveway is coming up.”
“Good to know we’re not in Hades.”
“No, just Hell.”
They turned into a dirt driveway and travelled a short distance to a house. Powerful floodlights lit up the house and driveway. The front part of the roof was covered in solar panels, and the garage at the end of the driveway was sealed off. It had a door and a small window, currently with its curtains closed. There were cars—some abandoned and rusted—parked down the side of the house on the grass, and an old bathtub sat under a large tree. Dogs were barking, held back by a rickety fence.
A chill ran through Wiley’s body.
“Stay here,” Bruce said. “I’ll go and see if he’s home.”
Wiley watched Bruce head towards the door. The front door of the house opened, and a tall bulky man stood there with a rifle. Wiley could hear loud and aggressive voices but couldn’t make out the words. Bruce started walking backwards. One of the dogs jumped the fence and charged at Bruce. Wiley reached behind the driver’s seat and picked up the pistol. It felt foreign.
He placed the pistol on the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door. He had one foot on the ground when he was met with obscenities about getting back in the car. A large rock rested on the ground near his foot. He picked it up, took aim at the dog, and threw it. It hit the ground in front of the dog, bounced a few times, and clipped the dog on the face. The dog paused, its attention now on Wiley.
Crack.
A bullet skimmed the roof of the car.
Wiley dived back into the car. A bullet hit the windscreen, and a crack appeared. He positioned himself under the passenger dashboard.
Thump.
What was that? He slowly moved his head up to peer over the dashboard and jolted back as the dog snarled at the windscreen. He moved up again to look over the dash and saw the back end of the dog as it jumped off the bonnet to go looking for another entry point. Bruce was closer to the car now, but the other dog was charging.
Wiley looked at the pistol and then back at Bruce. He felt trapped. Full of uncertainty.
Bruce had turned towards the car and reached for the door handle.
Their faces locked.
Crack.
The bullet hit Bruce in the shoulder. He twisted with the pain, but still tried to open the door.
Wiley reached over and pushed the door open.
Crack.
A gaping hole appeared in Bruce’s neck. He screamed, a muffled scream affected by his wound. “Go, Wiley. It’s not him. I’m sorry.”
Wiley pushed the door wide open and leant over the door. Bruce lay on the ground, hand on his neck, grimacing.
Crack.
“Go.”
If he stayed, he was dead. Now in the driver’s seat, he started the car and reversed out of the driveway. Before driving off he looked back. His last vision was the dogs and the man standing over Bruce. The man turned and raised the rifle toward Wiley.
Wiley sped away. He drove on, wanting to go back but knew he couldn’t. It was hell back there. The word lawlessness entered his mind. Man of lawlessness. Son of destruction. Where had he heard those words before? He remembered. His dad.
He made his way back to the highway. He needed to pull over before he did something stupid. A rest area came into view. He turned in and searched for a place to park. Once stopped, he opened the door, leaned outside, and puked.
People were looking at him, but he was beyond caring.
“You okay, mister?” Someone said. Raising his head, he looked for the source and saw a young person. He saw himself in that person. His eyes watered up. Life. Where had it gone?
Wiley gestured that he was okay and looked for a tap. He struggled out of the car. Lots of cars. Many people heading … where? … North? … South?
He splashed his face with water and sat back in the car. He looked again at all the people and cars. Desperate people. SUVs packed to the ceiling. Trailers full of furnishings, suitcases. Sadness swept over him, and his tears brought coolness to his cheeks. Weeping, he placed his hands over his face and rested his head on the steering wheel. His tears increased, his sobs echoing in the chamber formed by his hands, his breathing heavy. He raised his head and banged the steering wheel.
Through watery eyes, he looked at the people in the rest area. Male and female. Old and young. He sensed their hopelessness. He saw the young person again, staring at him.
Hope was gone. All hope was gone. Hell had arrived.
God. I’m sorry.
51 - Welcome back
