Paul Sparrow

2223 Juniperberry Drive

San Rafael, CA. 94903
415-518-8966
paul@paulsparrow.com
2,411 words
First Serial Rights
Short Story

The Sunrise Highway

By Paul Sparrow

Soren was headed east on Highway 8. At 6:30 am. He could already feel the day’s heat radiating

through the windshield even though the air conditioning was cranking. He had a Fleetwood Mac tape

going but wasn’t listening. As he started gaining elevation in the mountains east of San Diego, he noticed

the large McMansions perched on the craggy outcropping in the moonscape of this desert. He wondered

how those homes got their water—or electricity for that matter. People will do what it takes to live where

they want. Damn the expense. I want to live on sharp rocks in desert dammit! It was beautiful despite the

fact that it was 100 degrees just after sunrise. The critters had adapted; tough-skinned lizards, scorpions,

flies. They’d be here long after these houses have returned to earth.

He thought back to the feel of the gun—that first touch. It had felt lighter than he had imagined. It

seemed to be made of some sort of aluminum alloy. Was that possible? It was probably some sort of hi-

tech amalgam. He was old-timey when it came to guns. He had learned to shoot alongside his brothers

from his grandfather when he was about seven. 30/30, 30-06, .300 Weatherby and .22s. He was trained

with an M-16 when he was in the Marines. He had nothing but bad memories of that freakin’ gun, or rifle

as the Marines insisted he call it. This is my rifle, this is my gun…

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 The M-16 was newish then and got terrible reviews from the Nam vets. It was too much

technology. It was plastic, jammed all the time, and was fatally unreliable. Men died in the jungle because

of that stinkin’ weapon. When Marines in the bush got the chance they grabbed a Kalashnikov off a dead

Viet. They also much preferred the older, heavier M-14. They didn’t have a choice though. Somebody

upstairs decided the M-16 was the weapon of the future. Colt had good lobbyists. In boot camp, OCS, in

the bush, the stupid thing jammed all the time. He had recurrent dreams of facing up to an enemy, pulling

the trigger and…nothing.

This new thing felt more advanced. It was featherweight. It was smooth to the touch. When he

first touched it, he handled it delicately and caressed the bolt, the trigger, the stock. It must weigh about

three pounds he thought. He understood the seductive power that guns had over certain men. This one

was no different. He fell victim. Despite decades since he last got intimate with a weapon, the feelings

came back. He shouldered it and drew a site on an imaginary target. He wanted nothing more than to pull

the trigger and feel the kick into his shoulder and smell burning gun powder.

As he drove, Soren thought back to a time he was in Sedona with his wife. They were staying in a

friend’s largish house in a spiffy subdivision. Out front it had one of those fake rivers created by river

rock. One morning, three coyotes trotted through the front yard on their way to an ambush. One of them

was gimpy. They gave no thought to property lines. This land made him think of that. He and his kind

were just visitors to this harsh landscape.

As he climbed toward the Sunrise Highway, he passed an exit for Pine Valley. Who’d of thought

there’d be town called Pine Valley in East San Diego County? It looked very pleasant from the highway.

There were pine trees. He passed through a long sweeping wooded valley that reminded him of the

northern Sierra Nevada. The smell. That smell of pine brought back memories of better days. If only he

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could turn back time. He would never see the northern Sierra again. He got a lump in his throat. Even

though he had lived in San Diego years before, he thought everything east of San Diego was Tecate—hot,

barren and forbidding. This was different. It smelled sweet and cool.

He took the Sunrise Highway exit off of The 8 rather than plunge directly into the scorching

Imperial Valley below. He’d have plenty of time for that. The road was shrouded in pines and their fresh,

cleansing scent. He wanted to linger a bit. The smells took him back to the time before he and his wife

had kids. They spent a lot of time in The Sierra on simple vacations—floating on rafts on icy cool lakes,

hiking on the flumes that snaked through the mountains carrying water downstream to awaiting

reservoirs. Even when he was living this dreamy portion of his life, he knew it was fleeting. As he floated

along, gazing at the deep green of the Sugar Pines against the brilliant azure sky, he knew. He wanted to

hold on to it but it was like trying to save an ice cube on a warm day.

As Soren drove along the Sunrise Highway he knew that he was delaying the inevitable—the rest

of his life. In the deepest sense, he wanted to turn back; back to his wife, to his kids, to his dogs, to his life

before. He pulled off at a roadside diner. The Imperial Valley could wait. He ordered a cheeseburger and

vanilla shake.

$100,000 was lot of money. It was easy money too. As least that what the guy said. That’s a little

more than he could clear in a good year. Being a graphic designer wasn’t as lucrative as once upon a time.

His best campaigns were ten years past and these days print was suffering. It was all web and social

media. Short attention span theatre. Still, his proficiency and experience got him work. But still, 100

grand was a lot of money for 30 minutes work.

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 It was all laid out for him. The job. He was picked for his anonymity. His sameness. He was an

average guy; married, kids, lived in the burbs, paid his taxes, no arrests, and simple likes. He was one of

tens of millions of men in America that made up the backbone of productive society. He lived in

famously liberal, and rich, Marin County California. At 6’3” he was a little taller than they would have

ideally liked. But he had been clean shaven his whole life so could easily be disguised if need be.

One hiccup was his recovery; first alcohol and painkillers, then sex. He had been sober for ten

years. He was evidently picked for a few different reasons; he was smart, as an alcoholic he had an

extraordinary ability to compartmentalize his life, and he was an ex-Marine expert marksman.

He dropped off the summit at the Sunrise Highway and continued east on The 8. He was

presented with a stunning view of everything east—a vast desert with hopeless towns: Brawley, Calexico,

Calipatria, El Centro, Holtville and Westmoreland. Whoever lived out there was there by mistake of birth.

