“Shit” the man muttered.
He was desperately trying to wash the blood off his hands by pouring water from a plastic bottle he had laying in the seat next to him. Most came off in streams of pink and splashed on his boots, staining the light brown leather. There was still blood under his fingernails and around his cuticles, but he didn’t have time to be thorough; he had places to be tonight.
He looked behind him at the huddled mass haphazardly strewn across the back seat. He hadn’t seen him coming until it was too late and he hit the homeless man. He panicked–he couldn’t leave the man to die in the streets, although from the looks of him, he was doing a pretty good job of doing that himself.
His face was gaunt and sickly ashen; his blonde hair matted and had bits of dried leaves stuck in it. The collar of his corduroy jacket soaked with blood as was the Yale University sweatshirt he had on underneath. The man shook his head at the irony of the man’s shirt. He glanced down at the dead man’s feet and saw ratted old sneakers being held together with duct tape and willpower.
The text alert tone on his phone shook him from his thoughts.
“Where are you?” the message asked. It was from his wife.
He picked up his phone and quickly typed his location: “Philadelphia” and hit send.
He stared down at his phone, waiting for a response. She was not going to be happy about this. He should be hundreds of miles away from here by now, but hitting and ultimately killing a man tends to put a kink in your travel plans.
His phone beeped at him and he picked it up.
“What?! You better have a good explanation for why you’re so far behind schedule. We are on a very tight time frame. People are depending on you. I swear, if you’re at a strip club again…”
The man chuckled in spite of the current situation.
“No, I’m not at the club. I learned my lesson last time. I had an accident and running behind. Will be back on the road shortly,” he typed.
“WHAT KIND OF ACCIDENT?”
Goddamn it, he cursed.
“Hit a homeless man. He’s in the back seat. I couldn’t leave him, so took him with. We’ll deal with him when I get home. I’m leaving now.”
“Good. Don’t mess this up, Nick. Get those packages delivered,” his phone beeped again.
Nick tossed the phone in seat. She was right–he couldn’t fuck this up.
He started up the engine and hit the gas. The force of the acceleration caused the dead man in the back to fall to the floor and the other packages in the back on top of him.
This is going to be a long Christmas.