Author: Stephen King; Guy N. Smith; Antonio Simon
Date: 2021-01-27 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Shift your fear into top gear. Set your pulse racing with this collection of automotive horror that fires on all cylinders. This bad boy comes fully-optioned with fifteen tales of classic cars and motorcycles behaving badly, and the star-studded lineup is sure to provide all the nightmare fuel you can handle. So strap in and hold on, because we're going pedal to the metal. It's blood-soaked horror or bust, and we aren't stopping for anything. You're in for a ride.
Publisher: Darkwater Media Group, Inc.

It Came From The Garage!

An Anthology of Automotive Horror

Stephen King ♦ Guy N. Smith

Antonio Simon, Jr. ♦ Apara Moreiya

Stephanie Kelley ♦ David Owain Hughes

Paige Reiring ♦ R. Perez de Pereda

Sarah Cannavo ♦ Alana Turner

Douglas Fairbanks

Jonathan Edward Ondrashek

Richard Ayre ♦ Michael Warriner

Nicholas Paschall

It Came From The Garage!

Published by Darkwater Media Group, Inc.

8004 NW 154 Street #623

Miami Lakes, FL 33016

Copyright © 2019 Darkwater Media Group, Inc. All rights reserved. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission.

All stories are under copyright by their respective creators and are reproduced here with permission. “Trucks” from NIGHT SHIFT by Stephen King, copyright © 1976, 1977, 1978 by Stephen King. Used by permission of Doubleday, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved. Stephen King’s biographical information is reprinted here courtesy of Wikipedia.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents contained in this book are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, and people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Darkwater Media Group, DarkwaterMediaGroup.com, the Darkwater device and other Darkwater Media Group logos and product names are trademarks of Darkwater Media Group, Inc.

www.DarkwaterMediaGroup.com

ISBN: 978-1-954619-35-7

Electronic Edition

Story Copyrights

A Moment in Time with Black Shadow Tess, Copyright 2019 Richard Ayre

The Black Engine, Copyright 2019 Nicholas Paschall

The Cavalier Cavalier, Copyright 2019 Jonathan Edward Ondrashek

The Driver, Copyright 2019 Alana Turner

Faster than Anything, Copyright 2019 Apara Moreiya

The Highway Phantom, Copyright 2019 Michael Warriner

The Horseman Comes Riding, Copyright 2019 Stephanie Kelley

M.A.D. Mobile, Copyright 2019 Antonio Simon, Jr.

Out on Arrowhead Road, by Sarah Cannavo

Prodded, Hot-Rodded and Garroted, Copyright 2019 Douglas Fairbanks

Special Delivery, Copyright 2019 David Owain Hughes

Sprites and Violets, Copyright 2019 Paige Reiring

Trucks, Copyright 1976, 1977, 1978 Stephen King

Ugly Joyride, Copyright 2019 R. Perez de Pereda

Wheels of Evil, Copyright 2019 Guy N. Smith

Table Of Contents

Trucks, by Stephen King

Wheels Of Evil, by Guy N. Smith

M.A.D. Mobile, by Antonio Simon, Jr.

Faster Than Anything, by Apara Moreiya

The Horseman Comes Riding, by Stephanie Kelley

Special Delivery, by David Owain Hughes

Sprites And Violets, by Paige Reiring

Ugly Joyride, by R. Perez de Pereda

Out On Arrowhead Road, by Sarah Cannavo

The Driver, by Alana Turner

Prodded, Hot-Rodded And Garroted, by Douglas Fairbanks

The Cavalier Cavalier, by Jonathan Edward Ondrashek

A Moment In Time With Black Shadow Tess, by Richard Ayre

The Highway Phantom, by Michael Warriner

The Black Engine, by Nicholas Paschall

Foreword

By: R. Perez de Pereda

It says something about a writer when his body of work develops a pattern. Judging by his books and their adaptations, if there is anything Stephen King seems to like more than evil clowns terrorizing New England hamlets, it’s cars behaving badly. A cursory glance at his work will tell you this is true: Christine, From A Buick Eight, Maximum Overdrive… and the list goes on.

In this same spirit, we at Darkwater Media Group have developed this anthology of automotive horror.

Gearheads, rejoice! This one’s right up your alley. Inside you’ll find an eclectic mix of horrifying tales sure to rev your panic throttles and send your nerves into redline. Ever heard of a bloodthirsty ambulance? How about a motorcycle that murders across time and space? Or a driver who’s so fixated on being the fastest that he’s willing to race a ghost train? You’ll find all that in here, and more.

Some old timers—older than me, even—say that when you reach a certain age, nothing surprises you anymore. As of this writing, this old man is well into his eighth decade. Never did I think I’d find my name alongside such literary titans, not to mention some fine new blood in the genre. Was I surprised? The news alone that I’d be featured among Stephen King and Guy N. Smith nearly sent me into ecstatic paroxysms.

All kidding aside, King and Smith—both of whom I esteem greatly—are legends in their own time. Having grown up reading their work, it is truly an honor to see my name alongside theirs on the cover page. What’s more, I am just as honored to be published with some of the finest up-and-comers in horror, some of whom have taken to calling me their adoptive Cuban uncle—an accolade which I accept graciously, and with much love for my literary nephews and nieces.

Okay, now, for the fun part.

Strap in and hold on, because we’re going pedal to the metal. The way ahead is dark, with no help for miles, and all road signs point to blood-soaked terror. It’s horror or bust, and we aren’t stopping for anything.

You’re in for a ride.

Trucks

By: Stephen King

The guy’s name was Snodgrass and I could see him getting ready to do something crazy. His eyes had gotten bigger, showing a lot of the whites, like a dog getting ready to fight. The two kids who had come skidding into the parking lot in the old Fury were trying to talk to him, but his head was cocked as though he was hearing other voices. He had a tight little pot-belly encased in a good suit that was getting a little shiny in the seat. He was a salesman and he kept his display bag close to him, like a pet dog that had gone to sleep.

“Try the radio again,” the truck driver at the counter said.

The short-order cook shrugged and turned it on. He flipped it across the band and got nothing but static.

“You went too fast,” the trucker protested. “You might have missed something.”

“Hell,” the short-order cook said. He was an elderly black man with a smile of gold and he wasn’t looking at the trucker. He was looking through the diner-length picture window at the parking lot.

Seven or eight heavy trucks were out there, engines rumbling in low, idling roars that sounded like big cats purring. There were a couple of Macks, a Hemingway, and four or five Reos. Trailer trucks, interstate haulers with a lot of license plates and CB whip antennas on the back.

The kids’ Fury was lying on its roof at the end of long, looping skid marks in the loose crushed rock of the parking lot. It had been battered into senseless junk. At the entrance to the truck stop’s turnaround, there was a blasted Cadillac. Its owner stared out of the star-shattered windshield like a gutted fish. Horn-rimmed glasses hung from one ear.

Halfway across the lot from it lay the body of a girl in a pink dress. She had jumped from the Caddy when she saw it wasn’t going to make it. She had hit running but never had a chance. She was the worst, even though she was face down. There were flies around her in clouds.

Across the road an old Ford station wagon had been slammed through the guardrails. That had happened an hour ago. No one had been by since then. You couldn’t see the turnpike from the window and the phone was out.

“You went too fast,” the trucker was protesting. “You oughta—”

That was when Snodgrass bolted. He turned the table over getting up, smashing coffee cups and sending sugar in a wild spray. His eyes were wilder than ever, and his mouth hung loosely and he was blabbering: “We gotta get outta here we gotta getouttahere wegottagetouttahere—”

The kid shouted and his girl friend screamed.

I was on the stool closest to the door and I got a handful of his shirt, but he tore loose. He was cranked up all the way. He would have gone through a bank-vault door.

He slammed out the door and then he was sprinting across the gravel toward the drainage ditch on the left. Two of the trucks lunged after him, smokestacks blowing diesel exhaust dark brown against the sky, huge rear wheels machine-gunning gravel up in sprays.

He couldn’t have been any more than five or six running steps from the edge of the flat parking lot when he turned back to look, fear scrawled on his face. His feet tangled each other and he faltered and almost fell down. He got his balance again, but it was too late.

One of the trucks gave way and the other charged down, huge front grill glittering savagely in the sun. Snodgrass screamed, the sound high and thin, nearly lost under the Reo’s heavy diesel roar.

It didn’t drag him under. As things turned out, it would have been better if it had. Instead it drove him up and out, the way a punter kicks a football. For a moment he was silhouetted against the hot afternoon sky like a crippled scarecrow, and then he was gone into the drainage ditch.

The big truck’s brakes hissed like dragon’s breath, its front wheels locked, digging grooves into the gravel skin of the lot, and it stopped inches from jackknifing in. The bastard.

The girl in the booth screamed. Both hands were clamped into her cheeks, dragging the flesh down, turning it into a witch’s mask.

Glass broke. I turned my head and saw that the trucker had squeezed his glass hard enough to break it. I don’t think he knew it yet. Milk and a few drops of blood fell onto the counter.

The black counterman was frozen by the radio, a dishcloth in hand, looking amazed. His teeth glittered. For a moment there was no sound but the buzzing Westclox and the rumbling of the Reo’s engine as it returned to its fellows. Then the girl began to cry and it was all right—or at least better.

My own car was around the side, also battered to junk. It was a 1971 Camaro and I had still been paying on it, but I didn’t suppose that mattered now.

There was no one in the trucks.

The sun glittered and flashed on empty cabs. The wheels turned themselves. You couldn’t think about it too much. You’d go insane if you thought about it too much. Like Snodgrass.

Two hours passed. The sun began to go down. Outside, the trucks patrolled in slow circles and figure eights. Their parking lights and running lights had come on.

I walked the length of the counter twice to get the kinks out of my legs and then sat in a booth by the long front window. It was a standard truck stop, close to the major thruway, a complete service facility out back, gas and diesel fuel both. The truckers came here for coffee and pie.

“Mister?” The voice was hesitant. I looked around. It was the two kids from the Fury. The boy looked about nineteen. He had long hair and a beard that was just starting to take hold. His girl looked younger.

“Yeah?”

“What happened to you?”

I shrugged. “I was coming up the interstate to Pelson,” I said. “A truck came up behind me—I could see it in the mirror a long way off—really highballing. You could hear it a mile down the road. It whipped out around a VW Beetle and just snapped it off the road with the whiplash of the trailer, the way you’d snap a ball of paper off a table with your finger. I thought the truck would go, too. No driver could have held it with the trailer whipping that way. But it didn’t go. The VW flopped over six or seven times and exploded. And the truck got the next one coming up the same way. It was coming up on me and I took the exit ramp in a hurry.” I laughed but my heart wasn’t in it. “Right into a truck stop, of all places. From the frying pan into the fire.”

The girl swallowed. “We saw a Greyhound going north in the southbound lane. It was… plowing… through cars. It exploded and burned but before it did… slaughter.”

A Greyhound bus. That was something new. And bad.

Outside, all the headlights suddenly popped on in unison, bathing the lot in an eerie, depthless glare. Growling, they cruised back and forth. The headlights seemed to give them eyes, and in the growing gloom, the dark trailer boxes looked like the hunched, squared-off shoulders of prehistoric giants.

The counterman said, “Is it safe to turn on the lights?”

“Do it,” I said, “and find out.”

He flipped the switches and a series of flyspecked globes overhead came on. At the same time a neon sign out front stuttered into life: “Conant’s Truck Stop & Diner—Good Eats.” Nothing happened. The trucks continued their patrol.

“I can’t understand it,” the trucker said. He had gotten down from his stool and was walking around, his hand wrapped in a red engineer’s bandanna. “I ain’t had no problems with my rig. She’s a good old girl. I pulled in here a little past one for a spaghetti dinner and this happens.” He waved his arms and the bandanna flapped. “My own rig’s out there right now, the one with the weak left taillight. Been driving her for six years. But if I stepped out that door—”

“It’s just starting,” the counterman said. His eyes were hooded and obsidian. “It must be bad if that radio’s gone. It’s just starting.”

The girl had drained as pale as milk. “Never mind that,” I said to the counterman. “Not yet.”

“What would do it?” The trucker was worrying. “Electrical storms in the atmosphere? Nuclear testing? What?”

“Maybe they’re mad,” I said.

* * *

Around seven o’clock I walked over to the counterman. “How are we fixed here? I mean, if we have to stay awhile?”

His brow wrinkled. “Not so bad. Yest’y was delivery day. We got two-three hunnert hamburg patties, canned fruit and vegetables, dry cereal, aigs… no more milk than what’s in the cooler, but the water’s from the well. If we had to, the five of us cud get on for a month or more.”

The trucker came over and blinked at us. “I’m dead out of cigarettes. Now that cigarette machine…”

“It ain’t my machine,” the counterman said. “No sir.”

The trucker had a steel pinch bar he’d gotten in the supply room out back. He went to work on the machine.

The kid went down to where the jukebox glittered and flashed and plugged in a quarter. John Fogarty began to sing about being born on the bayou.

I sat down and looked out the window. I saw something I didn’t like right away. A Chevy light pickup had joined the patrol, like a Shetland pony amid Percherons. I watched it until it rolled impartially over the body of the girl from the Caddy and then I looked away.

“We made them!” the girl cried out with sudden wretchedness. “They can’t!”

Her boy friend told her to hush. The trucker got the cigarette machine open and helped himself to six or eight packs of Viceroys. He put them in different pockets and then ripped one pack open. From the intent expression on his face, I wasn’t sure if he was going to smoke them or eat them up.

Another record came on the juke. It was eight o’clock.

At eight-thirty the power went off.

When the lights went, the girl screamed, a cry that stopped suddenly, as if her boy friend had put his hand over her mouth. The jukebox died with a deepening, unwinding sound.

“What the Christ!” the trucker said.

“Counterman!” I called. “You got any candles?”

“I think so. Wait… yeah. Here’s a few.”

I got up and took them. We lit them and started placing them around. “Be careful,” I said. “If we burn the place down there’s the devil to pay.”

He chuckled morosely. “You know it.”

When we were done placing the candles, the kid and his girl were huddled together and the trucker was by the back door, watching six more heavy trucks weaving in and out between the concrete fuel islands. “This changes things, doesn’t it?” I said.

“Damn right, if the power’s gone for good.”

“How bad?”

“Hamburg’ll go over in three days. Rest of the meat and aigs’ll go by about as quick. The cans will be okay, an’ the dry stuff. But that ain’t the worst. We ain’t gonna have no water without the pump.”

“How long?”

“Without no water? A week.”

“Fill every empty jug you’ve got. Fill them till you can’t draw anything but air. Where are the toilets? There’s good water in the tanks.”

“Employees’ res’room is in the back. But you have to go outside to get to the lady’s and gent’s.”

“Across to the service building?” I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

“No. Out the side door an’ up a ways.”

“Give me a couple of buckets.”

He found two galvanized pails. The kid strolled up.

“What are you doing?”

“We have to have water. All we can get.”

“Give me a bucket then.”

I handed him one.

“Jerry!” the girl cried. “You—”

He looked at her and she didn’t say anything else, but she picked up a napkin and began to tear at the corners. The trucker was smoking another cigarette and grinning at the floor. He didn’t speak up.

We walked over to the side door where I’d come in that afternoon and stood there for a second, watching the shadows wax and wane as the trucks went back and forth.

“Now?” the kid said. His arm brushed mine and the muscles were jumping and humming like wires. If anyone bumped him he’d go straight up to heaven.

“Relax,” I said.

He smiled a little. It was a sick smile, but better than none.

“Okay.”

We slipped out.

The night air had cooled. Crickets chirred in the grass, and frogs thumped and croaked in the drainage ditch. Out here the rumble of the trucks was louder, more menacing, the sound of beasts. From inside it was a movie. Out here it was real, you could get killed.

We slid along the tiled outer wall. A slight overhang gave us some shadow. My Camaro was huddled against the cyclone fence across from us, and faint light from the roadside sign glinted on broken metal and puddles of gas and oil.

“You take the lady’s,” I whispered. “Fill your bucket from the toilet tank and wait.”

Steady diesel rumblings. It was tricky; you thought they were coming, but it was only echoes bouncing off the building’s odd corners. It was only twenty feet, but it seemed much farther.

He opened the lady’s-room door and went in. I went past and then I was inside the gent’s. I could feel my muscles loosen and a breath whistled out of me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, strained white face with dark eyes.

I got the porcelain tank cover off and dunked the bucket full. I poured a little back to keep from sloshing and went to the door. “Hey?”

“Yeah,” he breathed.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

We went out again. We got maybe six steps before lights blared in our faces. It had crept up, big wheels barely turning on the gravel. It had been lying in wait and now it leaped at us, electric headlamps glowing in savage circles, the huge chrome grill seeming to snarl.

The kid froze, his face stamped with horror, his eyes blank, the pupils dilated down to pinpricks. I gave him a hard shove, spilling half his water.

“Go!”

The thunder of that diesel engine rose to a shriek. I reached over the kid’s shoulder to yank the door open, but before I could it was shoved from inside. The kid lunged in and I dodged after him. I looked back to see the truck—a big cab-over Peterbilt—kiss off the tiled outside wall, peeling away jagged hunks of tile. There was an ear-grinding squealing noise, like gigantic fingers scraping a blackboard. Then the right mudguard and the corners of the grill smashed into the still-open door, sending glass in a crystal spray and snapping the door’s steel-gauge hinges like tissue paper. The door flew into the night like something out of a Dali painting and the truck accelerated toward the front parking lot, its exhaust racketing like machine-gun fire. It had a disappointed, angry sound.

The kid put his bucket down and collapsed into the girl’s arms, shuddering.

My heart was thudding heavily in my chest and my calves felt like water. And speaking of water, we had brought back about a bucket and a quarter between us. It hardly seemed worth it.

“I want to block up that doorway,” I said to the counterman. “What will do the trick?”

“Well—”

The trucker broke in: “Why? One of those big trucks couldn’t get a wheel in through there.”

“It’s not the big trucks I’m worried about.”

