Welcome to Portland.

[Jake Cornwell]

Two miles outside of the first Portland exit, steam started boiling out from under the hood.

"Fuck!" Jake shouted, then looked around guiltily at his outburst as though expecting his mother to reach out and slap him on the back of the head any moment. She wasn't there; she didn't.

The temperature gage - hell, most of the gages - had been broken for years. He had worried that something like this would happen, but he'd been so close to Portland that his concern slowly slipped his mind, eclipsed by the intermingled relief and dread of finally getting there.

Someone in a shiny new black truck blared their horn at him when he started steering the '72 Chevy over to the shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he stuck his arm out the window and waved them on ahead.

It weren't polite to be rude to strangers, his granpappy always said. Weren't polite at all.

Once he was on the shoulder and had the beast in park, he hit the hood release, grabbed the flashlight and oil-soaked rag under the seat, and hopped out.

Copius amounts of steam gushed out when he raised the hood. In the beam of his flashlight, he could see antifreeze dripping off the engine block.

"Fudge," he muttered under his breath.

Covering his hand and wrist with the cloth, he quickly unscrewed the radiator cap and pulled his arm out of the way as even more steam geyesered out like Old Faithful.

Drip, drip, drip, went the antifreeze as it fell to the ground below.

The radiator had belched. Nothing left in it now but steam.

"Hell fire!"

Someone in a sports car honked merrily at him as they passed. Jake had to bite his cheek to stop himself from giving them the finger. He waved with the cloth-covered hand instead.

He walked around to the bed of the truck, but even before he lifted the jug of pre-mixed radiator fluid, he had a nasty feeling that it was empty.

It was.

Jake leaned against the rusted blue truck and tipped his head back, force of habit guiding his thumb over the flashlight's switch to turn it off. His dad had told him, flat out told him, to make sure he had everything he needed for any basic engine problems. Tools, which he had plenty of. Brake fluid, transmission fluid, windshield wiper fluid, water and/or anti-freeze.

Before he'd left San Francisco, he'd poked his head over the back, counted the containers, and driven off without checking to make sure they were all full.

"Fudge. Oh, fudge."

Well, there was nothin' doin'. Slapping the rear tirewell with the flat of his hand, he hauled his tools and all of the containers into the cab, locked 'er up, and started walking.

People who had nothing better to do honked or rolled down their windows to shout unintelligably at him as they zoomed by. It was nights like this when he wondered what it'd be like to be a girl for a change.

A girl would have been picked up in a heartbeat. Probably to be molested and dumped off though, he reckoned. Maybe it was better that he had dangly bits instead of perky bits.

With his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his fleece-lined jacket, boots crunching on bits of glass and gravel, he walked the two miles to the next exit and trundled down the hill to the gas station.

He bought four gallons of the pre-mixed stuff and two gallons of distilled water, as well as some nylon rope to tie the handles together. With three gallons hanging over each shoulder, he retraced his steps up the hill and the two miles back to his truck.

Where a policeman was waiting.

"Howdy, officer."

"Is this your truck?"

"Yessir, it is, pains me to say."

The cop snorted.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Radiator belched."

"Excuse me?"

"Radiator belched. Got an air bubble in it, spewed up all the anti-freeze. Happens every now and then."

"I see. You gonna be able to fix it?"

"Yes, sir. Shouldn't take long."

"Alright, then. Do you have any hazard cones? Roadside flares?"

"No, sir."

"You need to pick some up when you get this thing fixed and back into town. It's dangerous working on the shoulder like this at night."

"Yes, sir, I will. Thank you, officer."

The cop looked at him, then smiled. "It's nice to meet someone who isn't a smartass."

Jake didn't think what the cop had said was very professional, but he smiled at him anyway. "Thank you, officer."

"No problem. Be safe and have a good night."

"You too, officer. G'night."

"Good luck with that gassy radiator."

"Thank you, sir."

Jake stood there, neck aching from the weighted rope digging into it, and watched as the officer got into his vehicle, sat there for a minute, and then signaled to get back on the interstate.

He waited until the officer was gone before fixing the truck.

* * *

The air bubble had been stubborn; it took him a while to get the radiator filled and the air bubble gone. But two hours, and an emergency-shoulder kit later, he wondered if it wasn't all a bad omen.

He was sitting in a diner, eating his way steadily through an omelette and a side of pancakes. The diner was playing '50s music that went with the decorating scheme.

He had heard that Roswell, New Mexico had an alien-themed diner, and he'd really wanted to go see it. His parents had scoffed at him, while his sister smirked at him with that superior look on her face.

One day, he'd like to go back to Roswell and eat at that diner. Maybe they'd have alien-shaped pancakes. He'd like that.

As he paid his bill and walked out of the diner, he figured that wouldn't happen until this crusade was done and over with. It couldn't end soon enough for him.

Granted, he missed Lisa, missed her like an aching gum missed its tooth, and it wasn't right for her to die the way she did. It wasn't right for her to be killed like that with so much life ahead of her.

All the same, though, he couldn't help but feel it wasn't right what they were doing now; hunting down these demons, making them all pay for the crimes of one.

And while he didn't like to think about it, he still had those nightmares about the woman whose life he took. Her wide, blue eyes locked on his, her hand like a vice around his wrist as she began saying.. things.

Even with a knife buried in her hot, moist liver, she refused to die or let him go until she had said all she'd seen. Even when the pain was unbearable and he'd tried to wrench free of her grip, she wouldn't let go.

Then, just like that, she died. Snuffed out. The pain stopped and her hand fell, limp, fingers curled, to the floor.

Jake sat for a long time in the cab of his truck, trying not to think about that. He tried to think about his plans for the next day instead. He had to go to the community college and enroll. He had to meet some people, find out where the posh clubs were. He needed to go to one of these clubs and ask for a job.

Isaac J. Smith had a very nice resumé. Isaac had very good references as a bartender and a bouncer. Isaac had a clean background check and a prodestant work ethic.

Isaac J. Smith had a social security card, birth certificate, and a drivers license. The '72 Chevy C/10 was licensed, registered and insured in Isaac J. Smith's name. Everything was issued in the state of Tennessee. There was even a magnetic sticker on the tailgate that supported the UT Volunteers.

Yeah, buddy. Go Vols.

Rubbing his face, Jake wondered if his parents ever considered what a nightmare it was being two different people. And then a stranger thought hit him - was it so different for those his family hunted? One thing on the inside, another on the outside?

It was too difficult of a thought to pursue for long. The ramifications were too many. Instead, Jake found the Big & Rich cassette a friend of 'Isaac's' in New Mexico had made for him, pushed it into the deck and drove off to find a cheap motel to stay in.

Tomorrow, Isaac would come to Portland. He still had a few hours left to just be Jake.




((This post was introductory, and is now closed. Thank you for reading!))