What was it he did to those kids? After he killed them? Samantha couldn’t remember. She wished now that she had paid more attention to those stories.
Darren tried to shake the Revenant, but it was no use. They were nearly bumper to bumper now. In a few more seconds, the two cars would hit. Samantha gripped the back of her seat, bracing for impact.
The gap narrowed between the Highwayman’s car and Darren’s coupe.
Two feet…
One foot…
Six inches…
Three inches…
They were going to hit…
But—
Nothing. No impact.
The Revenant kept coming closer and closer…
What the hell?
Then she understood.
And screamed.
Darren looked at her. “What? What happened?”
Samantha kept screaming as the front bumper of the Revenant penetrated the back bumper of the coupe and—
Passed right through it!
She recovered her voice. “Darren, faster!”
“I am, I am.” His voice was tense.
The ghost car entered the Deuce Coupe.
Samantha watched in horror as the Revenant’s front grille emerged from the back of her seat. The bright glow from the demon-eyed headlights filled the inside of Darren’s car. Samantha backed away from ghostly headlamp, but there was nowhere for her to escape. She was trapped inside the coupe with the Revenant only inches away.
“No!” she screamed, “No!”
The ghost car was inside the real car.
And it was still coming.
Coming to get them.
The hood ornament was a death’s head. It penetrated Darren’s back and emerged from his chest. The coffin-nosed hood of the ghost car glided through his torso.
Darren cried out in agony.
“Darren!” she screamed, helpless.
The Revenant touched and entered Samantha’s body. She felt an icy chill as the coffin-nosed hood of the ghost car passed through her.
Samantha saw the Highwayman behind the wheel of the Revenant. The ghost driver powered his death machine forward, faster, faster, and—
The Highwayman entered Darren’s body.
The ghost driver disappeared completely into Darren. Then the ghost car shimmered and faded away.
Something else happened. Samantha didn’t understand it, but knew her boyfriend was being…changed…transformed.
It looked like torture. Darren’s chest heaved. His neck tensed. His head snapped to attention. Darren turned to face Samantha, his eyes wide. His once-blue eyes now glowed a ghostly green.
Darren was…what?
Possessed.
His very human scream became the Highwayman’s death-rattle laugh.
7
Frankie Lamarque gripped the steering wheel. His fingers were sore and stiff. He shook them to get the blood flowing again, then wiped sweat from his forehead. He’d been clenching the steering wheel much too hard. The near-miss with that oncoming truck left his pulse pounding.
Relax, calm down. The race isn’t over yet.
Poor Darren had nearly bought the farm back there. Frankie couldn’t afford to lose his drummer. Darren was one of the best. Good thing the kid had enough sense to stop fighting for the lead. Instead, the little drummer boy had dropped back to safety, in second place, right where he belonged, backing up Frankie. Darren had always been the sensible one. Frankie was the leader, the risk-taker.
Sometimes he had to remind Darren of his proper place.
Frankie snuck another glance in the rearview mirror. He had seen a pair of headlights behind Darren’s coupe, but now that other car was gone.
Where’d it go?
There were no exits on this stretch of the highway. Had the car pulled over to the dirt shoulder? Dropped back out of sight? Turned off its lights?
A crazy thought entered Frankie’s head. For a moment he wondered if the stories were true. Stories about a ghost car. About the Highwayman, the Revenant, and teenagers dying on the highway, on a murderous desert highway known as—
Blood Alley.
The Highwayman felt his new hands on the wheel, his new foot on the accelerator. The passenger window was rolled down—a cold wind buffeted his cheeks and stung a little in his eyes. It was thrilling to see the world once more through human eyes. That sharpness. That clarity. It felt good to be flesh and blood again. A new body, a new life—if only for a brief moment.
The Highwayman knew his purpose, and kept to his goal. These three mortals had trespassed, and they must be punished.
There were two cars racing on Blood Alley.
He was now in control of one.
The body he possessed was young, strong, full of life. The Highwayman liked young mortals best. They gave him a thrill when he entered their bodies, claiming their lives. But he could not stay long in this living cage. The rigors of life demanded his absolute focus. The act of possession drained him, and soon he would have to retreat into the shadows.
But not yet.
Not yet.
He was driving a Deuce Coupe. The engine was well-tuned. It hummed brilliantly. The night was dark beyond his headlights. There was a girl in the car beside him. She wore a red sweater and a frightened expression. She was screaming and crying. It made him feel stronger. He fed on her screams, like an actor on applause.
Let her scream, the Highwayman thought. Let her cry.
He wanted a witness to his mayhem.
The other car was a Chevy, in the lead position. The driver was good, but no one could match the Highwayman. Not on this road. Not on Blood Alley.
That’s what the mortals called it now. Blood Alley. He had heard that name whispered on the wind. It made him proud to know that his righteous revenge sent ripples of fear into the living world.
Yet still the mortals came.
The Highwayman was being taunted, tested. He was up to the test. These mortals would not survive to the tunnel. They would not get off Blood Alley alive.
