Blood Alley (The Highwayman)

by David Wisehart

  He lost his grip on the sunroof.

  There was nothing for him to hold on to, no ski rack, just smooth metal that slipped under his hands as he slid back toward the rear of the car and the chasm below.

  He tried to kick himself forward, but his feet flailed in the open air. His shins bang against the back edge of the roof as the metal rushed under him, giving way to emptiness.

  His knees went over the edge.

  Then his waist.

  Then his chest.

  If only there was something to grab—

  The tire!

  Trevor kept a spare tire mounted to the back door.

  As he slid and fell from the roof of the car, Trevor grabbed for the spare tire, felt hard rubber in his hands, and held on tight.

  He tucked his legs in. His feet found purchase on the back bumper.

  Beneath him, concrete and metal plummeted into the ravine.

  The Hummer’s rear wheels spun in the empty air.

  But somehow the front tires kept their grip.

  The last remaining section of the span snapped and swung down toward the face of the cliff. The car climbed up toward the end of the bridge as the angle of the broken road got steeper and steeper.

  Ten degrees—twenty degrees—thirty degrees—

  27

  Trevor clutched the spare tire mounted to the back of the car. He struggled to hang on. He saw nothing but air between him and the dry riverbed hundreds of feet below. The bridge had collapsed beneath him, but the car hadn’t fallen.

  Not yet.

  The back wheels spun in the open air, but the front wheels gripped the last section of bridge as it bent down toward the chasm.

  Down and down—

  He felt the car surge forward.

  The Hummer found traction, powered up the broken bridge, and reached the end just as the last piece of the bridge fell into the gorge.

  Trevor felt the car skid to a stop on the shoulder of the road. He heard the crunch of gravel beneath the tires. Dust blew past him, gritty as a hailstorm.

  For a moment he held on, not wanting to surrender his tenuous safety, the feeling that maybe, somehow, they’d all made it to the other side of the collapsing bridge alive.

  The engine idled, then stopped.

  An eerie stillness enveloped him. It seemed surreal after the race across the bridge. No wind, no roar, no screams.

  Ethan?

  The silence could mean anything.

  Trevor had done what he could. It was a miracle the other boy had survived being dragged so long, but his injuries...

  He’s okay, Trevor thought, willing himself to hope beyond all hope.

  Exhausted, he placed one foot and the ground, then the other, and released his grip on the spare tire. He struggled to stand. His knees were weak. He braced himself against the vehicle, then sat down on the back bumper, looking at where they’d come from.

  He tried to process what had just happened. Seconds ago, there had been a bridge across the chasm.

  Now the bridge was gone.

  He heard a car door open, and Claire’s voice behind him calling, “Trevor!”

  “Claire,” he said.

  And then she was there, standing beside him. Her hair was a mess and her shirt bloody.

  The fear in her eyes nearly undid him.

  She hugged him tight, buried her head in his neck, and broke down sobbing.

  The Highwayman stood at the end of the broken bridge, staring across the chasm at the vehicle parked on the other side.

  He saw two teenagers, a boy and a girl. Their spoken words carried across the gulf.

  “Trevor.”

  “Claire.”

  The first name meant nothing to him.

  But the second name—Claire—stirred something.

  Not a feeling, but a memory.

  He could not quite grasp the meaning of it, but this girl was different.

  We are connected, you and I.

  It thrilled and disturbed him.

  The four teenagers had survived their first test.

  So be it.

  He had let them live, toyed with them on the bridge.

  But the night was young, and his grievance old.

  Now the kids were trapped on his road, with a broken bridge behind them and no exit ahead.

  Only the grave.

  They would not live to see the Devil’s Tunnel.

  To ensure his conquest, the Highwayman summoned the fog.

  Claire held Trevor tight. Her boyfriend was cold and trembling. She had never felt him shudder like this, had never known him to be afraid of anything.

  He was afraid now. They all were.

  She wiped her wet cheek on his shoulder, and looked up at the gap in the road behind them, where the bridge used to be.

  Someone was standing on the other side. It looked like a man, but stood still as a statue.

  Not a man, she thought. A ghost.

  It was the same figure she’d seen out the window of the diner. The same man they had seen hitchhiking on the road. It wasn’t a ride he wanted. He was following them.

  But why?

  She knew his name.

  The Highwayman.

  A legend come to life.

  No, not life.

  The Highwayman was dead, long dead, and he wanted them dead as well.

  That much was clear.

  Somehow, he had caused all this. The truck, the chain, the chase, the collision. Because of him, the bridge was gone. Because of him, Ethan bled. The Highwayman had powers she could not begin to comprehend. He was less than a man, but more than a ghost.

  He doesn’t want to haunt us.

  He wants to kill us.

  The Devil’s Tunnel was the end of Blood Alley, the farthest reach of the Highwayman’s domain. Here the road was quiet and empty.

  Something stirred within.

  From the black, hellish mouth of the mountain tunnel came a wisp of white fog.

  The fog snaked along the desert road, gathering strength as it went.

  A bank of fog rolled down the mountains and across the plain.

