"God-fucking-dammit!"
The dry sound of many slams against the cold steel of the car disrupted the peaceful morning of the Buenos Aires route. In between curses and howls of despair, the siberian husky, distinguished by his red leather jacket, held his face in front of the worn-down Chevy's hood. His cigar, still steaming, was long-forgotten in the dirt road.
The pintoresque dawn featured pink hues and clouds shifting into the horizon, but Viktor's eyes were fixated on something else —the sorry state of his car, which audibly wheezed in agony every time he tried to start it.
Who could help him now? Some extremely kind and convenient mechanic? God? Some serial killer hiding bodies in the campground? He couldn't just cry over spilled milk, or in this case, the spilled oil that came under the car, staining the road with small jet black droplets. He had to move on, that's just how life is.
Nonetheless, the biggest hurdle right now wasn't that he would have to push his car until the next gas station, whereever that may be. It was knowing where in the world he was. The only thing surrounding him were dirty roads and pastures that blocked the view of the countryside, and no other cars seemed to pass by.
Despite that, he opened the driver's door and held his breath. In a burst of strength, he pushed forward, as the car moved —at most, a few inches.
Viktor had to fight the urge of climbing the roof of the car and smash each and every window with his forehead, but he swallowed his frustrations and kept pushing.
After an amount of time unbeknownst to him, Viktor's arm was sore and his legs were giving up on him. Dawn turned into a blue afternoon that threatened to become dusk, and Viktor had to stop and look at the sky to realize what was happening. He took a drag on his cigarette, the last one in the pack, and leaned against the car door.
The pastures turned grassier, and trees popped in with falling leaves, carried by a breeze that gently caressed his fur. He took a deep breath, inhaling some of the fresh country air. For the first time that day, he managed to let his shoulders drop.
He turned his head to what seemed to be a metal rod stuck in the ground. Although he didn't thought much of it, his gaze shifted to the ground surrounding the rod, where a rectangular sheet of metal covered in rust laid among the long grass.
With his curiosity now piqued, Viktor walked over to it and picked it up. Despite the cracked paint, the writing was clear: "San Canes, 0.3 miles", with an arrown under it that pointed to the right.
The husky raised an eyebrow. San Canes? He never heard of a place with that name before, not even in passing mentions in bars or the news. Looking to the grove closely, he noticed how some faded rays of light traveled across the wall of trunks and leaves, so he decided to change directions as he pushed the car.
In no time, the road, which now zigzagged, became more clearer with each turn. The smell of dampened earth filled his nostrils, and the sound of cicadas an the distant sound of poeple quickly became unmistakable. An entire town laid downhill in front of him, with houses and buildings that surrounded a lagoon that vanished among the pines and ashtrees.
"San Canes, huh?" he asked himself, his voice raspy.
Viktor had found his next stop.