The Devil’s Tunnel marked the end of his domain. The Highwayman was bound by his own curse, and could go no further. He was a victim too, trapped forever on Blood Alley.
No, he thought, not forever.
He longed to leave this dark stretch of road—as he had many times in his mortal life—yet in death, it seemed, he had no choice. This road was his universe now, his eternity, his playground. He would make the best of it. He had ten more miles in which to kill these meddlesome mortals, ten more miles to toy and tease and torture them. If they reached and cleared the tunnel, the game would end.
They will not reach the tunnel.
Not tonight when there was a thin red moon in the heavens and hot blood in his veins.
Blood.
He felt it pulse through the body he possessed.
The boy’s name was Darren. He could hear the girl screaming, “Darren! Darren, stop! Darren, what’s happening?”
Idiot.
Her name was—what?—
Samantha.
That was the name Darren knew her by. The Highwayman, possessing Darren’s body, witnessed the boy’s frightened thoughts. Darren screamed inside, but the Highwayman would not let him release the scream.
That would come later.
The Highwayman controlled this body now, controlled its movements, its breathing, its voice. Everything but its thoughts.
A chattering distraction.
The Highwayman could not afford to be distracted now. The road sped beneath him. He could feel the two-lane blacktop thrum under the racing wheels of the Deuce Coupe.
His highway. His road.
Blood Alley.
It sang to him and kept him to his purpose.
Frankie shook his head to clear his thoughts. No such thing as a haunted road. He had other things to worry about. This was no time for ghost stories.
The coupe kept pace behind him, then surged with renewed force.
It rammed Frank
ie’s back bumper.
He felt the jolt in his neck and spine.
What the hell?
Darren’s car slid to the left and started to pass. Frankie saw the coupe grow larger in his side mirror. The front end of Darren’s car was dented.
He’s nuts.
Darren loved that car. He polished it every day and twice on Sundays. Now he had gone and smashed up the front end of his only treasure. For what?
A girl? A grudge?
Makes no sense.
Samantha stopped screaming. She was tired and exhausted. Darren—or whatever he was now—ignored her. He seemed intent on driving. Samantha felt the urge to get out of the car. She needed to escape. Now. Or it would be too late.
The car was going fast, over 100 miles an hour. If she threw herself out the door, would she survive?
Maybe not.
Could she wrestle the wheel from Darren and take over control?
He’s too strong.
A struggle might spin the wheel and kill them both. Yet the urge to leap overwhelmed her.
Get out, she thought.
Samantha put her hand on the handle of the door.
Darren looked at her and laughed. “Leaving so soon?”
It was not Darren’s voice. Not entirely. There was something darker in his tone. Something ancient and evil.
Get out—get out—get out—
She looked out the open window.
The road raced beneath her at a frightening speed.
Jump, she thought.
Do it.
Do it now.
Save yourself.
She turned the handle.
The door opened a crack.
The wind outside resisted her, and slammed the door shut.
Frankie saw a sign zooming closer: “DEVIL’S PASS—10 miles.”
You’re on the Devil’s road now.
It climbed steeply, winding into the foothills.
The Deuce Coupe pulled up even with the Chevy.
Frankie shouted out the window, “What the hell, Darren?”
He saw Samantha in the other car. Her face was white with fear.
“Frankie! Help! Get me out! Get me out!”
Something’s wrong.
He saw Samantha screaming, saw the terror in her face. She seemed to be struggling with the passenger side door, trying to open it.
Frankie checked his speedometer. Both cars were going 118 miles per hour up the hill. “Samantha, no!”
She opened the passenger door, leaned out of the car, both hands on the handle, her face down, watching the road fly under her.
If Samantha hit the pavement at that speed, she’d be killed for sure.
Was she playing around? Was she crazy?
What the hell’s going on?
Frankie looked past Samantha and saw Darren behind the wheel of the coupe, but there was something different about him, about that look in his face, even in profile.
Darren’s gaze was steely, determined. He stared daggers at the road. Darren hunched his thin body forward, his chest mere inches from the wheel, his head directly over the dash, as if leaning forward might make the car go faster. Darren’s face—dimly lit from below by the lights of the dash—looked contorted.
There was something demonic in that look.
Something evil.
Darren turned his head to look at Frankie, and in that instant Frankie knew it wasn’t Darren in the car. Something had happened to him. Something had changed him, twisted him into a boy with the face of a gargoyle.
Those eyes.
In the darkness, Darren’s eyes glowed green.
8
Samantha held the handle of the half-open door. She looked down through the gap. The road was a rapid blur. She felt her stomach tighten. Terror gripped her. A scream caught in her throat.
Get out!
The car lurched to the right, throwing Samantha’s weight against the door.
It opened wider.
She held onto the handle as her head and chest leaned out. The speeding car created a hurricane wind that buffeted her, ripped at her clothes, threatened to push her out. She released a scream.
Darren laughed. It sounded like a death-rattle in his throat.
He spun the wheel to the right.
The coupe sideswiped the Chevy. The passenger door hit the Chevy hard.
