My Little Desert Oasis
Ten years ago, it came and unleashed hell upon my little desert oasis. When I finally confronted it—striking a deal that would end its reign of terror—the missing had reached twenty-two. It may not seem like a lot, but for us that was nearly a quarter of our population which meant everyone either knew someone or loved someone now gone. With the remaining survivor’s great exodus, everyone is gone to me, loved or not.
I park my beat-up junker—a 1972 Ford Pinto in rusted-orange, though the rust is a fairly new addition—on the shoulder of Highway 6 at the outskirts of town. Both windows are rolled down to allow the wind—hot as hell itself—to flow through the car and across my exposed arms and shoulders. The sweat rolling down the crease in my back lets me know I ain’t dead yet, and with any luck, I won’t be dead anytime soon. I watch as the breeze picks up sand and dried brush, tumbleweeds forming in real time all around me. They dance across the open vistas on their way to an eventual meeting point, where they will stack in piles. And then, when the fires roll through—and the fires will come, we are past the point of stopping those now—they will burn, and their particles will return to the ground to start the cycle over again.
Aside from the sun, the sand, and the weeds, there is only one other fixture that catches my eye out here among the dunes. Its singular metal support beam ricochets the sun’s rays directly toward my eyes and I have to use my hand to shelter them from further damage. On top of the beam, sits a three-sided enclosure made of clear plexiglass. Ten years of the sun’s exposure will strip the color of almost anything, but I fondly remember the blue it had when it first sprang up from the ground like a weed with an evasive root.
I check my watch; the hands spin endlessly in circles. If I stare though, I can tell the time. Nothing works the way it should anymore, not since it came, not since it devoured my little desert oasis. A minute later and the phone from hell begins to emit a shrill ring that echoes across the desert landscape. Every day, at high-noon, I’ve waited here in this exact spot for it to reach out to me. It’s the only connection to something other than myself that I have left. It has kept me sane this long, but I think the time has come for me to spread my wings.
I’ve tried to leave before now. I let my feet carry me into open sand until I collapsed with exhaustion only to wake up alone on my sweat-soaked mattress that sits on the floor of my small house with only three walls. Once, when the phone rang, I ignored it, hoping the phone could be tricked into believing that death had taken me. But it didn’t stop ringing, ringing, ringing and eventually—to protect my sanity—I had to answer to make it stop. I’ve got one idea left; to amend the original deal I made ten years ago.
I open my door and climb out of my little rust-orange death trap—or what many labeled the Pinto in its heyday. I stretch out with my hands first on my lower back and then on my hips as I lean side to side. There is no rush to answer. The one who awaits me on the other line isn’t going anywhere and I ain’t (can’t) either. I begin to make my way to the phone—my snakeskin boots kicking dirt clouds into the air. Two rattlers dodge my steps as they scurry by, afraid that they might be fashioned into my next pair. I pick up the phone.
“Hello?” I say.
On the other end, the sound of ocean waves crashing against rocks greets me as it always does. The first day I answered the phone, I thought the waves were static. But shortly after I made the original deal, I began to see visions of what lies on the other side. Now, I am in a condo along the Pacific coast, and I see and hear the waves crashing from my open window. The smell of salt hangs in the air so thick I can taste it every time I inhale. The sea breeze blowing my hair and shirt askew. I look happy, healthy, and free.
“Hello,” it says.
“I’ve come to amend the deal, I want out,” I say.
“The terms of the deal are this . . .” it says.
“I accept,” I say without hesitation because I am prepared to sacrifice anyone or anything to earn my one-way ticket out from my little desert oasis. A smile crosses my face as I hang up the phone. I make my way back to the Pinto. It’s time to return to town and prepare for the performance of my life . . . for my life.
Sixty-one minutes later I sit in the cabin of the Pinto, picking at the cloth liner of the roof, meticulously removing pieces of foam insert. It crumbles between my fingers. I watch the cracked pavement; trembling heat waves rise from the tar as the sweltering afternoon sun beats down on it. A bluish-gray Subaru Outback with out-of-state license plates—at least thirty years newer than the piece of shit I currently sit in—rumbles down the cracked highway filled with potholes that I stopped patching about five years back. Four faces search for any sign of life from behind their windows: a mother, a father, and teenage twin sisters.