The trucker began hunting for a smoke.

“We got some sheet sidin’ out in the supply room,” the counterman said. “Boss was gonna put up a shed to store butane gas.”

“We’ll put them across and prop them with a couple of booths.”

“It’ll help,” the trucker said.

It took about an hour and by the end we’d all gotten into the act, even the girl. It was fairly solid. Of course, fairly solid wasn’t going to be good enough, not if something hit it at full speed. I think they all knew that.

There were still three booths ranged along the big glass picture window and I sat down in one of them. The clock behind the counter had stopped at 8:32, but it felt like ten. Outside the trucks prowled and growled. Some left, hurrying off to unknown missions, and others came. There were three pickup trucks now, circling importantly amid their bigger brothers.

I was starting to doze, and instead of counting sheep I counted trucks. How many in the state, how many in America? Trailer trucks, pickup trucks, flatbeds, day-haulers, three-quarter-tons, army convoy trucks by the tens of thousands, and buses. Nightmare vision of a city bus, two wheels in the gutter and two wheels on the pavement roaring along and plowing through screaming pedestrians like ninepins.

I shook it off and fell into a light, troubled sleep.

* * *

It must have been early morning when Snodgrass began to scream. A thin new moon had risen and was shining icily through a high scud of cloud. A new clattering note had been added, counterpointing the throaty, idling roar of the big rigs. I looked for it and saw a hay baler circling out by the darkened sign. The moonlight glanced off the sharp, turning spokes of its packer.

The scream came again, unmistakably from the drainage ditch: “Help… meeeee…”

“What was that?” It was the girl. In the shadows her eyes were wide and she looked horribly frightened.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Help… meeeee…”

“He’s alive,” she whispered. “Oh, God. Alive.”

I didn’t have to see him. I could imagine it all too well. Snodgrass lying half in and half out of the drainage ditch, back and legs broken, carefully-pressed suit caked with mud, white, gasping face turned up to the indifferent moon…

“I don’t hear anything,” I said. “Do you?”

She looked at me. “How can you? How?”

“Now if you woke him up,” I said, jerking a thumb at the kid, “he might hear something. He might go out there. Would you like that?”

Her face began to twitch and pull as if stitched by invisible needles. “Nothing,” she whispered. “Nothing out there.”

She went back to her boy friend and pressed her head against his chest. His arms came up around her in his sleep.

No one else woke up. Snodgrass cried and wept and screamed for a long time, and then he stopped.

* * *

Dawn.

Another truck had arrived, this one a flatbed with a giant rack for hauling cars. It was joined by a bulldozer. That scared me.

The trucker came over and twitched my arm. “Come on back,” he whispered excitedly. The others were still sleeping. “Come look at this.”

I followed him back to the supply room. About ten trucks were patrolling out there. At first I didn’t see anything new.

“See?” he said, and pointed. “Right there.”

Then I saw. One of the pickups was stopped dead. It was sitting there like a lump, all of the menace gone out of it.

“Out of gas?”

“That’s right, buddy. And they can’t pump their own. We got it knocked. All we have to do is wait.” He smiled and fumbled for a cigarette.

It was about nine o’clock and I was eating a piece of yesterday’s pie for breakfast when the air horn began—long, rolling blasts that rattled your skull. We went over to the windows and looked out. The trucks were sitting still, idling. One trailer truck, a huge Reo with a red cab, had pulled up almost to the narrow verge of grass between the restaurant and the parking lot. At this distance the square grill was huge and murderous. The tires would stand to a man’s chest cavity.

The horn began to blare again; hard, hungry blasts that traveled off in straight, flat lines and echoed back. There was a pattern. Shorts and longs in some kind of rhythm.

“That’s Morse!” the kid, Jerry, suddenly exclaimed.

The trucker looked at him. “How would you know?”

The kid went a little red. “I learned it in the Boy Scouts.”

“You?” the trucker said. “You? Wow.” He shook his head.

“Never mind,” I said. “Do you remember enough to—”

“Sure. Let me listen. Got a pencil?”

The counterman gave him one, and the kid began to write letters on a napkin. After a while he stopped. “It’s just saying ‘Attention’ over and over again. Wait.”

We waited. The air horn beat its longs and shorts into the still morning air. Then the pattern changed and the kid started to write again. We hung over his shoulders and watched the message form. “Someone must pump fuel. Someone will not be harmed. All fuel must be pumped. This shall be done now. Now someone will pump fuel.”

The air blasts kept up, but the kid stopped writing. “It’s just repeating ‘Attention’ again,” he said.

The truck repeated its message again and again. I didn’t like the look of the words, printed on the napkin in block style. They looked machinelike, ruthless. There would be no compromise with those words. You did or you didn’t.

“Well,” the kid said, “what do we do?”

“Nothing,” the trucker said. His face was excited and working. “All we have to do is wait. They must all be low on fuel. One of the little ones out back has already stopped. All we have to do—”

The air horn stopped. The truck backed up and joined its fellows. They waited in a semicircle, headlights pointed in toward us.

“There’s a bulldozer out there,” I said.

Jerry looked at me. “You think they’ll rip the place down?”

“Yes.”

He looked at the counterman. “They couldn’t do that, could they?”

The counterman shrugged.

“We oughta vote,” the trucker said. “No blackmail, damn it. All we gotta do is wait.” He had repeated it three times now, like a charm.

“Okay,” I said. “Vote.”

“Wait,” the trucker said immediately.

“I think we ought to fuel them,” I said. “We can wait for a better chance to get away. Counterman?”

“Stay in here,” he said. “You want to be their slaves? That’s what it’ll come to. You want to spend the rest of your life changin’ oil filters every time one of those… things blats its horn? Not me.” He looked darkly out the window. “Let them starve.”

I looked at the kid and the girl.

“I think he’s right,” he said. “That’s the only way to stop them. If someone was going to rescue us, they would have. God knows what’s going on in other places.” And the girl, with Snodgrass in her eyes, nodded and stepped closer to him.

“That’s it then,” I said.

I went over to the cigarette machine and got a pack without looking at the brand. I’d stopped smoking a year ago, but this seemed like a good time to start again. The smoke rasped harsh in my lungs.

Twenty minutes crawled by. The trucks out front waited. In back, they were lining up at the pumps.

“I think it was all a bluff,” the trucker said. “Just—”

Then there was a louder, harsher, choppier note, the sound of an engine revving up and falling off, then revving up again. The bulldozer.

It glittered like a yellowjacket in the sun, a Caterpillar with clattering steel treads. Black smoke belched from its short stack as it wheeled around to face us.

“It’s going to charge,” the trucker said. There was a look of utter surprise on his face. “It’s going to charge!”

“Get back,” I said. “Behind the counter.”

The bulldozer was still revving. Gear-shift levers moved themselves. Heat shimmer hung over its smoking stack. Suddenly the dozer blade lifted, a heavy steel curve clotted with dried dirt. Then, with a screaming howl of power, it roared straight at us.

“The counter!” I gave the trucker a shove, and that started them.

There was a small concrete verge between the parking lot and the grass. The dozer charged over it, blade lifting for a moment, and then it rammed the front wall head on. Glass exploded inward with a heavy, coughing roar and the wood frame crashed into splinters. One of the overhead light globes fell, splashing more glass. Crockery fell from the shelves. The girl was screaming but the sound was almost lost beneath the steady, pounding roar of the Cat’s engine.

It reversed, clanked across the chewed strip of lawn, and lunged forward again, sending the remaining booths crashing and spinning. The pie case fell off the counter, sending pie wedges skidding across the floor.

The counterman was crouching with his eyes shut, and the kid was holding his girl. The trucker was walleyed with fear.

“We gotta stop it,” he gibbered. “Tell ‘em we’ll do it, we’ll do anything—”

“A little late, isn’t it?”

The Cat reversed and got ready for another charge. New nicks in its blade glittered and heliographed in the sun. It lurched forward with a bellowing roar and this time it took down the main support to the left of what had been the window. That section of the roof fell in with a grinding crash. Plaster dust billowed up.

The dozer pulled free. Beyond it I could see the group of trucks, waiting.

I grabbed the counterman. “Where are the oil drums?” The cookstoves ran on butane gas, but I had seen vents for a warm-air furnace.

“Back of the storage room,” he said.

I grabbed the kid. “Come on.”

We got up and ran into the storage room. The bulldozer hit again and the building trembled. Two or three more hits and it would be able to come right up to the counter for a cup of coffee.

There were two large fifty-gallon drums with feeds to the furnace and turn spigots. There was a carton of empty ketchup bottles near the back door. “Get those, Jerry.”

While he did, I pulled off my shirt and yanked it to rags. The dozer hit again and again, and each hit was accompanied by the sound of more breakage.

I filled four of the ketchup bottles from the spigots, and he stuffed rags into them. “You play football?” I asked him.

“In high school.”

“Okay. Pretend you’re going in from the five.”

We went out into the restaurant. The whole front wall was open to the sky. Sprays of glass glittered like diamonds. One heavy beam had fallen diagonally across the opening. The dozer was backing up to take it out and I thought that this time it would keep coming, ripping through the stools and then demolishing the counter itself.

We knelt down and thrust the bottles out. “Light them up,” I said to the trucker.

He got his matches out, but his hands were shaking too badly and he dropped them. The counterman picked them up, struck one, and the hunks of shirt blazed greasily alight.

“Quick,” I said.

We ran, the kid a little in the lead. Glass crunched and gritted underfoot. There was a hot, oily smell in the air. Everything was very loud, very bright.

The dozer charged.

The kid dodged out under the beam and stood silhouetted in front of that heavy tempered steel blade. I went out to the right. The kid’s first throw fell short. His second hit the blade and the flame splashed harmlessly.

He tried to turn and then it was on him, a rolling juggernaut, four tons of steel. His hands flew up and then he was gone, chewed under.

I buttonhooked around and lobbed one bottle into the open cab and the second right into the works. They exploded together in a leaping shout of flame.

For a moment the dozer’s engine rose in an almost human squeal of rage and pain. It wheeled in a maddened half-circle, ripping out the left corner of the diner, and rolled drunkenly toward the drainage ditch.

The steel treads were streaked and dotted with gore and where the kid had been there was something that looked like a crumpled towel.

The dozer got almost to the ditch, flames boiling from under its cowling and from the cockpit, and then it exploded in a geyser.

I stumbled backward and almost fell over a pile of rubble. There was a hot smell that wasn’t just oil. It was burning hair. I was on fire.

I grabbed a tablecloth, jammed it on my head, ran behind the counter, and plunged my head into the sink hard enough to crack it on the bottom. The girl was screaming Jerry’s name over and over in a shrieking insane litany.

I turned around and saw the huge car-carrier slowly rolling toward the defenseless front of the diner.

The trucker screamed and broke for the side door.

“Don’t!” the counterman cried. “Don’t do that—”

But he was out and sprinting for the drainage ditch and the open field beyond. The truck must have been standing sentry just out of sight of that side door—a small panel job with “Wong’s Cash-and-Carry Laundry” written on the side. It ran him down almost before you could see it happen. Then it was gone and only the trucker was left, twisted into the gravel. He had been knocked out of his shoes.

The car-carrier rolled slowly over the concrete verge, onto the grass, over the kid’s remains, and stopped with its huge snout poking into the diner.

Its air horn let out a sudden, shattering honk, followed by another, and another.

“Stop!” the girl whimpered. “Stop, oh stop, please—”

But the honks went on a long time. It took only a minute to pick up the pattern. It was the same as before. It wanted someone to feed it and the others.

“I’ll go,” I said. “Are the pumps unlocked?”

The counterman nodded. He had aged fifty years.

“No!” the girl screamed. She threw herself at me. “You’ve got to stop them! Beat them, burn them, break them—” Her voice wavered and broke into a harsh bray of grief and loss.

The counterman held her. I went around the corner of the counter, picking my way through the rubble, and out through the supply room. My heart was thudding heavily when I stepped out into the warm sun. I wanted another cigarette, but you don’t smoke around fuel islands.

The trucks were still lined up. The laundry truck was crouched across the gravel from me like a hound dog, growling and rasping. A funny move and it would cream me. The sun glittered on its blank windshield and I shuddered. It was like looking into the face of an idiot.

I switched the pump to “on” and pulled out the nozzle; unscrewed the first gas cap and began to pump fuel.

It took me half an hour to pump the first tank dry and then I moved on to the second island. I was alternating between gas and diesel. Trucks marched by endlessly. I was beginning to understand now. I was beginning to see. People were doing this all over the country or they were lying dead like the trucker, knocked out of their boots with heavy treadmarks mashed across their guts.

The second tank was dry then and I went to the third. The sun was like a hammer and my head was starting to ache with the fumes. There were blisters in the soft webbing between thumb and index finger. But they wouldn’t know about that. They would know about leaky manifolds and bad gaskets and frozen universal joints, but not about blisters or sunstroke or the need to scream. They needed to know only one thing about their late masters, and they knew it. We bleed.

The last tank was sucked dry and I threw the nozzle on the ground. Still there were more trucks, lined up around the corner. I twisted my head to relieve a crick in my neck and stared. The line went out of the front parking lot and up the road and out of sight, two and three lanes deep. It was like a nightmare of the Los Angeles Freeway at rush hour. The horizon shimmered and danced with their exhaust; the air stank of carburization.

“No,” I said. “Out of gas. All gone, fellas.”

And there was a heavier rumble, a bass note that shook the teeth. A huge silvery truck was pulling up, a tanker.

Written on the side was: “Fill Up with Phillips 66—The Jetport Fuel”!

A heavy hose dropped out of the rear.

I went over, took it, flipped up the feeder plate on the first tank, and attached the hose. The truck began to pump. The stench of petroleum sank into me—the same stink that the dinosaurs must have died smelling as they went down into the tar pits. I filled the other two tanks and then went back to work.

Consciousness twinkled away to a point where I lost track of time and trucks. I unscrewed, rammed the nozzle into the hole, pumped until the hot, heavy liquid splurted out, then replaced the cap. My blisters broke, trickling pus down to my wrists. My head was pounding like a rotted tooth and my stomach rolled helplessly with the stench of hydrocarbons.

I was going to faint. I was going to faint and that would be the end of it. I would pump until I dropped.

Then there were hands on my shoulders, the dark hands of the counterman. “Go in,” he said. “Rest yourself. I’ll take over till dark. Try to sleep.”

I handed him the pump.

But I can’t sleep.

The girl is sleeping. She’s sprawled over in the corner with her head on a tablecloth and her face won’t unknot itself even in sleep. It’s the timeless, ageless face of the warhag. I’m going to get her up pretty quick. It’s twilight and the counterman has been out there for five hours.

Still they keep coming. I look out through the wrecked window and their headlights stretch for a mile or better, twinkling like yellow sapphires in the growing darkness. They must be backed up all the way to the turnpike, maybe further.

The girl will have to take her turn. I can show her how. She’ll say she can’t, but she will. She wants to live.

You want to be their slaves? the counterman had said. That’s what it’ll come to. You want to spend the rest of your life changin’ oil filters every time one of those things blats its horn?

We could run, maybe. It would be easy to make the drainage ditch now, the way they’re stacked up. Run through the fields, through the marshy places where trucks would bog down like mastodons and go—

—back to the caves.

Drawing pictures in charcoal. This is the moon god. This is a tree. This is a Mack semi overwhelming a hunter.

Not even that. So much of the world is paved now. Even the playgrounds are paved. And for the fields and marshes and deep woods there are tanks, half-tracks, flatbeds equipped with lasers, masers, heat-seeking radar. And little by little, they can make it into the world they want.

I can see great convoys of trucks filling the Okefenokee Swamp with sand, the bulldozers ripping through the national parks and wildlands, grading the earth flat, stamping it into one great flat plain. And then the hot-top trucks arriving.

But they’re machines. No matter what’s happened to them, what mass consciousness we’ve given them, they can’t reproduce. In fifty or sixty years they’ll be rusting hulks with all menace gone out of them, moveless carcasses for free men to stone and spit at.

And if I close my eyes I can see the production lines in Detroit and Dearborn and Youngstown and Mackinac, new trucks being put together by blue-collars who no longer even punch a clock but only drop and are replaced.

The counterman is staggering a little now. He’s an old bastard, too. I’ve got to wake the girl.

Two planes are leaving silver contrails etched across the darkening eastern horizon.

I wish I could believe there are people in them.

About The Author
Stephen King

Stephen Edwin King is an American author of horror, supernatural fiction, suspense, science fiction, and fantasy. His books have sold more than 350 million copies, many of which have been adapted into feature films, miniseries, television series, and comic books.

King has published fifty-eight novels (including seven under the pen name Richard Bachman) and six non-fiction books. He has written approximately 200 short stories, most of which have been published in book collections. He has been described as the “King of Horror.”

Wheels Of Evil

By: Guy N. Smith

“That’s it,” the tall, attractive woman indicated the car which stood amongst her late husband’s collection of classic makes. “I… I want to get rid of it as soon as possible. Make me an offer and it’s yours, Mister Coltman.”

Kevin Coltman had been restoring classic cars for private owners over the past fifteen years and was something of an icon in his trade. Tall with stooped shoulders, his lean features were oil stained from a job he had been working on when he had received Marie Johnston’s phone call. It was not one to be ignored, and with no small amount of difficulty he restrained his excitement. Her late husband, Carl, had been a regular customer of his, so he was obviously top of her contact list.

“Let me have a look at it.”

She stood back as he approached the car in question. He had never worked on a Jaguar XK-120 before, and right now he could not believe his luck. And actually to be offered the chance to buy it was unbelievable. Of course, he would probably not be able to afford it, but it never hurt to ask.

Overall, it was somewhat worn. It would need replacement wings for a start. It dated from around 1949 and was one of the most famous sports cars of all time, originally built as a limited production model with the new dual overhead camshaft, in-line six-cylinder 210 cubic inch engine with hemispherical combustion chambers.

It had been designed by William Lyons, chief of Jaguar. He had introduced an engine allowing high speed cruising, the most powerful in its day, with 160 horsepower.

