Paul Schaff wheeled his big rig off the road and into the lot of Pascal’s Diner. He had been here so many times on his back and forth hauling steel between Pittsburg and Wheeling, West Virginia. He had been driving steel for nearly as many years as he had spent as a green beret between Vietnam, Iraq, and finally mustering out, a non-comm lifer of 20 years. He loved being a green beret and hated the transition to ranger after John Wayne ruined it for everyone. He hated that it sounded like he should be looking after skunks and bears in the woods instead of fighting for America wherever they would send him. Instead, he wound up fighting PTSD and alcohol while spending nights ramming his way through the world in a Peterbilt with steel racked up behind him.
In his training year, he remembered the trainer telling him “if you come over the top of a hill and there is a car broken down ahead of you, push down on the gas. You will kill ‘em, but if you try to stop and slam on the brakes, which will be your instinct, you will kill them, you and maybe others. Those tons of steel won’t stop. It will fly through your cab, kill you, and you and won’t save them either.” Thank God he had never had to face that choice. He had enough nightmares from all his years in petty wars.
He had laid up at the diner for late food and coffee, long haul still ahead. Very few customers in the place, but the food was always good. He remembered the road, every good diner, every cut off where you could catch a few hours without hassle, the good brothels where you could get laid clean with no entanglements. He hated entanglements. He drove these roads often. Winding but not too bad. He liked driving at night, darkness and not as much radio chatter. He could listen to tunes and feel at peace.
“Paul!” came the cooing tones from Tina, the waitress. She of dark curls and great legs from all those years on her feet. How she loved having those feet rubbed, which could lead to all sorts of other stuff.
“Hey, Tina.”
A family occupied one of the booths. A dad, mom, a boy about 10 and twin girls, 6 he guessed. Mom and the kids laughing and having a good time. On the other hand, Dad flinched and glanced furtively at the entry every time the door scrapped open. What was he worried about, Paul wondered? The mother kept the kids entertained. Paul wondered if she was oblivious to whatever worried her husband or just better at concealment. The little girls played peekaboo over the back of the booth seat with him. He played along until the dad shushed them to stop disturbing the man. What an asshole, taking his worry out on them, Paul thought.
The father, beginning to grey at the temples and quite thin on top, clearly a nervous man; twitchy. The father wolfed his food in big bites, concerned he would have time to enjoy it at leisure. Done, he stared at the door, glanced out the window at the parking lot. Paul finished his apple pie and a third, maybe fourth cup of coffee. Tina brought him his filled thermos, dented with the color worn away on the handle.
“You sleeping here tonight, in the truck?” she asked a little inflection of hope in her voice. The back cab of the Peterbilt was roomy and most conducive to the activities she intimated after the diner closed.
“Not tonight, babe. Too far to go. Next time through I’ll stay.
“Travel safe you old dog. I want you to keep that promise.”
“I will.” He added a big tip to the bill, took the receipt, folded it up, sticking it in the leather wallet on a chain from his belt to his back pocket. He went to the rest room to relieve himself and then returned to the table gathering his jacket and thermos. Paul waved at the mom and kids as he walked past, noticing the father paying and trying to hurry his family along. They got done and all walked out the door at the same time.
“Hope the kids being loud didn’t bother you” the man said.
“Not at all. I like the sounds of people having a good time. Drive safe.”
They moved off to a slightly battered old Ford Econoline, blue and clearly packed full. Kids and Mom scrambling in as Dad went to the other side. By then Paul was in the cab of his truck, starting it up, getting ready to head out. After the Econoline pulled out a large old Caddy with fins came squealing in. Two older and cross looking guys piled out looking around. The driver waved at him to roll down his window.
“Hey, you seen a guy in a van? Mighta had a woman and kids with him.
Paul watched the other guy head into the diner. “Can’t say I noticed.”
The passenger ran out yelling something Paul could barely hear about “they just left.” The driver looked over at him, sliding his jacket back, showing a pistol strapped under his arm. “Can’t say I noticed, eh. Don’t think we’ll forget about you, old man.” They jumped into the caddy paused for a few seconds then wheeled out in pursuit. Paul thought the man was right to be worried and pulled out behind. It took awhile to shift up through the gears before he was moving at a good clip. He could see the caddy moving faster and he knew they must be getting close.
The caddy swerved into the inside lane coming up quickly on the van. A hand, arm and pistol popped out of the driver’s window and even at speed he recognized the pop of the large automatic. The van swerved and increased its speed. Paul could just imagine the fear paralyzing those children; that mom. Were they screaming at dad, were they just screaming? Were they being flipped around inside? Had any of them been hit. The driver fired again and Paul could see the rear window shatter. That broke it; he pressed his accelerator down, hauling a couple of thousand pounds of steel made him the powerful force aiming at contact with the slightly moveable object.
He was certain the caddie hadn’t noticed him creeping up behind. Their attention was focused on the back of the van, arm still out the crack of the gun still firing. Paul realized where he was on the highway and the big bend coming up. He increased his speed. As the bend approach he rammed the back of the caddy slamming it through the guard rail and off the macadam. It pitched down the slope. Paul yanked on his steering wheel to keep the truck on the road, slow it down and stop. He could hear the crashes and smashes behind him now. He pulled over and saw the van had stopped, too. He reached under his seat and pulled out a 45, opened his door and climbed down from the truck.
(I have a tendency to leave my short stories with suggestive rather than definitive endings. I could leave it here and be satisfied. OR you could finish it and send it to me (Lifessayist@gmail.com ) and I will post it with both our names. This one is 1200 words, so you have 800 more to wrap it up. I will post a new Write a Finish every month. Join the fun. - guy