  There were no living witnesses, but as the fog moved, shapes appeared like faces pressing through a bed sheet. Visible in the roiling white mist were the dead souls of a mother and child. A withered hag. Teenage twins. And hundreds more.

  All were victims of Blood Alley.

  They each released a silent scream before being swallowed up by eddies of whiteness, to be replaced by other tortured souls.

  28

  Dakota sat in the back seat with Ethan cradled in her arms.

  His jacket and jeans were torn and soaked with blood. His skin felt cool to the touch. Dakota put a hand to Ethan's chin and gently turned his face to hers. His eyes were open, but unfocused.

  He didn’t seem to recognize her.

  Wiping sweat from her boyfriend's cheek, she said, “Ethan?”

  His eyes found hers.

  Recognition returned.

  She ignored her own tears. "I'm here, Baby."

  “How bad?”

  His voice was thin and raspy. The frail words seemed to sap all his energy.

  "We'll get you to a hospital.”

  “Can’t...feel."

  Panic surged through her.

  Oh God.

  “That's a good sign," she lied. "Endorphins." She had learned that word in her AP Bio class. "It means your body is—"

  "Bad?"

  "You’re bleeding a little, but—”

  “Show me."

  "No, Baby, you need to rest now. We'll get you to a—"

  "Show. Me."

  He tried to look down at his legs. He craned his neck, winced, and lay back.

  "Don't move, Ethan. Stay still. We'll get going again soon, and find you a—"

  "Mirror."

  "I don't have a—"

  "Show me!"

  He withered her with a look.

  She nodded, and pushed away her tears.

  Dakota’s p
urse was on the floor near her feet. She bent over, reached in, and felt for a compact. Opening the case, she angled the magnifying mirror to show Ethan his wounds.

  The flesh of his back was red and raw and wet.

  So much blood.

  Ethan’s face went white. “Oh, man...”

  “We’ll get help.”

  Dakota pulled the phone from her pocket and checked for a signal.

  No bars.

  But she couldn't tell him that.

  Instead, she dialed 911 and hit send.

  Nothing.

  There would be a doctor in Cedarview, she knew, but how long would it take to get there?

  Too long.

  We have to go back.

  Claire held Trevor close, feeling his strong heartbeat against her chest.

  She looked over his shoulder at the Highwayman standing on the other side of ravine. He wore a black duster. His slouch hat obscured his face. From this distance she could not read his expression, if there was one, but his face was pale and Claire saw a green glow where his eyes would be. He seemed to be staring directly back at her.

  The ghost became translucent, faded, and disappeared.

  He’ll be back, she knew.

  As long as they were still alive, and on his road, the menace would return.

  We have to move on.

  She let go of Trevor.

  “Well, that was lucky,” he joked.

  Trevor gave her a quick smile, but Claire saw through it, to the false optimism beneath.

  “It wasn’t luck,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s toying with us.”

  Trevor walked to the edge of the ravine. He looked left and right. “No other bridges across.”

  Claire joined him at the edge, and looked down. From somewhere in the mountains, a thickening fog slinked into the ravine and crept over the dry riverbed, through the narrow channel, toward the broken bridge. It swirled around the wreckage below, where one support post had been blown apart and two trucks were nothing but twisted metal.

  So familiar.

  “I saw this,” she said. “Back at the diner.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those pictures on the memorial wall. There was a newspaper article about it. A bridge collapsed. A suspension bridge. Two trucks collided. A petroleum truck exploded, and the bridge went down.”

  Trevor gave her a look of disbelief. “You’re saying this happened twice?”

  “No, that doesn’t make sense.”

  “You’re remembering it wrong, Claire, what you read.”

  “I know what I read.”

  Trevor backed away from the edge. “There has to be another explanation. Maybe you’re…psychic or something.”

  She quoted the man in the diner, Joshua, the man with the burned face. “The road is thirsty. It drinks blood.”

  “That’s just a story,” Trevor said.

  Fog filled the ravine, moving in like a tide.

  Claire said, “I read it on the wall. There was more—will be more. Frankie Lamarque dies five miles past the bridge. Nine miles, a school bus is torn apart—”

  “Frankie Lamarque is already dead.”

  “And this bridge collapsed years ago, long before we got here.”

  “Claire, you’re not making sense.”

  “It’s happening again.”

  “What?”

  “Everything. I don’t know why. Blood Alley, the Highwayman—”

  “It’s just an accident, Claire. An accident on a bridge, an old bridge that should have been condemned or repaired years ago. It could have happened on any night. Bad luck it happened tonight. Good luck we survived.”

  “Then how do you explain the white car? The woman who was trapped? The ghost flames? How do you explain that?”

  “I don’t have to,” he said. “All I have to do is drive.”

  The fog rose to the level of the highway.

  Claire said, “We have to get off this road.”

  “And do what? Cut across the desert? We can’t go back—so we go on.”

  The fog curled around their feet and ankles.

  “Ethan needs a hospital,” he said. “There should be one in Cedarview. It’s less than an hour if we hurry.”

  The fog was already to their knees, and rising.

  “Then hurry,” she said.

