All this ice, he grumbled, trying to chip it off his car window with a scraper. A thick layer of ice had formed on all windows and he couldn’t even see inside the car. He stole a quick glance at his watch, then groaned again. He would never make it to the meeting. And if he didn’t make it to the one meeting that was essential to his career, he might as well give up already. Perhaps he should just call in sick, he wondered, then immediately scolded himself for even having the thought. He would show up, even if he was late, he was determined to at least try.
Finally, the layer of ice seemed to be coming off. He could see inside his car now. Squinting his eyes, he leaned closer. Was that…
Blood lined the inner walls of his car and a body lay across the back seat at an awkward angle. He took a step back, feeling sick. This wasn’t even his car. He supposed his career would have to wait for now.
Friday Fictioneers, 1 July 2016
Photo prompt provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
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