Fiction
PC: Author
Redwan Ahmed Araf
2.50 am. Hassan is driving the truck, with Zakir half asleep on the seat. They don’t look like killers exactly.
With no life to disturb for miles, the small truck passes loudly through the dusty country road. The blackness of the new moon has stuck to the world like thick ink. Hassan drives through it, looking anxiously at every bit of everything the headlights illuminate. All the while hoping that they would get away with what happened earlier that day.
They were getting back from the city warehouse. Busy rural road. People everywhere. On the road, by the road. Running from one side to another. They had a good lunch at a shabby eatery near the highway. Chicken Biryani and mutton stew. There was a particular joy in the air: the joy of cash earnings.
35° sun was burning everything alive. The dog that kept searching for a puddle, the schoolgirl with a runny nose, the humped beggar on the roadside. Zakir was snoring on the passenger seat. Hassan kept trying to keep his eyes open fruitlessly. He squinted, shook his head. But it felt heavy like a concrete ball. Driving all night takes its toll.
There were some rickshaw vans parked by the road. On one of them lied a boy of 16. He wore a red t-shirt and a pair of pale blue jeans. Maybe he was dreaming.
But Hassan couldn’t notice all that. He saw something white, something taking shape. Blurrily he saw something getting closer.
It was a white sedan, directly in front of the truck and striving to move to his right. He jerked his head as a thin flicker of light reflected from the roof of that car. He steered like a maniac. His stomach clenched when he steered it clockwise to get back on the road. That’s when it happened.
He grinded the woodwork of the van as he shoved it head-on. Its tiny tires were crumpled. And the boy went under the pile of the grinded woodwork and crumpled tires. Zakir was awake from the drift and trying to make sense of everything, just like Hassan. They didn’t see the boy or the black splatter on his t-shirt. They just heard a thud, an ugly sound caused by the bashing of the skull. Hassan felt a chill down his spine as he kept kicking the accelerator. He tried to slow down once, to look back.
“Just fucking look ahead and drive! I’m not going back to jail”, Zakir cried.
It has been 11 hours. They are driving toward Sherpur. They have to lay low for a while. Zakir has contacts there. He’s done this before.
Throwing the cigarette butt through the window, Hassan presses his forehead, trying to sooth the bulged vein. His head aches. His jaws are clenched. All this strain seems intolerable to him. He’s not even a bona fide driver. He was a fisherman 8 months ago. The basin he used to fish at went barren. Only crabs, some prawn. He learned to drive in one month. He’s been driving Zakir’s truck since then. Didn’t get a break to go home. He was supposed to leave for his home the next morning, After all this time.
“Maya must be furious! Just as much as Aman” Hassan thinks. Zakir made him throw away his phone. “Save your ass first” he suggested. ‘I’m sure Maya will have some answers for little Aman. She always cooks up good stories”, he expects. He plans to call Maya in the morning. “I should ask her about the fish. Maybe it’s all back to normal now. New fish has drifted from other rivers. When all this ends I’m going home. I can’t afford a boat now but I can hire one. And my old net will be usable after some knitting. That life was really peaceful! Why would I even decide to drive?” he thinks and smiles lightly.
He doesn’t notice that his head doesn’t hurt much now.
The dusty road has become broader. Queues of flame trees stand steep by its sides; stretching domes of red petals. Some of it is getting lit by the yellow halogen rays of the headlights.
Hassan reaches for the cigarette packet. But something stops his hand. Someone does. Someone is lying in the middle of the road.
Stopping the truck, they get closer. It’s a young girl. Her black hair is dustier than the road; it has barbs and tumbleweed in it. Her bleached right-hand holds something in its grip; grasping it tightly. She seems to have come from a decent family. There’s dirt on her white kameez but it does look fancy. However, mysteriously, her salwar’s missing. Hence they can see the claw marks on her legs. Those marks appear to be a work of a human beast. There are more marks on her benumbed face. Marks of a ringed fist.
Zakir scowls and points toward something. There’s a small pool of blood between her legs. Little grains of wet soil are scattered around it. She has been bleeding for hours.
Zakirsays,”Come Hassan. Let’s move this bitch. Hold the legs, I’ll hold the shoulders.”
Hassan stands frozen, staring at the blood.
“Are you fucking deaf? Move this dead bitch.” Zakir yells.
“She’s not dead.”
“But she will be. We’ll die too if we don’t get the fuck out of here!”
Zakir moves forward and tries to move the girl.
“This bitch’s burning!” Zakir shrieks.
Hassan takes a deep breath.
“We have to take her to the town, few miles back. She’s dying.”
“Are you thick?” Zakirscreams.”Fucking fisherman-ass stupid bastard! Move this bitch or I’m whacking her”
Hassan rushes to block Zakir before he can open the truck door.
“Stop.”
Zakir pushes Hassan hard and knocks him on the ground; lands some kicks.
Looking up, Hassan grunts and breathes heavily. Branches of tall flame trees are spread like veins, holding multitudes of blood petals. The sky looks like a black canvas in the background. As if the whole sight is some bizzare painting, an abstraction beyond comprehension. But Hassan knows what he sees there. He knows what he has to do.
He sits up slowly. Zakir is standing near the door, catching a breath. The girl has started to move. She’s trying to say something. He also notices that there’s a piece of wood stuck to the bumper. Surely a token from his recent misdeed. It has been with him all the way.
He springs up and grabs the piece of wood.