The Traveler by Maria Marandola

The Traveler by Maria Marandola

The glowing twin orbs float in the night, casting a faint light on the desolate stretch of Route 12. The bus, swallowed by the darkness, moves in a trance, the hum of tires on asphalt blending with the steady pulse in Rocky’s ears. A lone streetlight flickers in the distance, its weak glow pooling across the road like spilled oil.

A hiss of brakes cuts through the silence, and the bus shudders to a stop.

“Silversage! This is your stop.”

Rocky stirs, head pressed awkwardly against the cold window.

“Hey! Nap time’s over! Time to get off, buddy!”

Rocky shoots upright and stares into the inky night. He stares at his reflection in the bus window: one he doesn’t recognize. Tired eyes and shaking chef’s hands. Useless. Vegas is supposed to change that, but who am I kidding? A chill slips down Rocky’s spine—the kind that sticks to your bones and stays there. “We’ve been here before,” a faint whisper that Rocky shakes off.

“Where am I?” he asks while grabbing his worn backpack, silver and gold graffiti covering most of its surface. He stumbles down the aisle, knuckles lazily rubbing his eyes.

The driver taps the steering wheel, his eyes fixated on Rocky in the rearview mirror. “Silversage. It’s your stop.”

“Why is it so late? Did I miss my bus?”

“Traffic out of Chicago. You can get on tomorrow’s bus.”

Rocky doesn’t remember the bus ride after Manhattan. He doesn’t remember much of the last few days—but someone does. There’s always someone who remembers everything he tries to forget. The needle. The fight. That moment it tipped sideways—it’s crystal clear, too sharp, like it belongs to someone else entirely.

His bag tumbles to the ground as he trips off the bus, missing the last step. The contents threaten to spill out the unzipped top. He stands on the curb and stares at the driver, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, bag next to him. Goosebumps sends shivers down his spine. “You’re just going to leave me here in the middle of the night? Are you trying to get me killed or some shit?”

With a swift pull on the lever and a wry grin, the doors slam in Rocky’s face as a coughing fit racks his body.

“You know what? Fuck it,” Rocky whispers into the darkness, teeth clenched, fists tight by his sides.

Rocky sits on the curb, backpack between his legs, the WELCOME TO SILVERSAGE sign above his head. He digs through his bag, pushing past the wrappers and bottles of water. After a few minutes of angry mumbling, digging, and almost breaking his phone, Rocky finds what he needs—a lighter.

He leans against the light pole and lights up under the welcome sign. It’s not ideal, but it’ll do. If Jaelyn were here, she’d be trying to get the perfect shot. He’d have hated the interruption to his ritual—now he yearned for it. For her. Even though he hated how easily she could see through him.

He inhales the smoke: lets it settle in his lungs before exhaling imperfect plumes. It’s not enough, but when is it ever? We know better than that.

Inhale, exhale, repeat—until your frazzled mind slows down, Jaelyn’s mantra whispers in his mind.

Good advice, if he’d ever been strong enough to listen or consistently go to any meetings. Rocky almost thought the deep breathing, the meditation, and all Jaelyn’s other spiritual nonsense was working until the incident at work. How quickly he could be triggered. How quickly everything fell apart.

He lifts his phone to check the time—11:19 p.m. The NO SERVICE in the top corner of his screen taunts him.

“Fucking bullshit!” he bellows before slamming his phone beside him. Anger rises sharp and fast—too fast. He might be starting to lose control, but he recalls Jaelyn’s mantra one more time. He looks around for fluttering curtains or porch lights, but there is nothing except the streetlight and the welcome sign in his immediate vicinity. He notices a flashing red light in the distance. “Guess that’s where I’m headed. The least this chick could have done was give me what she had for our trip,” he mumbles, somehow making all his bad decisions someone else’s fault. Again.

Or you could have been an active part of planning the trip, instead of a stoned fuckboy.

Her voice. Again.

He walks, unsure of what or who he’ll find, but knows he always stays ready. No adventure too big or small and all that. He rechecks his phone—even one bar would mean he could make some attempt at finding a place to stay. Even if that meant calling Jae.

Wake me up to ask me this? Really?

NO SERVICE continues taunting him from the corner of his screen: at least he won’t have to wonder if she blocked him or worry about her being annoyed. That’s tomorrow’s problem. He pockets his phone and heads toward his beacon of hope in the distance. The flashlight of his phone is more like a penlight in the vast darkness that surrounds him. The long drag of highway is miles of flat land punctuated with the occasional small town. Silversage has the distinction of being the smallest. A one-man town—or at least that’s what he thinks Jae told him. He can’t quite recall the conversation; part of the reason he’s here alone.

