Buckle Up

A Horror Short Story

Be careful what you wish for, and beware what others may wish for you.

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Rebecca tossed her head back in laughter, her dark lipstick framing her teeth in a portrait of tasteful glee. Her right hand perched high on her hip, and her left arm draped across her waist. The gauzy shawl caught at her elbows accentuated the gown that clung to her. Her hair was held in a perfect updo, drawing the eye to her slender neck and elegant jewelry.

The crowd of admirers, mostly men, guffawed along with her. Not one of them noticed the cold sweep of her gaze as she appraised each of them. Everyone adored Rebecca.

“Martin! Fill us up, dear,” she cooed, holding her empty wineglass out to the side and not bothering to turn away from her fan club.

A chubby, slightly damp hand fumbled for it and slipped it away from her, and Martin trundled to the bar with another ripple of laughter at his back. He grumbled to himself the entire way, but no one noticed. No one ever did.

Balding, spectacled, and at least a head shorter than every other man in the place. A rumpled, khaki suit at a black-tie gala. Still nothing. Every eye was always glued to fabulous Rebecca, gorgeous Rebecca, never-to-be-ignored Rebecca.

As though he read Martin’s mind, the bartender smirked. “I thought this was the mayor’s birthday party.” He took the glass from Martin and cleaned it with a rag.

“It is; that’s him right there.” Martin thrust a thumb over his shoulder, and the bartender peered around him at the tuxedoed form of the guest of honor standing at Rebecca’s elbow. The mayor’s hand rested comfortably on her lower back.

“Tsk,” he clucked. “I’d hate to be her husband.” The bartender deftly slung the wineglass somewhere beneath the bar and produced a shot glass of amber fluid.

Martin eyed the bartender for a moment before tossing the glass back and grimacing at the burn. “Odd. Everyone else seems to think it’s a riot.” His heart raced a little. He was unsure if it was the whiskey or the subtle brashness of the conversation, but neither could be good for his health. “Another.”

“And for the lady?” the bartender asked as he produced another brimming shot glass. Martin noticed again that he did not see the man pour the whiskey.

What’s his game? Martin began to think before cutting himself off. Classic Marty, paranoid at every turn. Is it any wonder you can’t say “boo” to your shrew of a wife? He downed the second glass, defiant of his own suspicious mind. “Give me a merlot for her.”

“But sir, the last glass she had was a cabernet,” the bartender spoke with mock hesitance, all the while grabbing a new glass and filling it with a dark merlot. He winked as he handed it to Martin. “Sometimes, a little rebellion goes a long way.”

Martin slipped a fifty from his money clip and slapped it on the counter. His heart thrummed in his ears. This is why you don’t drink, Marty; it goes straight to your head. Martin clumsily caught his hip against a stool as he turned, sloshing a little of the wine on his hand. He spun back to the bar to find the fifty and the bartender gone; in their place were a white napkin and a saltshaker.

“Grab the money and run, why don’t you?” Martin muttered as he dabbed the napkin across the spill on his hand. He crumpled it and placed it back on the bar, but his eyes landed on the saltshaker. “A little rebellion,” eh? Why stop there?

Rebecca paused in the middle of a sentence to giggle, blushing and turning her head in a show of coquettish embarrassment. “And I said, ‘Sir! I simply can’t! What will your people think? Oh, forget them, what will your wife think?’” At the appointed punchline, her audience roared in laughter.

“Getting proposed to by an African king again, dear?” Martin asked as innocently as he could, holding out Rebecca’s glass. She reached out for it, attempting again to deal with him without looking. She loved to do that.

Martin, however, kept the glass just slightly out of reach. Rather than be caught foolishly groping the air, Rebecca turned her gaze over to her husband. Her lips continued to smile, but her eyes cut at him.

“Darling, there you are! Everyone, please meet my husband, Martin!” She pulled him to her side, standing a half-foot taller than him. “He’s my little helper, aren’t you dear?”

Martin was not nearly as good as his wife at concealing his emotions, but he quickly stowed his scowl and added, “Yes, Becky, honey. Anything for you.” He felt satisfied as her nails dug into his arm. She despised nicknames. The crowd chuckled obliviously, continuing to fawn over their queen.

“Aren’t they a lovely couple,” someone said, and Rebecca drank deeply from her new wineglass to spare her from speaking. As the liquid passed into her mouth, she gagged on the salt.

Her eyes widened in horror as she disentangled her arm from Martin and pressed the back of her hand against her lips. She was then faced with a terrible dilemma, but for unflappable Rebecca, there was only one option. She swallowed.

“Oh, Becky, are you alright?” Martin asked as she struggled to recover. The whiskey boldened him and loosened his lips. “She’s alright, everyone! Becky is probably just a little nauseous as all this birthday party stuff is reminding her that she’s just a month away from the big one!”

The gathered men and women laughed easily, and Rebecca’s bulging eyes declared murder as a croaking sound left her throat.

“That’s alright, I’ll tell them, dear. You are all invited to Becky’s big birthday bash! She’ll be turning fifty, so you don’t want to miss it!” The next sensation Martin felt was wine splashing down his face and onto his tan suit.

