Roadkill

Flash fiction (very short story)

© 2022, Tanweer Dar

She had been driving for hours, and it was a struggle keeping her eyes open. The radio, its volume turned down as her son was sleeping in the passenger seat, was probably doing more to send her to sleep than to keep her awake. The stretch of country road she was currently navigating was unlit. Flanked by evergreens, the headlights of the small car seemed impossibly bright: two tiny flashes in a sea of darkness.

As her eyes were closing and opening a little too reluctantly, the driver spotted something on the road ahead and suddenly became alert. Easing off, she slowly depressed the brake pedal while her eyes tried to identify the form which lay sprawled across the road in front of her.

The car came to a halt, and as it did so her son stirred from his slumber.

"Are we there yet?" the drowsy eight year old asked, rubbing his eyes.

"No, not yet..." his mother whispered, opening her door.

"Where are you going?" the boy asked, suddenly very awake.

"Stay here," she said without looking at her son. "I'll be back in a minute. Don't open the door."

Closing the driver door behind her, the woman zipped up her hoodie and folded her arms as she walked gingerly towards the thing in the road. As she approached it, it became clear that it was something of considerable size. Large. Dark. Still.

The young boy tried to look desperately through the misting windscreen. The car's headlights painted shadows in the distance before they abruptly went out. The scream penetrated the car like a freezing gust of wind...