Heat waves rose up to the hazy yellow-blue sky. It was ugly. Sinister. This is where he needed to be. He

could get lost here. Maybe even start drinking again. He knew that this, of all things wasn’t an option. His

brain was trying to trick him.

He found the envelope, as promised, on the passenger seat of his car. What in God’s name would

have happened if his wife happened to get into his car and found it first? He would have lied of course,

quite effectively—most alcoholics, recovered or not, are good liars. The envelope contained three

cartridges and a key. They cartridges were familiar to him. They were the same 5.56 mm round he used to

fire in the M-16. These were different however. They were jacketed hollow point with BBs suspended in

liquid Teflon; located in the core of the projectile. These were designed for maximum destruction,

maximum death and were very illegal. He knew his ammo. He started to get butterflies.

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 He had owned guns. When he got sober he shipped them all up to his brother in Oregon. He still

had one; a Sig Sauer 9mm his brother had given for some legal entanglements he helped untie. His

brother gave him guns as the ultimate token of love. He was Army Special Forces and had been shot up

in Iraq. His brother always gave him guns on special occasions. He had even given him one as a wedding

present. His wife couldn’t wrap her head around this thing with guns—not with kids in the house, so he

sent them to his brother.

His wife had stuck by him through rehab and the affairs. Unfortunately there wasn’t therapy or

rehab for what he’d done this time. They couldn’t go to their marriage counselor to figure this one out.

Since he got sober he had become a miserable liar and try as he might, he couldn’t cover this one up from

her. As part of their recovery together they checked in with each other every night before sleep. For the

first time in ten years he had to lie to her. Not a real lie, but one of omission. That’s how he rationalized

it. His 12-step program preached rigorous honesty but he found that his lying muscles hadn’t gone totally

flaccid. Once a liar, always… At first it was easy. His ability to shut things out allowed him to lie and go

about his life. The extra $100k in his ING account didn’t hurt either.

For the first couple of weeks he was guilt free. He put it away just like he used to do with his

drinking and using. It needed to be done. He was a scumbag. That’s what they said. Vigilante justice! He

was a hero if you really thought about it. After three weeks went by the cracks started to appear. He’d see

newspaper articles, see something on TV, and hear people talking about it on his commute. He also

started to feel a little paranoid. During their evening check-ins his wife started to ask if he was feeling

alright. She said he seemed stressed out. When you live with an alcoholic there’s always relapse in the

bushes, waiting to jump. That was my wife’s worst fear. Little did she know.

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 As weeks passed it appeared that he was in the clear. He had heard nothing more from that guy.

The guy who paid him. The guy who put the envelope in his car. Even so, sleep became difficult. The

images haunted his dreams. What was he thinking?! He had acted out an alcoholic fantasy. He had really

done it!

He was too paranoid to touch the money in his ING account. He lost his appetite and started

losing weight. His wife suspicions grew. She started to have that tired, sad look in her eyes that he

remembered from his using days. He felt like he was going insane. By some miracle, he didn’t drink. The

tools of recovery weren’t going to work for him this time though. He couldn’t tell anyone, even in the

program. That would finish everything.

He entered the lobby of the Bank of America building at California and Kearny in San Francisco.

Was it still the Bank of America Building? Hadn’t some company bought it a few years back? His mind

was wandering, He had to focus. He wore a blue blazer, white button down open at the collar, jeans and

topsiders. He wanted to blend in and didn’t want to feel taller than he already was. He also wore thin,

brown Isotoner gloves and Vaurnet sunglasses. The cartridges and key were in his front jacket pocket.

He took the elevator to the eighth floor. He made sure that he rode the elevator alone. On his way

out he’d take the stairs to the fifth floor and then ride the elevator the rest of the way. He entered the

conference room on the eighth floor with the key from the envelope. It was windy inside. A window pane

had been removed and wind was gusting into the room. The tri-pod was perched next to the window. He

still had ten minutes until the target would leave 550 California across the street and head toward a

waiting limo. He’d have less than ten seconds to act when the time came.

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 Highway 8 narrowed as it descended into the Imperial Valley miles below. It started to get hot

again. He cranked the AC. The Fleetwood Mac CD kept repeating. Someone had left it in the rental car. It

must have played five or six times already. He just wanted to drive. Drive east. When he left home he

didn’t know where he was headed. It was all he could do to grab his wallet and keys. He couldn’t bear

turning around and looking at her again. The dogs were worried. They both stood up and pawed at him,

their eyes pleading. They knew something was up. Let’s go for a walk. That will fix everything.

Thankfully his daughters were at school. His heart felt tight when he thought of them.

He picked San Diego because it was a cheap flight and he could pay cash. It was also close to

Mexico just in case. He knew the roads a little bit from when he lived there years before. He was still

consumed with the vision of his wife when he told her. At first she laughed nervously. Obviously he was

kidding. She read the look in his eyes and the color went out of her face. He had never seen her look so

terrified. She vomited into her hand and ran to the bathroom, dripping spew. The dogs followed cleaning

up after her. He could hear, sobbing, gagging and scream-whimpers coming from inside. There would be

no discussion.

It was time. He took his position at the window. He was nervous but nervous calm. He

remembered his training. The rifle fit his hand perfectly; like it was made for him.

Highway 8 narrowed still further into a two lane road and became a series of tight “S” curves. He

had to slow to about 10mph to negotiate each one. A loud “Wump” hit the windshield hard and it

spidered out from a single point. His intuition told him he must have hit a deer or large bird. Suddenly it

sounded like someone was pounding on the side of the car with a hammer, Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Did

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he throw a rod or something?! He felt a heavy impact against his chest. His last thoughts were that he hit

a tree or another car. It grew dark.