Plan B

It’s 2:04 a.m. No more denial. I’ve got exactly eighteen hours and fifty-six minutes.

Okay. I’m in the Dark Web. Now what do I do? Take a breath. Think. Maybe I should go to a forum. No. Too many crazy people. And spies too. They might figure out what I’m doing and report me.

Just type something on the keyboard.

But what if they find out? People say the government can’t track you here but I don’t believe it. Nowadays, who knows what surveillance methods they have. Trackers, bots, hackers. I’m not exactly sure but I’m smart enough to know if they’re watching us with cameras and drones everywhere, then they’re tracking us online. Still, I need to do something. I’ve got no plan B.

 I type two words into the search engine. Four results pop up. One has a photo of a white building adjacent to an alley. A large garbage bin sits ten feet from the door. That’s not very subtle. Maybe I should look at the other sites.

            Choo Choo.

Shit, who’s calling this late? That stupid ringtone. I need to change it. Oh, it’s Kate.

            “Hey,” she says, “just calling to see if you found anything.”

            “I’m online right now. It’s scary. If I get caught I could get in a lot of trouble. Like jail kind of trouble.”

            “I know but you have to do it. Right?”

            “Yeah, what option do I have?”

            “None. You’re doing the right thing. I told you I did it and everything worked out fine. The chances of you getting caught are … I don’t exactly know but they’re really slim.”

            “I hope so. I’m kind of worried about trackers or online spies or something.”

            “What else can you do?”

            “Nothing. I gotta get one.”

            “Call me when you get it lined up.”

            “I will. Bye.”

Back to the search results. I see a photo of a man, around fifty years old, staring back at me. He has a beard and hazel eyes and a large smile. Nope. Not this one. That smile makes me nervous.

I scroll down.

Next I see a picture of a smiling baby. Clearly this is a ruse. And not a clever one. How stupid do they think I am? I wouldn’t click on that if it was the only one.

I look at the final image. A photo of a woman. Youngish. Serious but not dour. Wearing a white lab coat with a stethoscope around her neck. Maybe …

Why the hell do I live in this stupid state? If I lived in the northwest I wouldn’t have this problem. But I was born here. Everyone I know lives here.

I check the clock again. Seven minutes have passed. Stop wasting time.

 I click on the image of the woman. A chat box opens.

                                    How may we help you?

I glance across the room at a silver-framed photo of me and Jake at the Amarillo gun show. Such a fun weekend …

Back to the computer screen. If this is a setup, I’m screwed.

Just do it.

I type two words into the reply box. A blue spinning circle pops up on the screen. Ten seconds pass. Twenty. Still spinning. What idiot invented these spinning circles? I pick at the cuticle of my left thumb.

The page starts downloading, slowly at first, then picks up speed. Five names appear. I scroll through each beginning with the nearest, 100 miles away. Out of Stock. The first four all say Out of Stock.

Why are they showing me places that are out of stock?

The fifth one is called My Old Kentucky Home. What kind of stupid name is that? The location finder says it’s 262 miles away. I click on the name and another chat box opens.

The cost is $95. Cash only. We cannot guarantee availability after 9:00 a.m. today

            “Oh my God.”

            I call Kate.

            “Can I borrow your car? Tonight.”

            “Why can’t you take your car?

            “It quit running. Last week. I also need to borrow some cash. A lot of it. $95. I’ll need some extra for gas.”

            “I don’t have that much cash.”

            “Can you get it at an ATM? I’ll pay you back. I promise.”

            “How? You work at Taco Bell.”

            “I’ll figure it out. Please. I’m running out of time.”

            “Get the money from Jake. Borrow his car. It’s his problem too.”

            “He’s not answering my texts.”

An hour later Kate’s here with the car and the cash. I give her a hug and take the money.

“I promise I’ll pay you back.”

 At 4:12 a.m. I drive off. Into the darkness. Haven’t slept. Doesn’t matter. I’ve got to get there before nine. Be the first customer.

I cross the state line. My pulse is racing. Beads of perspiration are dripping from my armpit down the inside of my elbow. I realize I forgot to put on deodorant before I left. Oh well, too late now. I check the navigation app. Two hours to go. Shit. I push harder on the gas pedal.

At 8:51, I pull into the parking lot of a mini mall and drive around. Where is the damn place? Over there. A sign saying My Old Kentucky Home. It’s a liquor store for God’s sake. Some women are standing outside. I watch them for a minute. This must be it.

I park and walk up to the line. No one says anything. I stand there, leaning against a cement post, still sweating. Even my palms are moist.

At 9:08 a woman comes out and announces they’ve run out. She hands all of us a piece of paper with the name of another store, forty-five miles away.

I run back to the car and peel out of the parking lot. I need to get there before the others. I’ve got less than eleven hours to take that pill.

Photo by Elisa Ventur on Unsplash