Blood Alley (The Highwayman)

by David Wisehart

  Weird, she thought, but quickly suppressed it. No time for riddles.

  Without help, the woman in the car would die.

  The bleeding victim reached her hand out the broken window.

  Claire tried to assure the woman. “I’ll get you out.” A tremble in her voice betrayed her.

  She reached for the woman’s hand, but—

  Her hand passed right through the bleeding woman’s hand.

  Like it wasn’t there at all.

  What the hell?

  Then she realized:

  A ghost.

  The ghost woman screamed, “I’m burning! I’m burning!”

  For a moment Claire stared at her. The car, the victim, the flames, the smoke. It all looked real in the red moonlight.

  Crawling closer, Claire made a grab for the handle of the car door, but her hand passed through it, too.

  She glanced back at her boyfriend.

  “Uh, Trevor…”

  The car exploded in a tempest of flame. She heard it, saw it, but did not feel it. The explosion had no impact. The light had no heat. An illusion of flames swirled around her.

  Claire stood up slowly, engulfed in a phantom fire.

  Trevor screamed, “Claire! Claire!”

  He backed away and shielded his face, as if the fire had force.

  He doesn’t understand.

  The fire receded.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “It’s not—”

  “What?” Trevor looked stunned. “Claire…how can that…”

  She stepped through and into the car—into the space where the car appeared to be.

  “Some kind of trick.” Trevor’s voiced wavered.

  “A ghost.”

  “But it looks so…”

  He didn’t need to finish the thought.

  The ghost woman had looked as lifelike as Trevor or Dakota or Ethan.

  Or that hitchhiker.

  Claire saw a marker by the highway, a roadside memorial. It was too far away to read, but she knew what it said.

  “Trevor, look. This is where she died.”

  Trevor squinted at the marker. “Who?”

  “I saw this on the wall. One of those old photos. Her name was Cassie—Cassie Klein. She was hit by a semi truck, and burned to death. Ten years ago.”

  Trevor glanced nervously around, searching for answers.

  “What’s happening, Claire?”

  “Blood Alley,” she said. “It’s real.”

  21

  With his leather jacket zipped against the chill, Ethan jogged toward the oncoming truck. It was still a half-mile down the road, coming on at a fast clip. The truck driver probably couldn’t see Ethan yet, but he must have seen the Hummer’s lights.

  The truck wasn’t slowing.

  Of course, the driver had no way of knowing about the accident ahead. There were no emergency flares in the road. Trevor might have some in the car, but it was too late now.

  Ethan needed to slow the truck down, get the driver to stop and help.

  Dude must have a CB radio, Ethan thought.

  They could use the radio to call for help, to bring an ambulance or policeman or someone to the scene of the accident. The woman in the car was trapped and injured, maybe even dying. Cell phones didn’t work out here. Unless they could find a land line, a trucker’s CB was their only chance.

  Ethan stopped running and planted himself directly in the truck’s path.

  He waved his arms wide for the truck driver to stop.

  How long will an ambulance take? he wondered. He calculating the distance, speed, and time in his head like an SAT math problem. The nearest hospital was in Palmdale. That meant…half an hour? Not good.

  But I have to try.

  Ethan could see the approaching vehicle better now. It was a big rig with a rounded cargo container, some kind of tanker truck maybe—like the petroleum truck driven by that old geezer back at the diner, the crazy dude who tried to scare them with stories of “the Highwayman.”

  But that old windbag had left hours before Ethan and his friends. The guy claimed he didn’t drive this road at night.

  He must be past Cedarview already.

  Which meant this tanker truck was someone else. There were probably a lot of long haulers running up and down this road.

  But whoever this guy was, he wasn’t slowing down. If anything, the truck seemed to be accelerating.

  He’s going too fast.

  Ethan jumped up and down, and waved his arms wide to attract attention.

  “Pull over! Pull over!”

  Of course, the driver couldn’t hear him.

