Anxiety and Depression

 The Delivery

            "Listen, you really don't want to do this," he explained to the gentleman, pointing the gun at him. He was trying to address the man behind the gun, but his eyes couldn't see past it. It was like he addressed the weapon as the person, not the person behind it.

            "You walked into a situation you were never supposed to leave from, Mr. O'Brian." The gentleman's voice said from behind the void of the gun.

            "Well, I mean, shit, man. I was just here to drop off this package for Mr. Johnson in exchange for another package to bring back," O'Brian said without trying to expose the current fear flowing through his body. He surely couldn't die yet; he had just signed up for a whole new year's worth of comics to read.

            Then, as soon as that thought cleared his head, so did a bullet with a burst of flash from the gun and a bang so loud that he felt the concussion in his chest. As the bullet landed next to his head, just for a second, he was left wondering what the hell did he get into this mess. The fear became panic, the panic became terror, and that fight or flight reaction kicked in.

Flight it was, feet slipping a bit under him because the legs decided to go before the body had a chance to realize what was happening. No chosen destination was in mind; it was to move away from the gentleman with the gun. The building he was in was an old airplane hanger in the middle of the desert that looked as if it had yet to be used in years. Light dust was all over the floor, and what looked like toolboxes were set against the far wall by the only door to escape. All he could think of was not slipping into the shoes he was wearing on that dusty ass floor because a felled object is an easier shot than a moving one.

As flight mode was fully engaged, he decided to make a straight beeline for the door, not to zigzag in those shoes and on that floor. The thought to run straight was in the fact that the gentleman stood no more than twenty feet away from him and missed without either of them moving. So straight it was, right for the door, and with his current luck, he'd probably get hit by one of the bullets if he did try and zigzag.

Another shot was fired off, this one duller in sound because the first one left such a bad ringing in his ears that he thought he'd never hear right again. The bullet hit one of the toolboxes in front of him near the door; the second shot was wide, right, nowhere near his destination. The third shot was really close, or he thought it was, as it hit the door he was running to. The fourth shot was almost the one to get him, as the heat of the bullet felt like it had melted his ear, but it hit the door in front of him at head height. The door was getting closer now, as were the bullets that were whizzing past him. Which one would occur first, the escape out the door or the escape from life by a bullet? Still in full forward motion, he wasn't sure if he should grab the handle or burst through the door like the Kool-Aid man. 

Kool-Aid, man, it was. He turned slightly sideways as he reached his destination and dropped his shoulder into the door. With all his momentum, he blasted through the door like a paper mache banner at a high school football game as the players entered the field. However, his entry to the outside world was met with a complete tumble onto the ground. So much for the lovely suit that he was wearing that accompanied the shoes. He was able to lay out an arm to stop the tumble and quickly jump back onto his feet. Now for the car.

He knew the keys were inside the ignition, as he rarely took them out just in case of a quick scramble out of a tight situation. Just like the one he was currently in. So he just needed to get into the car and haul ass away, very far away. His car was parked on the other side of the vehicle owned by the gentleman with the gun. It was an old Lincoln Continental with suicide doors painted black with window tint just as black as the car. Then, it crossed his mind. Was there another person in that car as well, awaiting his retreat with the gentleman who failed to kill him in the hangar? He had arrived first, so he was still determining. As he got to the Lincoln, no one greeted him. As he rounded the back of the car, he went for his, an older bright red Volkswagen R32, an affordable all-wheel-drive sports car from the early 2000s.

He was in, and with a flick of the wrist and foot on the clutch, he started the car before closing the driver's door. Throwing the car into first gear and full throttle, he disengaged the clutch and was moving. He was shifting through gears so hard that he worried the stick shift would break right off. With distance gaining between him and the hanger, he looked back in the rearview mirror, expecting to see the gentleman with the gun in hot pursuit of that big black car. But nothing, no movement behind him, nobody standing outside or anything. But why wasn't he being chased now?

He had to gather himself and figure out what the hell just happened. He was supposed to do a quick drop-and-grab delivery for Mark Johnson, with whom he has done numerous jobs in the past. Even as much as having dinner with him on occasion. In their last interaction, which occurred earlier in the morning, all seemed fine. Mark had even asked if he wanted to grab a bite to eat this weekend, wanting to try out this new sushi place in Oceanside. Nothing is making sense now, he thought to himself. There has to be something behind this, some misunderstanding perhaps. But the gentleman with the gun knew his name.