  They jumped back in the car.

  Trevor took the driver seat. Claire took shotgun.

  She buckled up, then turned back and saw Ethan in Dakota’s arms. The boy’s face was pale, his leather jacket torn. Blood pooled on the seat beneath him.

  Dakota’s cell phone was open in her hand.

  “We have to go back,” Dakota said, with a strain in her voice.

  “We can’t,” Claire answered. “The bridge is gone.”

  “I can’t find a signal.” Tears came to Dakota’s eyes. “Nine-one-one—I tried, but no one answers.”

  The phones won’t work, Claire knew. Not on this road. Not tonight.

  But what she said was, “It’s okay, we’ll get him to a doctor. In Cedarview.”

  “But that’s an hour away!”

  Trevor buckled up. “Not if we go fast.”

  He turned the ignition key.

  The car engine grinded and sputtered.

  Trevor turned the key again. “Come on, come on.”

  Still, the engine didn’t catch.

  Claire watched the fog rise to the level of the windows. “Trevor…”

  The H3 was swallowed by a white mist.

  Claire looked back. The rear window of the Hummer was already broken, busted open by the suspension cable on the bridge.

  Fog crept in through the breach like a pale tentacle.

  Claire warned, “Dakota, behind you!”

  Dakota glanced back. “What?” She gave Claire a strange look. “It’s just fog.”

  The engine churned and died.

  Trevor punched the steering wheel. “Come on, damnit!”

  Claire held her breath as the pale tentacle of fog became a ghostly human arm with a bony, withered hand.

  It clawed the air.

  And reached for the back of Dakota’s head.

  Closer, closer…

  Pale fingers brushed against her hair.

  Dakota flinched.

  And screamed.

  29

  The engine caught and roared to life.

  Claire felt the acceleration press her body against the seat as the Hummer leapt forward through the fog. Trevor kept the pedal to the floorboard.

  The spectral hand receded with the mist.

  Claire said, “Dakota, are you all right?”

  “I felt—”

  “What?”

  “Cold.”

  “It’s fine,” said Trevor. “Everything’s okay.”

  Looking ahead, Claire saw only the bright glow of the Hummer’s headlights in the fog. Visibility was nearly zero. Only the rapid pulse of the median line showed through the mist. A glance at the speedometer told her they were going at least 60 miles per hour.

  “Trevor—”

  “Right.”

  He eased up on the gas, and dropped it down to under 20.

  “Hurry, please,” Dakota said from the back seat. “I think he’s blacking out.”

  “Talk to him,” Claire said. “Try to keep him awake.”

  She’d heard that on some TV medical show. It seemed the thing to do. If not for Ethan, then for Dakota.

  “I’m sorry,” Dakota whispered to her boyfriend. “I shouldn’t have let you come with us. I knew. Don’t ask me how, but I knew. I had a bad feeling, and I didn’t say it. I should have said it. But we’ll get there soon, Baby, I promise, and everything will be—”

  The Hummer jounced and shuddered.

  Oh no, not the engine, was Claire’s first thought, then she recognized the problem. The car had gone off the road and onto the shoulder.

  He can’t see the turns.

&
nbsp; Trevor steered the car onto the blacktop. Claire shot him a look.

  “I got it, I got it,” he said.

  He slowed down even more, driving at a crawl and leaning into the steering wheel, as if putting his face closer to the windshield might give him a better view. He squinted at the road.

  Claire saw a light, barely visible in the mist. Not a car. Something lit up the right side of the road.

  Too high up to be headlights.

  A sign of some sort, maybe. Like a neon sign on a building. She couldn’t read it, but it was definitely a sign.

  Maybe a gas station or a storefront.

  She saw the edges of a building, a wall and a sloped roof, black geometry in the swirl of white air.

  “Wait, stop,” she said.

  “Why?” Trevor asked.

  “Look.”

  “Where?”

  “A building.”

  “What building?”

  And then it was gone. Lost in the fog.

  Claire peered out her side window at a swirl of mist. White billows formed tenuous shapes before dissolving into nothing. She couldn’t quite make out the images. A car? A man? A face? Claire thought she saw a man in the fog.

  The Highwayman. Staring at her. Then gone.

  The fog thickened.

  The median line disappeared.

  Trevor was going faster now. Claire stole a glance at the dashboard. The speedometer climbed past 20 miles per hour.

  Too fast, Trevor.

  They all wanted to get through this fog as soon as possible, but they needed patience—something Trevor always lacked.

  Claire said, “Slow down.”

  Something appeared in the road.

  A coyote.

  White fur, yellow eyes.

  Trevor slammed on the brakes.

  Tires skidded.

  The Hummer was about to hit the animal but—

  It passed right through the coyote.

  Another ghost, Claire realized.

  The car came to a stop.

  No impact.

  Trevor kept the engine running. “Everyone okay?”

  “Jesus, Trevor,” said Claire. “I told you to slow down.”

  Trevor looked back. “Dakota?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ethan?”

  Ethan groaned. He was clearly in a lot of pain, but still alive.

  Dakota said, “Trevor, I think I saw something.”