  Ethan listened for sounds of the truck braking, but heard only the roar of the engine growing louder.

  Doesn’t he see me?

  Ethan stopped jumping.

  He felt sweat on his scalp and a chill up his spine.

  This guy’s a fucking maniac.

  Ethan needed to get off the road, out of the way.

  His muscles locked. His legs froze. Time slowed and his breathing stopped. His field of vision narrowed to headlights racing toward him. Any second now, the truck would brake, or swerve, or—

  Move, damnit, move!

  His muscles answered the call. His legs bent and sprang. He jumped to his right, across the median line. His body arched and fell and hit pavement. As he rolled, he saw the giant tires coming on fast.

  Finally, the truck did swerve.

  In his direction.

  Like a missile on target lock, it kept on coming.

  He’s trying to kill me!

  Ethan rolled off the road, onto the dirt shoulder, and into the sagebrush.

  Spikes and needles clawed at his hands and face.

  For an instant the truck’s massive tires loomed over him, spinning forward, eager to crush, to kill.

  Ethan rolled back toward the road, into the path of the truck.

  The truck tires blew past him on either side.

  He stared up at the underbelly of the beast. Something hot rained down on him. Drops of oil or transmission fluid.

  The rush of steel gave way to the night sky overhead. The truck raced on. Dust roiled all around him.

  Ethan was still alive.

  That was close!

  Something hit him on the head. It was hard as ice and cold as death. It scraped across his cheek, carving flesh from the bone.

  Blood filled his eyes.

  He heard the clank of a heavy metal chain, then felt something like an iron fist coil tight around his right leg.

  It grabbed his ankle.

  The metal chain yanked him hard—nearly tore his right leg from his hip—but the bone and socket held.

  His body spun until his feet pointed to the back of the speeding truck.

  To protect his other leg, he crossed his feet at the ankles. Dirt and gravel slid under his jeans and the back of his leather jacket, scraping hard at this clothes.

  Ethan was dragged—chained and helpless—back onto Blood Alley.

  In the back seat of the car, Dakota saw the truck coming straight for her.

  Where’s Ethan?

  Ethan had gone to flag down the truck. But the truck didn’t stop.

  Bright lights grew brighter.

  Her only thought was, Get out, get out.

  She tried to unbuckle her seat belt, but the damn thing was stuck.

  Oh, shit.

  On the third try she got the buckle open and threw off the strap.

  Dakota grabbed the door handle. Pulled on it.

  Nothing happened.

  Locked.

  No time left.

  The massive truck sped forward. It didn’t swerve, didn’t veer, didn’t care.

  “Trevor—”

  Her brother was outside. Trevor couldn’t help her now. He was too far away. The truck was too close. And getting closer.

  Ten feet—five feet—three feet—

  There was nothing to do but scream.

  She screamed.

&nb
sp; The tanker truck clipped the rear corner of the Hummer.

  Dakota felt a sharp jolt throw her against the seat and over it. Her shoulder hit the rear window. She landed in the back, her fall cushioned by bags and suitcases. Her elbow smashed against the ice cooler.

  A trash bag exploded. The air swirled with crushed cans and crumpled wrappers. The car spun circles around her like clay on a potter’s wheel.

  Her neck twisted.

  Her head collided with the back seat, the side wall, the back door.

  The bright lights moved on.

  And everything fell into darkness.

  22

  Claire saw the truck hit the Hummer. A scream of twisted metal pierced the air. The car spun off the shoulder, into the desert. Buried in the cry of the collision was a faint, desperate wail.

  In a flash of horror Claire remembered, Dakota’s in the car!

  The tanker truck had knocked the Hummer from the highway. It didn’t stop. It didn’t swerve, didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, but kept on coming—

  Straight for Claire and Trevor.

  They stood together in the road beside the overturned white Honda, which was engulfed in flames. But the white car was just a phantom, a ghost, some kind of illusion.

  That truck is no illusion.

