118Sorry for the repost, but I've just completed the final manuscript for this story! A writing professor of mine (who is also a published author), inspired me to revisit this and asked for a finished 'script, so I did some substantial editing and came up with this. Hopefully you like it! I'd appreciate any feedback, as always.
Chapter One:
Summer had baked everything into drab sameness. The sky, the buildings, the ground were all the same off-white non-color, bleached by the Arizona sun. Jo felt a trickle of sweat evaporate off the back of her neck as she reluctantly reached for the payphone.
It scalded her. Pulling her hand away sharply, she untied the flannel shirt from around her waist and used it like an oven mitt, gingerly raising the phone to her ear.
Humans are adaptable creatures, she mused, ruefully nursing her stinging hand.
The booth was sweltering, like a tiny, uncomfortable sauna with dust on the outside and dirty, sweaty fingerprints on the inside. Judging by the smell, Jo was fairly sure that some drunk had mistaken the phone booth for a urinal. His contribution had left a dark orange stain in one of the corners.
"He should get that looked at," she muttered as she bit absently on her thumbnail.
Holding the aptly-named bakelite receiver about an inch away from her face, she fed a quarter into the slot and dialed an old, familiar number.
After three and a half rings, a slurred voice answered. "Who's there?"
She waited silently for a moment, daring herself to say something this time. Instead, she did as she always did and carefully set the phone back on its hook. A single coin rattled in the return slot.
"Damn phone ripped me off." She pocketed the nickel.
Tying her flannel shirt back around her waist, Jo wedged the door open, surprised that the air outside felt cool compared to the stifling interior of the booth. It was 113 degrees today; she'd heard it on the radio. It beat the record for this date last year: July 13th, 1978.
A cough escaped her, and she felt a bit of a rasp in her throat as she inhaled. The dry, dusty air wasn't good for her asthma. Of course it would act up on the one day she'd left her inhaler in her motel room.
Shielding her eyes with a hand, Jo scanned her surroundings. She stood on the corner of First and Brady, kitty-corner to a diner called El Gringo. The street was practically deserted at that time of day, when the sun was still beating down at full force. It was Sunday anyway, so most of the town was closed. People wouldn't venture out of their cool, dark homes until the sun began its descent in an hour or two.
She waited for a single, solitary truck to drive past. The windows were rolled down, and the driver glanced at Jo as he passed. Probably wondering why she was standing on a street corner in 113 degrees of heat. The vehicle rumbled away, and Jo crossed to the diner, aware that the sole of one of her boots had started to come loose. It slapped noisily against the bottom of her foot as she entered the dark café and crossed the yellowed linoleum floor.
Old Fourth of July decorations sagged on the walls, while the air conditioner ground away, creating a small breeze that smelled of bleach and grease. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't hot either. Jo ran a hand through her hair, well-aware that both were sticky with sweat, and coughed into her elbow.
"What can I getcha?" asked the solitary waitress as Jo sat at a booth near the back.
"Coffee," Jo replied quietly, already digging in her pocket. She liked to pay first, knowing it was easier than trying to avoid suspicious glances the entire time she was there.
"On a scorcher like today?" the waitress asked with mild interest.
"And soup." She pushed a dollar quietly across the table.
The waitress shrugged and pocketed the money.
Jo gazed out the window, feeling the heat radiate through it. She edged a little nearer, wanting a better look at the street outside. Ajo was not an interesting town, and Jo liked it that way. She'd been traveling for almost a year now, and she'd managed to avoid most of the larger cities. Traveling on her own, she thought it was safer to avoid metropolitan areas, where the people were colder and the crime rates higher. In her experience, small town people might be more distrustful of strangers, but they could usually be persuaded to give her work for a night or two before she moved on.
She hadn't worked in two days, otherwise she might have ordered a sandwich. Coffee and soup would have to do. She could afford one last night in her motel room, and a bus ticket to Yuma. Maybe she'd try California next. The mild weather made it a better climate for homeless people, she'd heard. Besides, she'd never seen the ocean before.
Her coffee and soup came, and she thanked the waitress quietly, already pulling saltines out of the server and crumbling them into her soup.
"Sure thing," said the waitress. "You want cream in that?"
"Yes."
The waitress drizzled the cream into Jo's coffee and left. Jo poured sugar into her cup and stirred it, turning her attention back to the window.
The same truck she'd seen before had returned, going the other direction this time. It moved slowly, as if the oppressive heat was bearing down on it. Jo absently wondered about the business that had the driver traveling through town at this hour, when most people were still hiding from the scorching sun.
She often wondered about things like that. Traveling alone meant that she was her only company, so she passed the time by observing other people, noticing things about them, making up stories. Maybe the man in the truck was a smuggler, bringing drugs or people across the border and stashing them in a house somewhere in town. Even as she thought it, she realized how ridiculous it sounded. She doubted anything so sensational ever happened in Ajo. The man was probably just returning something to a friend, or roaming the streets because he had nothing better to do.