I step out of the car and walk toward the gas pumps, an old mechanic’s jumpsuit covering my ripped white tank and matted khaki shorts. A name is stitched in red on my left breast, it reads Charlie though that is not my name. It’ll do. I begin to wave my arm, high in the air, flagging down this group of lost and innocent travelers. At first, I think they might miss me, but I jog up next to them causing the red of their break lights to illuminate the secret impostor that I am. I approach the driver’s window.
A bald man—cheeks looking as if a squirrel has saved their winter’s feast within them—smiles up at me as the automatic window comes to a grinding halt a third of the way down. “Hello”—he reads my uniform—“Charlie. We are lost and dangerously low on fuel. Do you happen to have any?”
I nod and point to the pumps on the other side of the car, the area from which I came a moment ago. “Yes, I can help. Pull in here.”
A collective sigh of relief escapes the open window as does the scent of old fast-food wrappers. The car turns into the gas station that ran dry years ago, but I don’t tell them that. Instead, as soon as they stop near the pump, I pick up the last of my red gas canisters—lid still in place—and place it on the lips of the thirsty Subaru. Not a splash of fuel enters the car’s awaiting stomach, but they don’t check my handiwork. When the gas runs out just outside of town, the phone will be their only choice.
“Did you put any fuel in?” the man asks as I approach the window a few moments later. “My gauge still shows empty.”
“Technology can’t be trusted here,” I say and reach inside to tap the digital gas meter. “That’s how you ended up here in the first place isn’t it? A lot of lost travelers come through here when their GPS units and cellphones stop working. I wouldn’t worry what the gauge says, you saw me pour the gas.”
The man exchanges nervous looks with his wife but with no options left he nods. “Huh, you’re right, our GPS did stop working. What’s wrong with this place?”
I laugh. Too much to discuss here. I move our conversational along. “Need directions to the highway?” I ask. “No hotel here, unfortunately.”
“That would be great,” the bald man says.
I look through the windows, meeting the stares of the other three sets of eyes. All of them want nothing to do with me. Why would they? I am a stranger alone in this godforsaken town. As the twin sisters scrunch their noses in my direction, turning their eyes away, any ounce of guilt I felt at the trap I have set disappears.
I draw them a crude map on an old napkin I found, using the last of the ink in the ballpoint pen I’ve been saving all these years. “This map will get you out of here,” I say, but only I know what I really mean.
“Thank you,” the man says and then waves goodbye.
I watch as the family rides off to fulfill their purpose in this deal I’ve made. I stand and wave and then close my eyes. My freedom approaches and already I can feel its warm embrace. When the Subaru disappears on the horizon, I load the Pinto with the gas can—still full, reserved for me—and wait until the right time to follow.
The sky—now purple and shining with millions of distant stars—hangs over the desert bringing no reprieve from the heat. It never does. There—with its lights turned off—sits the Subaru, alone on the shoulder of Highway 6. The air still holds its heat as my boots shuffle once more across the sandy ground. In the distance, the shrill of the phone has been replaced with a slow—yet satisfying—creaking as the receiver dangles from the end of its cord, swaying side to side in the hot breeze.
I step up to the booth and hang the phone on its hook. It does not ring now, not yet; it will someday but I won’t be here to answer it. Not anymore. Somewhere in this desert, one from that family remains. The one who drew the short stick, even if they didn’t know they were drawing sticks in the first place. They will answer it . . . if they’re alive.
I approach the Subaru and look inside, finding it empty of life but full of things, the keys being one. Giddiness rides its way up my spine, and I can’t help but throw my legs out and let my heels click. I pitch the keys of the old Pinto into the dead of night, angling for them to land somewhere near the rickety old death trap that sits quiet—engine fighting to cool itself. Inside this new machine, the cloth seats still hold the day’s warmth, and I settle in for my long drive west.
When I am done pouring the contents of the gas can into the Subaru, I toss it to the side of the road. Climbing into the driver’s seat, I flick my wrist, and the engine roars to life. With another, the car’s wheels edge forward. I glance in the rearview mirror and watch my old life slip further and further away. From the shadows, a teenage girl takes two steps toward the car—arm extended in a quiet plea. But my destiny is set, and my wheels are in motion. Perhaps one day she will make her own deal or earn her own freedom. I offer her the only hope I can.
I roll down my window and shout, “Welcome to your little desert oasis.” And then I am gone.
About the Author
H. A. Spector resides in the suburbs of beautiful Portland, Oregon with his partner-in-crime. He holds a Master of Fine Arts degree in Commercial Fiction from Southern New Hampshire University and serves as Chair of the Horror Writers Association, Oregon Chapter.