Blood Alley th-1

by David Wisehart

  “Stop! You’re killing him!”

  Dakota climbed onto the running board and starting hitting the guy’s arm and shoulder. “Let him go!”

  Trevor punched the trucker in the face. Dakota heard a crunch as the guy’s nose broke under Trevor’s fist. Blood spurted from the man’s nostrils. The cord broke, Trevor fell, and Dakota fell with him, landing hard on the asphalt.

  Claire screamed, “Get in!”

  Trevor and Dakota scrambled into the car. Claire burned rubber and put some distance between them and the truck.

  “That guy was crazy,” Dakota said.

  “Possessed,” said Trevor, clearing his throat.

  Dakota looked back and saw the semi truck pull onto the highway.

  “Claire, he’s following us.”

  “I know.”

  Dakota said to Trevor, “What do we do now?”

  “Go faster.”

  Claire accelerated. Wind whistled through the sunroof and the broken glass of the back window. Dakota couldn’t see the speedometer, but she knew they must be going 100 miles an hour, at least. Claire seemed tense.

  She’s never driven this fast before.

  Trevor put on his seat belt.

  Dakota did too.

  “You’re doing great,” Trevor said to Claire. “Just keep driving. Keep your eyes on the road ahead and don’t slow down.”

  Claire nodded.

  Glancing back again, Dakota saw the truck’s headlights fading far behind. The semi couldn’t match their speed.

  They zoomed past a parked car. Dakota saw it out of the corner of her eye. It was black and white. She knew what that meant.

  Trevor said, “Cop.”

  Dakota felt the Hummer slowing as Claire eased up on the gas.

  “Don’t slow down,” Trevor said. “We have to get to the tunnel.”

  “But I’m going to get a ticket!”

  “Yes, you’re going to get a ticket. And if you slow down, you’re gonna get us killed.”

  The police lights came on. The siren gave a short burst.

  “I’m driving without a license!”

  “And you’re doing a great job, Sweetie. Push the gas pedal down all the way, and keep your eyes on the road.”

  Dakota saw the patrol car drive behind them, getting closer.

  “What do I say when he pulls me over?” Claire asked.

  “He’s not going to pull you over. Not yet.”

  The police car caught up with them, and gave another siren burst. Over the loudspeaker: “Slow down now and pull over to the curb!”

  “Ohmigod,” Claire said.

  Trevor put a reassuring hand on Clair’s shoulder. “Just get us through the tunnel, and this will all be over.”

  Dakota saw the headlights of the semi truck coming up behind the patrol car.

  Claire said, “He’s going to throw us in jail.”

  “No, he’s not,” Trevor said. “Not after we tell him what happened. We’ll tell him the truth, and it’ll be okay. He’s not the enemy, Claire. The enemy’s driving that truck. He’s a supernatural maniac with a big-ass truck who wants to fucking kill us. And we just got ourselves a police escort.”

  “Pull over now!”

  The policeman accelerated. Rode close to bumper of the H3. Party lights flashing red and blue. Through the broken back window, Dakota could see the policeman’s face. He didn’t look happy.

  “This is your last warning. Pull over now, or—”

  The semi truck rammed the patrol car from behind.

  The patrol car knocked into the back of the Hummer.

  Dakota felt the sharp jolt and heard the policeman scream into his handset, “…pursuit of suspects… need assistance… send all units—”

  He was hit again, and the policeman lost control.

  The semi truck forced the patrol car off the road, onto the shoulder, and straight into a Joshua tree. The car exploded in a fireball.

  And the possessed trucker kept on coming.

  Trevor saw the fireball rise above the desert.

  Oh, man.

  “What just happened?” Claire asked.

  Dakota screamed, “He killed that cop!”

  “What?”

  “They’re gonna think we did it.”

  Trevor saw Claire check her rearview mirror.

  “Keep your eyes on the road,” he said.

  She looked straight ahead.

