A story about forks
|SCREAMS!!! Contest Entry 1/21/20
“Why the fuck did we come to Forks?”
That was a damn good question. I didn’t have a damn good answer.
“For dinner?” I said.
“You mean because it’s too wet and windy to start the stove at the campsite?” he said.
“So what was supposed to be here again?”
“Some Mexican place.”
“What Mexican place?”
“That one,” I pointed at the decrepit orange-walled establishment with darkened, arched, white-brick lined windows. A sign hung in one of them, barely visible through the filthy window in the night. Forks did not have streetlights. It wasn’t that kind of town. It was the kind of town that was dark in the winter.
Closed for the season.
“So… yeah,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Is there anything else here?”
“‘Kay. Back to camp then?”
We drove back to camp, gales off the Pacific nearly blasting the car from the road a couple of times.
We were boondocking on Rialto Beach. Not a good idea in a storm. When we got back to our camp, the tent was gone. Massive waves were crashing into the beach, pulling at the huge driftwood trunks that littered the sand, urging them back into the sea.
“What now?” he said over the squall. Salty spray painted one side of his face. His long, blond hair flared horizontal on the other.
“Hell if I know.”
“I’m really hungry.”
“Fuck! Me too!”
“You already asked that.”
“You didn’t give an answer.”
“‘Cause I don’t have one. Geez.”
“We lost our tent.”
“I fucking know that!”
“Where are we gonna sleep?”
“Both of us?”
“That’s gonna be uncomfortable.”
“Well, what do you want me to do? We don’t have a hell of a lot of choice here.”
I didn’t know how much later it was when I got up. The nights were long here, and my phone was dead. I couldn’t check the time.
I heard snoring over the roar of wind that rocked the car. He was asleep. How the fuck?
I got in the driver’s seat and started the engine. His next snore was punctuated by a wheeze.
I began to drive the winding road back to Port Angeles. I might as well drive now. Sleep was not coming. It might as well be plastered on the back of a milk carton. My eyelids would be droopier in the morning, and my friend didn’t drive.
I could barely see, even driving five miles an hour. Headlights revealed nothing but immediate swirls of whiteness, the fog/headlight equivalent of a hand in front of the eyes.
I slammed the brakes.
I had seen something in the snarling billows. A different sort of white.
I looked over. His eyes were shut. His mouth was open.
I opened the door and stepped around the car.
I saw her. My eyes went wide. She was floating, amorphous. She was a fucking ghost. She saw me with white eyes, flying at me instantly, her speed faster than my comprehension. She passed through me before I knew she had moved. I didn’t even have time to stumble backwards.
I whirled and ran back to the car, slamming the door.
I hit the gas. I needed to get out of here. We needed to get out of here. I watched the speedometer rise and the tires squeal around the next curve. I didn’t care.
I looked over.
He was gone. Where? My gut knew the answer. My foot hovered over the brake, quivering. After a moment's hesitation, I moved it back to the gas and pressed it all the way down, my lips trembling.
Why the fuck did we come to Forks?