In a whirlwind, Rebecca was once again composed and demanding a towel from a waitress, wiping and dabbing all while cursing her clumsiness. The mayor stepped forward to help, but a woman Martin assumed to be the mayor’s wife hooked her arm in his and turned him to his guests, who were now laughing in polite bemusement.

Martin stood in silence, and Rebecca performed as a dutiful and penitent wife, cleaning her mess. Meanwhile, her hushed words wormed into in his ear, “You useless little pig. Get the car.” Martin shuffled away while Rebecca made her apologies and excuses to a once-again adoring crowd.

Outside the estate, Martin’s shoes crunched over the gravel covering the rear parking area. How does she do it? She always turns the tide in her favor. He claimed the keys to his sports car from the valet and pressed a button on the fob to start the engine before laboriously climbing in. It was a ridiculous vehicle, cherry-red and totally impractical, but the fact that Rebecca hated it made it worthwhile.

He pulled the car around to the front of the manor, parking at the bottom of the marble steps and flopping back against the headrest. And now we get to cool our heels. He knew how fond she was of making him wait, but that was the one thing she did that he did not mind.

When did we start hating each other so much? Why do we go so far to make each other miserable? When will one of us hurry up and die? The usual questions rotated through Martin’s brain, but he found himself agitated. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel along to some ‘80s rock on the radio. He gazed up through the sunroof to see a cloudless sky and a full moon. Eventually, he leaned over the passenger seat to look out the window, willing Rebecca to be there. She’s taking even longer than usual.

The rumble of a motor pulled him away from looking up at the house, and he looked to his left to see someone sitting astride a motorcycle. The rider wore all black and held a helmet in his hands, but when he turned his head Martin’s way, Martin recognized him. The bartender cocked his head quizzically at Martin. After a beat, he gave Martin a wolfish grin and a wink before stuffing the helmet over his head, revving the bike’s engine, and rocketing off into the night.

Martin huffed loudly, a swell of emotion tightening in his throat. A knot of melancholy, anger, and more than a little jealously gnawed at him as he stared after the bartender’s trail until he was startled by a rapping on the passenger window.

“Open up,” Rebecca commanded. Martin hit the unlock button on his door, and Rebecca lithely slid into her seat. “Drive.” Martin took his time reaching around to his seatbelt, bringing it across him and snapping it into place.

He knew she would say no, but he could not resist asking, “Aren’t you going to put on yours, Beck-” Before he could finish, Rebecca struck him across the face with the back of her hand.

“I said, ‘Drive,’ you little troll. Now.” Martin shifted the car into gear and pulled away from the estate, following where the bartender had gone onto a long country road. The mayor’s estate was more than an hour from the city, a fact that Martin had many theories about. Now, however, he was not thinking about his theories. All Martin could think about was his stinging right cheek and the fuming woman sitting beside him.

“Don’t you dare say a word,” Rebecca warned him. “I cannot believe you would go to such lengths to embarrass me. Do you have any idea who those people were?”

“Your friends?” Martin asked, eyes fixed forward. The road melted away from the remote civilization of the estate, a rich forest stretching for miles along the right side of the road. The left side was all open fields, but tonight it was draped in a heavy fog.

“Shut up. They were potential clients. I didn’t pay for your law degree to get nothing out of it, Martin. The whole lot of them are lushes and philanderers and miserable wretches ripe for divorce.”

“Glad to know you haven’t gotten cynical in your old age,” he quipped. The fog continued to thicken and come closer and closer to the edge of the road. There were no cars moving in either direction except them. They were utterly alone, yet Martin felt uneasy. He felt seen.

“I told you to shut up! And that. What exactly did you think you would win by slandering me like that? Telling everyone I am turning fifty?” Rebecca became shriller with each recounted offense.

“You are turning fifty, Becky, and they can tell.” Martin’s heart was not in the argument, but it was racing again. There’s something out there.

Rebecca slammed a fist down on his arm, jerking the steering wheel sharply to the right and swerving the car off the road dangerously close to the trees. Martin squealed and Rebecca screamed as he overcompensated to the left, sending them careening back across the road into the fog bank. Martin gripped the wheel desperately to get the car back under his control, but a flash of movement in the fog left him shaken. That’s not possible. That’s not possible!

“Are you trying to kill us, you idiot?” Rebecca shrieked, bracing herself against the dashboard.

“Buckle up, Becky,” Martin stammered, his skin suddenly pale and clammy and his breathing shortened.

“Slow down, you maniac!”

“Becky, I’m telling you, put your belt on now!” She didn’t see it. How could she not have seen it?

“I will not take commands from a little cretin like you!”

“Listen to me for once, Becky! Just once! Buckle up!” Martin could see the outline of it in his periphery; huge, misshapen, and running alongside the car in the fog. He had daydreamed this scenario hundreds of times. It was just a sick fantasy that he played out in his head. It’s not real; it can’t be real!

“You will never tell me what to do, do you understand me? You have always wanted to control me, and you have always resented me for having money! I am the head of this household, Martin! You are nothing more than a trophy husband—

“Becky,” he whined, seeing the beast more and more clearly. It’s going to cut across the road, and then—

“Stop calling me that!”

