The Dropoff by ASP1984

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The Dropoff [Strong Language used occasionally]

The car park was quiet. There was only the silent chirring of crickets beyond in the dark fields. The moon lay low, a sliver above the horizon of pine needles. Mac stood there silently for Derrick to show up. It wasn't like him to be late--not half an hour late. Mac had been Derrick's go-between for the money; Mac was Derrick's old high school friend, and the two had been caught in a whirlwind of unfortunate circumstances. Mac, a talented young engineer, had lost 6 of the past jobs, as either the contracts had finished or the companies were cutting back due to the economic downfall the country was caught in. Derrick, always the support, but never employed-in the legal sense of the word-offered Mac opportunities for small jobs here and there. This night he was an in-between for a group of men with thick South American accents; he had met them earlier that evening at a Moxies, and was then told, by Derrick to show them around town (though there was not much to show). A job's a job... That was Mac's motto. Money was what paid the bills; not morals. He had now been with the money case for approximately three hours. One of which he was waiting around for Derrick in this parking lot.

Mac tried to call his cellphone a fourth time in the last fifteen minutes. "'Sup, you know the routine,' BEEP."

"Hey man, I don't know where you're at, but you got two minutes and then I'm bailing," Mac blurted. Suddenly, two headlights caught him by surprise, then the humming of a distant engine. The lights flashed again. Mac looked at a rusted old Ford pickup truck. It flashed him three more times, and slowly began to turn around.

Mac knew that it must have been Derrick's contact. He got into his car, a four year old Mustang GT, and began to follow. The truck pulled left out of the lot, and drove down the industrial side road, which led to factories, farms, and finally, forests, the crescent leading the way.

The rushing night air soothed Mac's seething temper as he was still irked by Derrick's lateness. The sooner this deal went down, the better he would feel. The smell of manure and grain drifted through the driver's side window, distant lights of a farmhouse twinkling between the high log fences and wheat.

Though Mac enjoyed dealing with Derrick, he was not very trusting of Derrick's people. They had wildly fluctuating temperaments, ranging from the calm one, Zeke the Monk-so-named because of his newfound faith and supposed humility--to a pack of ravenous wolverines, the Jet Pack they were called. Derrick was called Chief; everyone called Mac Sinister, because he was left-handed.

They would often change cars, living spaces, and, if necessary area codes, just to avoid detection. For the Jet Pack, in particular, as rambunctious as they could be, it was an art form that was continuously perfected, modified, evolving. It wasn't, therefore, unusual that Derrick (or at least one of his contacts) had shown up in an unrecognized vehicle. Even Mac had just acquired his ride.

They were now passing into the forest lined road, leaving the farms behind, and setting the moon, as they passed into the natural towers of pine and occasional cliff sides. The manure scent drifted off into the distance, and the earthy forest and tree oils now filled the car. Mac had a flood of memories return to him of summer cottages, and early August camping as a kid. The tangled underground roots of the forest mirrored the tangled synapses of memory he had of a childhood long ago.

Passing Walker's Bridge Mac began to feel a little uneasy. "I guess we're going to Zeke's Bunker," figured Mac, driving along trying to piece together his mysterious journey. He reached over to his passenger seat, sliding his hands over the briefcase. And he patted it twice. Then he reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small magazine pistol. The weight of the gun rested comfortably in his hand. He placed the gun back into his pocket, and in a moment of panic, swerved his car around a large female deer, his tires squealing under the torsion of the swivelling vehicle. He noticed that the truck had disappeared. Looking back in his rear view mirror, the glowing eyes of the deer floated, slowly drifting further and further away, as Mac went up a particularly high and sharp hill. At the apex, he saw the truck below him. He continued to follow.

The Dropoff, by ASP1984Where stories live. Discover now