A loud hiss sounded as the driver of the bus set the parking brakes. The door opened and the driver hopped out. He wore a red leather jacket and red ball cap, both sporting the same logo that was on the side of the bus; "Falcone Racing". The man took a couple of steps, before halting. His eyes were closed as he took a long draw of breath. He held it. His shoulders rolled back, slowly, as he cracked his neck. First, one way, then the other. He exhaled.
“I tried.” He mumbled as he spun and reentered the bus’s stairwell. He leaped onto the second step, poking his head over the stairway partition.
"I can''t do a goddam thing about I-35 being shut down." The agitated driver yelled. "We were supposed to leave Joplin at six. I sat in this fucking bus for five hours waiting for you to finish partying and chasing tail. It''s three o'' fucking clock in the morning. I AM TOO TIRED TO DRIVE, DOYLE!"
An unexpected projectile whizzed by the driver’s right ear. The sound of shattering glass, and the pleasant scent of barrel-aged whiskey, let the driver know what was thrown at him. Glass shards tinkled and sparkled, as they cascaded down to the stairs. The driver bailed from the open door. Skating over the loose scattering of broken glass, the man stomped away from the bus. He shook the glistening shards from his clothes and stomped both legs, for good measure.
"Fuck you, Doyle. I''m getting a room." He informed the man on the bus. Without looking back, he raised his right hand high, middle finger directed at the bus behind him. It stayed there for a few paces.
As the driver reached the motel lobby, the bus''s unseen occupant came shambling out the door. The mixture of intoxication and loose glass made the stairs a treacherous undertaking. A cacophony of grating glass, legs stomping, and hands flailing rang from the bus. The intact neck of the whiskey bottle tumbled to the asphalt, followed by a few pieces of floating paper. Next, came Doyle, but facing the wrong direction.
His landing was not graceful. His back impacted on the unforgiving parking lot. Instinctively, his head was rolled forward, toward his chest, but both arms and legs were stiff and vertical. The air exploded from his lungs and the world went narrow and his senses retreated. Arms and legs curling in, he rolled to the side. An eternity later, his breath came back.
It took a few moments for him to regain awareness. Doyle tried to get up, but he was still hammered. Jelly arms and noodle legs wobbled. Struggling, he obtained his footing, but still required the side of the bus to keep him vertical.
"Get your sorry ass back here, Jimmy!" Doyle screamed, before snatching the broken whiskey bottle neck and chunking it toward the motel lobby door. "I''m Doyle fucking Falcone. I pay you to do what I say. Stop walking away from me Jimmy."
Doyle pushed himself away from the bus, intending to go after Jimmy. He didn''t make it three steps before he started to stumble. He reached back to steady himself with the bus, but his hand found only air.
For a second time, Doyle tried to get up. His interest in being vertical quickly disintegrated. The asphalt was cold and refreshing.
Being quite drunk and lacking the focus to stay angry at his driver, Doyle quickly found his thoughts shifting upward. The clear sky revealed the full panorama of the night''s stars. Doyle was mesmerized. The calmness eased Doyle''s emotions and the alcohol soothed his thoughts. He was nearly unconscious when he began to feel somebody pulling on his arms. Doyle''s eyes sprang open. Was somebody talking? Was somebody talking to him?
"You''d think they''d make you guys go on a diet. Might squeeze out an extra mile per hour."
Head raising, Doyle jerked his legs back when he discovered a figure standing at his feet. The figure was imposing. He wasn''t very tall, maybe six feet, but he was broad and thick. He carried some extra weight. He had a belly and a soft chest, but Doyle could tell that this man was dense with muscle. He had thick arms and tree-trunk legs.
“Let me get you up.” The stranger offered. “Grounds gotta be freezing!”
The man bent and grabbed Doyle’s hand, trying to pull him to his feet, but he quickly released the hand. The man straightened his back and closed his eyes, trying to hide a full-faced grimace. The man peeled his eyes open. Doyle’s staring was noticed, and the stranger shrugged away his embarrassment. Almost in defiance, he bent and extended Doyle his bear paw of a hand.