“Buckle up, Becky!” Martin screamed when the Thing in the Fog shot across the road in front of the car. Martin reflexively slammed on the brakes, and glass showered him as the right portion of the windshield shattered.

It was exactly like his daydream. Driving at night, fighting with his domineering wife, when a monster would show up and end his terrible marriage in a schlocky, B-horror-film death scene. Martin loved hokey monster movies and liked to replay them in his head. He even fancied that he would write one himself one day. He already had the monster and its first victim.

Martin lifted his face from the steering wheel, already feeling a welt rising on his forehead. His glasses were broken, and shards of glass were embedded in his right cheek and temple. Warm blood trickled down the side of his face, and he chuckled hysterically. It stains worse than wine. He then heard the tinkle of glass shifting on concrete and a soft groan.

Ahead of the car, surrounded by mist and blanketed in the car’s headlights lay Rebecca’s body face down on the pavement. Her feet were pointed toward him, only one still clad in a high heel, and her limbs were bent unnaturally akimbo. Martin thought she was dead until he heard her groan again.

“Becky,” Martin whispered hoarsely, an acrid taste in his mouth. After no response, he spoke again, louder, “Rebecca, are you okay?”

Another sound, this time from behind Martin on the road. The Thing in the Fog had circled around the vehicle and now stomped up to the side of the car. Martin was compelled to look at it, but his mind could barely form a cohesive image from the details in front of him.

It had four powerful legs and a long tail, and its hunched back arched well over the roof of the car. Its skin was flayed, and cruel spikes erupted from all over its body. At its front, it had a large, wolf-like head, but the lower jaw hung in two different sections like the mandibles of an insect. But it also had teeth. So many teeth. They came in every shape and size, lining each part of the mouth, and both lower mandibles ended in a jutting tusk.

There were distinct eye cavities in its skeletal face, but they were black and empty. All the same, when it turned its head towards Martin, it seemed to be looking at him. “I hope you enjoy the show, Marty,” it spoke without moving its mouth. Martin realized with a certain detachment that it used his own voice. How? It emitted a wet cackle and languidly strolled to the front of the car.

Martin tried to turn his head, tried to screw his eyes closed, but he could not will himself to look away as the beast approached Rebecca. It looked at him with its empty sockets again, and the right one contracted into a wink just before it slammed a taloned foot down onto the woman’s back, eliciting an ear-rupturing scream.

“Is it just like you imagined, Marty?” it asked mirthfully. It shoved its head downward, hooking Rebecca on its tusks before flinging her onto the hood of the car. Rebecca’s face stared upside down at Martin, a pleading look in her eyes for the first time in all the years he had known her.

“Rebecca,” Marty sobbed. He hated her, yes, but this amount of suffering—

“Is exactly what you wished for, Marty,” the Thing crowed. It laughed its sickening cackle, building and building until it threw back its head and roared to the sky in a hundred tortured voices.

“Now, for the finale,” it whispered in Martin’s voice. It then proceeded to ravage and mutilate Rebecca before Martin’s very eyes.

Later, much later, when the Thing in the Fog had finished its work, it backed away from the wreckage. Martin clung to the steering wheel still, his hands bloody from worrying away at the leather. He had vomited twice and sobbed to the point of dehydration, but he still could not blink his eyes.

His heartbeat was frantically irregular, and Martin knew that he was dying. The creature would leave, he would have a heart attack, and whoever found him and what was left of his wife in the morning would be irrevocably scarred by the discovery.

He was wrong.

“Now, Marty, I believe it’s time to settle your tab,” the voice came from the fog. All Martin could do was emit a low wail as the creature reemerged and slowly tore the driver’s side door off the car. Martin begged and begged his heart to stop before the creature got in.

Unfortunately for Martin, his heart was stronger than he thought.

***

Rebecca stood on the marble steps of the estate, fuming silently. How dare he? How DARE he? It was all she could think as he made her wait. She let a breath out slowly and rolled her eyes, focusing her thoughts. She slipped into a daydream she routinely thought about when Martin was being particularly loathsome. Rebecca would never tell a soul about her dark fantasy, but it was deliciously evil and would make for a fitting end to the little toad.

Just as she was getting to the good part, a car horn blared. She opened her eyes to see Martin’s stupid sports car sitting at the bottom of the stairs. “Finally.”

She climbed in nimbly, and she took a whack at Martin’s shoulder. “Where have you been? I have been standing out there for ages.”

“Sorry, dear,” Martin replied. He was wearing the smallest of smirks. “I got distracted.”

“Distracted? You live in a constant state of distracted, Martin. Why on earth did I ever marry you?” Rebecca rambled. She always felt better when she could get a rise out of Martin. He just smiled, though.

“You’re absolutely right, dear,” he said softly. As he sped away into the foggy night, his smirk shifted into a wolfish grin, and he winked at her.

“Buckle up, Becky.”

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Thanks for reading! Regardless of how you wound up here at my little story, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading the weird words that worked their way out of my brain and onto the page. I hope you enjoyed it!

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