Strike The Horizon

Trees. So many damn trees. 

Synth pop blared in through the dollar store earbuds, drowning out the sounds of the road as the car made turn after turn up the winding mountain pass. The faintest hum could be heard in the music, a faint electrical buzz.

Cheap. 

Through the music, I could hear a steady, muffled voice, although the words weren’t able to pierce the beat. Lazily, I flicked my eyes away from the seemingly never-ending wave of trees to look at the driver’s seat. 

The familiar face of Dingo, red-faced and pissed as ever, glared back at me. His usually curly hair was laying like a thick matt, still soaked through from the storm earlier. He narrowed his eyes, reaching a hand up to try to swat at the cord, but missed as I pulled it back, popping one of my earbuds out. Immediately, I was hit by a cacophony of noise as I could hear the aggressive metal song screaming from the radio, causing me to wince as one ear was hit by this aggressive musical assault as the other was still cocooned in the blissful synth beats of my choice. 

“You’re the one who knows where the damn rest stop is, jackass,” Dingo said. “How am I supposed to ask you anything with those things in your ears?” 

“Stop playing garbage and I’ll consider it,” I shot back, stuffing the earbuds into my sweatshirt pocket, gesturing with my head vaguely to the right. “It’s right up here, just down this pass. Can’t miss it.” 

Dingo let out a huff, starting to turn at the last second. The tires squealed in protest against the wet asphalt, but managed to keep traction as we turned the corner, the radio cutting out yet again. 

“Well, I’ll be damned. Motel, all the way up here. Guess you weren’t full of shit.” 

“I very rarely am,” came my dry reply. “Maybe next time you decide to skip town, do the research yourself.” 

Dingo was quiet for a long moment, grumbling again as the Dodge Neon jostled over the curb on the way into the parking lot. At least three family members had used this hunk of garbage before Dingo had gotten spidery hands on it, and the bastard was too cheap to fix the long since busted suspension. He claimed you got used to it. 

As the rain pattered on the roof, I turned and looked at my driver, who had begun to nervously tap on the worn out steering wheel. 

“We’re going to need to go in at some point,” I said, the grin on my face not reaching my eyes.

“Back into the rain? No thanks,” Dingo said, squinting out the window. “Think it’s going to stop anytime soon?” 

“No,” I replied, popping the door open. “Come on, there’s a diner. Maybe get a burger.” 

As the car door was clicked shut, Dingo and I walked side by side towards the diner, the other man shivering. Two people of a more different style you couldn’t imagine: Dingo was a thin rail of a man, like a scarecrow, while I was stout and dressed as I always was while on business: road leathers over a simple t-shirt. 

The door let out a ring as a bell was struck, Dingo kicking the water from his feet as I strode into the diner, nodding at a waitress who walked up. She was wearing an off-yellow apron and red shirt that did not match her dyed green hair, and the dull surprise on her face made it obvious that she was not expecting anybody to come in so late in the evening. 

“Table for two?” she asked, her voice a strange mix of faux politeness and clear boredom. I gave Dingo a moment to respond, glancing over, but he was just giving the waitress the strangest look, his usually red face pale. 

Sighing, I turned. 

“Yes, table for two,” I said, grabbing Dingo’s shoulder for a moment to snap him back to attention as we were led to a corner booth of the diner. There was almost a solid minute of the speakers droning out quiet Top Ten pop songs before Dingo spoke up, coughing. 

“…Sorry, Jay. Waitress, she…looked like my sister.” 

The sentence sat in the air, heavy, for another pregnant pause before I shook my head.

“Nah, I get it,” I said, tone careful. “But that’s why we’re leaving, right? Don’t want any more reminders. Fresh slate.” 

Dingo nodded, starting to talk but stopping as the waitress brought up two plastic menus, sliding them onto the table before she moved back towards the counter, giving us both a curt nod. 

“…It’s rough, man. I mean, it’d be bad enough if it had been just. You know…” Dingo said. “But that shit-” 

“Doesn’t get any easier to deal with if you keep talking about it,” I cut him off, temper flaring for a moment as he stopped. 

“…Sorry.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, forcing my attention back to the menu in front of me, leather gloves creaking as I unclenched my hand. For a moment, looking down, the light reflecting off a nearby neon sign made the rain dripping down appear blood red.

“Thanks. For getting me out of there,” Dingo said, rubbing the bottom of his face as he looked over the menu. “Too much. I think it’ll be good to clear my head.”

There was a squeal of tires from outside that cut the conversation, Dingo’s head shooting sharply towards the street as he seemed to be waiting, but the truck just kept going past, vanishing quickly down the rain-soaked streets. 

A grim smile found its way to my face at that as I glared at the back of Dingo’s head.

“Expecting anyone?” I asked as casually as I could, trying to keep my tone even.

“No, fuck. Just loud,” Dingo shot back, slumping back into his chair. 

Just then, the bell rang out through the diner, the door swinging open as a figure lumbered in from the storm. The waitress moved past, going to greet him, as a chill crawled up my back at the sight, although I couldn’t be sure why. 

The first thing was the damn eyes. Lavender, and almost immediately they shot to stare directly into my own. I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t even if I wanted to: something about those eyes seemed to glue me into my seat. 

The man passed a hand through his red hair, slicking it away, his ragged leathery face was covered in scars. A grim expression on his face as he began to walk by the waitress, making a beeline for the table. He was holding a hiking stick in a hand and looked dressed for the outdoors.

As he sat down heavily next to Dingo, the waitress, following behind him, sighed a bit in frustration.

