It has been a little over two weeks since I ran. Finally away from that maniac. That fiend. That pompous, incompetent, cruel, vile, arrogant, indignant--

    MRRRRR-MRRRRRRRRR!

    I turned my head as a pinch of dust made its way beneath my visor, forcing my eyes to bear the endearment of the sun. Just beyond the curve of the highway appeared a monstrous vehicle, which reminded me of a truck that carries cartons of chips or snacks across the country; “semis,” I remember they were called. I signaled to him, hoping he would rescue me from the worst walk I’d ever taken in my life.

    The truck made its way towards me, inevitably enveloping me in a cloud of dust as it streaked to a stop, forcing my lungs to kick into overtime.

    As the passenger-side door opened, I heard a voice: “You okay there, Missy?”

    “Yeah!” I signaled as I coughed up more dust, “I’m fine!”

    The driver began to shift in his seat, even after the cloud settled. “You don’t look fine; here, lemme help ya’-”

    “No, really!” I pleaded, “I’m alright. Thank you.”

    I straddled my purse and acknowledged the open door.

    “Come right in!” he beckoned, “where should I drop you off?”

    “Anywhere but here,” I replied. “Where are you headed?”

    “North a bit. Denver.”

    I hoisted myself up into the tall vehicle’s seat, and secured myself within the surprisingly comfortable and clean space; I almost felt bad about the amount of dust I would be leaving behind in this man’s cab until the whiff of cigar smoke flooded my senses. The engine made a grinding sound as the driver pushed down on the pedal, and the truck quickly began to travel again.

    “Don’t I recognize you from someplace?” the driver began. “What’s your name? Oh, please pardon my manners; I’m John, John Harris.” He took his feeble hand from the wheel to shake mine, and I took it with a hint of caution, noting his rough calluses.

    “Sarah.”

    “Okay. Tell me Missy: Why is ‘Sarah’ in the middle o’ Route 25 Albuquerque anyway?”

    I looked out the window. I was finally getting away. Away from him. “My husband.”

    Harris nodded. “Why? Can’t you call the police on the guy?”

    “That’s the problem,” I said, slumping into my seat, “he is the police.”

    “Ah, hell…”

    He turned back into his seat, waving his head around in an annoyed fashion as we moved back onto the main road. “Anyone you need to call? You can charge your phone here, or whatever.”

    “Left-- forgot it at home,” I stuttered.

    “Ah…”

    “So,” I began, “why is the great John Harris driving a truck to Denver?”

    Strangely, the man grimaced. He sat back in his seat like he was enjoying an old memory.

    “That, Missy, is a helluva long story.”

    “We’ve got time,” I said, pointing to the open road.

    “What’s with your accent anyway? You playin’ English or something?”

    “Oh, c’mon!” I playfully slapped his shoulder with the back of my hand. “Out with it. I wanna hear the story.”

    He rubbed his nose. “Alright then. Where should I start...

    “A long while ago we were in this thing called the Korean Conflict, far-out east. We were tuggin’ our own in the trenches of The South as bullet hell came upon us from above. The noise of the place was … was like God had decided to spit on our boots. One night, we finally pulled ourselves out of the trench, and my buddy Phil came up to me and said ‘we’ve gotta get outta here, Harry.’ We wouldn’t be able to for another three nights, since making a plane disappear wasn’ exactly easy: we had to get our pilot --Little Sniffles-- to pull the strings for us. But eventually, the boy said he wanted to come too. Near the butt-end of our escape plan, we all realized somethin’: if we went awol, we’d need a bit of cash.”

    “Wait,” I interrupted, “‘Sniffles?’”

    “Yeah!” Harris replied, “that was his name! Gilbert D. Sniffles!”

    “Please…” I said. We soon passed a sign on the road that said “Speed limit: 75mph.” Harris was pumping well past 75; his gauge was displaying somewhere well past 85 and rising.

    “Alright, where was I?”

    “Cash…?” I replied, deciding not to note the speed limit.