As Rocky approaches the flashing red light that marks a three-way intersection, his hopes of finding a place for the night deteriorate like the buildings around him. A small church with iron doors and fixtures stands tall to his right, the broken stained-glass windows and holes in the sides of the building pointing to years of neglect. The cemetery to its right has long been forgotten. Now, it’s home to rusted junkyard trash and broken, faded tombstones. Boarded-up houses line the road. Missing windows peer at Rocky while darkness calls to him through rotten doors.

“Sheesh, the world forgot about this place.”

A tingle of dread nibbles at his insides as the shadows move in between the buildings, flickering and multiplying. For a moment, he’s not sure how many shadows there are—or how many belong to him. He knows he needs a hit to quiet the paranoia building in him, but he needs to hold it together more.Just until he finds somewhere to stay. Soon.

I told you it was practically a ghost town, Jae’s voice rings in his mind.

“Yes, you did, Jae. I don’t forget everything you tell me,” he huffs.

“Except where the hell we were supposed to stay in this town.”

He stiffens, the voice not Jaelyn’s. He shakes his head, as if trying to scatter the ghosts, and keeps on moving. A neon green light pulses down the road, pulses through the night sky, summoning him. That sense it might not be there—or was always there—starts nagging at him. He wonders if it’s the beginning of withdrawal symptoms and the need to either sleep this off or get high again that has him feeling crazy.

Maybe it’s both, or maybe it’s something else entirely.

“This place is wild,” Rocky exclaims.

To the left, a two-story building leans to its right, cocking its wooden hip in defiance of its fate. The broken windows are not boarded up on this building either. The front door hangs off its hinges, waving in whatever wildlife wanders by. The sign atop the building reads SILVERSAGE HOME OF THE NIGHT OWLS with a green and yellow owl painted on the faded sign.

“What the fuck is up with this place, for real? Everything is falling apart. Did everyone get up and leave one day?” he wonders aloud.

I told you this story….

“Damn, you’re making me not miss you right now, you know that?” he shouts. If anyone were watching him, they would think he was crazy. He’s starting to feel a little crazy.

The distinct shabbiness of the first building only serves to exaggerate the better condition of the one-story building to the right. The flat-topped corner building is a dark blue-gray. One rectangular window near the top of the wall adorns the front of the building. The door to enter is at the corner facing the quiet intersection. Rocky studies the yellow door with questions—too many for his brain to sort through—while the light pulsing above his head washes the sidewalk in the flickering green light.

He clenches his stomach in…what? Hunger? Intuition? Fear? His palms are sweaty, and his hands are shaking.

The sign above the building is faded, the paint curling at the edges like dying skin. SILVERSAGE TAVERN (est. 1871)—an identical green and yellow owl painted on the door.

With one hand on the door, a branch snaps behind him. He pauses. Nothing except the low buzz of the solitary green light bulb. Steeling himself, he pushes open the door. The light flickers softly, flashes red three times, then dies.

At first sight, Rocky wonders if he should have taken his chances in the abandoned church and all the potential wildlife it would attract.

You’re always thinking the worst… Chill.

Rocky swallows hard and takes a breath.

“Can I help you, buddy?” a gruff voice bellows.

Rocky’s attention shifts from his internal musings to his external surroundings without a hitch, and he beams his best I’m not a threat smile. The bartender stands behind a long counter lined with red leather stools, waiting for a response, arms crossed.

“Just hoping to grab a drink and something to eat,” Rocky replies, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

“That’s what we’re here for. Grab a seat.” He invites Rocky to the bar with a wave of his rag.

Rocky doesn’t trust smiling faces and warm welcomes, but his hunger makes him let down his guard. He sits at the bar, and the bartender hands him a menu.

“What’s your drink?” he asks.

“Whisky on the rocks,” Rocky orders, needing something to make this night go faster but trying to resist the urge to get high. He can wait until the morning, he knows he can.

The bartender turns toward the bottles, his arms a canvas of ink—bright red, blues, and sharp lines curving around muscle.

“Nice ink, man,” Rocky comments as his drink is delivered, wondering if the man was once in the military.

A smile teases his lips when he thinks about Jaelyn sitting next to him and just asking this guy a million questions about his tattoos. She never has any qualms about talking to people in bars.

“Thanks. Ready to order?”

“Yeah, I’ll have the steak sandwich with onions, peppers, and mayo and a side of fries,” Rocky orders while thoughts of Jaelyn still float through his head.