"A little help?" the man asked Doyle. “This time…” he added. Rolling onto his knees, Doyle got his feet set and straightened his legs. The return to standing was too swift. His head swished around, while he fought to keep his legs steady. The stranger felt Doyle lean into him. He caught Doyle’s forearm, preventing him from falling back to the ground.
"Thank you. I''m Doyle Falc…"
"Falcone?" The stranger finished for him. "I gathered as much by the giant tour bus with your name all over it."
Doyle never got tired of being reminded that he was a famous NASCAR driver. He let the man walk him over to his bus, and he sat on the bottom step.
"Thanks, mister," Doyle said, flicking a piece of glass from the steps. "I don''t guess dozing off, in the middle of the parking lot, would be a very good idea. There’d be pics and videos all over the internet, by lunch." Doyle joked. He looked up at the stranger, but instead of seeing the man smiling at his self-deprecation, he found the man leaning against the bus. Forehead pressed against the bus, with one hand clenching an empty pill bottle and the other rubbing the back of his head, the stranger kicked a tire. “Gah’dammit,” he muttered.
"Are you ok...Mister?" Doyle asked the man, with genuine concern.
After a moment, the man rolled his back against the bus. Slowly, and with practiced control, he slid down the bus. Once the stranger''s butt reached the ground, he let both legs extend and turned to acknowledge Doyle.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
"I''m fine. Bad back." The man explained.
"Anything I can do for ya?" Doyle offered.
The man shook his head, then answered, "Not unless you know how to get this filled…" He raised the empty pill bottle, "in the middle of the night"…he tossed the bottle to the ground…"in the middle of nowhere."
"What is it?" Doyle asked.
"Cyclobenzaprine, meloxicam, gabapentin...take your pick." The stranger remarked. He noticed the look of confusion on Doyle''s face and elaborated. "One is an anti-seizure med, but I take it to help with the nerve pain. One is an anti-inflammatory, and the last one is a muscle relaxer. Damn car broke down three days ago. There isn''t a pharmacy within thirty miles of here, and I took my last pills yesterday."
"Shit man! So, you''re hurting huh? What the hell happened to your back?
"Drunk driver ran a stop sign. T-boned me."
"Break your back?" Doyle asked the stranger.
"Nope. I didn''t even know I was hurt. Took a bit to notice. A few months later, started feeling stiffness in my back. Over a couple of years, the stiffness became having a hard time bending over and tying my shoes. The pain didn''t start until four years later, or so. Not much at first, but it got worse and worse. And here we are, now. Fusing spine, pinched nerves, muscle spasms, numbness in my legs, chronic back pain, my outer thighs feel like they are burning, and to top it all off, constant migraines and high blood pressure from the constant pain."
The stranger looked at Doyle and felt awkward for over-sharing. He reached his hand toward Doyle and offered him a handshake.
"My name is Barry. Barry Merch."
"Thanks, again, for helping me back to the bus."
Barry took his hand back and nodded at Doyle.
"Now, I don''t have any of those pills for you," Doyle informed Barry as a grin formed on his face. "But I do have some nice bud in the bus. It might help to take the edge off."
"No thanks, not a fan."
"Well, how about some Hydros? Or a fentanyl patch? Don''t know if it will help with the nerve stuff but will work wonders for the pain!"
Doyle stood and motioned for Barry to follow him into the bus. As the two men entered the living quarters, Doyle asked Barry to have a seat on the couch. He grabbed the TV remote and flung it on the cushion next to Barry.
"Be right back. Make yourself at home."
After a few minutes, Doyle returned with a box full of unfinished medications and first aid supplies. He rummaged through the box and produced a bottle and a small box. He shook the bottle, checking to see if it held any pills. He handed the bottle, and the box of fentanyl patches, to Barry.
"Where the hell did you get fentanyl patches from?"
"Same place I got those Hydros. From a doctor." Doyle joked. "Don''t worry, they were prescribed. Don''t you remember when I took that nasty tumble at Daytona a couple of years back? And shattered my leg and sternum?" Judging by Barry''s expression, Doyle knew Barry had no idea what he was talking about.
"Sorry. Not a fan of racing. But my dad never stops talking about it."
"Oh well. You''ll come around." Doyle said, with a wink. "Careful with those patches. They are strong stuff. I only used one and couldn''t feel myself breathing. Freaked me the fuck out."
