Short Ride to Hell

For Brantley Colton, his crusade was over. There was nothing in the abyss left for him. Whatever he had once believed in had become a lie. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, just a long highway ahead, a dark road without signposts to direct him. Where would he go from here? The finality in his soul belied some joy in the closing moments. It was over, he could die now...but he couldn't die happy. It had only been a few hours since he had put the Winter Glade Motel in his rear-view, but it seemed longer. Colton drove the desolate highway but felt tired and needed sleep. The air conditioning was on high to fend off the humid Florida evening. The air against his face was the only thing preventing him from drifting into dangerous sleep; even so he contemplated the series of events that had him traveling down 1-75 in the middle of the night...with the blood stains of the murdered man still present on his shirt. He had used an alias to register at the motel, paid in cash but feared something had been left behind which could tie him to the murder. He needed time to finish the job at hand and his sloppy second-guessing had placed him in peril. Colton had never been one for prayer, but felt like it was a good time to drop to his knees, to confess his crime and ask for forgiveness. Not that it would have done any good for him.