  The twin beams of the headlights blinded Claire. The world went white around her. She knew the Hummer wasn’t the real target.

  It wants me.

  Trevor stood between Claire and oncoming rig, but he paid no attention to the pressing danger, staring instead at his damaged car—“Dakota!”

  “Trevor, move!”

  He wasn’t moving.

  Claire grabbed his arm and pulled him off the road.

  They tripped.

  Tumbled.

  A sharp pain shot up Claire’s right arm—elbow to shoulder—a shock of cold fire that pierced her neck and lit up her vision with white sparks.

  She rolled from the asphalt to the dirt.

  Truck tires spun past her, inches away.

  Flying gravel pelted her.

  Claire squinted and shielded her face with one hand, but could still see dimly under the truck as it passed right through the ghost car, into the darkness beyond.

  The ghost car shimmered and faded away.

  Something snaked past Claire. A heavy metal chain. It moved like a living thing. One end of the chain was caught in the truck’s undercarriage.

  The chain was taut—dragging something—a human body—

  Ethan!

  The chain held Ethan by his ankles.

  He was on his back, sliding feet-first down the road behind the speeding tanker truck, screaming, “Aaaaaahhhhh!”

  Trevor cried out, “Ethan!”

  Ethan swept by Claire. He reached out for her and caught her hand in his. But Ethan’s hand was wet and slipped away as he raced on down the road.

  Claire looked at her hand. It was wet with Ethan’s blood.

  She scrambled to her feet. “We have to help him!”

  Trevor was up too. He ran past her. “The car!”

  They both ran for the Hummer.

  It had settled not far from the road, but was pointed in the wrong direction. Trevor was the faster runner. He reached the Hummer first. He jumped in, started the engine, and swung the car around before Claire could get to it.

  “Wait!”

  Trevor threw open the passenger door. “Get in!”

  She did. “Where’s Dakota?”

  “Back here,” came a weak voice behind her. Dakota sounded like she was in pain.

  “Buckle up!” Trevor warned.

  He powered the Hummer back onto the road and chased down the tanker truck.

  Ethan slid on his back, his right ankle in chains. The chain was still caught on the undercarriage of the tanker truck, which roared on ahead, going way too fast. Ethan’s leather jacket scraped the road. His body vibrated, his teeth chattered, his back was hot from the friction.

  Head up!

  His neck tensed as he struggled to keep the back of his head off the road. He could feel his short hair brush the hard surface beneath him. His head was no more than an inch from the pavement, which rushed under him at a frightening speed.

  Head up, damnit!

  If he relaxed his neck, the back of his head would meet the blacktop and he’d be dead in seconds. The only thing that kept him alive was his tough leather jacket and the fact that he was facing up.

  He needed to get free of the truck.

  With his left foot he kicked at the chain. The damn thing wouldn’t let go.

  Moving his unchained leg was risky, and several times he nearly flipped over, but he found that he could twist his torso and press his shoulders down to keep himself oriented.

  Don’t flip—don’t flip—don’t flip—!

  If he flipped over onto his stomach, that was it, the end, finito, and goodbye. He’d grind his face on the highway.

  But if he could just keep his back to the road—a little longer, a little longer—he might survive. He might get free.

  Head up—don’t flip—head up—head up!

  Ethan summoned every muscle, every nerve.

  A few more minutes. A few more seconds. Hold on!

  Head up—head up—head up—!

  Moments ago, after the chain grabbed him, Ethan had brushed past Claire. She was lying on the shoulder of the road, but he was sure Claire saw him. They had made contact, his hand in hers. It felt like hope.

  Now that hope was gone.

  Don’t give up, you fucking bastard.

  There was still hope. He was alive. As long as he was alive, there was still a chance.

  Ethan wasn’t alone. He had friends on this road. Claire would tell the others. They were going to help him, somehow, Trevor and Claire and Dakota—

  Where are they?

  The road raced under him, tearing at his jacket and jeans.