    “Ah, yes…”

    “We needed some dough if we wanted to keep hidden from the Koreans (we knew they’d been pesky about us takin’ their plane). We all knew we wanted to make it to the States; the freedom-fighters of the world, right? They’d keep us safe, y’know? Anyways, we figured if we were gonna steal a plane, we should keep some other goods from the South as well. That night, we piled at least half-a-dozen crates of bullet-hell, manufactured for military use, each and every one of ‘em.  We figured we could supply a small army back in the States, or somethin’. So, as soon as we were loaded, Sniffles took off with us in the back seat…” he laughed to himself. “We were all talkin’ about how we’d leave the war and our wives rather than finish the war and see them. Thing is, we’d still be fightin’ that damn war if we hadn’t gotten out. Hell, Milby has gotta be reachin’ 60 by now…

    “Anyways, we made our way across the world. Phil wanted to stop in Japan, so we did… nothing really happened there except when Sniffles filled the gas tank, but I swear I could almost see something had gone on between Phil and Sniffles by the end of it. To hell with what happened now… Oh, right! We picked up that girl!”

    “You-” I laughed again, “picked up a girl when you went awol?”

    “Hey, c’mon!” he winked at me, “back in my day, I was real-good looking for a soldier! The ladies loved me!”

    I smirked, but let him go on.

    “I think her name was Natsuki… Why, by the end of that week, I think she’d just about fallen in love with Phil. She said the same thing about Sniffles as you did, I think! By the time we reached the tip of Russia for another jumpstart, I could tell they were all sittin’ there, lookin’ all googly-eyed at one-another… it reminded me a lot of how Milby and I met.

    “It took us a good-long-while, but we soon learned that the army-folk had stopped looking for us. A big-long stretch of us havin’ fun as we took turns manning the plane. I’ve gotta say, without Natsuki there to keep us company, I wouldn’t have survived the trip. It just… wasn’t the same, after her.

    “Belatedly, we mosied on to what we figured was Alaska. That was when our plane just-about couldn’t take it anymore. Sniffles wanted to fix it, keep the old’ Sally running, but there wasn’t much we coulda done.”

    “Hold on,” I said, “how and why did Natsuki join you?”

    “I told ya’! She was in love with Phil! He certainly didn’t mind, I can tell ya’ that!”

    I gripped the door just as the truck careened around a curve at 90 miles-per-hour, passing a sign that I’d anticipated arriving at in a much smoother manner: “Welcome to Colorful Colorado.”

    “Okay then!” I said, smiling back at Harris as I relaxed from the swerve. “Now, how did you make it from Russia all the way to Alaska? Isn’t that something like six-thousand kilometers?”

    “Damn, Missy, you really are English,” he remarked. “Somewhere ‘round five-thousand miles, actually. I believe we ended up stopping on… on a boat,” he flinched at the last words of his sentence.

    “You mean like an aircraft carrier, for military use?”

    Something was wrong. His mood had changed drastically, and it made my skin crawl.

    He stayed silent for another three seconds before nodding his head. “Yeah… like the military use.

    “We had to make another stop part-way through. Sniffles’ radar spotted a carrier down in the sea below. Luckily there wasn’t anyone topside at the time. We made calls for an emergency landing, and pulled on our uniforms, hoping to pass as allies… they didn’t take it so kindly.”

    This guy can’t be serious, I thought. He’s pulling facts out of thin air just for my amusement. Nobody, nobody would do this normally.

    He continued, despite the obvious hiccup. “About twelve soldiers --white-boy Americans, we thought-- surrounded us, carryin’ guns that looked a helluva lot better than our old hunks-of-junk. Somehow, between the years we’ve been hoppin’ about countries, Korea and America weren’t exactly friends anymore, and I swear each an’ every one-of-’em wanted to shoot us as soon as we stepped out the door. Hell, Nat was so terrified we had to keep her from screamin’.”

    I coughed, just to show him I wasn’t buying it. Landing on an aircraft carrier was impossible without help from the other sailors, and that's only if they weren't shot down upon even attempting to land. In the end, I decided to go with it, just for a little while; he wasn’t stopping anytime soon. I figured I might as well humor him;  “Did you have to shoot them?”