The bartender disappears behind a door, and Rocky swivels on the bar stool, drink in hand, hoping to distract himself from his traitorous memories. He checks his watch: 1:15 a.m. Could that be right? Two hours to walk across town?

An old jukebox in the corner catches his eye. A scarlet-haired woman is in front of it, coins jingling faintly in her hand while she sways to the music she has yet to select. A smile plays on Rocky’s lips.

Remind you of someone…?

Rocky shakes the thought of Jaelyn living her best life without him from his head.

A young guy hunches over a pool table next to the jukebox. The ease of the conversation between the two lets Rocky know this is a local spot, and he needs to keep that fresh in his mind. Neither of them pays Rocky any mind, but he’s hoping he can get in a couple games.

Rocky hops off the bar stool so he can check out the rest of the place while he waits. His shoes peel away from the floor with each step. The dim blue lighting presses against his eyes, casting shadows that don’t belong. 

When he returns, a sweating glass of whisky awaits him, inviting him to take a sip. He does so slowly, savoring the burn that slides down his throat and into his empty stomach—the grumbling louder than ever as the strong alcohol settles. There is nothing to do but wait, think, and drink.

“Where are you from, stranger? We don’t get many late-night visitors in Silversage.”

“New Jersey. But heading to Vegas,” Rocky answers.

“How’d you end up stopping here? This isn’t a common route going to Vegas, or anywhere else.”

Rocky lifts the glass to his lips and takes another sip before answering. The gnawing in his stomach from earlier has returned.

“My travel partner decided I wasn’t worth traveling with anymore,” Rocky offers, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Didn’t bother to change the ticket.”

Is that all I was? A travel partner? imaginary Jae interjects. Rocky takes another long sip, drowning her voice in whiskey.

“Why the stop here to begin with though?” he asks again.

“She read this was some ghost town, but a park was nearby. We were only meant to be here a few hours—explore a bit and be on the afternoon bus out,” Rocky explains.

“Silversage has a way of keeping who it wants,” he says, smiling faintly. “Name’s Ralph.”

“Nice to meet you, Ralph. I’m Rocky.” He shakes his hand; Ralph’s grip is steady—too steady.

“I wish I could tell you I had a place for you to stay, but—”

“You’re straight. I always figure it out,” Rocky quips.

“Sounds like me.” Ralph chuckles before disappearing into the kitchen.

Rocky takes another deep sip.

Might want to slow down, buddy. You haven’t eaten a real meal since yesterday.

“I’m fine; I can handle myself,” Rocky mumbles to himself.

Ralph slides a plate in front of him. The fries are hot and salty, and the steak sandwich—dripping with perfectly caramelized onions, peppers, and a hint of mayo—makes Rocky pause. He takes a bite and closes his eyes. The flavors explode on his tongue. If he could hold onto this—this moment of clear-headedness—moving across the country might mean something. But the clarity never stays, Rocky just won’t admit it.

For a moment, the bar around him fades, and he’s back in the kitchen. The late nights of chopping, searing, plating. He’d once been a damn good chef, and he hopes Vegas can help him achieve that again.

“What time do you close?” he asks, more as a distraction than out of curiosity.

“When the last customer leaves,” Ralph responds with a crooked smile. “Could be one in the morning, could be four. Silversage has its own rhythm.”

“Must be nice,” Rocky murmurs through the taste of steak, peppers, and onions. The simple sandwich stirs something within him—a longing that has long been shoved away.

“Yeah, something like that,” Ralph replies, grabbing Rocky’s empty plate. “Do you need anything else? I’m going to close the kitchen if not.”

“I’m good, but if you keep the whiskey flowing, I’ll stay here until you’re ready to call it a night. I’ll stumble back to the bench at the bus stop.”

“Fine by me, as long as you can pay.”

Rocky lifts his glass in gratitude. He sips slowly, enjoying the burn. The last thing he needs is to miss his bus. He doesn’t think he could handle two nights in this place.

He grabs his drink and saunters over to the pool table.

“Mind if I play?”

The guy looks up, takes a swig of his beer. “Sure. Grab a stick.”

They play what ends up being a quick game when Rocky has a lucky streak and sinks four balls in a row. After that it was easy to clean up.

“Good game. I’m Bobby.”

“Rocky.” They shake hands. Bobby’s grip is loose and forgettable. “Another game?”

Bobby gives a thumbs-up and places his stick down. Nothing better than a free pool table at a bar. Bobby takes a couple swallows of beer and racks up the balls for round two.

