The Reaper's Angel

Chapter 2:

Chapter 2:

It has been a week since the shooting. Every night I had nightmares of the incident. Different scenarios played out in these nightmares. What if Reaper hadn't been there? What if the cops hadn't shown up? The more that time passed, the darker the nightmares became. 

The week had gone by uneventfully. Most of my days were filled with doing housework. The only day I went out of the house was Sunday, but even then I only went to church and out to eat afterwards. Without a job or a car, I had no reason to go outside of the house. 

“I'm going a town over to look for a job,” I told Dad during breakfast. 

He cocks an eyebrow. “What's wrong with a job in town here?”

“My last place was shot up and the owner died. In case you don't remember that's the only beauty shop here.” I remind him. 

“Fine, but only the next town over. I don't want you driving an hour to work every day.” he says. “If they don't seem like good people-”

I cut him off. “Yeah yeah, don't take the job. I know the drill, Dad. I'm not a little girl anymore.” 

He kisses my cheek. “I know but that doesn't stop me from worrying about you. Take the truck, the keys should be in it.” 

“Love you,” I told him as I headed out the door. 

Old Yeller is Dad's name for the monstrosity of a truck. It was his first vehicle, and even then it was considered old. One of these days it was going to die for good. Every couple of months it has to be revived on the side of the road. Time after time, I tried convincing him to get a new car and put this thing out of it's misery. His reply was always that it runs perfectly fine. 

With a loud bang, the truck roared to life. I banged on the dashboard a couple of times before the radio started to work. There was a long list of problems with this truck. One being the radio working only part of the time. Not that having the radio on did any good. Only three stations worked in this town and one of those three was a talk show. The other two stations had decent music, but lost signal every once in a while. 

During the shooting last week, my car had been another casualty. It had been parked right outside directly in the line of fire. Bullet holes had easily pierced through the little Hyundai Sonata. I'd saved up for a car for years, tired of having to share Old Yeller with my dad. Finally I lucked out on an 2011 model about six months ago. Now I was carless. To put the cherry on top of the whole situation, my insurance doesn't cover a biker gang shooting it up. 

As I drove over the town line, I felt Old Yeller rumble beneath me. The smell of something burning filled the car. Smoke began to pour from the hood of the truck. Pulling over on the side of the road, I go and open the hood. Thick black smoke filled the air causing me to cough from the fumes. 

“Shit,” I say as I look over the engine.