    He looked at me like I was insane. “Hell no! I didn’t wanna pop into the States lookin’ like a murderin’ piece of scrap! Why, I’m no stone-blooded killer, either!”

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    “All right then. Surprise me.”

    Harris swallowed. “You might not handle this bit, darlin’.”

    “You’re telling me this as I’m running for my life.”

    He sighed. “All right, all right… I’ll tell ya.

    “Before we opened the hatch, Sniffles kicked the engine, boppin’ us forward a wee bit. Then, the boy started spinnin' the plane in circles, making the Americans scramble like flocks of chickens in May. Next, Phil and I hopped out of the hatch --not while it was spinnin', mind you-- and Sniffles continued doin’ doughnuts..." He spoke it like he was about to start doing doughnuts with the semi. I struggled to hold back a flurry of laughter. “We eventually made our way into their lower deck… since all the officers with guns were above-ship with the plane, those that were below didn’t really have any or felt when they tried to they’d be shot --we had guns of our own, y’know. Hell, they might’ve been worried about springin’ a leak or something, but whatever the cause, they didn’t shoot back.”

            “I thought you said you wouldn’t shoot anyone?”

    “And we didn’t. Well, our bullets never came into contact with human beings, anyways.”

    I knew for sure he was lying about the ship now. Even if he did stop on an aircraft carrier, there were mountains of evidence stacked against him: they would’ve been shot-down for attempting to land in the first place; that spinning plane? Ha!

    “Go on,” I said, “I want to hear what happens next.” I wanted to hear it; in all honesty, it was a good fiction... I thought about the rest of Harris’ story… 

Could it all be one big joke?

    “As we climbed down, I remember the screams of asphalt (or whatever that landing pad was made of) that the plane was makin’ when we finally hauled a single barrel of fuel up they had in storage over there-” he made a general direction, indicating the corner of a ship. “We crawled up and out of there, pointing our guns in various directions. Sniffles must’ve seen us then, and he opened the hatch and closed it the moment we scooted our bumpusses through the hole.”

    “How heroic,” I remarked.

    Harris looked to me like his heart dropped. “Missy, that was the damn-most terrifying thing I’ve done in my entire life, and I don’t feel like going over it again! But  hell, the details are so fuzzy now…”

    He turned the wheel of the truck over to the side towards an exit and drove over to a gas station.

    He sighed heavily, pulling up to a pump. “Do you want anything?”

    “Like what?”

    “From the store?”

    “Oh, yeah, just give me a...” I frantically searched my purse for my wallet, but Harris quickly shook his head.

    “My ride, my treat. Please.”

    I smiled sweetly. “Ah, thank you, but I can-”

    “Missy, it’s my moral obligation. Snickers okay?”

    “Thank you!”

    Harris took the keys from the ignition, and I looked through the side-view mirror as he jammed in the diesel-pump and made his way into the station. I could tell instantly that he was relieved to be away from my skeptical eyes; his slumped shoulders, his reluctant pace, his slower sense of rhythm…

    I also knew it was trouble when he wanted --no, needed-- me to stay in the cab rather than to get out and pay for my own snack and drink. After being around him for so long, I knew when somebody needed something and would do anything to get it. It explained his fake story, too… he wanted me to hear the rest of it. To finish the ride with that silly old man. For me to stay here, in this truck, with him.

    I tried in vain to wipe the dust off my hands and began rummaging through the compartment between the seats. There I discovered half of a two-part keychain, a black-and-white photo of John and (who I presumed to be) Milby Harris in their youth (we even shared the same blonde, messy-hair, Milby and I), tons of wrappers from snacks of bygone-days, a few coins, and finally, and an old key. I focussed my eyes… On the bottom of the aciculate brass was inscribed “Sally.” The key to the plane… Maybe it wasn’t entirely fictional?

    I stowed the key into my pocket, keeping the only sharp thing I could find with me. I quickly opened my door and ran to the back, hoping to take a look at what exactly Harris was transporting; my only chance to get confirmation. I grasped the handle, and opened the door slightly, just enough to see...

    I felt the rush of blood rise to my ears. My heart began doing somersaults. The stories were real. That old coot was telling the truth.

Inside were six discolored crates. Each weighing several hundred kilos, according to their markings. 

