Work Text:
There's a scavenger on the wind alone
And the moon has grown to be yellow
I know the time is running low, but there's still a place to go
So let me take you down to the murky road.
Scavenger On The Wind, Mangy Bones
* * *
The corn fields are awful.
They stretch on for miles, following the flat, straight road into oblivion, gray cracked asphalt disappearing over the horizon. In the darkness, it looks like the descending hill drops off into nothing, road twisting down into a pit of hell or void.
Grian’s rental trucks' high beams barely make it 20 feet, reflecting a dull glow off of the green husks and stalks that sway gently and clunk together. Dropped off dried leaves lay in the dust next to the shoulder of the road he stands in, truck half sunk to the ground from its rapidly deflating left tire.
There is nothing other than the road and corn. To the left, he can see dark looming shadows of a thick forest on the edge of the field, black leaves that shake with warm, dry wind. He can hear the distant hoots of an owl from atop the sugar maples and elms.
The flashlight from his phone hardly does anything to help the unease he feels, hands shaking from a mix of adrenaline and the energy drink he had been sipping from the cupholder before everything went to shit.
The light fills him with a primative feeling, like one holding a fiery torch and thrusting it at monsters in the dark, threatening them and burning them away. Grian feels a growing discomfort, like the night is holding it’s breath. Everything is too silent, his heartbeat thuds and echoes in his head, the ears in the field listening dutifily.
He sits on the cool pavement, knees tucked up against his chest, back pressed against the front tire. He’s not a paranoid person, but he tries to trust his intuition, even when it proposes something improbable, such as a screaming sense that he’s being watched .
Panic flutters like a tiny bird in his chest, pecking on his lungs and standing on his heart, so both breathe and pump faster. The truck rumbles behind him, engine still running. He forgot to turn it off when he jumped from the driver's seat to check on the extinguished, dying tire.
It didn’t make sense how it had deflated so quickly. He couldn’t recall hitting anything, nor did the road seem populous enough to have screws and nails in the middle of the asphalt. Yet within a few seconds, he went from cruising in a rented gray truck to losing tire pressure shockingly fast and landing on the shoulder of the road at 2 AM.
He doesn't have many options or solutions for what to do. It’s the middle of the night, he has no cell service, no one who would notice he won’t arrive at Hermitstead at the ETA of 6 AM as expected, no spare tires, and no knowledge of how to change a tire if he even had one.
The nonexistent breeze weaves through the corn again. Their leaves sound like flowing dresses swishing together, a strange and hypnotic dance, with music only they can hear.
Grian has some songs on his phone downloaded for when he goes through deadzones. The silence of this field and the overwhelming darkness that continues to grow is too much for him. So, he opens up his roadtrip playlist. Tiny speakers whisper out a hushed and muffled song, as his shaking fingers press play.
Bright pop rings out into the silent field as he increases the volume and places his phone on the pavement.
The music is so horribly not at all suited for this moment. He laughs, but it comes out more pained then he means for it to.
While driving, he hadn’t passed another car in 4 hours. He was the only person at the run-down gas station, other than the old man at the cash register who didn’t speak to him once; too absorbed in a small bible as he played with the collar of his stained gray shirt. He looked at him with a glare as he placed down 4 energy drinks and a wadded five onto the counter. As if to nonverbally scold him for interrupting his reading time.
Grian hasn't slept in a really long time, a thought he has repeated dully all night, until really long time loses its meaning, and sleep is on the back burner until he reaches Hermitstead.
The weight of his eyelids has gotten easier to ignore, as the hours of the night continue to tick along with each mile marker on the desolate highway. But it makes him feel crazy, like the stars are growing closer, and the dizziness he feels is from watching the hypnotic sky.
A single cricket chirps underneath the body of the truck, taking the role of the only sound as the track on Grian’s phone ends, and he doesn’t move to turn another song on. He feels like an outsider, breaking up the melodic noises the field generates.
Mostly, he feels incredibly small. Dwarfed by problems as well as the vast expanse of entities that stand tall and stretch for miles. The never-ending breadth of road and land makes Grian feel just like the cricket next to him; tiny and insignificant, chirping out for no one to hear.
He decides to wait, time passing too slowly and dragging out every minute.
He waits for morning, back against the tire for awhile, picking at his nails and drawing circles in the dust by the road. His phone flashlight dims, battery losing charge before eventually dying and leaving the high beams as the only light.
He waits for help, turning his hazards on and shouting out a few times. He gives up after another hour passes, and no car, nor creature, makes any appearance.