  Oh, god! Oh, god! Oh, god!

  The back pocket of his denim jeans ripped open. Something fluttered past him.

  Flash cards.

  The SAT flash cards he’d put in his back pocket.

  Gone now.

  Doesn’t matter.

  He didn’t care about the damn SAT test. He didn’t care about college. He didn’t care about anything but—

  Head up—damnit—don’t flip—!

  But the flash cards did matter. They had been in his back pocket. Between him and road. One small measure of protection.

  Gone.

  The darkness grew bright around him.

  A light approached from behind. Ethan didn’t dare look back—head up!—but he knew the approaching glare could mean only one thing.

  Headlights.

  Trevor, the hero of their high school, was coming to save him.

  Hurryhurryhurryhurry…

  23

  Trevor gripped the wheel in his sweaty palms. His muscles were tense, his senses keen. He was alive with the pulse of adrenaline’s fire.

  He saw Ethan in the road ahead of him, not more than fifty yards now, but he couldn’t tell if the boy was still alive. The poor kid was still being dragged by the tanker truck.

  Ethan didn’t struggle, but screamed.

  Headlights from the Hummer lit up the top of Ethan’s head. His back was to the road, his legs pointed at the truck and caught in a chain that dragged him forward at a frightening speed.

  Trevor checked the speedometer: 109 miles per hour.

  Jesus.

  He was gaining on Ethan and the tanker truck, but the truck was going 80 miles per hour at least. It was crazy—commercial trucks never drove that fast. A driver caught speeding could lose his license.

  This driver didn’t care.

  Sadistic maniac.

  The driver had crashed his rig into the Hummer, and didn’t even stop.

  Did it on purpose.

  Then he’d tried to run over Trevor and Claire, but missed.

  And somehow Ethan had gotten caught by that
chain and dragged, though the truck driver probably didn’t even know it.

  Or does he?

  Something white bloomed from Ethan’s back, then scattered and swirled through the headlights like feathers from a busted pillow.

  When the pieces hit the windshield, Trevor saw they were flash cards, those SAT vocabulary cards Ethan carried with him. They must have fallen from Ethan’s pocket. Flash cards hit the windshield and flitted away.

  One stuck to the glass long enough for Trevor to read:

  Malevolent.

  Ethan’s body came more fully into view. The Hummer was almost on him.

  Trevor eased off the accelerator.

  Claire screamed, “Don’t run him over!”

  “I know, I know.”

  This would be tricky. They were close now.

  Ten feet away—five feet—two feet—

  The top of Ethan’s head disappeared below the hood.

  Too close.

  Trevor slowed a bit more, to keep an even pace. The steering wheel vibrated in his grip. His hands were slick with sweat.

  “I’m gonna get beside him,” Trevor said to Claire. “See if you can pull him in.”

  Claire nodded and unlocked her door. She kept her hand on the handle, ready to push it open.

  Trevor cocked his head to the left and checked for oncoming traffic, but didn’t see any headlights coming. The Hummer and the tanker truck were alone on the highway.

  It was time to make his move—

  Trevor angled left, changed lanes, and powered ahead, coming up beside Ethan.

  Claire threw the door open. “Ethan!” She leaned out, secured by her seat belt, and reached for him. “He sees me. He’s alive.”

  “Get him in fast!”

  Trevor saw Ethan’s bloody hand in hers—

  The hand slipped away.

  Claire screamed, “Ethan!”

  The tanker truck swerved left.

  Into Trevor’s lane.

  Ethan was pulled left, toward the Hummer—

  “Oh shit!”

  Trevor tapped the brakes. The Hummer fell back. The steering wheel lurched in his hands, threatening to spin out of control. He clenched the wheel tight.

  Oh no you don’t!

  He regained control, but his hands were numb.

  The tanker truck pulled ahead. The Hummer lost ground. Trevor saw Ethan diminish in the headlights.

  Something wet smeared the road.