Chapter 4 | A WANNA-BE JOAQUIN PHOENIX

Pretty soon, Google Maps says that there are only 9 hours and 40 minutes left to Beaver Creek.

For the past 13 or so hours, I've alternated between listening to music, reading Wattpad, and writing in my notes app.

Once and awhile, Grace and I would make a bit of conversation, but each time only lasted about two minutes. Usually, the chit chat would occur when we ate.

We've stopped only two times, but now Grace has finally pulled into a truck stop near Watson Lake for the night.

She puts the semi in park, and I grab my bag before we both hop out and begin to walk towards the rest stop together. She makes sure to lock the truck before we get inside.

The restroom isn't the cleanest, but it has lots of stalls. The floor and walls are made entirely of cement, giving the room a cold feeling. I notice that in the far back, there's a corner which is lightly stained red.

I really hope that's paint.

But I don't see anywhere that's painted red.

A few minutes later, and I'm waiting for Grace near the sinks as I brush my teeth and wash my face. Once I'm done, I stare at my reflection and realize just how gross I still look.

I feel gross, too, as I haven't showered in days.

Before, I used to shower every night because my hair would get super oily, and my skin would get really bad if I didn't. So, in conclusion, guess what's happening now?

I look like a thirteen-year-old video game addict who only comes out of their dark, moldy room for pizza and mountain dew. I can't wait to have a marvelous, warm shower again.

But then, a terrible thought hits me. My mind conjures up a horrid possibility.

What if I don't have a scorching hot shower one more time? What if John's friend in Alaska doesn't have showers?

In his letters, he says to go out to the woods until his friend finds me. Does that mean he lives out in the middle of nowhere? That he has to heat up water over a fire to bathe?

Well, I mean, it could be worse. I should just be happy that I'm not being unjustly sentenced to capital punishment for her murder.

But...what if John's friend doesn't bathe? What if he's just like one of those Duck-Dynasty-Mountain-Monsters-looking type of guy? What if he looks like the Turtle Man?

Oh, my God. Please no.

I mean, I know I shouldn't judge anyone off looks, but they at least have to be capable of essential hygiene.

"What's your problem?" I hear Grace ask as she comes up beside me and washes her hands.

"Just thinking about gross men."

"Why would you wanna do that?" She quips back.

"That's an excellent question, Grace. I'm not sure how to answer it."

She grunts and dries her hands before walking out the door.

I quickly follow her, keeping my bag's strap on my right shoulder as I step out onto the snow-covered ground.

I walk with my head down, looking at the ground in front of me. There are other footsteps imprinted in the snow, and they're larger than mine.

I find that odd, as there are no other trucks parked here. Grace and I seem to be the only souls around.

However, I don't instantly wipe the footsteps from my mind as we cross the yards left to the semi. There's something eerie about them, something odd.

Grace unlocks her truck before we slide back into the cab for the night. She locks the doors, and then the blankets are pulled back out from the green bin, and one is handed to me.

Not long after, I hear the woman next to me start to snore, and I'm nearly asleep myself until I begin to detect a light tapping on the glass.

Just a small, light thud, thud, thud...

The glass belongs to the window I'm currently leaning on, where I'm curled up with my eyes squeezed tight.

And, I can't shake this unnerving feeling that there's someone outside the door to my right.

Instantly, I'm reminded of the footsteps, and I stop breathing for a second, trying to listen better without making it seem like I'm awake.

Holy-

There might actually be a murderer within a foot from me.

Suddenly, the tapping stops. And for a fading moment, I almost begin to believe that it was just my wild imagination.

But then the feeling of eyes on me returns, as does the light banging on the window.

Okay, Mikaere. Think. There are two options to choose from.

The first one is to just ignore it. Pretend to be in a really, really deep sleep and hope that whoever they are, walks away.

The second option is to bravely open your eyes, lift your head, and make eye contact with whoever it is outside. Their goal is most likely to scare you, right? So show them that you're not scared, I reason with myself.

Granted, I believe the second option is the safest one. At least that way, I can wake Grace up, and she can hit the gas pedal so we can fly out of here.

However, at the moment, I'm not feeling particularly brave.

That feeling of cowardice subsequently fades not long after, though, as the tapping starts to get quicker and louder.

Taking a deep breath in, I open my eyes and glare, lifting my head to look out of the window.

My eyes instantly meet dark, bloodshot ones.

Lips curved into a bright red smile, jacket a simple black one. His hair is a mess, black locks moved in every direction. His skin is as white as the snow that's falling. I hear his dark laughter come from outside the transparent window as his large hands come up and violently slam onto it.

"GRACE!" I scream, reaching out and shaking her shoulder without taking my eyes off him.

I feel her stir, and she grumpily yells back, "WHAT?"

"There's a wanna-be Joaquin Pheonix outside, and he's trying to break the window!"

That wakes her up fully as the deranged man outside keeps slamming his hands onto the glass with all he has.

All the while, he never stops laughing.

I hear Grace curse as she fumbles with her keys, quickly putting them into the ignition and starting up the semi.