Kevin pursed his lips, he was trembling slightly. What an acquisition it would be!

“What do you want for it?” He braced himself for her reply.

She hesitated, stepped back from the car. “I… I hadn’t even considered a price. You see, I just want to get rid of it as soon as possible because…” Her voice quavered, “my husband died in it!”

Kevin nodded solemnly. “So I heard. A crash?”

“No, nothing like that. I just wish it had been, instead of…” She choked up. “I’ll never forget that terrible day. I’d got the evening meal ready but there was no sign of Carl so… so I came out here. That was when I found him… dead in that damned car!”

“I’m really very sorry,” Kevin offered, then looked back at the car.

“The autopsy claimed that he had died of a heart attack. Maybe, but… but you should have seen the expression on his face as he lay sprawled in the driving seat.” She composed herself enough to look him in the face and whisper, “It was terror, Mister Coltman, sheer terror; there was no mistaking it. Whatever he had seen out here had given him such a shock that it stopped his heart.”

Kevin just stared at the car. Maybe it was the widow’s unease, or just his nerves getting the better of him, but he could not help but feel just a little unsettled.

When Carl first acquired the Jaguar, he had told Kevin that he had obtained it from the widow of its prior owner, a Phil Moreton, who died after hitting a barrier whilst on a testing circuit. All told, the crash was nothing too serious. The car could be restored to working condition with a fair degree of time and effort, though Carl had never gotten around to making repairs. But what most shook Kevin was the coincidence he could not deny. It wasn’t injuries from the crash that took Moreton’s life, but a heart attack, just like the one that took Carl.

Two deaths in the same car! Kevin sensed a tingling in his spine. Did he really want that Jag with its sinister history?

“I was praying that you would take it, Mister Coltman,” Marie said. “I know Carl would have wanted you to have it. All I want is to get it away from here as soon as possible.”

“I really don’t know what to offer you. It’s got quite a lot of damage, and renovating it will be expensive. Maybe you should shop around, contact some other dealers.”

“No!” Her reply embodied a sense of inner panic. “Take it away, please. Give me a couple of grand if that makes you feel easier.”

Two thousand pounds—it was virtually a gift!—though a gnawing sense of guilt clouded Kevin’s exuberance. He was taking advantage of a widow at her neediest. He pushed these thoughts away. “All right, I’ll go with that if you’re quite sure you’re happy with it.”

“I’m well satisfied. How soon can you remove it from here?”

“I’ll come round with the low-loader this afternoon.”

“That’s fine.”

He turned to face the car once more and fought back the compulsion to drool. This had been the bargain of his career, and yet… he could not explain this lingering revulsion at his acquisition.

It was illogical to feel the way he did, he told himself. It was just a car, damaged and in need of extensive renovation. He looked forward to the small fortune he would make when he sold it.

* * *

Marie had given Kevin a worn file of records on the Jag which went back to the time when William Lyons had completed his masterpiece and had sold it to a man named Maurice Latcham, a multi-millionaire. The name jogged Kevin’s memory. Further research on the Internet revealed that Latcham was believed to have been involved with the occult. Following the suicide of a young girl, his house had been raided by the police, who had turned up a black altar on his premises.

Latcham never recovered from the negative press. He sold his business at a loss and later committed suicide. His collection of vintage cars was then auctioned off to pay creditors, and it was here that the Jaguar was purchased by Phil Moreton, who would later meet his end in it.

This revelation did little to settle Kevin’s nerves, for already he was regretting his purchase. He made its restoration his top priority—the sooner he could be rid of it, the better.

He began work on it the next day. The first order of business was a thorough examination to ascertain which new parts were needed. Replacement wings and bonnet for a start—he made a note of them—then turned to the interior. He opened the door and with no slight trepidation slid into the worn leather seat. Two of its previous owners had been found dead there, and prior to that a disciple of Satan had sat in that spot. Now he had to occupy the very same place, for there was no other way to examine the various instruments.

He inserted the key into the ignition, turned it. Immediately the engine burst into life, a powerful humming sound that was barely audible. The fuel gauge registered half full. He pressed the accelerator and the rev counter registered. He let the engine run for a couple of minutes before switching it off. Almost like new, there was nothing wrong there, but he would check it thoroughly later.

The steering showed signs of wear but it appeared to function perfectly when he turned it. That could easily be brought up to scratch with some polishing.

And that was when he noticed something on the column, a dull stain that stood out, felt slightly rough to the touch, like some kind of finish that had not been smoothed over. He produced a small torch, shone the beam on the mark, prodded it with his finger. Tiny brown flakes settled into the palm of his hand.

Dried blood—it was unmistakable.

He let out a gasp of revulsion and leapt out of the seat, stood there trembling. Was this Phil Moreton’s blood from that crash? Or Latcham’s, from years ago? It didn’t matter—either way, this was a crusted reminder of the Jag’s unsavoury history.

He paced away from the car and put a hand against the wall for support as he steadied his nerves, telling himself: “It’s just a car, it’s just a car.” Then he bit his lip and shook his head. Of course it was just a car—he was foolish for thinking otherwise.

He lifted the bonnet, forced himself to concentrate on an examination of the engine. Everything here looked as new, as it had come direct from the Jaguar works around seventy years ago. That struck him as odd—something had to have gotten damaged in Moreton’s wreck. Maybe he or Carl gotten around to restoring the engine before their passing? But then, why would they not restore the rest of the car? Surely they had the means—more so than Kevin by far.

Kevin wrote out a list of all the replacement parts needed, then went to phone the order to his suppliers. The Jag held more mysteries than it put on. The more he examined it, the more questions it raised.

Unsettling questions.

He consoled himself by thinking about the price the restored Jag might fetch.

* * *

Restoration was a bigger and longer task than Kevin had anticipated. It was almost as though the car was reluctant to bury its terrible past and was resisting his efforts. But after several weeks of work, the car was finished, re-sprayed a gleaming scarlet, and with everything working as smoothly as the day it had left the Jaguar works.

He stood back and admired it with a strange mixture of satisfaction and awe. He’d done an excellent job, which he congratulated himself for, but any pride he felt was overshadowed by a mounting desire to see it gone from here as soon as possible.

He placed a couple of phone calls to his regular customers; surely one of them would be excited at the prospect of acquiring such a rare gem. Kevin resolved to accept the first offer over the two thousand which he had paid for the car, plus the cost of the replacement parts. His labour was incidental. It’d be a bonus if he recovered the cost of his many hours of work. What mattered most was simply to get rid of it.

God, he had hated every minute he’d spent working on that car, feeling as though someone were constantly watching him. Much as he tried to convince himself that it was all in his mind, his efforts were all in vain. Perhaps now he understood why Carl’s widow had so urgently wanted that car gone—Kevin would have no peace of mind knowing that car still sat in his garage.

* * *

Oswell Richardson, one of Kevin’s long-standing buyers, responded to Kevin’s phone call within the hour. Short and overweight, he was a multi-millionaire owner of a chain of restaurants, and one of Kevin’s best customers.

At first, Oswell looked impressed at Kevin’s offering. The Jag was by rights a beauty. This eagerness dulled by degrees as Oswell surveyed the car, his initial excitement gradually replaced by unease. He opened the door to inspect the interior and shut it again, too quickly for Kevin’s liking. It was faint, but Kevin saw Oswell shudder the tiniest bit after closing the door.

“Just make me a reasonable offer and it’s yours,” said Kevin, well aware of the sinking feeling in his gut.

“It’s very nice,” Oswell muttered through thick lips. “But I think I’ll have to pass. Nevertheless, keep me informed of any future acquisitions.”

The following day, Arthur Kapper, another collector of vintage cars, arrived. Wealthy but by no means in Richardson’s league, he shelled out reasonable sums if a car sufficiently appealed to him. His visit went along much the same lines as the previous viewer’s.

“Thanks, but no,” he turned him down. “Very nice, but… well, not for me.”

That evening, at the dinner table, Kevin was not himself. He was despondent, muted. “Would you believe my two best clients won’t even make an offer?” he told his wife. “Jane, in all my years, I’ve never seen anything like this. They were both uneasy, couldn’t get away fast enough.”

“Like how I feel about it,” Jane replied. “I won’t go in the garage again until it’s gone.”

He knew the feeling only too well, but resisted telling her.

“So what’s your next move, Kev?”

“Damn it, I’m going to take it for a drive tomorrow afternoon,” he grunted. “I’ll damned well give it a good run, show it who’s boss, get rid of that sense of unease. That done, there’s a vintage car auction down in London next week. I’ll enter it there. God, somebody there will surely buy it, maybe make a good bid. Then that will be the end of it, and we might stand to make some good money.”

“Well, just you be careful when you drive it,” she said, visibly uneasy at the thought.

Did she know? Kevin asked inwardly. Did she know about Carl’s heart attack, or Moreton’s crash? Or Latcham’s communion with the Dark Powers? No, she couldn’t have known. Kevin never shared these details with her. Then why did she seem so worried for him?

* * *

It was late afternoon when Kevin Coltman reversed the Jaguar XK-120 out onto the road. The engine purred, the gears as smooth as if the car had just come off the production line. Yet he was as nervous as if he had been a learner driver about to take his test.

He opted to drive on quiet rural roads, preferring to take it slowly and stop if he experienced any problems. The car was over seventy years old, after all, and though it ran well, its reliability was not beyond question.

He cruised down tree-lined roads, switching on the headlights as dusk moved towards darkness. He had decided upon a circuit, down past the disused quarry to the village below, and then back home.

The old quarry rolled up on his left, with its towering granite walls and ground strewn with the rock falls over the past century. Picturesque as it seemed, it was a wild and lonely place.

He hadn’t gone far beyond the quarry when the Jaguar’s engine began to stutter like it was going to cut out. Kevin cursed beneath his breath and accelerated hard, but the revs did not pick up. A warning light on the control panel flickered.

“Damnation!” he cursed aloud, knowing only too well that the car was going to leave him stranded him here. The fault could be one of a number of things. Doubtless he would be able to fix it, but he did not dare stop on this narrow country road with a sharp bend to his rear. He swung the steering wheel over to his left, bumped his way into the rocky entrance to the quarry as at last the engine cut out with a whine.

It was pitch dark here, the tall rocky sides of the quarry cutting out the fading daylight. He fumbled in his pocket for the small torch which he carried with him at all times, and, not finding it, muttered a curse. He must have left it on his workbench back home.

Somewhere an owl hooted like it was mocking his plight. A sense of unease crept over him. This car had been troublesome right from the start. The damn thing was jinxed.

He made as if to open the door, but the handle appeared to have jammed. The door refused to budge despite his repeated efforts.

Suddenly he became aware that he was not alone—somebody was standing at the rear of the car. While it was much too dark to make out details, even in the dim light, he could spy movement in his rearview mirror.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice trembling as fear set his heart to gallop. “Who is it? What do you want?”

There came no reply. The air was eerily silent.

The owl hooted.

Then a voice came from out of the darkness, a hollow tone that sent shivers up Kevin’s spine.

“You are a thief,” it said, its voice low and funereal. “You have stolen my car, like the others who paid for it with their lives—my beautiful car, from all those years ago.”

“You…” Kevin stammered. “Whoever you are, you can have it back. I… I want to get rid of it.”

“It is not so simple as that. Your crime must not go unpunished. Or do you not know whose car this is?”

Movement from the rear of the car drew Kevin’s gaze. A figure shuffled around to the driver’s side window. He could not see what it was, short of a vague silhouette that blended with the darkness, and yet somehow was darker still.

Suddenly, the night was awash in the red light of two burning hellfires just outside Kevin’s window. In the glare of those blazes, the face into which these glowing eyes were set came into view. A bleached-white, fleshless skull leered at Kevin.

“I am Maurice Latcham, who died and yet still lives!” the skull roared at him, “I am Maurice Latcham, the living dead!”

Kevin was trembling in every limb, scarcely unable to believe what was happening. “Take the car, I don’t want it. I never wanted it in the first place! Please!”

Latcham’s horrible eye-fires burned into him from out of the darkness. The ghoulish figure remained silent, as though he were considering Kevin’s offer.

Then, all of a sudden, Kevin became aware of a rumbling sound. It sounded far off at first, though it was quickly approaching. A shower of rock splinters rained all around him, pitting the earth with fallen stones. Several pinged off the Jag’s roof and bonnet, dinging the metal in spots and punching holes in others. A stone the size of his fist punched through the windscreen and shattered it. Kevin raised his arms to cover his face, but too late—a dagger of broken glass slashed his cheek open from his lip to his ear.

The earth shook as the quarry side collapsed, sending tonnes of rocks careening downward in a deadly avalanche. Kevin meant to scream, but his dying yell was drowned out by the cascading fury of the rockfall that buried him and the Jaguar.

The rockfall was over as quickly as it had come on, leaving only swirls of dust in the wind. The owl gave one final hoot, then flew off.

The night was silent as before.

Not a single trace of the Jaguar or its occupant showed beneath the stone; not so much as a gleaming shard of twisted bodywork or a splash of blood.

Latcham’s revenge was at last complete—if he could not have his car, then no one else would. His beloved car was gone forever, along with the last of those who would think to call it theirs.

About The Author
Guy N. Smith

Guy N. Smith is a best-selling author with over 100 books to his name. Genres include: horror, mystery, fiction, westerns, children’s fiction and a number of non-fiction titles. He has also penned many short stories for anthologies and the legendary London Mystery Selection.

In between his writing he has had a varied and interesting career. He worked in banking, was a private detective and had his own shotgun cartridge loading business before becoming the Gun Editor of The Countryman’s Weekly.

For nearly four decades he has lived with his wife Jean in a remote area of the Shropshire/Welsh border hills. Guy has his own shooting, deer stalking, and organic small holding. They have four grown-up children and two grandchildren who live in various parts of the UK.

M.A.D. Mobile

By: Antonio Simon, Jr.

The final words he remembered his father saying weren’t chronologically his last, but they were the most impactful, and they’d rattled in Paul’s skull since his old man gave up the ghost a month ago.

Keep away from that car, son. It’ll kill you.

But what did he know? Paul and his old man hadn’t seen eye–to-eye in years, and their relationship had warmed only to glacial levels since the stroke that dropped pops in a wheelchair.

That was the problem with family—blood-relations determined kin, while any number of other factors went into determining friendship. The two rarely matched up. But in this case, by the time his dad lost his battle to a landslide of old-age maladies, he and Paul had forged some semblance of peace such that Paul was back in daddy-o’s good graces—and his will.

Paul didn’t stand to inherit much, but if he got anything, it was still a windfall. After paying the attorneys and what hospital bills remained, the executor of the estate handed Paul a wire transfer receipt for about fifty thousand dollars. He’d also handed him something else—a sealed manila envelope and instructions not to open it until he got home.

Inside were four objects: an old Polaroid photo, a handwritten message from his father on the nursing home’s stationery, a key ring with two keys threaded onto it, and a paper napkin.

The photo was very old. It had faded to washed-out shades that only suggested primary colors. In the photo was an old barn pops had converted into a garage. Paul’s dad took him to visit this place every weekend when he was a kid, but these outings stopped long before he reached adulthood. He figured dad had stopped bringing him here because he’d sold the place, although he’d never bothered to ask, and dad never told him for certain.

In the barn, parked with its headlights facing out the front door, was an old car. Paul squinted to make out its details, but the photo was so far gone that he couldn’t tell the car’s make or model. Still, he recognized it from his youth. This was the reason dad would come out every weekend, to turn wrenches, top-off oil, and give the car a wash.

Dad doted upon the car, despite Paul recalling that it was a rusted piece of junk. Young Paul had hated going out to the countryside to help dad maintain it. They’d spend all day in that stuffy barn, and by the time they’d finish, the two of them would stink like gasoline and armpits. The least pops could have done in return is let Paul go for a ride in the car, but as far as he could remember, not once could he recall dad starting the engine.

Next to come out of the envelope was the message, written in dad’s crabbed handwriting.

Paul,

There comes a point when a man’s got to let bygones be bygones. It’s just a part of life, and now that I’m coming to the end of mine, I realize this. All is forgiven.

I’ve learned, too, that what really defines a man is that he does what must be done. When I’m gone, use the money I’ve saved up to take care of your mother.

Sell the old car.

For your sake, I trust you’ll learn these lessons sooner in life than I did.

All the best to you,

Your father

Paul had double- and triple-checked with the attorneys that the will titled his father’s possessions in his name alone. That meant he could do whatever he pleased with everything his father had accumulated in life, even disregard his father’s dying wishes. Unbeknownst to pops, mom had died while the old man was in the convalescent home. Nobody had bothered to tell him of his spouse’s passing out of a fear that it would upset him beyond what his old ticker could handle. Then pops died shortly thereafter, which mooted the point entirely.

The third item, the key ring, supported an automotive key—no doubt the one that would fit the car’s ignition—and another that would surely open the padlock on the barn door.

The last object, the paper napkin, was a hand-drawn map done with a fountain pen. It showed the intersection of County Road 1150 and Highway 27, the location of dad’s old barn.

Paul stuffed each of these things into their envelope and set out that same afternoon, following the winding-up of his father’s estate.

His Saab 9-3 rolled down a dirt path that ended in a dilapidated old barn. If this was indeed the same place as from his youth, he didn’t recognize it from how sorry a state it was in. Paint that had once been red flaked off the surface of dry-rotted wood trusses. Knotholes the size of his thumb had been excavated further by the structure’s resident termite colony. Rusted iron supports jutted out at odd angles where the wood they once held up had rotted away. The double doors in its front were set square to the ground, but the frame in which they sat was crooked as the building listed to one side, though whether because of a faulty foundation or because it was caving under its own weight, he could not say. A thick iron chain had been snaked through the door handles and padlocked in place.

An icy sensation ran through him that set his hair on end. Something was not right about this place. His fight-or-flight alarm was sounding. There was danger here, though he could not tell what form it would take.