  Trevor looked back. The semi truck had fallen further away, slowed by collision with the highway patrol car. But it was accelerating again. Trevor had never seen a big rig move so fast on a straightaway. It didn’t seem possible.

  “Go faster!” he said.

  “I can’t.”

  Trevor checked the speedometer. They were already redlined, going more than 110 miles per hour.

  Jesus.

  Claire wasn’t ready for this. None of them were.

  I should be driving.

  He knew it. They all knew it. No one knew it more than Claire, sitting there terrified behind the wheel. But there hadn’t been time to change seats—and at this speed it was suicide. Slowing down wasn’t an option.

  Trevor felt trapped. He needed to do something, anything.

  I have stop him now, before he kills us all.

  The speeding truck closed the gap, and was nearly on their bumper. He was going to do to them what he’d just done to that cop.

  I can’t let that happen.

  Bright light from the truck’s headlamps flooded the car.

  Trevor shielded his eyes. He could see the truck driver over the grille. The man was clearly possessed, his eyes glowing green.

  “He’s too fast,” Claire said.

  Dakota let out a whimper. “What do we do?”

  An idea occurred to Trevor. He knew what he had to do.

  I have to go out there.

  He unbuckled his seat belt and climbed to the far back of the Hummer.

  Claire said, “What the hell are you doing?”

  Trevor was determined, committed, ready fore action.

  Even if it kills me.

  “He started this fight,” Trevor said. “I’m gonna end it.”

  “Trevor, no—”

  He opened the back door and braced himself as the truck came closer. He stood on the bumper, waiting for the grille of the semi truck to come within reach.

  Almost there…

  Almost there…

  Come closer, you sonofabitch—

  He jumped.

  42

  Trevor landed on the front bumper of the truck and caught hold of the grille. He clung tightly as the fierce wind whipped all around him.

  The truck swerved left and right, trying to shake Trevor, but he hung tough.

  Nice try, asshole.

  Trevor edged along the bumper to the passenger side, then pulled himself around to see the cab door. The window was rolled down.

  He planted one foot on the corner of the bumper and swung the other leg over the fender of the wheel well.

  The mirror brace offered a handhold, but it was too far to reach.

  Have to chance it.

  He let go of the grille—

  Pushed off the front bumper—

  Slid over the wheel well—

  And grabbed the mirror mount.

  His foot found the running board below the passenger door. He grabbed the door handle and gave it a pull.

  Locked.

  The window was open. He reached through. The glass pane rolled up. He grabbed the top of the glass. It kept rising, digging into the palm of his hand and lifting him off the running board.

  With his other hand he punched the glass. It shattered. Glass rained down, and Trevor fell, but he caught his hand on the door. Broken glass bit into his palm.

  Ouch.

  He reached in, unlocked the passenger door, opened it, climbed in, and dove for the steering wheel. He grabbed it and gave it a quick turn. The truck swerved onto the dirt shoulder.

  The drive
r shoved him back.

  Trevor punched the driver in the face. Again and again.

  He doesn’t feel pain.

  The truck driver elbowed Trevor in the jaw.

  Trevor wrapped his arm around the driver’s neck, cutting off his windpipe.

  The driver grabbed Trevor’s arm and wrenched it hard, dislocating it from his shoulder socket. Pain screamed through Trevor’s body. The driver slammed Trevor’s arm down on the steering wheel, breaking it at the elbow, then pushed the boy away.

  Trevor’s broken right arm dangled at his side. He tried to move it, tried to make a fist, but nothing happened.

  He saw a hammer on the passenger seat, grabbed it with his left hand, and swung it at the driver’s head. He missed the first time, striking the man’s shoulder. Then swung at the man’s head again and again.

  “Die, motherfucker!”

  On the fourth swing, the hammer crunched through and sank into the driver’s skull.

  The man jerked his head away. The haft of the hammer slipped from Trevor’s hand. The driver grabbed the handle and removed the hammer from his skull. It came away dripping blood and brains. The driver examined the hammer, turned it curiously, and sank its claw into Trevor’s belly.

