Blue Garbage Bag

A man runs for his life, and questions its worth. wc - 1070

Blue Garbage Bag
By S.P. Johnson Jr.

My heart slammed against my ribs and young branches slapped against the windshield. Wet leaves stuck to the windows as twigs snapped and scratched on the car. Too afraid to keep going and even more afraid to stop, I relaxed my right leg from jamming the accelerator just to ease up a little. The car slowed quickly and I stomped my foot back down. A glance at the tattered forest behind me lasted only or a second, and yet a second too long. My head jerked forward and my left cheekbone struck the steering wheel, forcing my face into a close-eyed grimace. When I opened my eyes, the ground stood like a wall before me. Then the earth slowly floated up over the roof and rested there, rocking slightly. I sat for a moment taking in the dull pain in my face and the sharp pain across my chest and waist, then realized that it was the seatbelt cutting into me, and that I was upside down. A tickling sensation between the dull pain and my hairline told me my cheek was bleeding.

I reached my left hand up and braced myself, and with my right hand I released the seatbelt. I crumple awkwardly onto the roof. My breathing was heavy and I had never felt more exhausted. I've been told that's what panic and fear will do, and that it would be best to control myself and avoid either feeling, but sometimes it just can't be helped.

I situated myself as best as possible to kick the windshield and thrust my feet forward. The cracked glass shattered easily. A brief moment was spared to wonder what would have happened if I had cut my legs on the windshield, but it was shaken off. I had to get moving. Those men couldn't be far behind. I crawled out into the mud, then carefully stood and looked around, listening. The blue garbage bag was laying beside a log that must have been twice as wide as me. The tire tracks led up to the log, and left off in scattered chunks of plastic. Fortunately, the bag was still closed and un-torn. I snatched it up, slung it over my shoulder and headed towards where I thought I heard the creek. That was where I was told to go. Then I had to follow the flow of the creek to the cabin. When I first read the instructions, they sounded simple. There was no mention of anyone who might want to kill me.

My legs were heavy as I stumbled through the woods. I could hardly tell that they were there except for the thorns scratching at my calves. My mind soon became just as numb as the rest of my body, and the only thing I could think of was how I could ever have thought this was worth any money. Ten thousand sounded like a lot in the beginning, but now... there's no way.

My feet became suddenly cold and I realized I was standing in the creek. For a moment, I forgot where I was going and what I was supposed to do. Mens' voices were making their way towards me. I couldn't tell exactly how far away they were, but it couldn't be that far.

The stream flowed to the left of me, so I stepped onto the bank and started to move with it. We struggled together around deadwood and mossy boulders, and the water seemed more determined than I was. It was moving faster, anyway. Like it had a reason to get to the cabin first. Despite the pain throbbing from my every muscle, I started to race the stream. I had no idea what safety the cabin held, but there was some security in the thought of getting there.

Though was running, the voices were getting closer. Did they know where I was going? Were they going to be able to head me off? Or maybe I just thought I was running. Maybe I was jut putting more effort into moving the same speed I had already been going.

The cabin came into view as I rounded a bend and relief rushed into me, encouraging new strength. A few more steps and I was inside the shabby structure. I tripped on the threshold and he garbage bag slid across the dusty floor, stopping against the wall opposite me. I stood up and looked all around. It was just one large empty room, more of an over sized tool shed than a cabin. The relief I felt upon reaching the cabin was gone and dread replaced it. I was completely alone and the men would be here at any moment. I searched for a place to hide but there was nothing other than four walls and the door behind me. I closed it and pushed the rust-eaten bolt over. The wood looked old and rotten and I doubted it would hold against much force, but the lock might give me some time. Time for what, exactly, I was not sure, but a few seconds could be useful. So I stood waiting, too tired to think of any sort of plan that would hold reason. I would just have to wait until they broke down the door, and maybe they would let me live. Or maybe I had given them too much trouble and they would kill me for it. Either way, I had run myself into a bruised and bloodied dead end, so the only remaining option was surrender. The last minutes seemed eternal, and I was impatient for whatever was going to happen next. However, had I known which minutes they were I would have wished for them to really last forever.

The voices shouted from the other side of the door, which held surprisingly well against repeated blows. My legs were shaking badly, so I let them collapse and I fell back against the wall and slid down to sit next to my prized blue bag. Together we listened to the shouting voices and the pounding fists. As I listened, I regretted not having the strength to find out what was in the bag. Someone once asked if I knew what I lived for, because it might be the reason I die. I couldn't think of an answer, and thought it might take dying to know. It would have been nice to know.