As he drove down the single-lane desert road with nothing in sight, he kept half an eye in the mirror and the other half in front of him. Knowing that the old airplane hanger was out in the middle of nowhere, he filled the gas tank before leaving the little town—the last stop before the abandoned airport. The only issue he was currently experiencing, besides being shot at, was no cell service out where he was now. Was that all part of the meeting as well? A faraway place with nobody around and no cell service to call for help. Who would he call, thought the cops? Then, he would have to explain what exactly he was doing out there.

He never knew what the packages he was delivering or picking up were; he never asked, and they never told him. One time, while running a package to Las Vegas, he got really curious about what was in the car with him, even coming to a stop on the side of the road to check. But the money being made for these deliveries had deterred him from that action. He made a lot of money doing this, so he always assumed it was illegal, drugs of the like involved. So he would shove down his curiosity with expensive gifts for himself with the pay of each job, like the car he was driving. But today, that was going to change.

Reaching over to the passenger seat, he realized that, at some point, he had dropped the package in his scramble to escape.

"Shit!!" he yelled out loud to nobody in the vehicle. "Shit, shit, shit!" while yelling out, he hit the palm of his hand against the steering wheel. The pain of doing so shot up his forearm into his elbow.

Does he go back to see if the gentleman with the gun was gone and did not grab the dropped package? That was a silly thought; of course, the gentleman with the gun picked it up and was most likely behind him some distance, as this was the only road in and out of the old airport. He rechecked the mirror; nothing was out there but road and desert and no sign of the black car coming. He had put a lot of distance between himself and the hanger, as he was doing almost 80 miles an hour down the two-lane road. If he turned around and got past the back car, he could get to the hangar and check before the gentleman could turn around and pursue.

Then he heard it faintly at first, then slowly louder, making him fear that something mechanical was happening to his car. That it was going to die here in the desert with him to follow shortly after. But it wasn't that. It was a helicopter, coming up beside him and lowering enough to see the pilot, the gentleman with the gun.

Panic ensued over him yet again. Where would he escape to now? The vehicle he had was not meant to be driven off-road. There was just him and the two-lane road, and now there was this helicopter. Swallowing down his panic, he had to think of something. Knowing that the little car he was in could easily do about 160 mph down the road, it was a severe option to outrun the helicopter.

He looked over at the helicopter, which looked familiar to him. It was an older model. It looked like something right out of a James Bond movie. It had a big bubble-like cockpit that the pilot could see all around in front and above him, with no paneling on the side, so the frame and engine were fully exposed. That was when he realized it was an old Bell helicopter and could outrun it easily. Its max speed was around 100 mph, so he pressed the gas peddle down to the floor, pressing it so hard he thought his foot would go through the car's floor.

            Slowly, he was pulling away from the helicopter, now worrying about fuel consumption and hoping his car would handle going that fast for a while. The little car raced along the road, and everything was blurry around him. If a tire was to blow out or some desert animal would jump out in front of him, he surely knew that was the end. He or the car would not survive either of those encounters. Frantically looking in the rearview mirror at the engine temperature gauge and the road before him, he slowly started having some hope. There was no sign of the helicopter in the mirror, and he did not dare to try to look out the side window behind him due to the speed at which he was going. He just needed to concentrate on the road and the ability of the vehicle to keep that speed up without mechanical failure.

            So he decided to back off the speed from 160 mph to 120 mph. One immense saving grace for this speed was that the road was almost straight as far as the eye could see. The only thing he could see in front of him was a mountain, which he knew was still miles away. That was the only turn in the road he remembered on the drive into the abandoned airport. Was it really abandoned now that he thought about it? Where did the gentleman with the gun get a helicopter? There were a couple of other hangers, but the runway was overgrown by desert plant life and tumbleweeds.

            As the mountain slowly grew more prominent, he knew that he was almost to the bend in the road, and from there, it was only fifty miles to the closest town, if you want to call it a town. It was here he filled up before reaching the not-so-abandoned airport. The town had a diner, gas station, post office, and a handful of other buildings that once housed businesses of various kinds, all but shuttered now. He just needed to make it there to at least not be killed in front of witnesses, he thought. Maybe there was even a police station there or, if anything, a cop at the dinner enjoying a coffee or something. At this point, he would gladly accept some help from law enforcement, as he no longer possessed the package he was supposed to deliver. He could say that he was on a space cruise out to the desert to do some photography. The only issue was that he was overdressed for that thing and needed camera equipment.

