In a heartbeat, in the time between one confident step and the next, Zach’s world lumbered to a disjointed, confused halt.
Automatically, he moved to the inner edge of the sidewalk to let others pass, but there were no others. He wasn’t sure if he regretted the lack of people or was relieved he’d not have to explain his presence in…wherever this was.
“Figure it out,” he muttered to himself, and his words echoed in the empty street. Brick buildings faced him, their shining storefronts as dark as the skies above, although a faint glow on the horizon promised sun in the near future. “Start with where, then how and why.”
It could have been small town Main Street anywhere, although the dryness suggested desert life, as did the tumbleweed rolling slowly down the paved street.
He turned his head to follow its movement, wondering if the universe was telling him to get his life in order. But he hadn’t been drinking, and the world’s greatest hangover wouldn’t have transported him to another town. Not when just yesterday, he’d been surrounded by snow and red-cheeked ski bunnies.
Zach thought he’d quite like to return to those beautiful creatures posthaste, actually. Even if he hadn’t made it off the beginner slopes yet, there’d been one or two receptive to him making a fuss over their injuries and praising their efforts. Especially that one with the tempting lips and come-hither gaze. There’d been a hot tub in his future, he was sure of it.
He let out a growl of disappointment.
The tumbleweed rolled on, heedless of his plight. Past a man slouching against a lamppost – and Zach broke into a desperate run, although he’d never run in cowboy boots before, and didn’t recall owning a pair – only to find it was a statue.
Biting back a curse, he rested a hand atop the other man’s shoulder, and shuddered at a passing flight of fancy. Had the statue once been human?
Impossible.
Yet here he was, in a situation he couldn’t explain. Maybe those long-shunned fantasy books that had gotten him such bullying in junior high were the answer. Because if this was a dream, it was more realistic than any he’d had in his life.
Or maybe, he realized with relief, it was in bold white letters just visible in the dim streetlights.
WINSLOW * ARIZONA
It was an answer. Not that he knew where Windslow, Arizona was, other than somewhere on Route 66 – which was famous for some reason he didn’t remember, and only knew because it was painted on the road by the statue’s feet.
Now if only he knew why he was here, or why it felt like the town was deserted, apocalypse-style, instead of merely sleeping.
He’d settle for the barking of one of those little yappy mop-dogs, even. Anything to break the unforgiving silence of starlight.
Perpetual starlight, because with as long as he’d been standing here trying to vector his whereabouts, the sun should have risen and drowned out the pinpricks of skyward brilliance.
The only sign of change was the sound of his bootsteps, muffled by dust that played across the painted ROUTE 66 covering the road. Even the tumbleweed had left for drier pastures, moving in and out of his life with haste and more questions than when he’d found himself in a town he’d never meant to visit.
A slow turn, and this time, the shop window reflected a red pickup so old it might qualify as an antique if it weren’t obviously a work truck. One that hadn’t been there moments before landing square above the blacktop’s paint, unless time had frozen again.
“You coming?” A blonde in her early twenties stuck her head out the window. On the passenger side, a elderly golden retriever lolled a welcoming grin, complete with drooping tongue and a touch of slobber.
He tugged off his hat – when had he gotten a cowboy hat? – and backed up a step.
“It seems I might be making unfortunate decisions this evening, ma’am.” Fantasy seemed far away now that another human had made the town come back to life, but perhaps someone had slipped him something.
She propped her chin on one hand and studied him. “I can’t fix stupid, Zach Aspenwall, but I can keep you from getting eaten if you hop in.”
He froze, the inexplicable hat still pressed to his chest. “How did you know my name?”
“If you’re fixed for introductions, I’m June Porter.”
The dog barked a warning, floppy ears perking as he looked behind the vehicle.
June glanced at the side. “Right. He’s Waffles, and we need to go.” She revved the engine. “Get in, Zach, and I’ll explain everything.”
***
Becky Jones and I traded prompts this week! Check out more at MOTE.