Then, the truck begins to move out of the truck stop and onto the road. But, the man is still hanging onto the side of the semi.

He's spread out in a snow-angel formation, one hand stretched out to the left of him, the other to the right.

Grace, looking panicked, gets the semi going faster, but the man still holds on. Snow is flying into his eyes, but he keeps staring at me with his mouth in a wide-open smile.

And I suddenly get an idea.

"What if I roll down the window and punch him in the face?" I ask Grace.

She doesn't waste any time with her reply. "I'm going eighty miles an hour during a snowstorm, and you think a punch in the face will make him let go?"

"Well, when you put it like that..."

"Just try opening up the whole door and roughly pushing him off."

"But he could get inside, then!" I argue back.

"And what's the probability of that?"

I sigh, knowing that our deaths will be her fault.

Breathing in deeply, I quickly unlock my door and pull the handle, simultaneously kicking it open, hard.

At that, the man is taken aback, and quite literally.

I feel a hint of prideful victory as he dramatically falls backward into the snow.

Promptly, I shut and lock the door before I stare at the dark contrast of the man's coat against the snow. Before he disappears from my sight, I see him sit up and tilt his head back, laughing.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I turn back to Grace. She's almost as pale as him; her eyes are wide with fear, and both hands are tightly clenched around the steering wheel.

"Is he gone?" She asks, trembling slightly.

"Yes. The man is gone."

"Oh, thank goodness. I thought you were about to get us killed."

I'm almost offended, as it was her idea that I open up the door, but then I realize that we're still going 80 in a snowstorm.

"Hey! Can you maybe slow down before you end up getting us killed?"

Instantly, she slows down and continues driving for a while in silence.

After about twenty minutes pass, I'm the one to bring it up.

"So, who do you think he is?"

She doesn't answer right away. "I don't know, and I don't ever want to find out."

I nod. "But, we should still inform the local police that a deranged man is hiding out at truck stops trying to attack people."

"You can. I'm just going to focus on the road. Go ahead and use my phone."

I pick up her phone, as mine is being kept on airplane mode, and quickly Google how to inform the local police about the incident. I know nothing of how law and law enforcement works in Canada, but once I've informed the local police of what happened, I put her phone back where it was and slump back into my seat.

"How tired are you?" I ask Grace.

"Not tired at all after that. And even if I were, I still wouldn't allow myself to sleep anytime soon."

"So what you're saying is we'll be driving straight to Beaver Creek now?" I glance at the clock on my tablet, determining that it's 11 pm.

"Most likely, with a couple of stops along the way," she answers.

"But...we'll stop in somewhat safe, public areas, right?"

"Oh yeah."

"Okay, good."

Then, we're plunged back into silence and our own little worlds again.

It's 11 pm, and we have nearly 10 more hours to go. So, we should get to Beaver Creek at around 9 am.

Beaver Creek...

"What's Beaver Creek like?" I ask the driver next to me.

"Look it up," she grumbles.

Oh. Okay.

Grabbing her phone, I do as she says and immediately read, "Beaver Creek is a community in Yukon, Canada...it is Canada's westernmost community. Population: 93 (2016)."

Oh, so it's in the middle of nowhere. Great.

Clicking on images next, I see a cute little town appear. The second image is a restaurant, and I also notice a few gas stations.

Maybe I will be able to find a ride.

Closing Google down, I put Grace's phone back on the dashboard.

"Why are you only going to Beaver Creek?" I question.

She glances over at me.

"I was bringing some timber down to Spokane, and now I'm going back home."

"You live in Beaver Creek?"

"Yes."

"It seems nice."

"It is. There's not many people, and everyone keeps to themselves unless they absolutely have to talk to you."

"How lovely," I respond. "Will I be able to get another ride?"

"Well, maybe. Where exactly are you trying to go?"

I hesitate for a moment, and she seems to realize this.

"Well...what general area are you trying to get to?" She rephrases.

"Chickaloon."

"Oh, I've been through there on my way to Anchorage many times," she says. "It's right on my route."

"You have? Have you ever stopped there? What's it like?" I have a hard time keeping my curiosity in.

"I've never stopped there; I usually prefer to stop at Glacier View. But, Chickaloon is really pretty, in my opinion. I always see wildlife driving through, too. Moose and deer; bears and birds."

"It sounds nice."

"Yes," she says. "Why are you going there, though? Do you know someone there?"

"Maybe," I truthfully answer. "I'm not entirely sure."

"Well, if you get there and the person who you're looking for isn't anywhere to be found, you know where to find me. You just might have to catch another ride to get there, though."

I laugh lightly, smiling. "Thanks, Grace."

"No problem, Sarah."

I pull out my tablet, which is now at 26%, and begin to read for an hour until I'm feeling relaxed again. As my tablet goes dead, my eyes shut as the warm air from the heater blows at me. I do my best to put the image of the man out of my mind as I try to fall asleep.

And, after many thoughts of comforting fireplaces and cuddling with fluffy dogs, I'm finally able to.