The Sole Survivors' Club

Chapter 4

Monica stared at the sidewalk while she walked to the entrance of the diner. Nearing the door, she felt her shoulder freeze. She glanced up and stopped mid-step when she noticed Fred.

As he had the day before, he hung out in front of the entrance, his smirk pulled into a grimace on the side that his cigarette jutted from.

“Look at you,” Fred muttered, though his tone was full of good humor. He raised his hand to pull the cigarette from his lips. “There’s a smile on your face, and unless I’m mistaken, you don’t normally wear blush to work.”

Monica rolled her eyes. “Yes, I called him. We didn’t talk about a cure, though.”

“I wouldn’t ask what went on in your conversation, but I guess it was good for you?”

“Yes.” Monica’s smile fell while she watched him. “I don’t understand what you’re up to by giving out information like this. You’ve never done it before.”

“I had a thought recently, one which shouldn’t be considered groundbreaking. I’ve studied a lot of cases, and although there are a lot of overlapping histories, none of the people affected by this condition have met or even corresponded long distance.”

“But you don’t want a story from that meeting?”

“I wouldn’t belong at the meeting. Think of it as a support group. Everybody has their own group, no matter how mundane their condition. I decided to get you to talk to Carl because I hoped you could open up to him in ways you couldn’t with other people.”

“I...” Monica stopped herself from admitting he was right. “But why?”

Fred regarded her with a look of confusion. “What do you mean?”

“What do you get for your efforts if you’re not looking for—?” Tires screeched beside Monica, and her throat locked.

From their pitch and volume, she knew a rig was jackknifing at a high rate of speed. She knew it was on the highway in front of the diner without needing to look. But even knowing a big crash was coming, she still prayed for it to be a near miss accident.

The cab of the rig was in the fast lane, and by the time she turned to look at the highway, the tanker trailer had slid sideways into the other two lanes of traffic.

A Toyota pickup was stopped in front of the cab. The driver inside the Toyota stared with wide eyes at the oncoming Peterbilt just before it connected. The rig rolled over the bed of the pickup and folded the back of the cab down onto the helpless driver. The roof pushed the side of his head down onto the steering wheel before it sheared away from the cab.

Monica’s eyes were drawn away from the truck to a dark green SUV in the middle lane that attempted a last second effort to swerve toward the shoulder and avoid the tanker trailer. The wheels of the SUV lost traction, and it spun sideways.

Monica leaned her head, expecting the SUV to flip. The body rocked onto the side, and the vehicle hopped once on the edge of the wheels before it began an airborne roll. It was almost through a complete turn without touching the ground when the underside slammed into the back end of the tanker.

Monica wheezed, the air knocked from her when Fred closed his arms around her waist and tackled her to the ground. She was able to put her arms in front of her face, but the force of her landing still jarred her senses.

Then the tank exploded, and a roar filled the air before the volume of the blast stole Monica’s hearing. Covering her head with her arms, Monica shut her eyes and screamed.

The air around her thumped again, and glass pelted her back and legs. Fred spasmed, and then his grip around her waist went limp.

She opened her eyes, wondering why the pavement under her face seemed so dark. Raising her head, she saw an inverted truck tailgate in front of her. Bright yellow light seeped in through the slender gap between the bed and the pavement.