Paul jammed the key into the rusted padlock and gave it a twist, but the lock wouldn’t budge. Rust had frozen its internal workings. He turned the key again and snapped it off inside the lock. Not one to be deterred, he returned to his car for the pickaxe he’d stashed in the trunk. A few solid blows shattered the rusted metal, dropping the padlock in two pieces at his feet. Grasping a door handle with both hands, he threw his weight backward and tugged at the door, backpedaling as it grudgingly swung outward, its hinges screaming all the way.

Once he’d pulled the door open as far as it would go, he did the same to the other one. The barn swayed as the doors were drawn apart. He wiped his hands off on the thighs of his jean pants, then doubled over to catch his breath.

Dust that had sat undisturbed for decades within the barn swirled out the doors, obscuring what lay within from his sight. With his luck, the place would be empty, and he’d have come all the way out here for nothing. He rubbed his face with the back of his shirtsleeve—it was still a few hours from sunset, and yet it was unbearably hot out.

He straightened up and withdrew a penlight he kept hooked on his keychain, then entered the barn. He hadn’t gone five feet inside when his knee ran against the front bumper of the vehicle sitting within.

After all this time, dad’s car was still here.

It was as he remembered it, except the intervening decades had not been kind. The once vibrant blue paint had faded to a robin’s egg pastel that had gone matte. Rust had bitten holes in the sheet metal he could put a finger through. And in those spots where neither paint nor rust held sway, the car bore patches of gray body putty that hadn’t been sanded smooth.

It was a shoebox of a car—a Dodge Demon from the early 70’s. Everything about it screamed “big.” It was as long as a hearse and wide enough to seat four passengers abreast in the back. Its hood was open, looking like a patient at an unscrupulous dentist’s office after having been told to say “Ahhh” while the good doctor snuck out to play a few rounds of golf. Shoehorned into the engine compartment was a motor that looked more at home powering a speedboat. Atop a four-barrel carburetor, the engine wore its circular air cleaner like a crown.

Paul walked the length of the car, his eyes never leaving it. He was as surprised to find it intact as he was to find it here at all. What could it possibly be worth? A few grand in parts, maybe? More, if the car actually ran. He was so transfixed by his find that he hadn’t noticed his hand had already dug into his pocket and retrieved the ignition keys.

He stopped cold before reaching for the driver’s door. This car had sat for years; what were the chances he could get it to start? Slim, and none. The oil in the motor—assuming it hadn’t all seeped out—was by now likely useless gunk that stuck all the internal moving parts together like glue. He was about to reach for his cellphone and call for a flatbed tow-truck when he noticed his phone wasn’t on him—he’d left it in his Saab’s cup holder.

He glanced back at the key in his hand, then the car door.

There was no harm in opening her up and sitting down inside, was there?

Of course not.

It took some cajoling, but the driver’s side door lock popped open when Paul turned the key. The leather that lined the driver’s seat was cracked and faded from the elements, and bore a few holes where spongy yellow filler spilled out. He sat down, the car’s suspension creaking beneath him. The black rug at his feet sported a cutesy cartoon devil holding a pitchfork. The tines of his fork faced downward, providing the “M” in the middle of the word “DEMON” stitched in yellow thread.

In front of him, a three-post steering wheel supported a column-mounted gear selector for an automatic transmission. Behind the wheel were rallye-styled gauges—two big dials, one for a tachometer, another for everything else arranged in a cluster; and a smaller one in the middle.

He put the key in the ignition and gave it a twist.

Nothing, not even a click from the engine.

It was to be expected—old as it was, the battery had as much spark in it as a block of wood.

Suddenly, there was an electric whir, as if something beneath the hood had come to life. The cabin light flickered, then shone weakly onto the car’s dark interior. The backlight on the instrument cluster blinked on, as though to salute Paul and await further instructions. Those instructions came immediately, and they were simple enough.

Fire it up.

Paul pegged the ignition switch back and the engine strained heroically, chugging and sputtering like an old man with pneumonic lungs. With every loping chug, the engine grew stronger, each turn coming faster on the heels of the last until they came in rapid-fire succession. Then, with a mighty groan that shook the body panels, the motor turned over and roared to life. The blast of noise and heat from the engine compartment sent helices of dust swirling away in every direction.

Paul sat behind the wheel, dumbfounded.

There had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation for how an abandoned old car could start up so readily despite years of disuse. If dad had had the foresight to write his last will and testament, then he certainly could have made arrangements for this car’s maintenance in his absence. Dad sure cared for it, what with his weekly pilgrimages out here when Paul was a kid, despite his repeated warnings of late to get rid of the car.

He clambered out of the driver’s seat and rounded the car to its front. The engine ran like a Swiss watch, its idle sound a symphony of whirs, ticks, and clicks in all the right notes. Everything ran so smoothly that you’d think the car had just been driven off the sales lot, when in fact it hadn’t seen a dealership since pops bought it back in 1971.

He shut the hood and circled the car, giving it another once-over. Despite looking beat up, the car seemed serviceable enough where it mattered. Without a second thought, he hopped back into the driver’s seat and put it into drive.

Toeing the gas brought the Mopar V-8 to life. By the reaction he got from how gingerly he’d tapped the pedal, he could tell the car begged for more. The car wanted—demanded to be driven. He could almost feel the engine’s vacuum actuators sucking at him, pulling for more—more fuel, more speed, more foot on pedal, more life!

Life!

And what a life he’d have ahead of him. Paul grinned ear to ear. The car was phenomenal. Sure, it wasn’t a looker by any stretch, but a paint job and some body work would do wonders. To hell with what pops had wanted, this car was too awesome to get rid of.

Besides, Paul was his own man now.

A free man.

He had no wife or kids, and now that mom and dad were gone, he had nobody to worry about—or to tell him what to do. First thing he’d do with the cash he’d inherited was fix up this classic cruiser, then take it on the prowl. He was certain it would get him so much tail he’d need a trailer to haul it all back home.

Giggling like a schoolboy, he mashed the pedal to the floor. The tires spun in place, digging a trough in the dirt road before the barn, then catapulted the car forward. The car bounded down the straight shot of country road, half the time airborne and half on the ground. Paul was enjoying himself so much that he didn’t notice the wetlands authority canal coming up on him fast. At the last minute he cut the wheel to the right, fishtailing the car into the soft clay shoulder, his rear wheel in midair as it kissed the edge of the drop-off.

Paul stood on the brake until the car slid to a halt. He was panting.

What the hell had he been thinking? He’d almost gotten himself killed.

He took a moment to steady his racing heart. There was no one else around, no one to crash into or witness the foolish thing he’d done. All was well that ended well, he surmised, which was how he convinced himself against cutting short his joyride. Highway 27 was just up the way, and it was paved in asphalt, which offered a much better surface for his tires to grip than mere dirt roads. He eased the car out of the shoulder and onto the road again, gunning for the highway.

Traffic was light on Highway 27. It was mostly a commuter road, and as it was the weekend, the only vehicles around were semi-trucks and the odd passenger car headed upstate. The feedback up from the tires to the steering wheel told Paul he’d rolled onto a stretch of paved road. It felt good—where before the dirt roads had felt squishy, the asphalt provided a firmer grip.

Paul stomped the gas and the engine rampaged under the hood, sending all available power to the drive wheels. The car’s nose went skyward, kicking Paul into the pit of his bucket seat. The steering got floaty as the car traced donuts onto the pavement.

A semi-truck’s horn blared as Paul swung in lazy circles. The truck flashed its headlights at him, then jetted white smoke from beneath its chassis as its brakes locked up and friction melted its tires. It was still a ways off, but coming at him fast.

Paul instantly got a hold of himself and mashed the brake. The car wasn’t stopping—his foot was clear off the accelerator and yet the car continued to pull against his brakes, the engine roaring in defiance. As the semi barreled toward him, Paul yanked the wheel with both hands to get him safely out of its path. The car swerved into the grassy median at the last minute, the blare of the truck’s horn threatening to rip apart his eardrums as it careened past.

The engine gave a shudder, then slowed to idle speed. The car sat in a dead halt between both stretches of highway.

Paul shoved open the door and leaned over to throw up in the grass. His nerves were shot. As he clambered back in the driver’s seat and wiped his face with his shirtsleeve, he took stock of what had just happened.

“The throttle cable,” he murmured breathlessly. “That’s what it was. It got stuck.”

Somewhere between the gas pedal and the engine’s throttle, something had gotten stuck in the “Go” position. It made perfect sense. The car could be forgiven these mechanical shortcomings. After all, it was over forty years old, and automotive technology had come a long way since then. What’s more, it had been the victim of deferred maintenance, and so it was only natural that a minor mechanical slip-up might occur. And besides, Paul loved this car too much to be angry with it, as the thrill of so close a brush with death had been the single biggest experience of his lifetime. He’d never before felt anything quite like this. It was better than sex. His dick was harder than a pregnant polar bear’s nipples in December.

Paul sent the car into a U-turn and re-entered the highway. It’d soon be time to head home, if he wanted to arrive before nightfall. That meant he had one good run left before he’d swap his Dodge Demon for his Saab.

“Demon.” He smirked. Did it ever live up to its name.

Ahead on the straightway was the trucker who’d nearly smashed into him. He was pulled over to the side of the road with his blinkers on. Paul caught a reflection of the trucker’s face in the semi’s massive side-mirror. The man had his cellphone to his ear and his eyes locked on Paul.

“Oh shit,” Paul hissed. In an instant, he recognized what was going on: that trucker was phoning his car in to the police.

“Shit-shit-shit!” he shouted, bashing the steering wheel with his fists each time. Eyes narrowed, Paul knew a challenge when he saw one. If caught, the police would impound his car. Worse—they’d detain him for grand theft. The executors of his dad’s will had already submitted paperwork to the DMV, but the state office hadn’t yet issued him a title. All the cops would see is that Paul’s car still belonged to his dad; they’d be none the wiser the man had died weeks ago.

He couldn’t afford to be caught; he wouldn’t allow it. Fixing his eyes on the road ahead, he floored the gas and tore off down the highway.

The Demon howled as its namesake might, letting up a brassy roar that thrummed through the dual-exhaust beneath Paul and out the tailpipes. The sound and sensation resonated up through the floorboards and into his skin, giving him goosebumps. His heart raced. His pupils dilated. His mouth pulled back in a Cheshire cat grin. This was more fun than he’d had in a long time.

The tach needle swept past its apex and pulled ever closer to the dangerous red zone. Paul weaved through traffic on the two-lane roadway, bobbing left to pass a slow-moving Volvo and cutting right again, nearly stripping the rear bumper off a Lincoln sedan. His car’s chassis swayed like a boat caught in a moderate chop. The Demon weighed a ton and a half and handled like it, having been engineered to deploy brute force horsepower in a straight line, cornering finesse be damned.

Traffic slowed to a crawl of taillights ahead. At the end of the line of stopped cars, Paul could see the glow of blue and red rolling lights. The police had set up a roadblock. No less than a dozen squad cars stood crosswise in the roadway, their drivers ducking for cover behind their vehicles.

“Stop!” said a voice through the police megaphone.

Paul wasn’t stopping, and it was almost as if the police knew it.

“Stop your vehicle!” the bullhorn blared again, the officer sounding as though he were trying his damnedest not to appear even a tiny bit rattled. The policemen crouched behind the fenders of their cars leveled the sights of their shotguns at Paul.

Paul threw the car into the shoulder, its tail nearly breaking away from him as the surface beneath his tires went from asphalt to gravel. With his speedometer still well into the triple digits, Paul continued to accelerate, his eyes scanning the road ahead for a way through the barricade. His blood turned to ice when he realized there wasn’t one.

“Oh shit,” he mouthed. Like a man waking from a stupor, he slowly regained his sense of place. There simply wasn’t anywhere to go but through the line of cop cars, and at this speed, that would be suicide.

Paul stood on the brake, sending the car into a nosedive plunge that hurled him into the steering wheel. His hands slipped off the wheel and went through the gaps between its posts.

Then something strange happened—the control stems on either side of the steering column shifted of their own volition. They clamped down on Paul’s wrists, trapping his hands against the wheel’s posts.

The throttle opened back up to full speed ahead, the sudden acceleration punting Paul into the depth of his seat. The seatbelt lashed out and cinched around the tops of his thighs like a boa constrictor. He was trapped in an odd half-squat, unable to control the car or reach the pedals.

Paul screamed and thrashed against his restraints, but the Demon held him fast.

“Stop! This is your last warning!” the police megaphone blared again, all the more insistent as Paul’s car closed the distance, followed by, “Open fire!”

The muzzle blasts from nothing short of a dozen guns sounded like firecrackers over the engine’s roar. Lead hailed into the Demon’s body panels, but the car shrugged the bullets off as it barreled toward the massed wall of police vehicles. The windshield erupted into a blizzard of shattered glass, turning it as good as opaque until the next volley of gunfire punched it out of its enclosure.

Paul was helpless except to watch as his car smashed into a police Crown Vic. His seatbelt came undone a split second before impact. The force of the collision catapulted his body into the police cruiser’s B-pillar. His torso hit the car first and the impact broke him neatly in two, with his upper half in the driver’s seat and his legs in the back. Even a first-year nurse’s assistant could have pronounced him dead at the scene.

The Dodge was a total loss. Everything from the fenders forward was a mess of twisted metal. The police called in a tow-truck to haul it away. But during the weeks the Dodge sat in the impound lot pending the investigation into Paul’s death, the car simply vanished.

To be clear, no one had stolen it. Its keys were found where they last had been placed, in an evidence locker at the precinct. No one had hot-wired the car either. When investigators from internal affairs were called in to view the surveillance footage, they watched the car start up and drive off the lot on its own. There was no evidence anyone had broken into the car, or the police lot, for that matter. With no way to plausibly explain the car’s disappearance, the police department swept the matter under the rug.

Yet another fact puzzled the investigators. The car in the video footage did not match the description of any vehicle in the impound lot. Police inventory reports reflected that their 1971 Dodge two-door was blue in color, non-functioning, and that its front end was destroyed in a collision.

The car that drove off their lot was intact.

* * *

Jamie was on his morning bike ride to school when it started to rain. Fourteen and on the skids, life didn’t hold much by way of good prospects for him. He pumped his legs harder, on a mad dash for the highway overpass ahead to get out of the downpour. It took mere seconds to get there, but by the time he did, he was cold and utterly drenched.

The rain had only just begun to fall, but by the way the skies looked, the worst was yet to come. Sure enough, the rain started to pour down in sheets, with hail the size of golf balls.

He’d be late to school, again. That’d be his eighth tardy in a quarter, which would net him another after-school detention. His mother couldn’t be trusted to drive him—she’d been in rare form lately, hitting the bottle harder than ever these days.

A horn blast snapped him out of his musing.

He turned around. Off in the corner by the concrete embankment was a muscle car the likes of which he’d only seen in action movies. Its battered blue paint and rust-spotted chrome told of its age. He rounded the car to the driver’s side and pressed his face against the window.

The keys were in the ignition.

First looking one way, then the next, he tried the door. It was unlocked.

He looked over both shoulders again to ensure he wasn’t being watched, then tossed his bike into the backseat and got in.

Jamie didn’t know to drive—he didn’t even have a license—but his school was just up the block. He could arrive at school dry and in style if he “borrowed” this car. It wouldn’t be stealing. He’d put it back where he found it after dismissal hour, and its owner would be none the wiser.

He turned the key in the ignition as he’d seen his mother do countless times. The engine rumbled as the car came alive. This wasn’t his mother’s Toyota Corolla. This car was different—special—in ways he did not know how to put to words.

Instinct compelled his hand to reach for the gear selector and shift the car into drive. He smiled, footing the gas. Between the engine’s roar and enough thrust to stick him into his seatback, Jamie nearly pissed himself in fright, but once the fear passed, he found himself giggling with excitement.

He toed the pedal, gingerly this time, and the car purred like a satiated tiger as it rolled out from underneath the overpass. He was so overawed by the experience that he didn’t realize he’d missed the turn into his school until after he was halfway up the block. Realizing his mistake, he lifted his foot off the gas, but stopped short of pressing the brake.

The motor slowed to a chugging idle. Its fuel-starved engine fought against choking out, the car bucking and surging forward, forward! To the streets, to life! Without anything like what humans might call words, the car spoke to Jamie in a language whose alphabet consisted of speed, gasoline exhaust, adrenaline, and sex. These phrases were alien to Jamie’s fourteen-year-old mind, but he understood the gist of the message well enough.

The car wanted to be driven.

Jamie stomped the gas pedal to the floor. The wide-open throttle dumped the full might of the engine onto the tires. The car peeled out in place, its tail shimmying like an excited puppy, before catapulting down the street. The force of its acceleration pitched the car’s nose into the air and glued Jamie into his bucket seat like a space shuttle astronaut on his ascent through the atmosphere.

He’d head back soon enough—but first, he’d have some fun.

About The Author
Antonio Simon, Jr.

Antonio Simon, Jr. is a best-selling author of several books. He began writing professionally in 2013. His debut novel, an adventure/comedy titled The Gullwing Odyssey, achieved critical and commercial success in 2014. Since getting his start in fantasy, he has branched out into other genres. His work has been published alongside masters of horror Stephen King and Guy N. Smith. His non-fiction delves into obscure and esoteric topics.

Mr. Simon holds a law degree from St. Thomas University. He earned simultaneous B.A.’s from the University of Miami in Political Science and History. His writing has won the prestigious Royal Palm Literary Award, the International Book Award, and the Florida Authors & Publishers Association’s President’s Book Award.

He is one of the founders of Darkwater Media Group and serves as its Head of Business Development. Within the company, he is known as “the duke,” although whether he is in fact royalty of any place real or imaginary remains anyone’s guess.

Faster Than Anything

By: Apara Moreiya

With the way he sank his paychecks into his car, there was no denying Johnny’s Trans Am was fast.

