Sickly-Sweet

They pulled off the highway, turning onto a dirt road. She stared out the window, her eyes searching for signs of life. He watched just as intently to keep from running anything over. He didn’t want to kill anything. The same couldn’t be said of his companion.

When the dirt road ran out, he put the car in park, and they hopped out. He stood in front of the car, looking down the overgrown footpath leading into the woods. She slipped around the back.

“What are you doing, babe?”

“Just getting a warmer jacket.” She opened the trunk. “It’s cold out here.” But instead of digging through her bag, she set it to the side and grabbed the tire iron.

Holding it behind her leg, she joined him in front of the car.

“Wanna see where it goes?”

She gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “Of course.”

He picked his way down the footpath, but she paused, looking over her shoulder. No other cars were coming. They were alone. That same sickly-sweet smile found its way to her lips, and she hurried to catch up with him.

“What do you think’s down there?”

She didn’t bother to respond. Holding the tire iron above her head, she snuck up behind him. Before she could swing, he turned around.

His eyes widened, his brow furrowing. “Babe? What are you—”

She brought the tire iron down on his head. He cried out, falling to his knees. He scrambled forward, but she marched behind him, amused by his sad, desperate attempts to escape her. They all tried it, but it never worked.

When she’d had enough of him trying to escape, she stepped in front of him. He stopped and looked up at her, blood trickling down his face.

“Please, babe, don’t do this.”

She shrugged. “You can’t say anything to change my mind.”

He opened his mouth to try again, but she hit him with the tire iron before he could make a sound. She hit him again and again, beating the last traces of life out of him. When he finally stopped twitching, she dragged him back to the car. She shoved him in the driver’s seat and grabbed her bag from the trunk. She took a couple more things from the passenger seat.

Then, like she always did, she poured gasoline over the body and the interior of the car.  She made a trail, leading away from the car and back toward the main road. Her fingers fiddled with the matchbook they’d gotten at the restaurant they’d stopped at for lunch. She ripped off a match, lit it, and dropped it on the trail of gasoline.

In a matter of seconds, the car was up in flames. She watched for a minute, enjoying the warmth. Then she started back for the highway. She’d have to hitch a ride home.