Jo took a bite of soup, lukewarm and gummy, more like pudding with all the crackers she'd added. Not appetizing, but filling.
She remained in the café long after she finished, appreciating the cool air, watching the rare people that passed by outside, inventing stories for them. Finally, when customers began to trickle in, she got up and walked out the door, her broken boot sole flapping against the linoleum.
Work would be hard to find on a Sunday afternoon, and the heat was still unbearable, so Jo started the slow walk back to her motel room. There she could enjoy the benefits of the swamp cooler for one last evening before it was time to leave.
She'd been in Ajo for a few days and had a pretty good idea of the layout of the town. That was one thing she was good at—remembering directions. Feeling weak and tired beneath the blanket of heat, Jo took a shortcut down a back alley and a few side streets. The town was quiet, with hardly a passerby in sight. Most people were still at home, or maybe at church.
She turned into the narrow space between the drug store and Maggie's Fabric Creations, a shabby boutique that boasted in worn lettering: "Fine handcrafted clothes". The sign read CLOSED, and the dust in the windows made her think that the store hadn't been open in a long time.
Jo trailed her hand against the warm, rough bricks of the building as she passed through the narrow alleyway, briefly finding a bit of respite from the hot summer sun. She closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, and let it out in a sigh. She had seventy-three cents in her pocket, and a little less than forty dollars waiting back in her hotel room. There was nothing to spare, but it was just enough. She'd gotten by on just enough for most of her life.
A loud, sharp sound suddenly echoed in the air, startling her out of her thoughts. A car backfiring, Jo told herself. It sounded awfully close, though. Jo peeked around the corner of the building and glanced down the street. There was nothing there, no sign of a car in either direction.
Frowning, she cautiously took a few steps down the sidewalk, passing a vacant storefront. There was an empty lot between two buildings, not much more than a niche with room for a few trash cans and a bloody body at the feet of a man with a sawed-off shotgun.
The body convulsed, then fell still.
Jo crashed backwards into a metal trashcan, the noise catastrophically loud. The killer looked up sharply. His dark eyes narrowed, and the shotgun came up, pointed at her. She tripped over her own feet as she rounded the corner, back the way she'd come. Her limbs suddenly felt weak and limp, her chest tight.
Jo ran, heart pumping frantically. She crossed the street. A shot rang out, and a car window shattered behind her. She dropped to her knees, mouth dry, tongue like cotton. Through the broken car window, she saw the man still following, calmly striding over the asphalt towards her. He looked calm, but all she could think about was the gun in his hands and the inhaler she'd left on the bed in her hotel room, several blocks away.
She frantically searched for somewhere to hide, someone to run to, but nobody was out on a hot Sunday afternoon. Come on, come on! she thought frantically to herself. There had to be at least one store on that street that wasn't closed.
There. A glass door nearby with a sign that read OPEN. Jo stumbled for it and ducked inside. She could feel her sugary coffee working its way back up her esophagus as she choked on the dusty air.
"You all right, dearie?" a pleasant middle-aged woman greeted her with concern.
Jo pointed frantically at the door, trying to catch her breath enough to speak.
The woman watched in curious confusion. "Can I get you some water?"
The man approached the dusty glass door.
A bell tinkled, and Jo dove behind a stand of chintzy ceramic mugs and figurines. They burst into pieces as a deafening gunshot exploded in the small store.
The woman screamed.
Trembling, Jo crawled towards the back of the store on her hands and knees, trying to muffle her coughing with her flannel shirt. There was a back door. She reached for it as another shot rang out, abruptly silencing the woman's screaming.
Breathe deep. Breathe low. Slowly. In. Out.
She touched the doorknob and turned it. Her ears rang. She hardly heard the next gunshot, just felt the sting on her face as splinters of the door bit into her skin.
Pushing her way out, Jo staggered forward, blundering across the sidewalk and into the alleyway. She stumbled toward the street, well-aware that she was running out of places to hide. Dared she look for help, or would the killer continue to shoot people, just like the woman in the store?
Another gunshot. Jo ducked behind a parked car, feeling the pavement scrape her palms as she landed. She leaned up against the hot metal vehicle, her eyes closed tightly, squeezing the tears out. Ragged coughs wracked her body. She retched. There went her coffee down the gutter, laced with carrots. Breathe. And there went the rest of her meager lunch.
He had to be close. Soon he'd come around the car, see her shivering and wheezing, and he'd shoot her. In the back of her mind, she'd always expected to come to a violent end, but she never would have imagined it could happen in Ajo, Arizona.
Her ears still rang. Would she even hear the next gunshot, or would she simply feel it? There was something odd about the ringing now. It sounded like a wail, growing steadily louder. A siren.