"Oh, I know” Barry assured. “My grandpa got them after open heart surgery. He said the same thing. I won''t need them." Barry returned the patches to Doyle. "But thanks for the Hydros."
Barry opened the bottle and smiled as he poured a couple into his hand. "Number 10s! Nice." He popped the pills in his mouth and began speaking again. "So, what are you doing in little bitty Tupelo, Oklahoma?"
"Well, we were heading to Dallas…from Joplin."
"You would take Highway 69, how the hell did you end up here?" Barry asked.
Doyle threw his head back and let out a deep, guttural, laugh.
"Well...I may have picked up a fan at my last race, and I decided to drop her off at home." Doyle answered, shyly. "She lived in this place called Ada. Dropped her off and started up 75, back toward Dallas. Fucking Jimmy…um…Jimmy''s my driver. He got tired and wouldn’t drive anymore. So here we are."
Barry smirked at the racecar driver. "Must have been a, really, nice fan, to drive her, all the way, to Ada."
"A, really, REALLY, nice fan" Doyle confirmed.
Both men were laughing when the bus door opened, and Jimmy came running up the stairs. The driver was, obviously, excited; but also surprised at seeing a strange man in the bus. For a fleeting moment, he appeared like he was going to address the stranger but decided against it.
"Doyle, you gotta get your drunk ass out here…QUICK." Jimmy began to turn, but he stopped to look at Barry, again. Jimmy’s mouth opened, but no words came. He was frozen, mouth wide for half of a second. It didn’t take long for him to decide that whatever was going on outside, was more important than who was on the bus. He yelled as he left the bus. "NOW DOYLE. COME ON."
The other two men were a second behind Jimmy. Doyle, expecting trouble, came wobbling out of the bus, still very drunk, carrying a tire iron. Aside from Jimmy, two other people stood outside. Doyle looked around, before turning to Jimmy. "Well, what the hell is going on?" Doyle asked, seeing no obvious need for the tire iron. Jimmy didn''t answer his question. He simply raised his hand and pointed up. Doyle and Barry both followed Jimmy''s gaze toward the stars.
From east to west, as far as the eye could see, the night sky was filled with hundreds of falling objects. They pulsed with yellow light. Some were larger and brighter, while some were feint, almost too dim to see. They made no sound. Barry was reminded of paper lanterns, floating in the wind. They were different. This was not a cluster of falling stars. The objects were not speeding through the sky. All of them were moving linearly. They didn’t bob, they didn’t drift. The glowing objects were falling straight down.
"What the hell are they?" Jimmy asked out loud. "Not a clue" Doyle answered. Barry became aware of a slow strobe of light above his current field of vision. He tilted his head back and an audible gasp escaped him. Barry and Doyle heard the sound, both men turned to see Barry raising his arm and pointing above their heads.
There was a huge glowing orb directly over their heads. The sky was black, and lacking a point of reference, Barry had no idea how high the orb was, but he knew it would eventually reach the ground. His pulse spiked and his stomach knotted. Years of watching war movies, and documentaries about doomsday preppers brought images of bombs being dropped. "Is it bombs?" he asked, voice quivering. Doyle shrugged his shoulders. "Falling too slowly...seems like" Jimmy answered. "Yeah, I guess you''re right" Barry admitted, more to himself than to Jimmy.
"Besides," Jimmy began to explain, "I served two tours in Desert Storm. I''ve seen hundreds of bombs, RPGs, rockets, mortars, you name it. None of them ever glowed like tha…"
A hundred bright lights exploded, simultaneously. The entire night sky turned brighter than the sun. A moment later the resounding booms of countless percussions rang their ears. The percussion, overhead, caused windows to shatter and the ground shook. No more than three seconds had passed before Barry’s eyes recovered from the flash. There were no traces of the things floating in the sky. No sounds, and no lights...anywhere. No traffic droning from the nearby highway. No static whine of the nearby transformers. Barry couldn’t hear any crickets, owls, or coyotes. Only the huffing of his own breathing. It was unnaturally quiet.
It was a new moon and dawn was hours away. In a flash, all the artificial light evaporated, leaving the world unnaturally dark.
"The power is out" Barry announced.