            His mind raced, reaching out for all scenarios he could think of, any outcome that could happen. His car would fail, and the gentleman would catch up to him. He would hit some animal, crash, and go out in a fiery ball of flame. He would get to the town, and nobody was going to be there. Or even worse, he would get to the town, and they were all involved in this whole thing. Or maybe aliens, yeah, aliens, he thought to himself. Being in the desert, knowing that extraterrestrial life forms always showed up in the desert. They had abducted him and are now running mind experiments on him. They must have captured him when he was getting gas in the town. That was the only time he was out of his car during the trip to the meeting. The only time before that was when he got the package from Mark in the city.

            He shut those thoughts out of his mind; it was utterly preposterous to think that he was in some alien hallucination. "You are a jackass," he said aloud in the car.

            The mountain was now right before him, and he could see the turn in the road towards the town. Relief slowly crept over him like a warm blanket, removing the chill from the panic that enveloped him earlier. He was getting closer to putting this all behind him and figuring out if Mark was behind this or if it was somebody else. Most other clients were long-term, and he hadn't taken on any new ones in several years. All deliveries or exchanges had all been done promptly or ahead of schedule as he didn't like having the packages longer than needed. When he gets to the town, he can use a landline to make a call and figure this all out. He'd call Mark first to get a read on the reaction when he heard his voice.

            The turn was right before him, so he had to slow down to a reasonable speed not to crash. But then he thought, why not stop here for a second to get out and look behind him for the helicopter or the back car, in which the latter he seriously doubted to see. As he rounded the turn, there was a slight pull-off on the side of the road he decided to turn into. He came to an abrupt stop, and as the dust he created fell around him, he got out of the car to look around from where he came from. He decided he also wanted to listen, so he reached into the car and turned off the engine. He tried hard to stretch out his hearing, but his ears still rang with the gunshot that had only just occurred a bit ago. All other noises he heard were the pinging relief from his car's engine being turned off. He could see nothing out in the distance: no helicopter, no back car, and not even glittering, shiny objects indicating something manmade reflecting sunlight.

            He got back into his car, knowing now that satisfaction was running through him with nothing he could hear or see behind him. It would be clear sailing back to the little town now. He reached out to start the car, pressing the clutch down. He turned the key, and all that happened was the slow churn of the engine. The panic was back. He turned the key, and again, the slow churn of the engine. Even more panic now. Turning the key again, the vehicle still gave the slow churn, but it caught and fired up this time. The panic was currently residing. Ok, now to get going and to that damn town, he thought.

            Car in gear, foot on the gas pedal, clutch released, and one nice burn out from the dirt pull off onto the pavement, he was off. Fifty miles, he thought. If he were to drive 160 mph on this last leg of the trip, it should take him just over thirty minutes to get there. Screw it, he thought, let's do it, 160 mph it was. Foot to the floor again, and he was gone. He periodically checked his cell phone, hoping the bars would pop up to make a call, but nothing. So, he just drove, looking straight in front of him, and reached out to turn on the radio. He'd just realized the radio wasn't on; he always had the radio on, which made all driving trips enjoyable. On the radio went, and the desert rock melodies of Queens of the Stone Age flooded his car with melodramatic, haunting sounds. He wasn't sure if this was the best choice of music, but it was his favorite band, so it stayed on.

            A while after taking the turn in the road, he could now see the town he was heading to; excitement now started to force its way into him, though part of him wanted to stifle that feeling until he was there and people were about. As he pulled into town, he saw people and cars at the dinner and post office. With peace of mind, he figured he would go to the service station, worried his car wouldn't start again after shutting it off.

            He pulled up next to the front entrance of the service station and turned off his car. As he was getting out, he smelled burning oil and coolant. He was now hoping he did not kill the engine with the race back to town. He felt a bit sad now because he did not want the car to be dead, as it just saved his ass. He had money, if anything, at least to keep this roadworthy. He stood beside his car, looking into the service station's office area. There was no technician to be seen, so he decided to walk in and search for one.

            Standing at the reception desk, he saw a bell on the counter, so he hit the button on top to call for assistance. The ding was loud and lonely in the office area, and he has yet to receive a reply. He then heard somebody behind him clearing their throat.

            "Mr. O'Brian. So nice to see you again," the gentleman with the gun said from behind him.

            O'Brian slowly turned to look at the gentlemen, seeing nothing but that gun again. He was flooded again with terror and dread. He could run again; he could run right through the gentleman and out the front door. He was a shit shot, but now he was less than ten feet from him. No, that would not be wise to do now. Maybe a talk would suffice.

            "So, did Kevin, um, I mean Mr. Johnson, ask you to do this.?" he asked, but this time, his fear showed right through him. He asked the gun again, unable to see the gentleman's face due to the weapon's omnipotent presence. Then, his answer came in the flash of the gun.