She closed her eyes and tears streamed down her face. The boy walked inside the bathroom with her and shut the door.

Then they heard the front door kicked—once, then twice, and on the third blow the frame exploded, and the door slammed inward against the wall. Then footsteps.

The woman held her face in her hands and sobbed. The boy stood next to her, expressionless, waiting.

looked at her with sympathy and said, “I thought you were smarter than this Kate, I really did. You were a good girl. Everything would have been good for you. You were set. But then you had to pull something like this. I mean, what were you thinking? Did you really think you were gonna get away?” He paused and drew a black handgun from his belt. “You **** up real bad, girlie. Real bad.”

        Traffic was bad, and getting worse. The orange California sun loomed in the west, blazing towards the end of its workday. In an hour or so it would be relieved by a slit moon and darkness would blanket the world. Jack Miller tried hard to fight off the budding frustration of five o’clock traffic. Perfect, he thought, looking down three endless rows of cars, trucks, vans, and SUVs. He sat restlessly in his seat. He tapped the steering wheel, fiddled with the radio, leaned his seat back, then leaned it forward again. Aggravation simmered like hot oil. Traffic moved a bit, then stopped. A little more, then stopped. Bitterly, he noticed that commuters across the median were moving steadily. Northbound traffic was flowing smoothly, while his three lanes condensed more and more. Resentment rose for a split-second then died away. All he could do was sigh and stare absently at the truck in front of him, waiting for movement, waiting for the brake lights to come off so they could move another yard and then stop again. Then another yard, then stop again. Then another yard, then stop again. Then another yard—           

I can’t take this ****.           

Jack gripped the steering wheel and squeezed until his hands were white. He wanted to scream. In his mind he was already screaming. In his mind he had already punched the gas and slammed his Toyota into the back of the Ford truck with its taunting brake lights and move-a-yard-n-stop ****. And after ramming into the truck he held the gas down as his tires screeched and smoked and howled and metal tore into metal and glass shattered and he screamed like a madman amongst the noise and disarray and confusion and chaos and—           

Honking now, from behind him. He blinked and the image of chaos had been replaced by fifteen yards of empty road. The Ford had moved up and the cars behind him were letting him know. He chuckled at himself as he moved his car forward. I’m going crazy. He chuckled again. Maybe he was going crazy. Maybe life had finally caught up with him; hunted him down like wounded prey. But he wasn’t wounded, was he? At least not bad enough to leave a trail of blood through the forest. No, any wounds he’d had were closed and healed, with fading scars. Things were good now. In fact, things couldn’t be going better—relatively speaking. He was at the height of his life. Financially he was better than stable, and he was still young and in good health. He had found happiness in his life once more. “I am happy,” he said aloud. But somehow he wasn’t convinced.

He’d known love once.

The thought pounced on him and his stomach curled viciously under its weight, like it had a million times before. He glanced at the photo on his dash and his thoughts of happiness crumbled away. He was suddenly filled with an emptiness that defies words. Grief and sadness poured over him like thick molasses. Who was he kidding? He had wounds, alright. Deep wounds that festered through time, just beneath the skin. He looked at the picture again. It was a picture of everything that had meant something to him in this world. It was a clipping from a past life, a life that was lost now; stolen from him. In that life he had been complete, and now, sitting in traffic on Interstate 5, he wondered if he’d ever be complete again. He felt so empty, now more than ever, so alone. He closed his eyes and remembered her. Her face, her laugh, her touch. He draped his thoughts over what was, what could have been—what would have been. She would be with him now, making small talk as they sat together in traffic; or asleep, curled up on the passenger seat. Their daughter would be in the back, getting antsy from the long drive. Her birthday would be coming up soon—next month sometime. She’d be ten years old and starting a new grade in school. Fourth grade? Sounds about right—

More honking from behind.

As he drove forward he tried to shake the poignant nostalgia that was forever etched into his soul. Emotion swelled and churned in his mind; sorrow, regret, anger—rage. And all the time the maddening sequence of traffic continued. He drove forward and stopped. Two yards, stop. Another yard, stop. Four yards—anger—stop. Three more yards—boiling anger, regret—stop. Six yards—despair, anger, hate—stop.  Hate. Revenge. Murder—stop. Stop now.