He’d bought it new from the dealership two years ago, using some money his grandfather had put away for him to attend college. Built during the 1972 model year, the car was fully-loaded. Pontiac’s most powerful engine, a 455 cubic inch beast of a V-8, guzzled fuel like a fish drinks water and produced nothing short of stick-you-to-the-seatback horsepower. The monstrous powerplant was mated to a bulletproof four-speed with a top gear that just wouldn’t quit. The rubber met the road with a set of performance radials that gripped the asphalt like pine tar.

Catalytic converters? Nah.

Mufflers? Who needs ‘em?

Headers fed into the dual exhausts via straight pipes so wide you’d think they were cut from the city’s water mains. You could drop a golf ball into the intake manifold and launch it out the tailpipes intact.

All this, and yet the car wasn’t all function and no form. Lucerne Blue paint bedecked its curves, set off by hood and body decals in black and white.

She was a beauty—and a beast.

While his family threatened to disown him for squandering his late grandfather’s gift, Johnny made no illusions about what he was good at. He wasn’t college material, having just barely graduated high school two years ago with a C average. His heart and his interests were in internal combustion engines. If it went fast and made a lot of noise doing it, it was right up Johnny’s alley.

He and his car were a perfect combination for winning races. The car brought more than enough performance to the table, while he possessed more by way of quick reaction times and fast-twitch muscle fiber than common sense. Others wondered if he was unnaturally brave, stupid, or simply oblivious to danger. Whichever the reason might have been, many a race he’d won by standing on the throttle where his opponents panicked and eased off.

Over the course of a few weeks, he quickly racked up a reputation—not to mention a handful of pink slips. Johnny mostly ever raced for keeps. Anything less didn’t provide the rush he sought. No sooner would he win his opponents’ cars than he’d trade them to his boss, who ran the largest scrapyard and auto parts store in the county. He never took cash, preferring instead to accept store credit which he’d later spend on upgrades to his car.

Eventually, it came to be that no one dared to race him. For anyone else, this would be a crowning achievement; he’d bested everyone who could plausibly challenge his title of fastest on the street. But for Johnny, it meant his racing days were over unless he could find a suitable opponent.

That was when he started racing trains.

A train was the perfect opponent in a land race. For one, they never backed down. A loaded freight train required over a mile to stop after application of the brakes. By the time the conductor became aware that he might collide with a vehicle, it was already too late to stop in time.

Secondly, you always knew where to find them. Government safety regulations mandated that trains run along certain corridors at predetermined hours of the day. Their operators could be fined for not being precisely on time—that meant they had to arrive neither late nor sooner than anticipated. With the help of a timetable and basic algebra, you could always tell where any locomotive was at any given hour, which made it all the easier when it came to arranging race handicaps.

His friends thought he was crazy because they saw what he was doing for what it was: Johnny wasn’t interested so much in the race as he was in the thrill of cheating death. And while in his heart of hearts Johnny knew this better than anyone, he was loath to admit it.

After studying rail timetables for a week straight, he set up his first race.

An old and barely used Union-Continental rail line crossed Hoxton Road at the outskirts of town. Nobody drove on Hoxton anymore—all that road led to were the ruins of a coal mining operation shut down in the 1950’s. Once he had double- and triple-checked his math, he was certain that the 5:15 out of Raleigh would be at the crossing at 6:23 p.m.

That evening, Johnny and his friends pulled into a diner at ten minutes to five. He went to the payphone and rang the operator for a direct connection to the train station in Raleigh, then emptied his pockets of quarters, which he dropped into the coin slot.

Long distance calls ran expensive.

After a few rings, a service clerk in Raleigh answered. She informed Johnny that the 5:15 had not yet left the station, and that it was on time to depart as expected. Johnny then asked for the local time, and synchronized his watch accordingly. Then he hung up and then told his friends to wait for him at the crossing before getting into his car and heading to the starting position.

At 5:37 that evening, Johnny sat in his idling Trans Am in the shoulder alongside Hoxton Road. Though it would be another hour before dusk, the sun hung low in the sky, bathing his environs in burnished oranges and washed-out yellows that made the landscape ahead look like a photo taken by a cheap camera.

This place was a wasteland in the truest sense of the word. There was nothing around for miles except barren hills of dusty scrubland. The asphalt that comprised the highway probably cost more than a square acre of the land it was set upon. Curlicues of sand the color of infield clay billowed whenever the wind picked up.

Johnny checked his dashboard clock. The seconds ticked closer to the start of the race. Fifteen seconds before the designated start time, he pulled an emergency flare gun out of the glove box, held it skyward and fired it to let his friends down by the crossing know he was coming. Then, hurling the gun to the floorboards, he put the car in gear and rolled into the middle of the street.

Ten seconds.

Johnny powered off the radio, air conditioning, and all unnecessary accessories to squeeze that last bit of juice from his engine.

Five seconds.

Johnny stomped the clutch pedal to the floor and revved the motor. The Trans Am responded instantly to the demands on its throttle. The car lunged forward with each prod of the gas like an eager Labrador Retriever anticipating the hunter’s command to flush out a quarry.

Go.

Johnny brought the tach up to three thousand spins before dumping first gear. The tires chirped in a split-second of broken traction before biting down and launching the vehicle down the straightaway. First gear wound up fast, leading to a short second, and a tall third that still chirped the tires. Johnny rowed through the gears, his foot all the while pegged on the gas, and an eye locked on the clock in his dash. He was making good time.

He gave the brake a tap as Hoxton Road went into a level curve. The Trans Am nosedived, making all the traction in the front tires turn to mush. The car skidded along the outside of the turn, then went tail-first into the sandy shoulder, where its momentum brought it fully around in a circle.

Standing with both feet on the brake, Johnny wrestled the disobedient Trans Am to a halt. A glance at his dashboard clock showed he was quickly losing any advantage he’d garnered. He put the car in first gear and punched the gas, but got nowhere. The wheels spun in place, burying the car ever deeper into the soft ground with each press of the accelerator.

Furious at his bad luck, Johnny pounded the steering wheel with both fists as he shouted every curse word he knew in rapid succession. Then, taking a moment to settle himself, he cut his eyes to the clock once more. There was still time to win this. He took a deep breath and let it out his nostrils to ease the pounding of his heartbeat between his temples. Gingerly, he prodded the gas. The car gave a false start at first, but then found traction and clambered out of the divot in the sand. Once he was back on the paved stretch, he opened the throttle and drove that car for all it was worth.

There were no more curves along this stretch of Hoxton, which meant Johnny could stand on the gas until he crossed the railroad tracks. The Trans Am was in its element. The faster it went, the greater the charge of air its hood snorkels sucked down to feed its internal combustion. The slurping sound this made was audible even over the roar of its engine. The car was pushing all of its four hundred horses to the limit as the speedometer climbed past 110 miles per hour.

Johnny did not need the clock to tell him it was going to be close. Up ahead, and growing ever larger in his windshield, was the railway crossbuck. The warning signal’s red lamps were lit. His friends had parked their cars in the dirt beyond the railroad crossing, about fifty feet from the roadway in case Johnny almost made it. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the Union-Continental locomotive coming around the bend, hauling a mile long train of rolling stock.

The moment of truth had arrived. Johnny could not help but feel the tiniest bits of ice starting to form all along his spine.

He could not back out now. Assuming he could stop safely, he would never live down the shame of losing. And yet, in top gear and with his foot to the floorboard, he was already doing all he could to coax the last bit of speed from his engine.

Would it be enough?

He clung to the steering wheel as though his life depended on it, his knuckles turning white.

Johnny had never appreciated how incredibly large trains were until the Union-Continental was upon him. Its headlight alone filled the entirety of his passenger side window. Screaming, he wanted to shut his eyes as the Trans Am entered the level crossing, but he maintained the presence of mind to keep them open.

The train blatted its horn. It was such a massive sound that it rattled the fillings in Johnny’s teeth. That long, flat note persisted as the train coasted further along the track, even after it was well out of sight.

With the speedometer registering well over triple digits, Johnny had traveled about a quarter mile before it dawned upon him that he was still alive. He blinked, and then again as though rousing from a dream, and let up a whooping cheer as he cut the wheel to lock. The Trans Am veered off the road, where it traced lazy donuts in the sand.

Johnny’s friends rolled up in their cars a moment later. Grinning like the cat that caught the canary, he went to meet his friends, but what came next floored him. They were not at all pleased. The race had been much too close for comfort. Several of his friends had thrown up from sheer nervous tension alone. And while some of them had come out to see him race out of curiosity, others in a last ditch attempt to stop him, everyone agreed that what he’d done bordered on perverse.

With his nerves still jangled after the race, Johnny was in no shape to accept their criticism. Their words stung his pride. Worse, nobody seemed happy he’d survived. He shouted at them, calling them fairweather friends and traitors, before rolling up his window and heading for home.

Johnny was never the same after that race.

He fell out of touch with his friends.

He stopped attending weekly car meets.

He even turned down street races.

Where before he might occasionally be coaxed into a friendly race—no pinks, just for fun—these, too, he refused with somber shakes of his head.

He was no longer in love with his car.

His Trans Am, which had been his pride and joy, was relegated to a mere tool, a means to an end.

And that end was racing trains.

Johnny didn’t care if his races attracted onlookers or not. He was no longer concerned with bragging rights.

All that mattered to him was to be faster than anything.

He memorized by rote the timetables for every train that entered the county. Each of these he had raced, and had won every time. Within a few months’ time, he got bored of racing trains. They had become too predictable. Thankfully for him, he had picked up on a rumor and a way to rekindle interest in his favorite pastime.

The town Johnny lived in was historically a coal mining settlement—historically, because that had been the community’s sole industry until the federal government ordered the mines closed long before Johnny was born. For the eighty years it was in operation, the Willoughby Mining Company had an awful safety record. The string of workplace accidents culminating in the disaster of 1952 all but put the final nails in the company’s coffin.

Johnny cared little about history, but one facet of the mining company’s past intrigued him. Since its inception, it had maintained a proprietary rail system to haul coal out of the mines. There was talk among the town’s old timers that, ever since the Willoughby derailment of 1911, a ghost train haunted the abandoned rails leading to and from the mines.

When he heard this, Johnny’s spirits perked up. A ghost train! What would it be like to race it? So many times he’d cheated death, but racing a ghost train would be like racing death itself!

He left work early to head for the library. As he wasn’t savvy on the Dewey Decimal System, he commandeered a librarian to show him where all the books might be that discussed the historic derailment. He spent the rest of that afternoon poring over books on his town’s past, until he found one that treated the subject in sufficient detail.

This book was a monograph written by a resident and former Willoughby employee. According to eyewitness accounts, the derailment occurred at the crossing at Peachtree Way. This made Johnny take pause. He’d lived here all his life and had never heard of a Peachtree Way, much less seen a peach tree in person.

Turning the page revealed a map and the location of the road in question. Johnny’s eyebrows nearly rose off his face in surprise when he realized that Peachtree was just a few miles further along Hoxton Road from where he’d run his first race.

Skimming the pages gleaned a few more key details. The derailment occurred because the company’s steam locomotive was overburdened with coal. While transporting the load from the top of the hill, the train’s brakes failed, and the engine picked up too much speed on the downward slope. Eyewitness accounts held that the train was moving in excess of seventy miles per hour—which, for 1911, was an unheard of speed for a train meant to haul loads short distances.

Another account told a different story. The engineer driving the train the night of the derailment was an employee by the name of Horace Tomkins. Aside from being a habitual drunk, Horace was a known malcontent who was vocal about the poor working conditions at the mine. Although it was never proven, some of Horace’s acquaintances related after the accident that he purposefully drove the train off the rails to spite the mining company.

At 3:12 a.m. on June 8, 1911, the Willoughby locomotive derailed and toppled onto its side. The engine then caught fire, which spread to the loads of coal it was hauling. The volunteer firefighter brigade was called to the scene, but could do little in the face of the massive conflagration. Nothing could be done except to wait until the flames burned themselves out. By that time, the fire had already spread across the hillside to the town below. All told, the disaster claimed fifty-two lives, and ruined much of the town’s fledgling central business district.

Johnny made a note of the date and time of the accident. Tomorrow would mark its sixty-third anniversary.

Knowing he was pressed for time, Johnny drove straight home and got to work on his car. He worked well into the night to ensure his Trans Am would be in top form for the race. Working like a man possessed, in record time he had changed the oil, bolted in new spark plugs, and tuned the engine. By the time he was done, it was sunrise, and the car was in the best shape it had ever been in. Covered in grease and thoroughly exhausted, he forewent a shower and collapsed in his bed, waking at eight the following evening. His boss had likely fired him by now for not phoning in his absence from work, but he didn’t care. The race of a lifetime awaited him.

After a stop at the filling station to top up and check his tire pressure, Johnny headed for the diner. He treated himself to two cheeseburgers with fries and a strawberry ice cream milkshake. All the while, he studied the monograph like he was cramming for a calculus exam. Johnny memorized what details he could, and extrapolated the rest by doing some quick and dirty math on a paper napkin.

He had a handle on the ghost train’s movement. He needed to clear the crossbuck before 3:12 a.m. He also knew how fast the train was going when it went off the rails at that very spot. What he didn’t know was the train’s starting position. Without this crucial piece of information, he could not accurately handicap the race.

He flipped back and forth between pages showing maps of the mining facility, racking his brain for answers. Uphill of the crash site was a facility where the mined coal was loaded onto open-top train cars via a crane. That very well could have been the train’s starting point. Then again, about a quarter mile further up the mountain was the service depot where the steam engine’s supplies of fuel and water would be replenished. Flustered, Johnny averaged out the distance between both sites and used that figure to set his handicap.

If the hills that comprised the old coal mine resembled a wasteland during the day, they were positively desolate at night. A chill wind swept a dusty landscape that looked more like the face of the moon than anyplace on Earth.

His Trans Am was the only car on Hoxton Road. He powered along at a confident clip, along easy curves and up the backs of gently sloping hills. He passed the level crossing where he’d had his first race, and it brought a smile to his lips. Tonight he was as excited—and as nervous—as he was that day so many weeks ago.

The road grew steep as it meandered its way up the mountain. In some spots, Johnny had to downshift for the added torque to climb grades in excess of ten percent. Eventually the ground leveled off, and he found himself at the outskirts of the old mine.

Finding Peachtree Way from Hoxton Road proved easy enough. Hoxton was paved with a layer of black asphalt that dead-ended right where the cracked and faded Peachtree began. Hoxton was a public road; Peachtree was on private property. The change in road surface caused the Trans Am’s tires to slip briefly, but a tap on the brake brought the car to heel.

As there was still a little time to spare, Johnny did a lap on Peachtree. The street was old and rough, but still serviceable for his needs. The road snaked between several dilapidated warehouses before hitting a wide cul-de-sac in front of the administrative building at the center of the facility. Access roads fanned off the circle like spokes on a wheel. Taking the right-hand branch led to a ninety-degree left-hand turn, then a straight shot up the mountain to the mines. The road inclined steeply here for a few hundred feet, then flattened out and went into an S-curve between two collapsed structures.

Once past the curves, the road intersected the rail line at a level crossing about a mile away. An old style crossbuck with a pair of electric lamps stood beside the rails. It looked like it hadn’t operated in decades.

Johnny committed the course to memory, then drove back to the facility’s entrance to start the race. He downshifted as he approached the chain-link gate that served as his starting line. The Trans Am roared as it dumped the excess torque onto the tires, fishtailing into a stylish U-turn that put the car right at the starting position.

Johnny took the remaining few moments to ready himself.

Fifteen seconds.

He shut off the radio and air conditioning.

Ten seconds.

He revved the engine to keep it hot against the chill of the night.

Five seconds.

His foot still on the clutch, he shifted into first and spun the motor up to thirty-five hundred.

Go.

Johnny let off the clutch and the Trans Am bucked like an enraged bronco, but for all its fury, the car wasn’t going anywhere. The tires spun against the cracked and dusty pavement. Realizing his mistake had cost him several precious seconds, he eased off the gas until the tires bit down, then toed the gas once he’d achieved traction.

He threw second, then third, powering through the gears and standing on the gas all the while. He gave the brake a tap as he negotiated the twisty road between the warehouses, but didn’t throw fourth until after he’d completed the powerslide around the traffic circle.

The Trans Am’s tail shimmied coming out of the cul-de-sac, coming dangerously close to spinning off the road and onto the dusty shoulder. He dialed in just enough correction on the wheel with a steady hand, demanding obedience of his car in the manner a circus lion tamer does of his animals.

The ninety-degree turn lay fifty feet ahead. Johnny mashed the brake and downshifted, throwing his tail out ahead of him. The Trans Am’s rear led the rest the car through the tight curve, then violently snapped back into position with the car’s nose pointed forward in time for Johnny to mash the gas pedal once more.

He cut his eyes to the dashboard clock.

3:02.

Maybe his mind was playing tricks, but he could have sworn he heard a lonesome train whistle from off in the distance, followed by the faint but recognizable chug-a-chug-a-chug of a steam locomotive.

He was still in second gear when he reached the inclined straightaway. With the gas pedal mashed to the floor to squeeze every ounce of power from the engine, he threw third and the car bucked in defiance. The grade was too steep for tall gears. Out of instinct, his hand went to the gearshift, but paused halfway. If he downshifted now, he’d have enough torque to drag himself up the hill, though he’d have to lay off the gas or risk burning out his gearbox. That meant losing the speed he’d built up on the approach. If he kept it in third, he might be able to power through the incline without slowing down.

A fine sweat broke on his forehead as his eyes darted from the tach to the speedometer, and then to the dashboard clock.

3:07.

Five minutes to go.

Johnny kept the car in third and stood on the gas. The Trans Am trudged up the hill in fits and spurts, threatening to conk out at any moment. When at last he crested the peak, Johnny downshifted into second to negotiate the S-curve. Ahead lay the final stretch: a mile-long strip of straightaway with the level crossing at its end.

Johnny wound up the Trans Am in second, then chirped the tires when he threw third. Man and machine were in perfect synch as he rowed through the gears. The tach needle edged into the dangerous yellow zone, but the Trans Am continued to pull, pull, pull—propelling itself ever forward, ever faster.