The door slammed shut, throwing Samantha back into her seat.
Frank felt Darren’s car slam into his own. For a moment he lost control. Tires skidded. His Chevy ran off the road and onto the rocky shoulder. The car shook violently. His teeth chattered. Frankie bit his tongue and tasted blood.
With a tug on the wheel he brought his car back onto the road.
“Darren!” he shouted, but it was no use.
Slow down, he thought. You’re gonna kill yourself. It’s just a race. Don’t die for this.
He took his foot off the accelerator.
But another thought overrode the impulse.
Samantha’s in the car.
He couldn’t just give up on her. Something strange had happened to Darren. The kid was freaking out, turning into some kind of hopped-up maniac.
Those eyes.
Darren looked possessed by some kind of demon.
No, not a demon.
A ghost.
It didn’t matter. A demon, a ghost, or the Devil himself. Samantha was in trouble, serious trouble. If Frankie stopped his car, then that ghost, the Highwayman, whatever he was, would have Samantha.
What would he do? Rape her? Kill her? Something worse?
To save Samantha, he had to stop the other car.
But how?
A plan formed quickly in Frankie’s mind.
Get in front, he thought, then slow down. Make Darren slow down, force him to stop.
He’d seen a police car do that in the movies.
Maybe it only worked in the movies, but he had to try something. Frankie didn’t have time to think it through clearly, but it was some kind of a plan and he had to act now.
Frankie felt another jolt as Darren’s car slammed into him.
And again. And again.
Darren pulled his car onto the left shoulder, away from Frankie, then came back to sideswipe the Chevy.
Frankie tapped his brakes.
Darren’s car swerved to the right.
Frankie’s Chevy dropped back, but not fast enough.
The rear of the coupe knocked the front of the Chevy.
Hard.
Frankie felt the left front end of his Chevy lift up. His tire must have caught on the coupe’s running board. Now it was riding up the wheel well. His Chevy rose into the air as the other car got under him.
Frankie tried to correct.
Too late.
The Chevy rolled. Frankie rolled with it. The metal case around him jarred and spun and flipped him over and over again. He felt the car bouncing, turning, flying, landing. A crash and scream of metal. His seat jostled. The door caved in, then flew off, disappeared, and Frankie could see only the black night sky where his door had been.
A thousand stars swept by him in a blur.
The sky vanished and became the ground, then the sky, then the ground.
Frankie’s seat belt tore loose, and he was out of the car, in the air, alone, his stomach reeling, the fierce wind all around him. He saw the red crescent moon and felt the sharp bite of the cold desert air on his burning skin. His body tumbled, then came to earth in a slow dream from which he feared to awake. In the dream he heard a shriek of steel, a roar of flame, and a sound like his own voice crying.
The ground came up to catch his fall.
But it wasn’t the desert floor. It was a long black scar with a dotted yellow line. The road rose up to meet him.
Blood Alley.
Frankie gritted his teeth. He was going to hit. He was going to die. Somewhere on the wind he heard a song. His song. The one that had given him a fast and famous life, and would make him immortal.
Polish the chrome
Put down the top
We’re leaving home
Drive till we drop
To the Last Stop Car Hop
Last Stop Car Hop
In the moment of impact, Frankie fell into nothing.
9
The Highwayman glanced in the rearview mirror.
He saw the Chevy tumble and roll. It flipped high in the air, the driver side door tore off, and a body flew out over the highway. The body landed hard, bounced, rolled, came to a stop.
The master of the road had claimed another soul.
As the Deuce Coupe raced up the winding mountain road, the Highwayman gripped the steering wheel hard.
He felt stronger now. Taking a life infused him with a sense of justice. It was justice he craved, and justice he deserved. There had been no justice in the living world, not for the Highwayman. But that was another life. Long ago. Now, here on Blood Alley, he was the final judge and executioner, passing sentence on the living and the dead.
The coupe approached a sharp turn. The Highwayman maintained top speed. He knew this road, every turn and dip and crack. Just up ahead was a cliff and a drop. Hundreds of mortals had died there—and two more were about to be added to the tally.
Approaching the turn, he raced past a sign that read: “35 mph.”
“Slow down! Slow down!” the girl screamed.
He ignored her.
The girl lunged at him and grabbed the steering wheel.
She tried to wrest it from the Highwayman’s grip, but he was too strong, even in this borrowed body.
He backhanded her, catapulting the girl across the seat. The back of her head crashed against the door handle. The door flew open but she caught herself on the frame, the upper half of her body leaning out, her hair whipping in the wind. Her head was injured. Blood flowed from the wound, streaking the air.
She was alive and conscious. She looked up at him, and he saw that the fear had left her. The Highwayman could read the resignation in her face. He recognized that look.
She’s made her decision.
The mortal was ready to end it now, ready to throw herself from the car. She kicked her legs against the floor and against the seat to push herself out. Her upper body fell toward the road.
With one hand the Highwayman grabbed her leg.
Blood Alley (The Highwayman) Page 3