A Cave of Ice: Chapter 3

The speedometer swayed around 80 miles per hour as I sped down the turnpike. I tried to stay within a reasonable range of the speed limit to avoid attracting any unwanted attention. Cops are all over the turnpike, whether they are at speed traps or undercover in Dodge Chargers.

Although I still wanted to keep my head down, I didn’t have the same anxiety from school anymore. I no longer felt concerned about my mother or the nuns. Who cares if I reached paradise after all of this? I just found paradise firsthand by cruising behind the wheel of a cherry red convertible. Even if I couldn’t take it to top speed, I still loved the feel of the wind pulling at the roots of my hair. 80 mph was still fast enough to enjoy the car and enjoy it I did.

After a few miles of driving on the turnpike, I reached the first toll plaza, which was completely electronic. Unfortunately, the owner of this car didn’t have one of those magic bar codes, which meant I would either have to use cash–which I didn’t have–or run through the toll illegally and have my picture taken for all of Pennsylvania law enforcement to see. After a few seconds of watching the trees run in the other direction, I decided to take my chances and smile for the camera. It seemed like my best option because if the car had been reported stolen, then the toll worker may refuse to lift the barrier and block me in for the police. My heart knocked loudly against my ribs. I couldn’t end my journey like this. Not this soon after just becoming free.

I swerved across four lanes to reach the nearest exit. Slowly cruising through the electric toll pass lane, I exited the turnpike. The toll’s camera flashed and made my eyelids flutter to reorient back to the road.

The exit led to a town that resembled any other small town outside of Philadelphia. It had a Wawa, a laundromat, a Fine Wine and Spirits store, and a bar and grill restaurant. What more, after all, could the people around here need?

The town had trees, but these trees were darker brown and much thinner than the pale sycamores in my town. Some of them had needles instead of leaves, which made me assume that they were some sort of pine. The trees, whose needles were still dark green despite the season, densely surrounded the two-lane road as I reached the edge of town. The denseness of the woods comforted me. There were no street cameras to stalk me out here. Just fresh air and Mother Nature. 

The road twisted erratically up and down a series of hills. I had to adjust and drive slowly to keep from driving over the shoulder and slamming into the tree line. A listed speed limit felt redundant on a road like this. Anyone who drives over 40 miles per hour is asking to die under the weight of a tree.

It felt like I had entered an endless spiral. The trees had no clear differences between them, and the road seemed to follow a repetitive pattern of curves across a series of similarly small hills. The feeling dissipated, however, when the bushes ahead began to rustle strangely. The drum of what sounded like thousands of footsteps rang out from the side of the road and lifted dirt and dust from the leaves. It grew louder as I continued driving until suddenly, a white wave poured from the brush onto the road in front of me.

Closing my eyes for a few seconds, I hoped that the bizarre vision would disappear. When I reopened them, however, I found that no change had occurred. I scratched at them a few times, but the image in front of me was still unaffected.

In an instant, a herd of albino squirrels had stormed across my path. I slowly tilted my foot forward and slugged my open jaw back and forth. They’d eat me alive if I dared slow! The car ripped through the crowd, flinging squirrel bits in every direction. Blood and white tufts of fur shot across the windshield. The scene was satisfying in a horrific manner, like the feeling of watching a truly scary movie. You want to look away, but the suspense is far too enticing.

“You bastards!” I screamed into the haze of blood and entrails. “I don’t have money to wash this thing!”

I tried to turn on the windshield wipers, but that only smeared the blood across the windshield making it almost impossible to see through.

“God damn it!” I yelled while beating my fist into the steering wheel. I could feel the squirrels crashing into the undercarriage of the car as they got sucked up by the tires. I wasn’t sure how much more the thing could take before breaking apart and sending me hurtling into one of the nearby trees. I began to grit my teeth.

One of the squirrels, in a show of athletic prowess, hopped onto the hood of the car and looked at me through the windshield. His red eyes stared into mine, and I found myself losing focus on the road entirely. The critter intrigued me. He didn’t make any attempt to rush at me or to commandeer the vehicle. He sat calmly on the hood and gazed. Swerving the car spastically through the mob, I attempted to fling him away. Somehow, he managed to remain still and unfazed. The force of the air did little more than brush his fur softly in the same direction. Once I straightened out the car, he narrowed his eyes and intensified his crimson glare. Neither of us broke eye contact as I tore through the last section of the herd. His tiny face sat emotionless on the other side of the windshield, and he continued to stare. Eventually, I realized that he was just along for the ride. I tapped my hand on the passenger seat, and he climbed over the windshield.

“Buckle up, friend,” I said. “We’ve got a long one ahead of us.”

The albino squirrel seems odd to people from other parts of the world. It sounds like some sort of weird trip or myth, but the albino squirrel is very real. It is native to Pennsylvania and has long been a staple of the ecosystem. Like their relative, the buffalo, they migrate in great herds to avoid becoming prey. They generally are not friendly to strangers and tend to only associate with their kind. This made my new friendship an especially odd occurrence. They typically follow this survival strategy to the end, and it usually works. The strategy obviously did not account, however, for a teenage maniac driving a convertible. Their herd mentality has allowed them to survive long before Homo sapiens crossed into North America, and it will likely keep them here long after we have left.

I found it difficult to focus on the road. My eyes kept shifting towards my new companion in the passenger seat. His lush fur had the color of a non-organic eggshell. I don’t know why organic eggs are brown, while the regular ones are white. Are organic chickens different birds altogether? Does factory farming lead to genetically bleached produce? Why is nobody asking these questions? A non-organic apple still–for the most part–looks like an apple. Why are eggs so different?

While I contemplated eggs, the squirrel stared at me and waited for our eyes to lock once again. I turned to meet his look and completely ignored the road, which was ending and splitting into a fork. When I finally did look up, I squeezed the wheel with my sweat-drenched palms and slammed my foot down onto the brakes.

“Jesus!” I screamed. I swung the wheel to the right, and the car screeched across the road. The car lifted slightly onto the left wheels before slamming back down. The hull of the car rocked up and down a few times until the shocks could bring it back to level. The rear of the car narrowly missed crashing into one of the taller trees. My head dropped onto the top of the steering wheel, and I exhaled.

A high-pitched noise came from my right. I looked over to find the squirrel laughing.

“It’s not funny,” I said with a grin. I began to chuckle. “It’s really not.” I continued to laugh with the squirrel. I could tell that we would get along.

I tried to keep my focus on the road. The windshield was still smeared with blood and other squirrel parts, but eventually, the wipers were able to clear some of it up. It would be hell when driving at night, but I figured that wasn’t going to be a problem for a few hours.

I looked to turn onto another narrow road when a small cloud of smoke began to rise from my right. Glancing over my shoulder, I found the squirrel exhaling a dark plume of smoke. The goddamned rodent had lit a cigarette! The open carton of Newports rested on the seat behind him. 

“You can’t smoke in here!” I yelled. “This car is a piece of art! God damn you!”

Once again, his red eyes gazed into my own. He gave a deep inhale and blew a dark cloud into my face. I coughed.

“The hell with it!” I exclaimed. “The fat bastard ruined it anyway!”

The squirrel pulled out another Newport and tried to hand it to me. I refused.

“You’re sick,” I said as I removed a cigarillo from my ear. I put it between my lips and bent down so that he could light it.