And then Johnny heard it, only he wasn’t sure he had at first until the sound came again, closer this time. A train whistle, but not like any he was accustomed to hearing. This wasn’t the grating blat of a diesel engine’s air horn; it was the whoo-whooooo of a steam engine, the likes of which hadn’t been seen around here in nearly a hundred years.

The crossbuck’s warning lights—bulbs that should have burnt out decades ago—lit up and began to flash in in alternating beats.

And then he saw it. From out of the corner of his eye came a massive locomotive awash in green blazes. Fire spewed from its pistons and leaked out of the seams of its gaskets. Mighty gouts of flame shot skyward from its funnel like an erupting volcano. The engine and its rolling stock resembled the body and tail of an emerald comet as the train shot down the mountainside on a suicide rush for the level crossing.

Johnny drove the Tran Am hard, stretching all he could out of third gear before shifting into fourth. The car lunged as the final drive gear synched up with the charge of raw power coming from under the hood. He looked at his instrument panel. The Trans Am was going balls to the wall like it never had before. Its oil and engine temperature gauges were pegged in the red. The tach was deep into redline, pulling seven thousand spins a minute. The speedometer crept toward 140 as the motor strained for every last bit of power.

The Trans Am’s engine no longer roared; instead, it sounded like a high pitched whistle from the sheer velocity of its moving parts. Johnny could not help but liken the sound to that which slot cars made on a miniature track.

The tach needle topped out at eight thousand, and yet the engine continued to pull until the speedometer hovered at 147 miles per hour. It was exhilarating in a horrific sort of way. At any moment his car might spontaneously detonate—his engine might throw a rod straight through the firewall and into his chest, or his driveshaft might decide to come loose and anchor itself in the ground, shearing his car apart from beneath. A slick film of nervous sweat broke on Johnny’s forehead when the acrid tang of something burning struck his nostrils. The passenger cabin began to fill with white smoke.

3:10 on the clock.

He was going to make it! If he stood on the gas for just a while longer and his car held up under the strain, he’d beat the Willoughby train by half a minute.

The train was so close now that Johnny could see the face of the conductor through the window of the engine’s cab. He was a grizzled old man with flyaway hair, an Amish beard and striped overalls—a description that perfectly matched the photo of Horace Tomkins in the monograph. Despite being consumed in green flames and trapped in the cabin of an out-of-control locomotive, the ghostly visage of Horace was laughing as though the impending crash would be the punch line to the greatest joke ever played.

Johnny and Horace locked eyes as the Trans Am entered the crossing, and then something inexplicable happened.

You see, the thing about trains is that they are always expected to be at a certain place at a certain time—not sooner, and certainly not later. But what Johnny hadn’t accounted for was that ghost trains aren’t subject to the same regulations that govern their iron and diesel counterparts.

In point of fact, ghost trains aren’t even bound by the laws of physics.

The Willoughby train sped up, reaching the intersection before its anticipated time.

Johnny’s hands flew to cover his face at the point of impact, but the blow did not fall. Nor did the flames burn him, despite being doused in brilliant green fires for the split-second the Trans Am passed through the Willoughby train’s engine. The car barreled through the train as though the latter were merely a hologram, and neither Johnny nor his car was any the worse for it.

Johnny took the wheel as the Trans Am rampaged down the street on the crossing’s other side. The car scythed off the road and into the sand beyond, fishtailing violently. What Johnny saw next made his heart leap into his throat—the car was careening straight for a mine entrance. The cavern yawned before him, looking like the pitch black of a wolf’s gullet.

Screaming, Johnny stood on the brake and felt the car’s stopping power turn to jelly. He cut the wheel one way, then the other in a frantic attempt to steer clear, but the Trans Am’s forward momentum was indomitable as it plunged into the mine’s downward slope. The car’s sides ping-ponged off the walls of the mine shaft, shattering his headlights, plunging him into a darkness so thick, so complete, it made him feel as though he were drowning in an inkwell. Then suddenly the floor gave way beneath him, and he was falling down, down, down…

Johnny was never seen or heard from again.

His Trans Am, though, is a different story.

Even today there are some who believe the tale of the Willoughby ghost train, some who claim to have seen it, and fewer still who actually have. If you find any who are willing to speak of their experience, they might tell you what you already know: that the train appears at 3:12 in the morning on the anniversary of its derailment. But only those who have actually seen it in recent years will know enough to share a seemingly incongruous piece of information. Despite the ghost train resembling equipment built over a century ago, it now sports a modern flatbed car among its rolling stock.

Parked on the flatbed like a championship cup in a trophy case is a 1972 Trans Am, looking as new as when it first rolled into the dealership.

About The Author
Apara Moreiya

Thrill seeker. Unbridled optimist. Sushi aficionado. Lover of terrible jokes. Free spirit. Friend to all. Sporting an outlook on life as unique as he, Apara writes equally distinctive poetry and fiction, and from time to time delves into the genres of fantasy and horror.

Apart from being Darkwater Media Group’s unofficial mascot (and unintentionally running up the company’s fire insurance premiums), he is an associate editor working closely with Antonio Simon, Jr.

The Horseman Comes Riding

By: Stephanie Kelley

There were too many people.

I normally didn’t have a problem with crowds, but there were too many people shoved into the bare cinderblock building we were taking shelter in. We had been camping after hours on the fairgrounds when a severe thunderstorm rolled up. Those in charge herded the field full of campers into the makeshift shelter. People bustled about, pressing against each other with no regard for anyone’s personal space as if we were in a mosh pit. This was a car show, not the general admission section at a death metal concert.

“How much longer are we going to be penned in here?” Leo asked under his breath as he settled against the wall beside me. He had gone on an adventure to view the storm through the large rolling doors at the other end of the building. “I thought we were here for cars, not to people watch.”

I sighed. “We are, and the camping.”

I wanted to get back to our tent. My sleeping bag was probably soaked, but anything was better than being crushed in this throng of people.

“Let’s just go to a hotel. We can come back tomorrow, Esmee.” Leo pressed his body against mine for warmth as he wrapped his arms around me. We’d gotten soaked on our run to the shelter.

“Umm, we can’t. Gunpowder is out there. She is part of the exhibit and they won’t let us take her out the gate and come back in.”

He sighed.

Gunpowder was what I’d named my car. She wasn’t all that special, but she was fast and she was mine. Mine by blood, sweat, and tears. I’d done the restoration work on the 1969 Camaro Z/28 myself.

The car had placed third at our last show. I was hoping to do better here, but this rain was killing my vibe. Dread filled me at the thought of having to buff off all the water spots from her metallic gray paint.

“Besides,” I said. “They herded us in here like lambs to slaughter. They’re not letting us back out until the storm passes.”

Leo rolled his eyes at me. He was never amused with my many references to death.

“Come on, I have an idea,” I said.

Anything would have been better than standing around in this agoraphobic mess.

We wove our way through the crowd to a velvet-curtained shrine in the middle of the building. Behind it was the show’s featured auto. I hadn’t paid much attention to the advertising for the event, so I didn’t know what Hollywood movie car they had managed to secure for the weekend. Typically, this venue unveiled their showcase car after the winners had been decided. The reveal was slated for noon tomorrow. And we still had to go back to sleep in the mud and rain. The more I thought about it, the more sleeping in the trunk of my car sounded appealing.

Leo glanced around as he stood outside the heavy curtain. Everyone was concerned with themselves and playing on their phones. He pulled the dark velvet drape back to reveal a sliver of the metal beast concealed inside.

I tried not to drool, but I bit my lower lip in pleasure. The mechanical creature was black; that deep, deathless raven black of the pony cars from the sixties. A blue-black paint so glossy it looked like a wet mirror. Goosebumps ran up my arms as the light danced along the vehicle’s side panels. God, I loved cars.

“Milady,” Leo said with a wink, motioning me to step into the shroud.

I ducked under his arm and through the opening. There wasn’t much space to maneuver in the little shrine, barely enough room to shuffle around the vehicle.

A happy little moan slipped past my lips as the noise outside the curtain drifted away.

It was a soft top convertible. There was a chrome badge on driver’s side behind the wheel well that read Horseman in an Old English font. I reached out to touch it, knowing full well I shouldn’t. You don’t just touch someone else’s car without asking.

But I couldn’t stop myself. My fingerprints smeared the shiny silver surface as I traced each letter.

“Why do you get to touch the car?” Leo teased. “You always tell me no.”

“Because you don’t know what you’re doing.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. I’d cut my finger on a sharp metal edge. I pulled away and saw the blood welling on my pale skin.

The room lit up with a flash of purplish white light. The storm was too close for my liking.

“Pot, kettle, huh?” he asked, pointing to me then at himself in turn. He reached for my hand.

Squinting at him, I stuck my bloody finger in my mouth to soothe the pain, giving him the one finger salute with my other hand.

“Hush,” I mumbled around the digit in my mouth.

Thunder ripped through the building. The power cut out. Alarmed shouts came from outside our velvet safe room. I jumped, grabbing for the car rather than my boyfriend. Where I touched the car, my skin went ice cold. My body started to tremble. Another flash of brilliant purple white light dazzled my eyes, followed by a bass rumble of stampeding thunder. My knees gave way.

My head spun. My vision went fuzzy. Leo said something but I didn’t hear him. It was all static. I had never had a panic attack grip me this hard or this fast.

Storms shook me to my core. It hadn’t always been that way. I’d been ten when things had taken a turn for the worst. My father, an English teacher, had been heading to work. A storm had rolled in unexpectedly, throwing a tree onto his car. The first responders expected to find him crushed, but instead he was just gone. Vanished. The only clues had been a few scorch and scrape marks on the pavement. Grandma said it was the family curse, the dark rider that had haunted us since our family moved across the Atlantic Ocean three hundred years ago, but I refused to believe in such things. It was easier to believe he’d found someone else and left mother and us.

Leo pulled me to his chest, attempting to calm me with soft words.

“It will pass, Esmee,” he murmured over the distant rumble of thunder. I had no idea how much time had passed when his words registered in my brain.

“Come on, let’s go.”

“Yeah, to sleep in a puddle,” I said as I rubbed my arms.

Leo winked, then hoisted me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. I tried to protest as he walked us toward the gate, but he was right, we needed somewhere safe and quiet to sleep.

We looked like tramps, soaked from head to toe, by the time we’d walked the half mile to the hotel. When my credit card cleared, the desk clerk changed her tune, offering us fuzzy bathrobes and the use of their in-house laundry.

Our guest room offered the prospects of a soft bed, a hot shower, and pizza with bacon. I couldn’t have asked for more.

* * *

My car had survived the storm unscathed, having developed a cocoon of debris around it. Leo helped me clear everything away, but mud was halfway up the side panels and dreaded water spots marred its glossy finish. There was no time to clean it properly before judging, so I let things be.

I meandered through the sprawling fairgrounds while Leo cleaned up our collapsed camp site, letting my nose guide me to the fried food stands. A funnel cake and one oddly frothy, bubbly tea drink later, I found myself standing outside last night’s makeshift storm shelter. A cold breeze blew at the back of my neck, wrapping its icy fingers around me, trying to pull me into the building.

The velvet shrine still stood, the curtains partially pulled back, the vehicle now on display to the public. I caught glimpses of glossy black as the wind snagged the drape, making it dance.

My chest tightened as the sound of thundering hoofbeats reverberated through my body. A squeak broke from my lips as a cold hand settled onto the small of my back.

I lashed out blindly with a backhand. Leo just laughed and ducked back with his arms up by his face to ward off my fists.

“Sweet mother of Mary, Leo,” I spat. My heart was racing. “Why do you always do that?”

He smiled and kissed the top of my head. “Because that squeak you make is cute. Come on, let’s go check out that car.”

My blood ran cold. I wanted to drool over that black metal beast, but I hesitated. My muscles went rigid as thunder filled my ears.

“Come on, Esmee,” he urged, putting an arm around me. “What do you think that car actually is?”

“Probably a late sixties Mustang. What’s your guess?”

Leo rolled his eyes. “I’m not even trying to guess, unless you want me to guess the paint color. You know I’m only good with a spray gun and a liner brush.”

“So, guess the paint then.”

“If you say late sixties and a Mustang, then it would be Raven Black. I still don’t like that you had me paint your car Cyber Gray.” Leo favored keeping things as close to original factory colors as he could. He was a purist. As for me, I liked what I liked.

“Not everything has to be stock, Leo,” I chided as we took our place in the line.

“As evidenced by the blue vinyl you put in the Camaro.”

I elbowed him and pointed to the enshrined car we were waiting in line to see up close. “And you’re seriously telling me that this bright red interior was how it rolled off the line?”

“Actually, yeah. It was called Red Poly.”

I rolled my eyes. “Leave it to the guy with the paint gun to know that.”

Leo laughed as we shuffled forward in line. “You know it.”

The long wait only gave me more time to admire the car from afar. The owner had blacked out the chrome accents, adding to the car’s unbroken lines. The tires were all black instead of the standard wide, white-walled kind most muscle car enthusiasts went for. With the convertible top down, the blood red interior exuded the feel of a B-movie coffin.

Just then, those cold phantom fingers prickled the skin on the back of my neck again. The chill seeped into my flesh and crept up into my hair.

“I’m impressed,” Leo said as we inched closer to the car. “There’s not a single ripple on the body or a blemish in the paint. Do you know how hard that is to do? Especially with black on something that old? It’s almost supernatural.”

The Mustang was too perfect, more pristine than if it had just rolled off the assembly line. There wasn’t a speck of dust on it.

“Horseman,” the man beside Leo read from the sign. “Makes sense. Death is usually shown riding a dark horse.”

“Actually,” Leo interjected, “Death rode a pale horse. My guess is this one’s Famine, which is probably why it has a partially wilted jack-o-lantern emblem where the stock running horse would be. It’d have a scythe there if they were trying for the traditional horsemen iconography.”

The man turned to look at us. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. In his well-manicured hand was a jumbo soda in a refillable cup. He wore a buttoned-up shirt, pressed khakis and white tennis shoes. He’d probably never spent a day in a garage in his entire life. Everything about him screamed desk jockey. To him, he only saw a car; not all the interconnected vital parts that made the Mustang a living creature.

He looked us over, taking in our worn denim jeans and car brand T-shirts. When he got to my hair, he paused. The bright blue and silver streak in my short mane was enough to make anyone do a double-take.

“Sure, buddy. Whatever. Your girl’s cute though,” the desk jockey said smugly before sipping his soda and walking away.

“It always astounds me that people get something so simple as the colors of the horsemen wrong,” Leo muttered.

I jabbed my elbow into his ribs. “Most people don’t want to think about the thing Death rode in on. Death is bad enough as it is. It’s the one thing we can’t avoid.”

“Just part of the cycle, Esmee.”

Leo moved up to read the sign. “Well, I see why he thought it was Death.”

“Oh?” I didn’t bother to peek at what he was reading. I was too busy leaning over the velvet rope to get a look at the dashboard.

“Yep, according to this, this car has killed about as many people as Little Bastard.”

“What?” That caught my attention. I moved to stand beside Leo. “You mean…?”

Leo nodded. “This one’s as bloodthirsty as James Dean’s Porsche.”

I shot him a doubting look. “If that’s the case, we would have heard of this one before now. Let me see that.”

According to the sign, this 1967 Ford Mustang, dubbed “The Horseman”, had claimed three lives and maimed a handful of individuals. Its original owner was thrown from the car during a collision and subsequently crushed when the car ran over him. The second death had occurred when the vehicle fell off its jack stands and killed a mechanic.

“Oh, that’s rough,” Leo groaned as he read the last one.

“Beheaded?” I gulped. “How does one get beheaded by a car?”

“I actually read about that one, someone posted it in the online paint forums. The guy had taken out the original engine so he could replace it, figured while he had it out, he’d update the paint. He crawled into the open engine bay to work on stripping the paint while he waited for the new motor to arrive. Somehow, the supports for the hood let loose and came down on the back of his neck. By some freak stroke of bad luck, the hood hit just the right place in the back of his neck for internal decapitation.”

Leo was so nonchalant it made me sick to my stomach. “Did they call it ‘The Horseman’ on your little forum thingy?”

“No, they just said it was a Mustang. I never once thought it was real.” A shiver ran through him.

“Well, maybe the owner saw it in the same forum and thought it would be a good story,” I said, always the optimist. “This car isn’t the next Little Bastard.”

The crowd let up a collective shout of alarm as a loud burst broke the silence. Leo pulled me to his chest for protection.

“What was that?” I whispered, not willing to lift my head from his shirt.

“Looks like the back tires both blew out.”

“What the hell?” I turned to look, but my eyes focused only on the driver’s side door.

There was a frosty palm print on the glossy black where I had grabbed the car last night. Red light from the LED’s mounted on the undercarriage curled up along the black paint, climbing the side of the door like a vine toward the hand print. I blinked and it was gone.

“What do you say about packing up and heading out?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even. “Maybe stopping for food?”

“I think that greasy diner outside of town is calling my name, Esmee.”

By the time we packed up our things and headed out of the fairgrounds, the sun was setting. The sky was streaked with red. It reminded me of blood diffusing into water. I wanted to keep that morbid thought to myself, but it led me back to the Mustang. Something was oddly familiar about that vehicle. I kept trying to place it while we drove to the diner on the outskirts of town.

The diner wasn’t much by way of eateries, but it offered comfort food. Comfort was something that was in short supply for me ever since setting eyes on that black beast. Feeling whimsical, we both ordered breakfast for dinner. The waitress swung by moments later with plates laden with fried eggs and hash browns.

Delicious as the meal was, neither of us had the desire to eat.

Leo picked at his meal. I merely stared out the window as the tines of my fork plunged into the runny yolk of my sunny-side-up eggs.

I tensed up. Out in the parking lot, a shadowy figure ran his fingers along the body lines of my car. My stomach clenched to the size of a tangerine—my car was being violated. Among car buffs, there are just certain lines you do not cross, and touching a car without permission was one of them.

