The Last Word

The Challenge:

Last Sunday (Feb 24, 2019) I invited followers of my Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/JamesPenceBooks/) to suggest seven story elements for a flash-fiction challenge.

I had until 5 p.m. (Central) on Sunday, March 3rd to write a micro-short story (750-1,000 words) based on the details they gave me. According to the rules, I had to use at least 5 of the 7 suggestions to win. If I couldn’t, or didn’t post a link to the story by the deadline, I would lose the challenge.

I’ve beat the deadline and am posting an 1100-word story titled The Last Word, based on my followers’ suggestions. Technically, I probably didn’t win the challenge, because I modified a couple of the items as the story developed. But that’s how I write fiction. The story goes where it goes.

So you, my faithful Peeps, will have to decide whether I won.

The story elements are listed below and the story follows. I had fun writing it.

Enjoy.

Story Elements:

1. Protagonist’s name: Lance Boyle

2. Protagonist’s occupation: Claims adjuster

3. Antagonist’s name: Emmerson Hargrave

4. Antagonist’s occupation (or relation to protagonist): The 25-year old son of the CFO for the protagonist’s insurance company/employer.

5. Situation: Two guys were coming home from a college basketball game at night when the winds picked up and the snow blew, then they lost control and got stuck. The road they were on was eventually closed without anyone seeing them as they passed by. Neither one had a cell phone and the temp was quickly dropping.

6. Wildcard: The brakes went out while coming down the mountain

7. Tone/genre: Scary

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The Last Word

by James Pence

“Idiot!” Emmerson Hargrave glared up at the younger man, a trickle of blood running down his cheek. “Now what are we going to do?”

Suspended by his seatbelt, Lance Boyle looked down at his boss. He clenched his teeth, holding back the oh-so-perfect reply that threatened to escape his lips. It wasn’t his idea to take this shortcut. Oh, no. That decision came from the great, almighty Emmerson Hargrave, head of the claims department. Lance was just a lowly adjuster. He didn’t have the rank to choose the best road to take on a day when the worst blizzard in twenty years was hitting their little corner of Wisconsin. No siree Bob. Such choices were the exclusive purview of Emmerson Hargrave, aka, his boss.

Of course, Lance could have told him that the county road shortcut he’d chosen would lead to this exact result. He knew because he’d gotten stuck on it before.

But the storm wasn’t so bad that time. That time, he only had to walk three miles to the nearest farm house.

That wasn’t an option this time around.

It had all happened so fast.

They had been moving on the Interstate at a crawl in near white-out conditions when the great Hargrave—who had been sitting in stony silence since they’d left the company meeting where he’d received a royal dressing down from the muckety-mucks in Corporate—said, “Take this exit.”

“But Sir,”—Boyle was never allowed to call him anything but ‘Sir,’—“I don’t think that’s a good—”

“Did I ask you for your opinion? Take this exit. This road will get us home. I hate sitting in traffic.”

“But, Sir…”

“Drive, Boyle!”

Lance breathed a quiet sigh, shook his head in resignation, and took the exit. As he drove down the ramp, he felt Hargrave’s eyes on him.

“Lance Boyle,” the old man chuckled. “Who gives a kid a name like that, anyway? Your parents must have thought you were really ugly.”

Lance felt his face flush. Hargrave was baiting him. He knew it. But he didn’t dare take the bait. He needed this job. All it would take would be one disrespectful reply and Hargrave could—and would—send him packing.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Lance shot Hargrave a questioning glance.

“You didn’t answer my question. How’d you get that name. Did your parents have a weird sense of humor?”

“I was named after an uncle who was lost at sea,” muttered Lance.

“What? I couldn’t hear you.”

The next few seconds had unfolded as if in slow motion

“I said,” Lance whipped his gaze toward Hargrave, planning to give him his angriest glare.

But Hargrave was looking straight ahead, horrified. “Watch out!” he screamed.

Lance turned back to the windshield. The snow was so thick, he couldn’t tell what he was about to hit, but whatever it was, it was big. He slammed on his breaks and swerved. The car went into a slow skid and landed in a drainage ditch with a sickening metallic crunch.

And all went dark.

When Lance opened his eyes, he could barely see. But by the pull of gravity and the way the seatbelt cut into his waist he knew the car was on its side and he was in the air. He tried looking around. Between the blizzard and the late afternoon sun, visibility was zero outside and not much better inside the car. His fingers were numb with cold, but he could still move them. His left shoulder ached. For a while, Lance sat there listening to the sound of the wind. He looked down at Hargrave. The old man’s head rested against the passenger side window. He could see what looked like a trickle of blood on his boss’s cheek.

“Sir? Are you okay?”

Lance quietly hoped that he wouldn’t get an answer. The thought that Hargrave might be dead gave him a bit of a thrill. It was an accident, after all. Not a bad way to get out from under his thumb. But soon the old man began to stir.

Hargrave looked up at him, at first bleary-eyed, then angry.

“Idiot!” he said. “Now what are we going to do?”

Lance looked around. That was an excellent question. They were miles away from the Interstate, in the middle of nowhere. The car was shot and—worse—could double as a meat locker right now. He shrugged. “Call someone, maybe?”

“You’re a regular rocket scientist,” Hargrave said. “Can you reach your phone?”

Lance’s mouth went dry. “Umm, I forgot mine.”

“Really,” said Hargrave. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Can you reach yours?”

“My left arm is broken, and I can’t move my right,” said Hargrave. “Phone’s in my right coat pocket.” His voice was getting weaker.

Lance fumbled around, trying to work the seatbelt latch but it was jammed. Probably just as well. If I unbuckled, I’d probably end up in his lap. Hargrave’s phone might as well be on the moon.

The sun—and the temperature—continued to drop, and as it did a somber realization began to set in on Lance. They were both going to die.

At least hypothermia will be relatively painless. We’ll just go to sleep.

And then a thought crossed his mind.

If we’re going to die, I have nothing to lose.

“We wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t told me to get off the Interstate, you pompous old fool,” said Lance. “Since we’re going to die anyway, I’m finally going to get the chance to tell you what I think of you.” And for the next ten minutes, Lance unloaded on Hargrave as the man lay there, quietly staring back at him.  

When Lance finally ran out of energy, the cold that engulfed his body was briefly swept away by a warm feeling of satisfaction. He’d finally gotten in the last word. He’d put the great Emmerson Hargrave in his place.

Lance closed his eyes, waiting for the chill air to lull him into his final sleep.

And then he heard a rumble.

Thunder snow? He didn’t think so.

The sound got louder and louder.

Tractor? Snow plow?

Soon he heard a muffled voice calling. “Can anyone hear me?”

“Yes!” Lance cried. “Yes! We need help!”

“Hang on! I’ll get you out of there.”

“Do you hear that, Sir?” he said. “Someone’s here. Everything’s going to be okay. We’re not going to die.”

Those last five words echoed in Lance’s mind. His mouth went dry.

He looked down, and in the dim light, Lance could see Emmerson Hargrave’s feral grin.