Those crates had to be holding those guns.

    Ring-ring!

    I shut the door and turned; Harris was letting the door to the station close behind him.

    I ran around the truck and slipped back into my seat, closing the door soundlessly. Moments later, I heard the driver’s door swing open as the old man climbed up into his own seat, grunting as he buckled himself in.

    “Here ya are, Missy.”

    He handed me a candy bar, and I took it from him gracefully. He also handed me a bottle of water and a packet of wipes. If he had seen me, he wasn’t letting on.

    “Figured you could use a little, er… cleanup.”

    “Oh, thanks,” I replied. I did my best not to show the stress in my hands, as my chest remained pounding in rhythm with the engine. I snatched a wipe from the packet and begun to remove the New Mexican dust from my face, shoulders, and hands. I felt him watching me in the mirror as he revved the engine… could I run? Would I make it?

    No, I told myself. Who knows how good of a shot he is with a handgun? And would he even care about security after what he’s been through? My safest play was to stay in my seat and wait to get close to him. Besides, he hasn’t done anything to me... Yet.

    “Where was I?”

    “Alaska, I think,” I answered, measuring my voice.

    “Ah, yes. Well, we passed through that frozen wasteland pretty easily: no hard troubles, just like Russia. Not on the ground, anyways. By that time, we were gettin’ pretty stir-crazy. Phil and Natsuki wouldn’t be five-feet away from one-another, while I couldn’t stop thinking of Milby, back in Korea…” he looked down at this, and then looked me straight in the eye. “I knew I had to get back to her. Let her know somehow, someway, that I wasn’t dead in some trench somewhere.”

    He pulled into the entrance ramp and back onto the highway. “We decided we’d have to leave ol’ Sally somewhere she could be found, but not by the Americans. Hell, the same place I bought my winter coat I also paid for the safe storage of ol’ Sally…”

    “Why’d you leave the plane?” I asked, testing him.

    “Well, there’s no way it’d make it across the mainland. Alaska was a big-enough place that she’d be easy to hide from the government. Our criminal benefactor --you might call him a sort of malefactor-- gave me the key to the safehouse, and even offered to give us a ride way down South.”

    “How much did you have to pay him?”

    “Handsomely. We weren’t familiar with American conversions, so I simply told him a large number. I still have that I.O.U, and I intend to pay it off!”

    “Fair enough. Where’d he bring you?”

    “Hell,” he began with a grin, “he brought us so far South that by the end of it we had to take off our new coats! It was a speedboat, so we were able to zip across the ocean, along the shore, even with our tow. We avoided customs and managed to slip into America. He finally dropped us off at… Gualala? Gualala, I think it was.”

    A motor-boat trip down the entire west coast. Right.

    “And that’s when Tanner --that ol’ malefactor--introduced me to Mimi,” he continued. “Mimi… oh, she was a sight to see. Had blonde hair, just like Milby. She promised us contacts where we could sell the guns --minus her cut, of course, she drove a hard bargain-- and even show us the way herself. Oh, the way she came between my arms and directed my hand towards the correct route on the map, her amber face coming ever-so--”

    “Woah! Harris, please!”

    He burst out in a cry of joy. A pleasant memory flashed across his eyes. I could only guess that Mimi was Harris’ Natsuki…

    “Where is she now?” I asked, “Mimi?”

    “Why, she’s in Denver, waitin’ for me…” his eyes trailed off as if Mimi was only meters away from his glance. It wasn’t love… something less. It wasn’t the same as when he talked of Milby.

    “Why didn’t she accompany you on the trip down?” I asked.

    “I’m not up to that part, sweetheart.” His voice was cold. 

Strike one.

    He continued on; “In the morning, we packed to leave for the next state over. We offered our guns to Mimi’s first seller, but he only wanted the ‘newer’ style of weaponry. Hell, what’s wrong with the classics! That freak millennial-scum directed us over to Wisconsin, where ‘antiques’ are almost ‘collectibles’ in the streets, especially in them ‘Polish communities!’ … According to him, anyway.”

    What’s wrong with being Polish? 