Rocky walks back to the bar to refill his drink and grabs a cold beer to chase the whiskey, which is starting to settle in his brain, making his perception cloudy.

“Another whiskey, Ralph.”

Should you be having another whiskey?

“Yes, I should, Jae.” He drains his glass in one swallow.

Rocky’s mind keeps drifting to Las Vegas and how Jaelyn’s unforeseen announcement has disrupted his plans. He stares at the single bar of service. His thumb hovers over Jaelyn’s name.

Don’t call me. Lose my number. Not her voice, a memory. One that he knows belongs to him. He sets the phone down, jaw tightening.

“Hiya, I’m Maggie,” she greets, punctuating her sentence with a soft pink bubble from between her hot pink lips. Her smile is too bright; Rocky sees flirtation. I see desperation. She’s stuck as deeply as we are.

“What’s up? I’m Rocky,” he replies, grateful for another distraction.

“Want to buy me a drink?” she asks.

“Sure, why not? Hey, Ralph, Maggie’s next drink is on me.” He can respect a woman that puts herself out there.

“Thanks.”

Ralph places their drinks in front of them. The long neon-colored nails tap against the bottle as she lifts it to her lips. She takes a long sip and sighs happily as she finishes. A woman who enjoys a cold beer—Rocky can appreciate that.

“What brings you to our boring little corner of Nebraska, Rocky?”

“Just passing through.”

“You don’t look like the hiking type.”

“I like to keep things interesting.”

“More of a beach guy?” she asks, trying to brush the locks off his forehead.

He politely smiles while shifting his head away from her. “Maybe.”

“I like the beachy vibe. We don’t get many of them in Nebraska. Where is home, anyway?”

“Nowhere, but I’m coming from the New York area.”

“Oh! City boy, huh? You are a long way from home.”

“I’m moving to Vegas. Chef work. Got someone who can get me into a casino… if I don’t screw it up first.”

“Wow! How exciting. I would love to move from one big city to the next. I’m stuck here in the middle of nowhere.”

“Nobody’s stuck anywhere,” Rocky says. “Being stuck is a state of mind.”

“I wish.” Her eyes don’t hide sadness, even if she does have a smile on her face.

Bobby walks over to the bar, dark denim jeans cuffed above spotless red Chucks. His slicked-back hair and white tee look like they belong in a different decade. Maybe even a different world.

“Bobby, did you know this guy is from New York?” Maggie squeals as if this is the news of the year.

“Oh yeah,” Bobby says. “Brooklyn. Small world.” The smile not quite reaching his eyes.

The whiskey has him feeling more chatty than normal; chatting is strictly a Jaelyn thing.

Don’t act like you miss it now….

“Where do you guys call home?”

“We’re local,” Bobby replies. “When do you head out?”

“Tomorrow morning, at some point.”

“Don’t miss it. You don’t want to get stuck here.”

Ralph appears, holding up the bottle of Knob Creek, and points it in Rocky’s direction. Rocky nods, and Ralph tops off his glass. Rocky continues to sip, trying to ignore the chatter between Bobby and Maggie.

After three whiskeys, the world starts to blur around the edges. Rocky wonders how long Ralph will let Maggie and Bobby stay and drink the night away. Rocky checks his watch: 1:15 a.m.

“Still?” Did he imagine checking the time? The secondhand twitches in place; he taps it.

He turns to Bobby. “We going to get that second game in before it’s too late?”

“Yeah, let’s go. Maggie, do you want to join us? You can play the winner.”

Bobby sinks five of his six balls. Rocky misses the third shot. Whiskey has him off his game, but no sweat. He’s having a decent time.

Maggie leans toward the jukebox, coins slipping through her shaking fingers. Withdrawals early whispers are in his ears, but Rocky doesn’t notice. Poison’s “Every Rose Has its Thorn” crackles through the old speakers.

“Which one of you boys wants to dance?” Her smile sharpens, the light back in her eyes.

“Go ahead, Rocky. I danced with Maggie more than my fair share. Go ahead, enjoy yourself,” Bobby presses.

Maggie pushes herself up against Rocky and starts swaying her body against his.

Rocky feels sluggish and slightly off balance. He tries to brush her away politely, but she won’t let him opt out of the dance.

“Come on, City Boy. I’ll make sure you don’t fall.”

He puts his pool stick down and takes the last gulp of his whiskey. The last gulp.

Maggie presses her cheek to his. Her breath is hot on his ear. His hand curls around her hip before he can stop it. Familiar. Wrong.

Isn’t this why Jaelyn left? That voice again. Unfamiliar. Right.