I drew a pentagram in my syrup on the plate with the last bit of pancake stuck on my fork. I despised people like him for thinking they knew what they were looking at, that whoever held the keys had just gotten lucky.

“More coffee?” the waitress asked.

I met her gaze, giving her a quick smile and a nod. When I looked back, the stranger was gone.

“Esmee, what’s going on?” Leo asked.

“Something doesn’t feel right,” I murmured, my eyes scouring the lot. The man was nowhere to be found, but I could have sworn I saw the silhouette of a car off in a shadowy corner of the lot, its tires glowing faintly red.

Leo paused with a fork full of pancake halfway to his mouth.

“Someone was just outside with the car,” I said. “But he disappeared.”

“They probably wanted to admire it. Nothing to worry about, Esmee.” He motioned with his fork to my plate. “Eat. We’ll be home in a few hours.”

I sighed and shoved a bite of egg and pancake into my mouth.

“What now?” he asked.

“No, it was more than that. I know it. He belongs to that other car.” My grandmother’s words about the family curse came rushing back, that we couldn’t run from the horseman—he’d always find us.

“He’s coming for me,” I blurted.

“He?”

I shook my head. “Okay, so maybe not he.”

“Then what is coming for you? The car?”

I nodded.

He snorted. “You’ve got to be kidding. The car is not coming for you. It’s a car, Esmee, a car. Just like Gunpowder’s a car. No souls, no consciousness. It’s just a car. It’s not alive.”

I glared at him. “That Mustang had a badge that read Horseman with a pumpkin—”

“Jack-o-lantern,” he mumbled around another mouthful of pancake. He didn’t believe what I was saying.

I growled at him out of frustration. “You’re missing my point.”

Leo swallowed and put his silverware down. The crow’s feet crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “What is your point, Esmee?”

My fingers clenched around my napkin. Did he not know? How did he not know? I could barely bring myself to say the words. I could have sworn I’d told him about my family’s past. We’d been together for a decade. “That jack-o-lantern wasn’t for Famine, Leo. It was for the headless horseman.”

He rolled his mahogany eyes and reached for his coffee. “Uh huh, sure. We’re not doing this again.”

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I stared at him, anger rising in me at how he thought he could shut me down with one sentence. Doubt ran amok in my veins. But the Mustang had reacted to me, hadn’t it? My handprint had showed up after the tires had blown out.

I stared at my partner, the silence stretching between us.

“Fine, I’ll bite,” he said turning toward me. “The headless horseman, like in the story? How do you even begin to make that connection?”

“It’s a convertible, Leo. A damn convertible.”

He shrugged. “And that means what? You know I’m just the paint guy.”

I screamed internally, wanting to shake him. “Topless equals headless, Leo.”

My boyfriend closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His lips twitched as he counted to ten. I knew what it meant when he did that. He thought I was crazy.

My rage boiled. I wasn’t being irrational.

“No, sweetie, no. Essy, that was a story. Sleepy Hollow doesn’t exist.”

I stabbed a piece of pancake so hard my fork squeaked against my plate. “Yes, it does. It’s in New York.”

Leo huffed at me. “And we’re in Pennsylvania.”

I stabbed another bit of food. “That is not the point. That car is here. I saw it outside, I saw its owner outside. The car tasted my blood.”

He turned toward me and grabbed my upper arms, his eyes locking on mine as my heart began to pound harder. “Esmee Lane Grue, calm down.”

I shoved him away—or, rather, tried to shove him away. He held onto me like a vice.

“Look, Essy, baby, you’re just pissed that your car didn’t place because of the storm. You don’t need to make this up so you can feel better. You don’t even believe in the supernatural. Hell, you don’t believe in anything you can’t touch.”

I shook my head. I believed in the family curse. I was not going crazy and this really was happening.

“You don’t get it, Leo. You just don’t get it. Your family doesn’t have a curse.”

Leo sighed and let me go. I tossed a fifty on the counter and hopped off the stool. “That should cover it. I’ll be back in a half hour.”

“Esmee, where are you going?”

I waved my boyfriend off and stormed out the door, the bells ringing sharply as the brass hit the glass. He didn’t bother to follow me. Leo knew better. I slammed the door to my car and jammed the key in the ignition. She roared to life. Gravel flew as I peeled out of the parking lot.

I wasn’t going crazy.

I wasn’t.

The traffic light turned red and I slowed to a stop. The rumbling of an engine drifted up from the shadows as headlights appeared in my side mirror. Frost fingers sprouted on my windshield. There was no one at the intersection so I jumped the red light, tires chirping as I shifted into second gear. I refused to look in the mirror again. My nerves couldn’t handle knowing if it was The Horseman behind me.

I heard the engine of the other car pulling alongside me as I slowed for the next stop light. My unwelcome companion settled into the lane next to mine. Even in the spotty street lights there was no denying that it was the car I feared.

The Mustang’s engine revved, shimmying the car’s rear end as its brakes fought to restrain the massive thrust.

I felt like prey. I wanted to run.

The Mustang’s windows rolled down an inch. Even with the window open a sliver, I still could not see inside the car.

“Come on, Esmee. You know you want to run.”

“I’m not doing it,” I ground out.

The driver revved the engine, his frustration apparent by the way the car dipped and rocked.

The light turned green. The Mustang’s tires squealed, its metal body bucking as it surged forward.

I wouldn’t play this game.

When he saw I wasn’t taking the bait, the Mustang’s driver mashed the brake, rolling to a stop a few feet ahead of the crosswalk to await my approach. I thought about turning down a side street, but I didn’t know the area. I didn’t want to end up at a dead end.

My car idled into the empty intersection. When it pulled up next to the Mustang, its driver floored it again, goading me into a race. The car tore down the block to the next crossing, stopping at the red light.

Up ahead, the road led to a steep hill. The highway sign beside it indicated the entrance ramp was a half mile away. I wanted to get back to Leo. We needed to leave. I never should have left him at the diner.

An evil chuckle perked my ears, sounding as though it came from someone in my passenger seat. I knew better, though. That had been the driver of The Horseman. Still, I was afraid to look.

LEDs snapped on under the Mustang, coating the ground with a funereal red glow. The car seemed to growl, its sulfur-tinged exhaust drying out the back of my throat.

“Come on, Crane girl,” the voice hissed.

I could feel the blood drain from my face. There was no more pretending—this was the thing I feared.

He knew.

He knew who I was.

My ancestors, sick of being the family from that story, had changed their name centuries ago. No matter how well you get along with your neighbors, a rash of house-burnings on account of flaming pumpkins tends to set the town against you and your kin.

I knew the stories too well to not expect a meeting sooner or later; only, there was no way to prepare myself for the horror that would ensue when he came for me.

Here he was, the famed Hessian rider, astride his black Mustang. He’d kept up with the times.

The light turned green and I jumped out ahead of The Horseman, my engine protesting as I ground the gears with the shift into second. The road ahead pitched into a steep grade up the hill. Muttering every curse word I knew, I rowed through the gears, straining my car to rocket up the incline with the Mustang keeping up with me all the while.

The Horseman was toying with me. Having restored my car myself, I knew its limitations. My Camaro was fast but mostly stock, with the exception of a few upgrades and modern creature comforts—the cup holder was a must for coffee mugs on long road trips. If I was to have any chance at winning this race, I could not rely on my car’s brute force; it would all depend upon skill. I was up against a driver who had had centuries of practice, back from the days when horse and buggy carriages were the primary way people got around. And this said nothing of whatever infernal mechanical bits The Horseman had under its hood.

My phone lit up in the cup holder.

Leo.

I snapped my eyes back on the road ahead as a single teardrop streamed down my face.

We crested the hill as I caught fourth gear, and I put some space between us. The engine bucked against the hill’s downward face, so I popped it into neutral, praying for a bit of Georgia Overdrive as the Mustang’s blazing headlights grew ever stronger, lighting up the inside of my car as if with floodlights. I picked up a lot of speed—there were only a few dozen feet of hill left before the road flattened out, and my Camaro was already pushing eighty miles per hour.

I grabbed fourth again as the road leveled off and slammed the gas headed into the straightaway. The Horseman was a few car lengths behind me in my rearview mirror. Suddenly, it juked to one side and cut a fast U-turn before gunning it back up the hill.

I downshifted, my car bucking and screaming in protest, then merged onto the highway to head back to the diner. I dialed Leo’s number, and with my phone pressed to my ear, I counted off the rings until he answered.

“You done being mad at me?” he growled.

“Leo, I’ll be there in about five minutes. I need you to be ready,” I said, my voice trembling.

Through the phone’s speaker came the sound of chairs squealing against linoleum tile, followed by a loud crash. The sharp noise rattled my already tender nerves. I flinched, and my car cut to the right sharply, almost sideswiping the Volvo in the adjacent lane. Its driver honked angrily.

“Esmee, what’s going on?” Leo snapped.

“I was right, Leo. Be ready when I get there, please. We’ve gotta get out of town before he finds me again.”

My tires caught the shoulder’s edge, yanking my car toward the concrete barrier that divided the highway. I tugged harder on the wheel than I should have and the Camaro’s rear end broke traction, sending the car into a fishtail sweep across two lanes. I eased off the gas and corrected, setting the car straight in the center lane.

“Esmee, what the hell is going on?”

“I told you! The Horseman. It’s the Horseman,” I yelled into the phone. “And he’s after me!”

“Essy, baby, where are you?”

“I’m on my way back to the diner.”

“Okay, I’m gonna have the diner call the police and you can tell them what’s going on when you get here. We’ll get the info for the driver from our contact at the convention—”

“No, Leo, no! We need to get out of town.”

“Essy—”

“Please, Leo, just listen to—”

My sentence was cut short by a deafening crash. My Camaro pitched to one side as the wheels on its other end went airborne for a split second. A red glare filled the passenger cabin. The Horseman was back, right beside me, readying for another sideswipe.

The phone fell from my ear and rattled against the floorboards.

“Esmee, what’s going on?” I could hear Leo yell.

The Horseman pulled away half a lane and then plowed headfirst into my Camaro’s driver side door. The impact rattled me to my bones. My car was shoved across the highway and into the barrier. A shower of orange sparks burst from my car as its body panels ground against the concrete wall.

I threw all my weight behind the steering wheel as I fought against The Horseman’s push, but could not free my car. Changing tack, I mashed the brake, thinking The Horseman would speed by. No such luck—The Horseman reacted a heartbeat later, keeping pace with me. As The Horseman reared back to ram my car again, I gunned it, putting half a car’s length between us. The Horseman missed its charge and slammed into the concrete, shattering a headlight. While it was still too early to celebrate, I smiled at this minor victory.

A light rain began to fall, slicking the roadway. I shifted into third and felt the wheels break loose against the slippery asphalt, but managed to keep the car steady. Behind me, The Horseman was creeping up, despite my Camaro giving its all.

My mind hunted for a means of escape.

What if I bailed out of the car? At this speed, it would kill me; then again, if I slowed down, The Horseman would surely finish the job himself. Besides, the door was mangled. Getting out meant I’d have to crawl out the window, race car style.

A sign above the highway read: “Covered Bridge Road. Exit 1.5 miles.”

Seeing as I had no other choice, this option was as good as any.

I downshifted into the cloverleaf exit but still took it too fast, my bumper clipping the barrier as my car did a powerslide across the asphalt. The glare from The Horseman’s red lights filled my mirrors.

The highway descended into a residential street. I blew past the stop sign at the end of the exit ramp, my eyes set on the covered bridge built over a stream ahead. This was a long, straight road—perfect for putting some distance between me and my pursuer. I shifted into top gear and nudged the gas, desperate to make the crossing.

When I realized my mistake, I was going much too fast to do anything about it.

The covered bridge looked straight out of the nineteenth century. On the approach to the bridge, the asphalt road gave way to a ramp made up of wooden planks. The front of my car bottomed-out against the ramp, but its sheer momentum dragged it onward, catapulting it into the air. I was thrown forward against the steering wheel, then back into the well of my seat when the car crashed down onto the plank road. The road surface felt like it was made of speed bumps. With each jarring impact, I felt like every single bolt that held my car together would come loose, and I’d be left sitting in a bare chassis by the time I rolled out the other end.

I exited the bridge too hot, too fast, missing the exit ramp entirely and bottoming-out on all four tires upon pushing into the clear. I downshifted, trying to get the car under control, but my tires spun against the wet roadway, sending my car into a fishtail. I screamed, plunging into the brake as the car did whatever it wanted. Eventually, it came to a stop facing back the way I had come.

My breath came in ragged pants. I couldn’t tell one heartbeat from the next as I leaned forward to rest my head on the steering wheel. I stayed that way for a long stretch, then, once I felt I was settled, I reached for the phone and dialed Leo.

“Esmee! Are you okay?” his panicked voice came through the handset.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “But Gunpowder’s a mess. We’re gonna have to rent something to get home.”

“What the hell happened?”

“He came after me,” I said, my voice a little steadier as I raked my hair out of my face. “I told you he was coming after me.”

The roar of an engine snagged my attention. Leo’s words were drowned out in the noise of blood rushing in my veins. There, sitting at the far side of the bridge, was The Horseman. Despite being well over a hundred feet away, I heard him cackle as though he sat in my passenger seat.

“Esmee,” Leo began, noticeably worried. “What was that?”

A lump caught in my throat. “Him.”

With a shaky hand, I groped about for the keys and turned the ignition. The engine sputtered and coughed, but would not turn over.

The Mustang’s idle rose to a throaty growl as the car rolled into a turn, exposing its long side. Its convertible top withdrew, collapsing into the car’s trunk hatch. Then the black tinted windows rolled down.

I forgot how to breathe as panic gripped me, squeezing the air from my lungs. My vision blurred for a moment, then became crystal clear as the Mustang became backlit by that horrible red light.

There was no one in the car.

“Baby, are you with me?” Leo shouted into the phone.

I couldn’t find the words to answer him. I could only stare at the car that had hunted me down for the better part of the day.

Tires screamed against wet asphalt, ending in the sound of metal punching into metal. Everything went brilliant white; I could see nothing against its glow. When finally my senses returned, I was frightened and disoriented.

I sat in the passenger seat of a vehicle I didn’t recognize.

No, not true—I did recognize this car, and the sudden realization set my stomach flip-flopping.

“Hey, pumpkin.”

I looked at the driver. It was the man whose disembodied voice I’d heard earlier in the day. I recognized him now.

“Daddy?”

“Not really,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s just how I’m allowing myself to appear to you. But we both know I got him too, all those years ago.”

I swallowed hard, thinking back to the time of my father’s death twenty years ago, and how there had been hoof prints scorched onto the pavement at the scene. “H-how?”

“Would you rather I appear as Leo? Or should I have just continued to leave the seat empty while we drove?”

“N-no,” I stuttered.

Lightning lit up the sky outside my window.

“It’s a shame you are the last of your family line. I wasn’t quite ready to pass the mantle. I really liked these steel ponies.”

“Pass the mantle?” That tremor was back in my voice.

He nodded. “You’ll claim Leo when it’s time… and his descendants.”

Flashing red and blue lights drew my attention to the other side of the bridge. A twisted mass of silver scrap iron was wrapped around the front of an eighteen-wheeler. Inside the smaller vehicle, the driver slumped over the steering wheel.

I was dead.

The Mustang rumbled to life, pulling away from the scene that—at best—resembled a modern art emplacement.

“I never understood this nonsense of Death riding a pale horse,” said Dad. “I did tell him all those years ago that it shows the blood too much. Black has always worked out so much better for me.”

About The Author
Stephanie Kelley

Stephanie Kelley is a thirty-something sci-fi geek who wishes Firefly was never canceled. She has a degree in Journalism from Lock Haven University of Pennsylvania. She enjoys writing in the urban fantasy and horror genres.

Steal the Sun, her debut novel, is set in Alaska and centers around a family of supernatural hunters and their gold mine. The novel was released February 13, 2017. Touch the Moon and Hang the Stars, the sequels in her Alaskan Hunter series, are out now.

Special Delivery

By: David Owain Hughes

“…And I’m telling you, Jackson, if we don’t get another earthmover soon, then this job is as good as dead in the water. It’ll put me out of business!”

Jackson held his hands up. “Try and remain calm, Sull—we’ve had this sort of trouble before. Remember the road up north we had to cut in?” Jackson had been Sullivan’s foreman and right-hand-man for fifteen years and counting, since being employed at the birth of Sullivan’s construction company.

“Oh hell, that was different,” Sullivan said, flapping his arms. He went to the porter cabin’s side window and peeked out. His men, who stood around mounds of earth that reached to the skies, were at a loss for what to do. The more time passed without an earthmover, the more of Sullivan’s money got flushed down the toilet in terms of wages paid to idle workers. “Other, smaller firms were willing to help us out back then. Times have changed—people are all for themselves these days.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean, what with the government pushing for infrastructure on a weekly basis.”

“Exactly, damn it! Other contractors are happy to see their competition fail at jobs, whether it’s through manpower, old equipment or faulty machines,” Sullivan added. “We’re on our own.”

“Well, I did put out a few calls, boss, to see if I could pull some strings and cash in on some favours. Someone might be able to get us a dirt hauler out here in the next few days, a week at most.”

“Christ, we’ll be kicked off the job before then. You know how cutthroat it is.”

Jackson sighed. “Shall I tell the men to call it a day—save us some pay? I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Sullivan placed his forearm to the window, knocking his hard hat askew, and pressed his forehead to the Perspex. Sullivan’s Construction Co. was going to be the biggest and best in the world. Everyone was going to know us. He shook his head. When the world finds out I can’t carry out a half-sized job, I’ll be through. Nobody will hire me or my lousy firm.

“I knew taking on this job was too much for a firm our size,” Sullivan lamented. “We just don’t have enough machines.”

His gaze shifted from his workforce, most of whom had glum expressions, and fell on the humongous Caterpillar haul truck he’d purchased from a dealer in Quebec when he’d first opened up shop. The diesel-guzzling, black-smoke-belching monster was capable of holding up to four hundred and fifty kilograms of dirt or gravel and weighed in at a mighty two hundred tonnes. It sat in a dried-out pool of its own engine fluids on two busted axles, three ripped-apart tyres out of eight, and a smashed-in grill which had smoked and flamed on the day of the accident.