He felt himself breaking and he tried to breathe. His mind was spinning. Control… breathe… settle. Control…breath…settle. He took a deep breath, and when he exhaled he noticed something which distracted him—a dog. It was a good sized dog, with brown, tousled fur. Its tail was perched high in the air and swaying gently as it trotted down the dirt median of I-5. Cars soared by less than ten feet away, moving fast (at least, northbound traffic was, southbound was frozen). That suckers’ got some balls on it, alright, Jack thought, momentarily forgetting his grief. It seemed so worriless and content. Truly unshaken by life’s cruel predicaments. It carried itself with confidence, and with honor. It looked like a good dog, probably had a good name once. Something cliché like Fido or Buddy or Rex. Rex the dog. Man’s best friend, abandoned and alone on a busy highway—a true portrait of American ideology; survival of the fittest.  Let the weak die and the strong endure. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Rex my friend, and you didn’t make the cut. Tough luck—don’t let the door hit you on the way out. And right then, as if triggered by these thoughts, Rex bolted into Northbound traffic and to his death. He dashed in, then immediately realized his mistake and tried to turn back. But as he did he was met by a blue Jeep 4x4 that smacked into the top rear half of his body. It sounded a sharp yip, and was tossed, spinning violently across the median, almost into the locked southbound traffic. Rex the dog lay mangled on the side of the road. Its left front paw jerked up and down, clawing at the air, beckoning death. Its head moved back and forth and its mouth opened and closed ominously, staring with blank eyes. Its back legs and torso were twisted and broken and crushed beyond recognition. Bone was exposed and jutting from the skin, covered by blood-soaked fur. And as Jack drove by, he watched its life melt away. He watched until the twitching stopped and Rex the dog was no more. He watched until it was only a pile of warm flesh in his rear view mirror. Rex the dog in his final splendor; stabbed in the back by his best friend. Killed and left to rot on Interstate 5.     

A few hours later Jack checked into a Travelodge Hotel in Fresno. He left most his belongings in the car and went straight to his room. The image of Rex the dog had stayed fresh in his mind, which was probably good, for it keep him clear of more malevolent thoughts; his own dark history. The long drive had exhausted him, and tomorrow there would be another long drive to exhaust him more. He took off his pants and shirt and laid down in his boxers. It was almost eleven. Morning will come too soon, was his last thought before slumber took him.

Sleep was crude that night. Jack dreamt that he was in grade school, walking down the hallway to the principals office. He was in trouble, but he didn’t know why (although in his dream that question never surfaced). All he knew was that he was busted, caught for whatever crime he had committed, and he was walking the hallway to his doom. As he drew near to the etched glass door at the end of the hall his stomach became tight and an overwhelming fear was staked into his chest. But without hesitation he opened the door. Inside he was struck with something like a deep, black anxiety; a helpless surge of terror only produced in nightmares. On the office floor there was a baby, crying. And atop the crying there was some kind of a wet, grinding, chewing, gurgling noise; a heavy, penetrating sound that revoked sanity. And soaking in the noise was a smell that was like death. He grabbed the baby, but as he picked it up the body went limp and its head slumped back and Jack knew that it was dead. He dropped it and the body burst on the floor like a rotten pumpkin. Then the gurgles and grinding and chewing got louder and the rancid smell became unbearable. He stepped back from the splattered baby and noticed something behind the desk. Legs. And the origin of the noise and smell became clear when he saw it. His body froze with horror. It was Rex the dog, and its snout was digging into the stomach of a woman who laid dead. Gurgling, grinding, chewing on bone and flesh and blood. Her midsection was destroyed and gaping. The dogs head thrashed, splashing blood. Its paws ripped at her flesh as it devoured her.And suddenly, the walls and floor and he himself were saturated in blood. The noise exploded in his ears and in the peak of his most concrete terror he saw that it was her. Hysteria engulfed him until he was awake and sitting up in bed. Sweat ran down his face and chest and back, and for a split second he thought he was still covered in blood. Reality slowly began pump back into his mind and body. The clock said four-forty am. He tried to lay back down, but sleep would not be had.