Peeking around the front bumper, Jo watched as the man stopped in the middle of the street, head cocked toward the sound. His eyes flickered at her, and he took a hesitating step forward, shotgun pointed at her.
She leaned back against the car, clutching her knees tightly to her chest.
Breathe, she told herself through her sobs.
Breathe.
Any moment, she expected the man to come around the corner and shoot her. He'd have to hurry now that the police were on their way. Jo waited. At least dying would end the burning in her lungs, the panicked beating of her heart. It might almost be a relief.
But death didn't come.
Cautiously she peered around the car. The man was gone. The street was empty.
The siren howled louder, closer, but Jo didn't stick around. Her record was less than spotless, and she didn't trust a small-town sheriff and his deputy to protect her if the murderer came back.
She took a few short breaths, the only kind she could manage, and forced herself to leave the shelter of the car. Her limbs trembled as she crept down the alley and out onto the next street. She glanced constantly over her shoulder, sure the man would reappear with his shotgun in hand. But she didn't see anyone at all.
The siren had gone silent. Had the police found the storekeeper's body yet? Jo kept walking. The motel was only a few blocks farther. She went straight to her room, fumbling to put the key in the lock. Entering, she locked the door behind her and pulled the drapes over the window before she finally reached for her inhaler.
One puff and she could feel her throat start to open again. Relief flooded through her. She was alive. For now.
Was the killer still after her? He could be. Maybe he had followed her. Maybe he'd burst right through that door and shoot her. Maybe she was being paranoid.
Better that than dead.
She hastily dragged her worn backpack out from under the bed, checking to see that everything was there: a few spare changes of clothes, her wallet, toiletries. She had to get to the bus station. Was there a bus that made a night run on Sundays?
Buckling her backpack shut, she slung one strap over her shoulder and left the room, depositing the key on the manager's empty desk. The bus station, if she remembered correctly, was several blocks away, on Fifth and Washington. She'd have to walk the whole way. There were no taxis in Ajo.
As she walked, Jo passed a few people that had begun to emerge from their homes and their workplaces to enjoy the evening. The heat had finally started to abate with the setting sun, promising a balmy desert night. Seeing faces, smiles, Jo began to feel a little better, a little safer.
To get to the bus station, she realized that she'd have to turn on Washington, which was mostly lined with offices that would be empty on a Sunday evening. The street was deserted. This would be the most dangerous stretch of her journey. Once she made it the few blocks down to the station, she'd be safe.
Jo had walked less than a block down Washington when she heard a truck approach. She didn't turn to look. She merely kept walking, listening, hoping that the vehicle would turn and go down another road, or breeze past her. It did neither. Her heart raced and a cold sweat broke out on her skin when the truck slowed instead and pulled up beside her.
The passenger window was already down, and a voice called helpfully from within, "You need a ride?"
Jo was used to help from strangers. If she didn't feel so jumpy, if the voice wasn't thickly-accented and male, she might have accepted the offer. That night, however, she wasn't taking chances.
"I'm not going far," she said loudly enough to be heard over the rumble of the engine as it idled.
She took a few more steps, and the truck followed with a quiet squeal.
The man persisted. "I'll give you a lift. Get in."
The door opened for her, truck rumbling expectantly.
To be fair, the man probably didn't know how frightened she was, and how his persistence wasn't helping, but Jo didn't want to deal with him any longer. She set her jaw forward and turned to face her would-be rescuer.
"I'd rather—" Jo's voice failed. Her eyes settled on the man in the shadows of the black Ford truck, the same truck that twice had passed the diner on First Street, the same man that had murdered another man with only dumpsters and shadows for cover.
Jo saw the barrel of the sawed-off shotgun pointed at her, its dark contours barely visible in the gloomy cab of the truck.
"Get in," the man insisted quietly.
Would he dare shoot her with people on the streets now? Jo didn't know, but he would certainly kill her if she got in the truck.
She took a chance and ran.
The man leapt from the vehicle, leaving it parked and idling in the road. Jo ran as fast as she could, but she felt a familiar heaviness in her chest, her breathing ragged and hoarse before she'd even gone ten paces. He was gaining.
"Help!" she shouted, or at least tried to. The word wouldn't come out. It was trapped in her burning throat, her empty lungs trying to push it free with little success.
Jo glanced over her shoulder, saw the man closing on her, and tripped over the loose sole of her boot.
One large hand latched tightly onto her bag and dragged her backwards. Jo slid out of the straps of her backpack and ran, only to stumble when the man threw the pack at her and caught her square in the back of the head.
Her hands and her chin scraped the concrete. Twisting her hair in his hand, the man pulled her head up and brought it crashing swiftly down on the pavement.
Jo's jaw snapped shut. Her vision exploded in a burst of white light and searing pain. She felt the warmth of the pavement beneath her, tasted metal in her mouth. An ant bit her ankle. It was her last distant sensation before everything went dark, as if the universe were sending her a message:
Fuck you.