The cricket stopped chirping after a large gust of wind swept across the stalks and drowned out his quiet tune. Everything in this field is musical, but the ears that can hear are a thousand to one.
Grian stands, knees popping and back aching as he climbs out of the uncomfortable position he’d been in, with his legs crossed and tucked close to his body. Exhaustion is catching up to him, the caffeine from before only able to do so much. He feels sluggish and slow, mind a few seconds behind, like subtitles that haven’t caught up to the film above them.
He walks around to the back of the truck, hazards still flashing out into the darkness. It’s almost 4 AM, he figures. When the sun rises enough to see, he can start walking towards town and trying to hitch a ride. He’s too unfamiliar with the area to know whether anyone would help or not.
As he stands by the truck, only illuminated by flashing hazard lights, he hears a rumbling from behind him, growing quickly. Turning around he’s met with two bright headlights speeding towards him, before slowing down and revealing a small car.
The vehicle draws nearer and he can’t help but notice how old it looks. Wood panels the scratched light blue painted sides, and rust clings to it’s door hinges and body. The license plate hangs by one screw from a bumper that shifts everytime the driver hits a crack in the asphalt.
It’s better than nothing though.
“Hey!” He waves his hand up, as the driver continues to slow, before stopping in front of his truck.
Grian carefully approaches the driver side window. The pane rolls down and he’s met with a energetic grin from a man who appears not much older than himself.
His eyes almost glow, bright green and far too awake for what time of night it is. A large scar stretches from his eyebrows and down his nose, while another one lines his lower jaw. His hair hangs in front of his forehead, bangs swept into a naturally casual looking style. He wears a white collared shirt and brown leather jacket. Grian wonders if he may work at one of the churches nearby. Why else would he be dressed up and awake so early?
“Need a ride?” The man asks, voice melodic and musical, just like everything else in this hellish field.
Grian’s initial relief at salvation is replaced by unease. The mans energy and personality is so perfect it’s disquieting. His existence is oxymoronic; someone who appears like an angel but looks at him like the devil.
Or, more so like a coyote in between the rows of corn, stalking its prey and luring them into a false sense of safety. Grian brushes that thought off. The lack of sleep must be getting to him more than he thought.
“Yes,” He replies, “I just need to get to an auto repair shop. Blew out my tire, somehow.”
The man nods knowingly, “Happens all the time. Every night I come out here, and every night there’s another person who needs a ride.”
Grian backs away ever slightly from the car, the mans grin growing wolfish.
“I don’t mind of course.” He waves a hand airily, not noticing Grian’s apprehension. “Gives me something to do in the quiet hours.”
“Say, how about while I drive you to the mechanics, I can tell you about an exciting business opportunity?” The mans eyes gleam with persuasion, reflecting the stars above in a swirling dark green mess.
“Business opportunity?” Grian repeats warily. He doesn’t need to let the man know this, but he’s desperate. The whole reason he was driving to Hermitstead was for a job offer at the local realty office. It didn’t pay amazingly, but a friend of a cousin owned it, and he would take any reason to leave his old town.
“Yes, yes— a great, grand opportunity, with gold lining the road to it!” The man unlocks the passenger side door, gesturing wildly as he does so. “Just hop in and I’ll tell you all about it! And, I can help you pay for a new tire.” He adds, just to sweeten the deal.
It all seems too good to be true, but there is something about the man that incentivizes Grian to ignore his instincts. He captures his attention like the spotlight on a stage, guiding his eyes away from the things that hide, waiting in the wings.
It’s not a long car ride, he’ll be fine.
Grian peels open the passenger side door and steps in carefully. The interior smells like metal, but something earthier and hidden clings to the coppery scent.
“My name is Scar, by the way.” The man grins again, something hungry in his gaze. He locks the doors and quickly shifts gears. The car thunks into a comfortably fast speed. In seconds, the only trace of Grian’s rental truck and time by the highway is the rapidly disappearing light of his highbeams.
They pass over the crest of the hill, and down the dark road that looks like it goes off into nothing.
The corn seems to move away from the car, like the presence inside the vehicle is a repellent. The stalks lean back into the dark of the field.
The interior lights of the car automatically shut off, and Scar and Grian are plunged into uncomfortable darkness.
“Boy, do I have an offer for you, Grian,” Scar’s eyes glow in the dark, wide and predatory.
Grian looks away, watching through the windshield as the field becomes darker and darker, and the road narrows until it appears to only be one lane.
With a sinking feeling of despair, he realizes;
He never gave Scar his name.