The water from the kitchen sink tasted bad, but he drank a whole glass and then filled it again. He took a deep breathe and tired not to concentrate on the lurid images he’d just woken up from. He thought about just leaving right then. He wasn’t going to get anymore sleep, so why not get an early start on the road? But instead he simply laid back in the bed and turned on the television. Channel 1: nonsense. Channel 2: nonsense. Channel 3: more nonsense. Infomercials monopolized the early morning broadcast. They sold anything and everything: grills, phones, books, pills, workout machines, weight-loss programs—and for only five easy payments of $49.95! And call now and get the second one free! What a steal!He wondered what kind of people actually bought **** like this at four forty-five in the morning. He imagined an old woman, sitting in front of her TV, a phone in one hand, credit card in the other, waiting for the next limited time offer. We are a land of consumption, aren’t we? We are capitalists  and we pay good money for worthless ****. And we’re damn proud of that. God bless America. Right then he heard the noise and muted the TV. Three loud thuds, the third one being the loudest. It sounded close, but not too close, and he couldn’t really figure out what it was. He waited for a moment, silently, his ears primed for the next unfamiliar sound. But there wasn’t one, and so he disregarded it and turned the TV back up. Slowly, his thoughts began to tip-toe back to his dream, and to Rex the dog, and to her. She was so beautiful. So beautiful and perfect and wonderful. She had made him so happy—they were happy. Reflections of a past life rippled across his mind. Then depression, like instant coffee, filtered through him, and the bad thoughts came. Unsolicited and redundant they bombarded him. That night, that fateful **** night. Gunshots, darkness, blood, screams—her screams. The screams that haunted him, that followed him everywhere like an evil record player, eternally skipping in his mind. His throat became tight and a numbness wavered in his lips and mouth. She was gone forever. Tears, now, reluctant. Forever. Both of them. Gone. Forever. Jack rolled over in his bed, buried his face in the pillow, and cried.              

It took Sam three kicks to break down the door. His partner, Mike, waited outside. Sam walked into the small hotel room and went straight to the bathroom. He opened the door and they were both there. The woman looked up at him through tear-soaked eyes. Her face was red, her skin tattered and chapped from crying. The boy’s face was plain, as usual—no expression.            

“Hello, Kate.” She was terrified, and had ever right to be. She looked like an injured bird, scared and helpless. Glaring down on her he felt sympathy, but tried to ignore it. As he spoke he watched her body jerk and tremble, and when he pulled out the gun her fear peaked. But he had no intention of killing her, at least not here, in the bathroom of a Travelodge hotel room. Instead, he stood her up and took her and the boy into the other room, and said, “Get your things. We’re going, now.”

She looked at him, her tears subsiding, and said, “Where? Where are we going?” But he didn’t reply, and he didn’t have to. She knew where they were going. “He’s going to kill me, isn’t he? Both of us.” 

Sam looked at her for a long moment. “Just get your things. Lets go.” He glanced at the clock. It was almost five—it would be light soon. Putting the gun back in his belt, he walked to the window and cracked the blinds. Mike was sitting in the car just out front. He could see the orange tip of his cigeratte glowing behind the windshield. He wondered if Howard was really going kill the boy. And Kate, for that matter. Things had gone way bad, worse than anyone had wanted. Things were never supposed to work out like this—           

Kate swung as hard as she could, slamming the metal lamp into the back of Sam’s head. It sounded a disturbing thump when it connected and Sam dropped to the floor.

“Nicholas! Let’s go, hurry!” She frantically grabbed the boy and ran to the patio door. Outside she lifted him over the short wall and they ran. They ran fast, faster than Kate ever thought she could run. She couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but run, hypnotized by the smacking of her bare feet against the pavement, almost in perfect sequence with her pounding heart. Her hand was fastened around Nicholas’s tiny fingers, locked so tightly that his hand would be bruised, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered at all except escape. She didn’t know what to do or where to go. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered now was escape. Nothing else mattered.