  The boy fell back, gushing blood.

  With his last ounce of strength, Trevor gave the steering wheel a hard kick.

  The truck turned sharply.

  And rolled.

  The cab nose-dived into the pavement as the trailer rose high into the air.

  Trevor flipped and fell and bounced and rose and fell again.

  When he finally stopped moving, Trevor saw stars above him and a reddish moon. White feathers floated in the air. He lay on the highway near the roar of a fire and the smell of burning diesel. The dead body of the truck driver lay next to him.

  But Trevor was alive.

  Hurt, broken, bleeding—but somehow alive.

  He struggled to rise.

  Something’s wrong.

  He looked down.

  A sheet of glass was lodged in his chest. A piece of the windshield.

  Oh, shit.

  Blood pulsed down the pane.

  I’m a dead man.

  In the shard of glass he saw the reflection of a fireball, flames licking the sky.

  The truck was destroyed, the driver dead.

  I did it. I saved them…

  Something moved on the road.

  Trevor watched with horror as the Highwayman rose up from the dead man’s body.

  43

  The Hummer idled on the highway. Claire set the parking brake and watched the fireball in her rearview mirror.

  Trevor…

  She saw the Highwayman standing over two lifeless bodies, silhouetted by a wall of flame as the big rig burned.

  Trevor, I can’t do this without you.

  A car drove out of the flames. It was sleek and black and looked like a demon with two bright headlights for eyes and a coffin-nosed hood.

  It drove into the back of Fowler’s ghost. The driver’s seat caught and cradled him, and the Highwayman took control.

  Claire said to Dakota, “Buckle up.”

  “But Trevor—”

  “Buckle up!”

  Claire released the parking brake, shifted gears, and floored it.

  Dakota buckled up.

  Claire wiped away tears as the highway hummed beneath her.

  Dakota, too, was crying. “We’re never gonna get off this road, are we?”

  “We’ll just need to make it through the tunnel.”

  “Why does he hate us? We didn’t do anything to him.”

  “We took his road,” Claire said, “without paying the toll.”

  “What that even mean?”

  “His name is Eldritch Fowler. Someone killed him so they could build this highway. They took his land, took his family, took his life. They buried him under this road, Dakota, and now he can never leave.”

  “And he won’t let us leave, either.”

  “There’s something else he wants,” Claire said. “I think he’s been toying with us all along. If he really wanted us dead, we’d be dead already.”

  “Ethan’s dead. Trevor’s dead.”

  “I’m not. There’s something he wants from me.”

  “You? You think this is all about you, Claire?” Her voice was rising. “My brother’s dead and my boyfriend’s dead, and all you can think about is yourself?”

  “He wanted me to find the photo.”

  “What photo?”

  “The one I found in the farmhouse.” Claire took the photo from her pocket and handed it to Dakota. “That girl in the picture—it could be my grandmother. Rebecca Fowler. The girls in the fog called me Becky. I look like her. We must be related. It connects me to him.”

  “To the Highwayman? You’re his…what, his granddaughter?”

  “I don’t know, Dakota. I really don’t know. I was adopted, I never knew my family. Now this. I think he wants me to know to the truth.”

  “Then he should just fucking say it and let us go free!”

  “Maybe it’s something he can’t tell me. Something I need to see. Isn’t that what they say about restless spirits? Unfinished business. They were hurt or wronged or betrayed in our world. Some dark, buried secret that needs to come out. Maybe the Highwayman just wants to set the record straight, to clear his name.”

  “By killing people?”

  “There was a crime, and a coverup, and a legend full of lies.”

  “But the legend is true, Claire. It is a haunted highway. It’s pretty fucking real.”

  “Maybe we can end it. Put his spirit to rest.”

  What does he want to show me?

  “Just get us through the tunnel.” Dakota was sobbing louder now. “I want to go home.”