“Okay, here then. I’ll bring you a menu,” she said, glancing at the three of us before leaving. 

“The hell?” Dingo said, temper immediately flaring. “Hey, bud, get your own tab-” 

“You are the one they call Jay, yes?” the man said. His voice was strangely warm, but worn out, like an old record. It was hard to tell how young or old he was, although I couldn’t escape the impression he was a smoker. He certainly smelled like one. 

The question took me aback. Jay was an online handle: me and Dingo both used our usernames far more often than our actual ones. And, more disconcertingly, how the hell did this random drifter know my name?

“What’s going on? Who are you?” I asked, voice cracking a bit at the last word. I had been calm, collected, all day, but this man was throwing everything off. Did Dingo know this asshole? Had he…no. No, he didn’t know. How could he? 

“A friend,” came the reply, a wistful smile on the traveler’s face as he pulled out a cigarette. As he lifted it, there was a flash of blue-green light and it began to smolder.

“More accurately, a friend of a friend,” he continued. “Left quite quickly, didn’t you?” 

He glanced between me and Dingo, who was sweating bullets, clearly trying to find a way out of the booth as he was getting more ticked off.

“Hey, jackass, stand up, I want out,” Dingo growled. “You gonna back off or what? We don’t know y-” 

“Franklin Bridger,” the man said calmly, the smoke drifting out from his mouth that same strange blue-green color as the flame.

There was a palpable silence as the diner music kept playing, but it felt like it was playing from underwater, muffled by the noise of my heart pounding in my own ears. 

“…You some kind of detective, then?” I asked, trying to keep my breathing under control. “What is this?”

The man let out another drag of the cigarette before replying.

“Somebody was concerned. So I have come, to ensure that things go…properly,” he said, letting out a sigh. “Shouldn’t take too long.” 

As that awful pressure kept building, the music bordering on completely inaudible past the awful rush, I could feel myself instinctively reaching below the table, reaching for-

“I wouldn’t pull that gun here, Simon,” the red-haired man said calmly. “At least two of us don’t want to terrify the poor waitress, do we?” 

I could almost hear Dingo…Franklin’s audible confusion at that, turning to look at me.

“…You own a gun? Since when did you own a gun?” he said, looking flabbergasted. “Come on, let’s get going, I’m done with this shit.”

“I would strongly advise you not,” the man said, as Dingo struggled over him, awkwardly stumbling out of the booth.

“And why do you say that, freak?” Dingo snarled, turning back to the man. 

The man didn’t say anything, lavender eyes scanning the menu. As he let out another drag of smoke, my heart stopped. In the smoke, for a moment, a flash of blue-green light again…a face.

Her face.

I was back there. Crouched next to her on the ground, scattered items around her. So much red. Too much, as she gasped up at me, voiceless. 

As I snapped back, the man was talking, his face turned to a scowl. His expression narrowed as he looked at me, his scarred hands gripping his hiking staff.

“Don’t,” the man said to me, as Franklin was heading for the counter. Before I could say anything in reply, Franklin had grabbed one of the flimsy napkin holders like some kind of makeshift weapon, gripping it in his red hands. His face had taken on its usual red coloration again as he started yelling. 

“Why don’t you leave us alone! Huh! Get out!” Franklin yelled out. “I don’t give a shit why you’re here, you need t-”

“She wanted you to know she doesn’t blame you,” the man said, his strange lavender eyes still drilling a hole into me. They were strange…almost birdlike, and as his words hit me like a truck, he started to stand. 

There was a flash of movement. Franklin, ever the man with a hair trigger, had hurled the napkin holder at full force at the man’s head. As the cheap metal object slammed into his skull, it seemed to almost slide off. It clattered to the tiles and skittered into a corner, dented.

The man didn’t seem to notice, gripping the walking stick again, giving me a last look as Franklin gaped, seeming torn between concern and even more fury. 

“…Who are you?” I asked again, staring up at him. 

“…Nobody important,” he replied, his voice strangely comforting. “Just a man looking to ease some burdens.”

Franklin was running. The waitress was already gone. As that cigarette flared again, in the light of that strange fire, I could see her. She looked at me with those sorrowful eyes, still covered in the injuries from that horrible night.

In the smoke, the man’s eyes were different. Dark pits, sclera pitch black, with glowing lavender orbs where pupils should have been. His red hair was aflame, dabbled with that same strange blue-green color. There were other figures, ghosts filling the space in the diner. An old man, face heavy with regret. A man with hollow eyes, military fatigues torn and bloodied.

 An older woman. Another familiar face, so much like my own, separated by almost a decade, a spitting image of how she’d look that night in the hospital.

I couldn’t speak. Something was caught in my throat. As I tried, the man seemed to know the answer.

“I couldn’t let you kill him,” the man said. “His sister needs closure. But she’s not the only one.”

The car was starting up, tires starting to squeal out of the parking lot, as the man turned a head towards my retreating former friend, starting to stride towards the door, the howling wind keeping the door stuck open. 

As the car peeled away, I walked up to the rain splattered door, holding a hand to the glass. I could see Franklin starting to vanish into the treeline.

For a moment, illuminated in lightning, I could see something pursuing. A red cloak, spreading out through the darkness. A horned helmet, a billowing gout of blue-green fire illuminating the road as the Hunter rushed forward, spirits rushing forward alongside. 

A glaive, rising in the air like an executioner’s ax, illuminated by the red glow of the rear lights.

The squeal of tires in the night. A crash, followed by more and more, as the Dodge Neon toppled into the canyon.

Trees. So many damn trees. But as the car slammed into them…I didn’t mind them all that much anymore.