The silver jade 1969 Mustang had been on the side of the Eyre Highway on the Nullarbor Plain for over an hour. The driver still sat behind the wheel, listening to the radio and playing with the turn signal. He pushed the signal down for three clicks, then up for three clicks, then down for three clicks, pause and then repeat. Left for three clicks, right for three clicks, left for three clicks. Tiny Dancer by Elton John started playing on the radio.
The sun was beginning to set over the desert horizon in front of him, and he could see a pair of headlights off in the distance approaching fast. Another pair, moving more slowly, could be seen in his rear view mirror. This was going to be it; he thought to himself with a sigh. It was the end of the line. He reached across the passenger seat, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out the Colt Single Action Army revolver that had been lying inside. He opened the chamber and emptied the shells into his lap. All but two of them had been spent.
He began tossing the empties out the window and listened intently to the dull tinting sound they made as they hit the pavement. That’s when he heard her begin to moan again from the backseat. She has been passed out for a few hours, and it appeared that the morphine was starting to wear off. He looked back up into the rear view mirror to see that the headlights were getting closer much faster than before. He then angled the mirror down so he could see her face.
“I think the bleeding has got worse,” she said as their eyes met.
“Save your strength,” he answered and then looked forward away from her.
He heard her shuffle around a bit, trying to sit up but to no avail. He could tell she was in pain. “Did we run out of petrol?” she asked.
“No. We ran out of gasoline. I keep telling you we don’t call it petrol back home.”
He heard her start to cough and could tell she was in pain. “Don’t worry; when they get here, it should be quick. I’ve only got two shells left,” he told her.
“Two shells?” she asked while coughing again, only this time more violently than earlier. He could hear her choking back some of the blood ebbing up in her throat. “Look, two shells,” she started, “that’s one for you and one for me.”
He turned around and looked at her. She was checking the dressing on her bandages, which were now soaked red with blood. She smiled back up at him sweetly as he began reloading the pistol. Carefree Highway by Gordon Lightfoot came on the radio.
“You should make a run for it. Leave me here.”
“Yeah,” he replied, “that’s not going to happen. I’m not leaving you here.”
“So, do we have a plan?” She asked.
“Well, judging by the rush they’re in, I think that’s Montero in front of us. So that leaves Kneisel coming up behind us, which would make sense considering what I’ve heard about Kneisel.”
“Great,” she coughed back, “but that doesn’t tell me what the plan is.”
He turned back around and looked at her again. “I’ve got two bullets left. That’s one for Montero and one for Kneisel. And as much as you’ve annoyed me on this little adventure, I’m not yet ready to use one of these on you.”
She tried to sit up. “And what if it’s not just Montero behind door number one and Kneisel has brought some friends with her as well?”
He opened the door and stepped outside, then popped his head in through the backseat window. “Well, they’ll all have to stand single file for me no matter how many there are. I’ll be right back. Try not to die yet.” He said with a wink and then disappeared.
“Where are you going?” She yelled with as much strength as she could find. “Hey! Where are you going? Goddamnit!” There was no answer. The yelling had zapped what was left of her strength, and she could feel her eyes starting to close. “No, no, no!” She thought to herself. “Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out…Don’t pass…”
When she came to again, Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard by Paul Simon was playing on the radio. She looked up to see the large blond haired woman staring at her through the open back window. “Hello, Kneisel.”
“Gut ich hatte gehofft, dass Sie tot noch nicht.”
“Yeah,” she answered through a cough, “I still don’t speak German.”
Kneisel opened the door and peered in for a closer look. She peeled back the bandages and smiled. “It appears that your bleeding has slowed but not stopped, dear,” she snickered. “I would love just to stay and watch you finish bleeding out, but I need to know where that Yankee boy toy of yours has gone.”
“Him? Oh, he took off hours ago. He’s probably halfway to Port Augusta by now.”
Kneisel drew back from the car to the outside. “Such a pretty little liar you are,” she sneered. “What do you think, Herr Montero? Is the Yankee gone?”
A thin dark man then appeared in view. He had a large bandage across his face obscuring the third-degree burns he had recently suffered. He puffed on a long black cigarette and then slowly shook his head no. Don’t pull your love (out on me baby) by Hamilton, Joe Frank and Reynolds came on the radio.
She looked down at her bandages. It did not look good. “Are you guys alone?” she asked.
Kneisel laughed, “Yes. We came alone. You are nothing we cannot handle.”
“Ok, look, just do me a favor,” she smiled.
“A dying request? What is it, Frau?”
“Would you mind staying there in single file like you are?”
BLAM!
The End.