  The tunnel…

  She remembered a news photo on the memorial wall. A picture of the Devil’s Tunnel. An image of the mouth of hell.

  “Of course,” Claire said. “The tunnel fire. Nine people died last year in the Devil’s Tunnel. Before that, twenty-two. It’s the deadliest place on Blood Alley. That’s where he ends it. That’s where he…”

  “What?”

  “…lives.”

  Dakota said, “If all those people died in the tunnel, then it must be a trap.”

  “Joshua made it through.”

  “Who?”

  “The truck driver in the diner. With the burn scars on his face.”

  “Claire, we have to find another exit. Another way.”

  “Not tonight.” Claire sped on, more determined now than ever. “We have an appointment with the Highwayman.”

  44

  Responding to a call for assistance, Officer Carlos Ramirez punched his patrol car out of the Devil’s Tunnel and raced down the mountain at 90 miles an hour.

  That damn eclipse always brings out the crazies.

  Ramirez saw two sets of headlights in the distance, one vehicle approaching fast in the opposite direction, and another chasing behind.

  Well, hello there.

  He radioed in. “I have visual of the suspect. Five miles south of the tunnel.”

  Ramirez slowed and pulled to the side, but left his party lights on. His orders were to report and pursue if necessary, while others set up a blockade at the tunnel.

  The suspect’s car sped closer.

  Ramirez clocked it going 123 mile per hour.

  What’s your hurry?

  “Suspect is driving a Hummer H3. Color is red.”

  The Hummer sped by in a Doppler rush.

  Ramirez pulled onto the road and joined the pursuit.

  It appeared the other patrol car—Stevens?—was far behind, but gaining.

  “Slow down and pull over!” Ramirez commanded over the loudspeaker.

  He checked the headlights behind him, to see how Stevens was coming along.

  That’s odd.

  It didn’t look like a patrol car.

  The headlamps were too clos
e together and the hood was the wrong shape.

  “What is that?” he said aloud.

  Whatever it was, it moving fast.

  Hella fast.

  Bastard’s gonna hit me.

  It didn’t.

  The other car drove into the patrol car, and through it.

  What—?

  Ramirez was seized by an icy chill. It ran through his body, through his soul. His muscles tensed. He screamed in agony. His scream became something else, something other. A strange force had crawled inside him.

  I am the Highwayman.

  Ramirez heard the dispatcher on the radio. “Officer, is there a problem?”

  The thing inside him answered with Ramirez’s voice: “Accident in the tunnel on Devil’s Pass. Repeat. Major pile-up on Devil’s Pass. Send all units.”

  And then the thing inside him was gone.

  Ramirez saw the phantom figure of a man leave his body. The phantom drove a ghost car. It sped forward, out of the patrol car, surging ahead.

  The Highwayman.

  He’s real.

  The chill left him, but Ramirez’s hands on the wheel were numb and unresponsive.

  The patrol car drifted off the road.

  On the radio, the dispatcher said: “All units! Accident inside the Devil’s Tunnel. Multiple vehicles. Casualties reported. All units, all units.”

  The patrol car rumbled off the road and into the desert. Ramirez gripped the steering wheel between his elbows and turned the car back toward the road. As he regained control of his body, Ramirez continued the pursuit.

  In the mirror Claire saw the ghost car pass into the Hummer. The Highwayman was in the car, coming straight for her.

  He wants me.

  She was buckled in, driving fast, with nowhere to go.

  The Highwayman entered Claire’s body.

  Dakota screamed, “Claire!”

  Claire felt a sudden chill.

  You can’t have me, she told him.

  I already have you, the Highwayman replied.

  Her chest heaved. Her neck tensed. Her scream became more defiant.

  “No!”

  She spun the steering wheel.

  The car veered left into the opposing lane.

  Her body separated from the Highwayman.

  And Claire was herself again.

  The ghost car slowed, the Highwayman dropped back into the Hummer’s rear seat, and into Dakota’s body. Possessing her.