“Wanna have some fun?” her voice, smooth as honey, coos seductively.

The bubbly Maggie of earlier is gone, replaced by this vixen who is trying to seduce him. He feels himself physically responding to her charms.

“Fuckboy.”

He freezes. Maggie brushes her long nails against his forearm. His goosebumps betray him. She returns his hand to her hip, and she rakes her fingers down his back.

“You know you want to,” her voice curls around his ear. “How else will you pass the time?”

She makes an excellent point. A little fun couldn’t hurt. He’s had a long day, and an even longer night is ahead. He walks over to the bar and grabs his backpack off the floor. He settles the tab with Ralph and joins Maggie by the jukebox again.

Without a word, she grabs his hand and pulls him toward the dark. She doesn’t hesitate. Neither does he. Rocky glances back. Ralph and Bobby watch—not concerned, not surprised. The hallway seems longer than it should be. Too narrow. The light buzzes above him like angry bees.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Rocky asks. “We don’t know each other like that.”

Maggie responds by smiling and yanking him through the doorway. “Oh, I’m sure. Are you?” She laughs as she leads the way.

The room is bare, emptier than he expected. Shelves stand vacant, a broken footlocker is pressed against a worn cot in the corner, like someone prepared for a brief stay and never left—or never came back. Above the old, worn sofa, the green bulb swings, pulsing in time with Rocky’s heartbeat.

His mouth goes dry. He swallows hard, nausea swirling up his throat, sweat trailing down his spine. All he wants is to lie down, close his eyes, and let me handle things for a while.

“You keep lying to yourself,” I whisper.

“Can we turn the light off?” Rocky asks, eyes squinting against the harsh glow.

“Nope. It only goes off when the bar lights go off,” Maggie says softly, her fingers trembling slightly. She needs a hit too. “Besides, the light makes things more mysterious, dontcha think?”

Rocky doesn’t. He staggers to the sofa, dropping his bag with a heavy thud. He counts the faded patterns on the armrest, hoping the dizziness will pass.

Maggie watches him sway, the tremble in her fingers and hands more prominent with every passing second: as if her body is eagerly anticipating what comes next. She forces a smile, pupils wide, a sheen of sweat on her brow. Desire—the same desperation clung to us both.

“You okay? You’re looking a little green around the gills,” Maggie asks.

Rocky nods weakly, feeling the sweat trickle down his back. His heart pounding. “Just a little dizzy,” he lies, trying to get back up.

“Sit down,” Maggie whispers. “Let me handle everything.”

Rocky sinks back into the sofa, staring at his shaking hands. Just one more hit, I coax gently. Then you can rest. He shuts his eyes, counting each beat of his rapid heart, desperate to silence the voice.

“Don’t do it…” Jaelyn’s voice—a whisper in the darkness.

But my voice is stronger, clearer, desperate. “One. More. Hit.”

Maggie walks over to the footlocker; Rocky hears her rummaging and then the lid slams shut. She stands over Rocky, a small, zipped pouch in her hand. Jaelyn’s voice is static; crackling in his mind, but the message is unclear. His grasp on reality starts to slip away when Maggie produces a needle and two baggies.

“Ready?”

“I don’t know…. Maybe I shouldn’t. The bus.” Since when does “shouldn’t” matter to us?

Maggie sits next to him, helps him take his jacket off. She ties the elastic around his bicep and readies the needle, then places it in his hand.

Rocky’s fingers tremble. “I can’t do this,” he murmurs.

“You never could,” I soothe gently. “Let me do it for us.”

I look down and see Rocky’s hands, my hands now, confidently slide the needle into his vein. Warmth surges through our veins. He tries to surface, struggling weakly against the wave of pleasure overwhelming us. But I silence him gently. “Sleep now, Rocky.”

His consciousness slips as I revel in the pleasure. His heart slows, his breathing still, Maggie’s body slumped over his. Stuck. Both of them.

Rocky…, Jaelyn’s voice, soft and clear, makes Rocky stir. Wake up….

Rocky fights back against me, Jae’s voice rousing him back to consciousness. “Jae…” He exhales her name like a prayer.

Let go. You won’t move on until you let go.

“I’ve got you… I always have,” I whisper in the dark as he slips away one last time.

The bus hisses to a stop. Rocky presses his forehead to the cool glass, the strangest sense of déjà vu overwhelming him.

“Silversage. Your stop,” the driver says, glaring at Rocky in the rearview mirror.

I smile quietly. Rocky stands, grabbing his backpack, stepping again into the dark.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Maria Marandola 2025