Road Kill by Tony Urban

Author:Tony Urban [Urban, Tony]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Packanack Publishing
Published: 2025-12-31T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 25

Teddy eased the Camry into a dark slot between two refrigerated trailers. Beside him, Bob Botella shifted his bulk. The passenger seat groaned under the strain. The old man wasn't looking at Teddy. He was looking out at the lot. At the spot where four prostitutes smoked and gossiped as they waited for Prince Charming, or any guy with a hundred bucks, to come along and make their night.

A woman in a skirt the size of a bandana leaned against the grille of a Peterbilt, lighting a generic cigarette. The flame flared, illuminating pock-marked cheeks. Two blondes flanked her. One of the bottle variety while the other might have been natural.

An older woman, early 40s, shifted on her feet near them. Part of the group, but not one of them, not really. Her extra ten or fifteen revolutions around the sun kept her on their periphery.

Bob leaned forward, his breath hitching. It was a wet, rattling sound. In, out. In, out. The desperation of a cat watching a squirrel through a window.

Teddy's stomach muscles contracted as a wave of nausea rolled through his gut. He cracked his window to let in the diesel fumes, preferring the poison outside to the sour, excited musk coming off the man next to him.

"How much longer?" Teddy asked. His voice sounded as weak as he felt. "You said you'd tell me."

Bob didn't blink. His gaze was welded to the older woman, the one with the thousand yard stare and posture that screamed aching feet.

"Watch her," Bob said. His voice was deeper now. The grandpa at the birthday party was long gone. This was the thing that lived in the cab. "See how she stands? Heavy on those heels that are probably a size too small. She's tired. Maybe coming down from a high. She's not scanning the mirrors."

"I don't care about her."

"You should." Bob pointed a thick, sausage-like finger at the glass. "That's how it starts. The selection. You don't pick the ones that are awake. You pick the ones that are already halfway gone."

Teddy gripped the wheel harder. He told himself he was the one in charge. He was the one driving. He had the gun in his pocket. One shot in the belly, another in the face, and he'd never have to hear the big man's voice again. Never have to smell the stink of him, like a wild animal freshly loosed from a trap.

Yeah, he was in charge.

But in the dark, with the red glow of the truck's taillights painting Bob’s face in crimson, it didn't feel that way. It felt like he was just the delivery boy.

"My mama," Teddy insisted. "Tell me about her."

Bob let out a low hum, a vibration of pleasure. "I am telling you. You're just not listening."

The older prostitute peered into a trash can, digging for something. A discarded bottle with a swig left. Half-smoked cigs.

"She looked like that," Bob whispered. "Your mother. She had that same slump in her shoulders. The weight of the world pushing her down… Waiting for someone to lift it off her.

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