“Why stop in Denver if you’re headed for Wisconsin?” I asked him.

    Harris seemed to ponder this for a moment in his head. I’d made a mistake and distracted him from his main narrative, yet again. I had to keep my questions focused; progressing the story.

“It was… a sort-of routine checkpoint, I guess you could say. There Mimi would’ve hopped in the truck and we’d go on with our day.”

    I couldn’t stop myself. “What about Phil and Natsuki? And Sniffles?”

    To my surprise, his next sentence was said smoothly. He knew that I was going to ask. “Sniffles was carpool’n with Tanner and Mimi, far as I know. Phil and Natsuki… ah, yes! They ran off to get married!”

    The way he said married was cheery at base value, but his underlying the tone was brash, crude, and mocking. Not to mention how odd it would be for an Alaskan criminal to be carpooling with an illegal contractor from California and a South Korean pilot. I knew now that we’d almost reached Denver; the brighter trees and greenery, the city lights blemishing the night sky… Regardless, his story is falling apart, and he doesn’t care enough to patch it back together. He was almost done with me. He’d hold me at gunpoint just to keep me in the cab at this point. Once this trip was over, my life would be in grave danger.

PSSSSSK!

    “Ah hell!” he cried, looking out his mirror. Something was wrong with the truck.

He quickly turned off the nearest exit, rolling into a small gas station. He yanked the keys out of the ignition and forced the door open with such vehemence that I thought he’d broken it off the hinges.

This is it. If I wanted to survive, I knew what I had to do.

I slowly crept opened the passenger door and slipped my visor over my head, so as to not let my face show in the gas station’s many cameras. I held myself like a cloud, shuffling my feet, creeping upon the old man... By the time I’d made the corner, he was already finished fixing whatever the problem was and now trying to find what caused it. I brandished my new dagger-key, letting the light of the station reflect in every direction.

I’m so, so sorry.

I only remembered the beginning and the end of what happened. One second, I was running at him, full speed, the key to Sally in my hand. The next, Harris’ words of shock hung in the air, and the key now lodged in his throat. I yanked it out and averted my eyes. I could only remember it in these simple words. It was a story I’d never forget.

Harris looked at me from the ground in anguish as he clutched his neck in desperation. He was trying to say something, but I couldn’t hear it. I leaned closer, as tears began to form in my eyes.

    “Milby…” he said, his eyes narrowing on me.

Harris fell to the ground, his final, rasping breath crawling across my face.

It took me a moment to collect myself, and I realized what the next step was. I presumably had little time to get rid of the body; not enough. Hell, I had to leave now.

I searched the corpse diligently for a wallet, cell phone, and keys, which had turned out to be the only things I found on the man’s body; no pistol, nor knife, like I’d originally thought. My first instinct was to get a weapon ready (at least a knife would’ve been preferred), so I opened the back of the truck, laid my hands over the lid of the first crate, and pulled.

Inside I found hundreds of bags of chips, stacked on top of one another.

No...

    I jumped down from the truck’s cargo hold and closed it, taking a slight step back as the realization washed over me.

    Somewhere, there was a radio. I heard the announcer as if it were in the back of my mind:

    “--And the manhunt for Sarah Pratt continues in New Mexico for the murder of her husband, Dale Pratt. Authorities now say it is likely that Pratt has not only left Alburquerque but may have crossed state borders. We ask that all citizens and the surrounding states of New Mexico to please, DO NOT APPROACH Sarah Pratt but call 911 immediately.”

    I climbed into Harris’ seat of the truck, revved the engine, and secured my seatbelt. I scanned his wallet for any photos or other identifiers. On his license, it claimed he was born in Springfield, Illinois. In the side-pocket, I discovered a photo with a title: “Milby and me, Disneyland, 1999.” The picture of the pair in the compartment between the seats was dated as well, only Milby now appeared to have different eye-color and a deep tan.

    Mimi.

    I turned on the headlights of the truck to leave. I swear I couldn’t feel my own breath, but what I could feel was my body, sweating like rain. I forced myself to take a chug of water to calm down... That’s when I saw it. The reflection of the gas station glass. The license plate of the truck.

    “S4lly.”