Christmas Roadkill

The snow hit like the cosmic fist of a god who’d long since stopped caring, pelting her beat-up sedan with all the fury of a hangover that won’t quit. I was gunning it up the Donner Pass with the kind of reckless abandon you can only summon after spending weeks swimming in cheap whiskey, greasy chicken strips, and coffee that was practically begging for a tossing out the window.

It wasn’t just any trip. It was a pilgrimage to the deep heart of hell, where family came to chew you up and spit you out.

The tires hummed on the wet freeway, a low, soothing purr mixed with the kind of ominous hum that signals something far worse than a flat tire is coming your way. I cranked the heat to maximum, setting the car’s vents to groan under the strain, filling the air with the stench of overworked antifreeze and the faint aroma of soggy fries.

I wasn’t expecting a smooth ride. Life hadn’t given me a smooth ride since–well, ever.

No, this was survival. It was a Christmas special, or maybe a damn horror show, but there was no turning back.

It had been over four years since I’d seen my brother, and thinking about him made my stomach lurch like the worst tequila shot you’ve ever taken. The man’s face—the sharp lines, the smugness, the way he acted like he could run over you and send you a note demanding a thank you for the privilege–still haunted me like some filthy ghost with a penchant for ruining holidays.

The radio blasted my favorite Christmas song, a sad, syrupy ballad about redemption and love and all that sugar-coated bullshit. My eyes pricked, and for a second, I wondered if I was going soft–right there–behind the wheel, miles from nowhere, frozen out of my mind with the heat cranked up too high.

Hell no, I thought, cranking it up louder. It wasn’t about Christmas.

It wasn’t about redemption. It was about surviving the madness.

It was a battle for my sanity, and I didn’t know if I was winning or losing. And then the lights.

At first, they were just red and white dots in the snow, a half-hearted attempt at some twisted holiday lights display. But rounding the bend, that all-too-familiar gut-clenching sensation hit—this wasn’t a Christmas card–it was a fucking war zone.

Dozens of cars mangled together, twisted at impossible angles, a jumbled mass of metal and despair, mayhem and destruction. Headlights slice the darkness, reflecting off ice and snow like a bad dream.

People were everywhere, darting around like rats in some unholy experiment–screaming, running, and sliding on the ice. What the hell? I slammed the brakes, but the tires didn’t respond. They skidded, screamed, and jerked, but the damn thing wasn’t stopping.

A massive SUV sat sideways, looking like it had been through a meat grinder, its roof caved in like a crushed soda can. A woman in a puffy jacket was waving her arms like some goddamn windmill, her lips moving in silent screams that weren’t making it through the snow. A sedan smashed against a guardrail, steam billowing from under its hood like some weird fog machine at a rock concert.

No time to stop. No time to think.

Gritted teeth and gripping the wheel like it was a last chance to escape the insanity, I veered left, right, slalomed through the wreckage, barely missing bodies, barely missing cars, barely keeping my shit together. Every turn was an act of blind, reckless defiance against the universe.

A man appeared ahead of me, stumbling out of the snow, his face a ghostly reflection in her headlights. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t brake. I swerved hard, and the bastard fell backward onto the shoulder right as I gunned the car between two twisted heaps of metal.

Then, just as fast as it started, it was over. Coasting to a stop, hands gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles white as if I were holding onto the last shred of sanity in the cosmos. Behind me lay a wreckage of shattered glass, crumpled steel, and broken lives, slowly being consumed by the falling snow.

Blue and red lights flashed in the distance. The highway patrol moved like molasses in the snowstorm, the sirens distant but steady. Pulse racing, something deep inside told me it wasn’t the end of the story. I should’ve driven away, let the past and the wreckage disappear into the night. But for some reason, I couldn’t.

Maybe it was the desperate way the woman in the puffy jacket waved her arms. Perhaps it was the man, wide-eyed and terrified. No, I wasn’t leaving just yet.

I pulled into the nearest rest area, an ugly concrete building with flickering lights and vending machines full of overpriced snacks. I shut off the engine, sat there, and stared at my reflection in the rearview. A face I didn’t recognize. A soul I didn’t understand.

It was supposed to be a Christmas drive. A cozy little family reunion. Instead, I had a front-row seat to the most fucked-up holiday parade the universe could throw at her. But hell, I didn’t come all this way to turn around.

I buttoned up my coat against the biting wind and stalked toward the neon glow of the vending machines, where I fed in a dollar bill. No sooner than I had done that, I found myself thinking, “No wonder the Donner Party ate each other.”

The bag of chips hung in the balance between the glass and the corkscrew they came from. I thought of shaking the son-of-a-bitch, but I was too damned tired, and besides, my ‘give-a-damn’ was broke.

The next time, if there were ever a next time, I would take the fucking Greyhound.