Grim Reaper 01 - Embrace the Grim Reaper

hand at the parking lot.
    “Yeah. I know.”
    The bald guy got back off his bike and unstrapped her bag, holding it out to her. “Would’a been fun at the rally.”
    She took her pack. “Yes. Yes, I’m sure it would’ve.” She attempted a smile.
    He sat back down and saluted. “Then good luck, whoever you are. Wherever you’re going.”
    “Thanks. You, too.”
    “Never did get your name,” the other one said.
    “No. No, you didn’t.”
    He shook his head, but any more words were drowned in the starting of their engines. Lifting a hand in farewell, he eased his bike back onto the road, his buddy following.
    Casey watched them go until they were just specks, disappearing into the gray horizon.

Chapter Three
    “Any chance I could hitch a ride for a while?” Casey stood beside the truck, her heart pounding.
    The trucker, clean from his shower, hesitated, his foot on the running board. “Where you goin’?”
    She jerked her chin toward the road. “That way.”
    The trucker pursed his lips, his eyes narrowed. “I’m going down southeast. Ending up in West Virginia.”
    “That’s fine.”
    He shrugged, switching the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other. “Gonna be a few minutes. Need to fill up on gas, check the tires.”
    “That’s fine. I’ll go in and use the ladies’ room.”
    He nodded, and swung himself up into the cab.
    The restroom was a typical one-person affair, smelling of industrial-strength air freshener, with a stack of paper towels sitting on the sink underneath the broken dispenser. Casey locked the door and set the backpack on top of the closed toilet lid. Digging through her bag, she found her brush and yanked it through her hair, ripping through rats’ nests, bringing tears to her eyes. Slipping a ponytail holder off of the brush’s handle, where she kept a collection of them, she pulled her hair back and banded it there, out of her eyes. She should’ve done that before going anywhere on a motorcycle.
    The water from the tap was surprisingly cold, and heated up slowly. When it finally reached lukewarm she splashed it over her face, rubbing her eyes until she saw spots. She finished off with her toothbrush, scrubbing her teeth in circles, the way they taught in elementary school.
    So, not perfect, but better. At least she felt human again.
    The trucker was waiting for her beyond the gas station, chewing on his toothpick and glancing at his watch.
    “Sorry,” she said.
    He lifted his chin in response. “You can stash that—” he gestured to her backpack “—behind your seat.”
    She walked around the front of the cab, freezing when she reached the passenger door, staring at the handle. Months, it had been. Many of them.
    Door buckling, air bag punching her face, the smell of smoke and rubber and oil, the sound of someone screaming…
    “You getting in or not?” The trucker unlatched the door from the inside and pushed it open.
    “Yes. Yes, I’m coming.” Casey took a deep breath. Held it. Climbed up into the cab, shoving her pack into the space behind her seat before strapping herself in. Only then did she let out her breath in a tightly controlled hiss of air.
    Clenching her hands into fists on her lap, she kept her head down, swallowing thickly as the truck pulled into traffic. The air in the cab felt close, and sweat trickled down her scalp as she concentrated on not being sick.
    “You okay?” The trucker squinted at her across the seat.
    “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
    She would be. She would be.
    Several miles down the road she took another deep breath and licked her lips. This was a new day. A new day, with Death sitting in the middle of the bench seat, between her and the driver, looking for all the world like a ride in a semi was boring as hell.
    Casey raised her head and looked out the windshield.
    The road seemed different from where she sat, high above the smaller vehicles, looking down at the drivers’ legs as they passed. Once in a while she saw hands, busy with eating or talking or holding a phone. Sometimes even driving. Every so often she glimpsed a face peering up into the cab before she could turn away.
    The trucker wasn’t talkative. No jokes from him about motorcycling in bad weather. In fact, the only time he spoke was to ask Casey to pull a CD from the glove compartment. A classical one. Beethoven’s Seventh.
    After a few hours they’d passed through many small towns. Seen many courthouses and schools and churches.