How could the lads have been so careless with the cranes? Then again, it was hardly their fault. Sullivan balled his hand into a fist.

Eight days ago, Sullivan and his firm had started setting up their site alongside the mountains they would be tearing down and turning into roads. At first, like always, things had run smoothly—he had his team drilled and everyone knew what they were supposed to do.

By lunchtime, the porter cabins and loos were all in place, and most of the machines that had rolled in on transporters had been offloaded and set to work; the men operating the diggers and dozers wasted no time in earning their pay.

But then came the time to remove the haul truck from off the trailer it had arrived on. After the crane had heaved it into the air, the iron cabling inside the crane’s arm snapped, dropping the truck to the ground below. The crane’s jib then swung wildly out of control, smashing into the Caterpillar and utterly destroying a cabin the work crew had employed as an office.

If any good came from this disaster, it was that no one was killed.

Sullivan’s lead mechanic had been optimistic at first. “I’ll see if I can get the beast back up and running. For now, let the men crack on and pull ‘em mountains down.”

Two days later, the mechanic told Sullivan, with a heavy heart, that the big Cat would never work again. “She’s ready for the junkyard, boss. Can’t you call a favour in?”

Jackson had stepped in at that point, informing both men that he would ask around, which had occasioned their meeting.

“Hey, come on—we’re not done just yet. I’ll be buggered if we’re going down like this, boss.”

Sullivan turned from the window. “Tell the boys to go home and start seeking new employment. We’re through here, Jackson.”

“But—”

“Production’s been on standstill for days, and we can’t hold on any longer. We’re falling way behind, man. Open your eyes.”

Jackson sighed. “Okay, but I want you to know that I was prepared to fight this thing to the end.”

Sullivan nodded. “You’re a good man, and I hope you’ll help keep me on my feet in the unemployment line.”

“Shut up. It’s not going to come to that. Foolish old—”

A loud beeping, much like the sound of a heavy vehicle reversing, filled their cabin, cutting Jackson off.

“What the hell?” Sullivan said, going to the door and opening it. He had to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. “I don’t believe this.”

“What?” Jackson asked.

“Looks like one of your contacts pulled through!”

Backing into the worksite was a transporter carrying the earthmover they’d desperately sought after.

“I bet it was Cunningham,” Jackson said, stepping into the doorway beside his boss. “He promised he’d try his best to get one of his Cats over here.”

“What a beauty,” Sullivan whispered.

“A classic,” Jackson said.

Both men watched as the workforce rallied around to get the machine safely unloaded. From the cab of the hauler stepped a man with a clipboard and some paperwork. He walked towards Sullivan and Jackson, and the latter stepped out to greet the man.

“Got this here relic for ya, chaps,” the guy said, handing the clipboard to the foreman. “Having problems?” He spat, and a stream of yellow-green mucus shot out of his gob and sprayed the dusty floor mere inches from Sullivan’s booted feet.

“Something like that,” Jackson said, taking the proffered paperwork, scanning over it and signing for the machine.

“Jerry,” Sullivan yelled, “get your arse in her as soon as she’s off. I want this earth out of here by five o’clock.”

“You got it, boss!” Jerry, Sullivan’s most experienced earth shifter, called back.

Jackson gave the clipboard back to the deliveryman, who then handed over a stack of paperwork pertaining to the Caterpillar. “Have a good day, guys,” he said, climbing back into his transporter.

By the time he was pulling out, Jerry’s team had the haul truck half full.

“She won’t hold as much as our old one, but she’ll do just fine,” Sullivan said, eyeing the machine. Been a while since I’ve seen one of her age, he thought. He didn’t need to look at the work beast’s specification documents to know she was classic: a 1972 Caterpillar 769B Off-Road End Dumper, probably produced in Australia.

It had DT2 stenciled on its battered right door, and the left wing was dinged. The bodywork was scratched and dented, and one out of its four front lights was cracked. The Cat also bore a fair amount of rust around its shell, not to mention plenty of work scars, such as chipped paintwork and bent, battered mud flaps. The bullbar had chains wrapping it. It looked worn and flimsy; so too did the ladders to the cab’s platform.

For all its faults, the machine worked well enough. Whenever the engine grumbled, thick diesel smoke belched from its vertical exhaust. Something about it, though, just wasn’t right. The earthmover growled like a rabid bulldog on a chain as it idled, giving Sullivan chills.

What a beauty, he thought.

“Odd,” Jackson muttered.

“Huh?” Sullivan turned to his foreman.

“It says here the Cat was sent by a company called: Fermín Facilitators and Expediters.”

“Huh. That’s a strange name for a construction company.”

“That’s assuming they are one. I can’t make heads or tails out of the business card attached. It says: We deal in people’s big, small, and everyday needs. It doesn’t matter if you’re large or miniscule—whatever your needs, we’ll supply it—no questions asked.”

That last phrase made Sullivan take pause. Did it mean the company supplied whatever you needed without any pushback; or did it mean instead that whatever the company got you, you weren’t supposed to ask how they did it?

“Let me see that.” Sullivan took the card and held it to his face. “No contact number, email or fax… It just says, Florida, USA.”

Jackson laughed. “I’ll get Cunningham on the phone later. He’ll be able to shed some light on it, I’m sure.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re back in business!” Sullivan said.

Foreman and boss high-fived, clapped each other on the back, and headed towards the office.

“This calls for a drink,” Jackson said, noting it was noon.

“Aye, why not.”

* * *

When five o’clock rolled around, Jackson blew the whistle on the shift and got everyone off site, including Sullivan. He then made a circle of the machines to make sure everything was fine before heading off himself.

The security guard Sullivan had hired for the course of their job showed up, exchanged a few pleasantries with Jackson, and then saw him off, locking the worksite after him.

“See you in the morning, Jackson,” he said, waving the man off.

“Yeah, catch you at sunup, Toby,” Jackson called back.

I sure hope he doesn’t have to chase after someone! Jackson thought with a smirk. Toby the security guard was a rotund man, and well past his physical prime in terms of age. Jackson zipped his coat up to the throat and left. The winter nights were kicking in hard, with the light burning out of the day as early as four-thirty.

* * *

Toby had set up his guard post in one of the porter cabins. From there, he could see the main part of the worksite and most of the machines, which were parked in a neat line. When full darkness had settled in, Toby illuminated the yard with the floodlights that were dotted around the place.

He put his feet up on the desk and relaxed in his chair, noting it was ten minutes to eight. It was time for the first of his patrols.

“Just have a wee mooch about,” Sullivan had said. “Check there are no gaps in the fence encircling the equipment and that nobody is lurking around the machines.”

If there was one thing Toby hated, it was someone telling him how to do his job. Still, he’d grinned, nodded and answered the old fella in a pleasant tone, thinking how much of an easy gig this job would be.

“It’s dead out this way—you won’t see anyone,” Sullivan had added.

I’ll be the judge of that, Toby thought, getting up from his seat with a grunt and placing his newspaper to one side. He adjusted his belt, donned his hat and plucked the flashlight off his hip.

It took him less than two hours to circle the entire perimeter. The place was deader than a grave, which was good. The last thing any security guard wants is an exciting night on the job.

Done with his rounds, he walked among the machines and was stopped by a strange noise coming from one of the vehicles close by.

“What the—?”

He stepped up to the classic Cat and cast his light over, under and all around it. The noise was coming from its grill. He bent and put his ear to the cool metal, and could swear he heard the machine whisper.

“Run whilst you can…”

He hardly had a chance—something like two rows of teeth clenched down onto the curl of his ear. Toby shrieked in agony as blood streamed down his face. He choked on his scream when suddenly his cheek exploded in pain. The teeth had bit down there too, and were gnashing at the side of his face.

With both hands braced against the machine, he pushed himself away, and could feel skin and sinew stretch and rip. Blood sluiced in the open air between him and the metal monstrosity. When his eyes refocused on the machine’s grill, he saw it was soaked in blood and pocked with bits of his flesh.

“No…” he said in bewilderment. “No, no, oh my God, no…”

The torch quivered as the hands that held it shook.

“This can’t be…” he told himself. “It’s not possible. I… I caught myself on a ragged piece of metal, that’s all.”

The Cat let up thin trails of smoke from its grill. Toby’s bladder pinched at the notion that he might have heard the machine whispering to him again.

Rain began to fall, and when it splashed against the cold, hard metal of the machines around him, it sounded like he was being showered in pebbles.

He turned and ran for his guard post. Once there, he crashed through the door, threw the bolt, went to the desk and rummaged in the drawers for a first-aid kit. As he did, he looked out the window and noticed, one by one, the floodlights dying around the worksite.

Only one remained on—the one that shone above the old Cat. Its beat-up front grille seemed to be smiling at him.

Then the last of the lights winked out.

Toby took a deep breath as the worksite was thrust into total darkness.

“Get a hold of yourself!” he said, on the verge of hyperventilating. “It’s the weather affecting the lights.”

Finally getting his shakes under control, Toby began swabbing his wound with a gauze bandage, unaware that death rolled toward him on six silent wheels. The Cat, its engine still, picked up speed as it trundled down a slight gradient, homing in on the porter cabin.

Toby looked up at the last minute just as the Cat’s headlights flooded through the window in front of him. He barely had time to scream when the massive vehicle smashed through the flimsy structure, flattening everything in its path, and crushing the fat security guard like a plump grape beneath its treads.

* * *

The following morning, Jackson was first at work as usual. Unlike most mornings, however, he could not shake the feeling something was amiss.

“Jesus!” He dropped his ‘butty box’ and stopped whistling his jaunty tune when his gaze fell on the demolished office and their borrowed earthmover buried up to its cab in plywood.

He fumbled for the key to the gate’s padlock.

“Toby? Toby?!” His voice sounded hollow in the dark early morning. “Sweet Jesus.”

When the lock popped off, he ripped the chain from around the entrance and shouldered the gate open. His hat whipped off as he ran inside, though he barely noticed it.

“Toby! Where the hell are you, man?”

Jackson jumped into the eye of the catastrophe and pulled at the busted planks of wood.

“God, I hope he wasn’t—”

He cut short and cupped a hand to his mouth to keep in the bile surging up his throat. Too late—he projectile-vomited all over his boots when he saw what was left of the steamrolled Toby. The colour drained from his face when he saw the man’s guts and viscera floating in a puddle of dried blood and fresh spew.

“Fuck.”

Jackson doubled, his guts continuing to cramp. With effort, he turned and staggered away from the wreckage, all the while holding his stomach.

“Jackson?” It was Sullivan’s voice.

“Call someone,” Jackson managed before more spew dribbled out of his gob.

“Christ, what’s happened?”

“It’s Toby. Poor bastard’s been crushed to death. The C-Cat—brake couldn’t have been properly secured. Fucker’s brains are all over the place…”

* * *

Work was cancelled that day and didn’t resume until after a full inquiry and investigation had been carried out, not to mention a complete safety check.

Toby wasn’t replaced.

Construction resumed a week following the incident. After a couple days without workplace injuries, morale was starting to improve. Work proceeded at full tilt, which brought a smile to Jackson’s face. With any luck, they could make up for lost time.

But after just three days back on the job, disaster struck again.

“We need to push the lads harder, Jackson. We’ve lost so much time.”

“Don’t panic,” Jackson calmed Sullivan down. “Yes, we’re a few weeks over, but it’s not like they’ll hang us for it!”

“Are you sure?” Sullivan raised an eyebrow.

Both men laughed.

“Sull! Sull!” called a scared voice.

“What now?” Sullivan started to rise from his chair but stopped when one of his workers flew through the door, breathless.

“Come quick—it’s Jerry.”

“Jerry?” Jackson turned in his chair.

The man nodded. Sweat poured down his face. “The dumper—she’s rolled.”

“Fucking hell, man.” Jackson flew out of his chair and darted through the office door, followed by Sullivan and the distraught bulldozer operator.

Rolled? Impossible. Jerry’s the most skilled hauler driver I’ve ever known, Sullivan thought, trying to catch up with Jackson and his other man, who had disappeared around a pile of dirt.

When he finally gained on them, he almost crashed into them, for they had stopped dead in their tracks.

Jackson was beside himself in grief, muttering something unintelligible.

“Don’t just stand there, help Jerry!” Sullivan screeched at the men gawking at the upturned dump truck, which by now was almost buried in muck and gravel.

It took the entire workforce, including Sullivan and Jackson, three hours to unearth Jerry. By the time the wretched workman was pulled free, he was gibbering like a loon, spouting something about the machine turning against him.

Of course, nobody had paid much attention. Such a thing as what he spoke of was ridiculous.

After Jerry had been airlifted to the nearest hospital with a broken back, busted arm, two shattered kneecaps and a cracked ribcage, Sullivan, trying not to sound too cold-hearted, ordered his men back to work.

Miraculously, the dump truck, now back on its wheels and ready to go once again, had survived the accident without a fresh scratch. Or so it seemed.

“Paul,” Sullivan called. “Get over here, would you?”

Paul Gailford had worked with Sullivan for as long as Jackson and Jerry, and was the next trusted man to operate the haul truck.

“Yeah, Sull?”

“I want your arse in the earthmover, friend.”

Paul eyed Sull. “I—”

“What’s the matter with you?” Sullivan demanded, balling a fist.

“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve not driven such a machine in a few years. I’m rusty.”

“We haven’t got time for you to be rusty, Paul.” Sullivan was red in the neck and cheeks.

“Easy, Sull,” Jackson cut in. “Go back to the office and I’ll help Paul get started.”

The boss nodded.

* * *

Once Sullivan was out of earshot, Paul spoke up. “That Cat’s got me spooked, man. There’s something not right with it.”

Jackson grinned. “Ghost stories? Are you for real? A man of your size and age? Jesus.”

“You didn’t hear the way Jerry spoke about it—how the truck whispered strange, deranged shit to him all day, every day…”

“Come off it, man. We both know he liked a slug of booze during his shift. You know the kind of crap he was going through with his soon-to-be ex-wife.”

Paul crossed his arms and shook his head. “I don’t buy it. And look at what happened to Toby. Jerry was the most experienced among us on that machine. He would never have set the brakes incorrectly. No way.”

“Look, let’s try and get on with the job at hand, yeah? We’re all a little rattled at the moment.”

Paul huffed, but ultimately conceded. Both men walked over to the vehicle and climbed into the cab. The dials, steering wheel, panels and windows were covered in dried blood.

“Jesus,” Jackson said. “You can’t drive her like this.”

Paul shook his head. “It’ll be fine. I have some rags inside my dozer along with cleaner. I’ll scrub it down before I get started.”

Jackson nodded. “Anything you need me to run through before I head off?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

* * *

Paul returned to the Caterpillar with his cleaning gear, closed the cab door and set to work.

“You’re going to be good for me, huh?” he asked, rubbing crusted blood from off the gearshift and glass. “Are we going to be friends, girl? I know there’s something special about you, and I’m happy to treat you fairly, so what do you say?”

He stroked the seat and kept smooth-talking the metal monster.

“I can treat you gently, okay? I’m sure you’re not all bad.”

Paul looked out the window and saw some of the men had stopped work to stare at him. Some were pointing, others were laughing, but he didn’t really care. Not if this ended up saving his life.

Whoever heard of a fucking cursed construction machine? he thought.

When he was done cleaning, he set his rag and spray aside, sat down in the leather seat as gently as he could, and got the engine started.

After a deep, shaky breath, he set the truck to work.

* * *

“Did you manage to get a hold of Cunningham, Jackson?” Sullivan wanted to know.

“No, but I’ve left him messages to contact me as soon as possible—he’s stateside on a job.”

“Florida way?”

“Yeah, how did you know?” Jackson asked.

“It was on that business card.”

“Well, we definitely have Cunningham to thank for the truck, then.”

“I guess so,” Sullivan agreed. “You don’t really think—” The older man stopped himself.

Jackson looked at him and smiled.

Sullivan sighed. “At least the last of the day has run smoothly.”

* * *

Paul was sweating profusely as he took the twentieth load of the day off site. Since taking control of the rig two weeks ago, no incidents had occurred, and he’d relaxed a little; even the hoodoo-voodoo talk regarding the Cat being cursed had died down.

This bad boy just needed someone with a spot of TLC in their touch, he mused.

With his cargo of dirt and gravel ditched, he took the off-road hauler back to the site to reload it with another pile of muck and debris. That was when the engine started acting up. The Cat juddered and shook, startling the burly Paul.

“What the Christ?”

Warning lights flashed on the truck’s panels and its windows misted. In the fog, the words You’re screwed appeared bit by bit, as if an unseen finger, complete with squeaks against the glass, wrote them there.

Paul started jabbering as he undid his belt and made a grab for the door, but it wouldn’t budge, even though the lock was disengaged.

“Fuck. Open. Up!” The big man was close to hysteria.

He threw his weight against the door and that’s when the Cat started to kangaroo bounce. He was thrown back in his seat, his neck whiplashing. He grabbed onto the steering wheel with a death grip, his knuckles turning white, hoping for the best. And then his head smacked against the door’s frame, opening a four-inch gash and setting off a starburst of dazzling light before his eyes.

Blood sprayed.

Bone cracked.

The Cat continued to spring along the road in a freakish, haphazard fashion, throwing Paul around inside the cab like a rag doll. His face rebounded off the wheel until it caved in beyond recognition.

* * *

By the time Sullivan and the rest were able to haul the doomed driver out of the Cat, his brains were dripping off the ceiling and the gouges his teeth cut into the rubber of the steering wheel would remain forevermore.

It didn’t end there. On the same day, mere hours after Paul had been carted away by an ambulance, Jason Frizz, who was next to take control of the Cat, had been hurled through the windshield, his neck snapping on impact with the ground.

Sullivan had called it after that.

“Everyone home. Now. This job’s done, people.”

Jackson, nor any of the others for that matter, argued with the boss.

* * *

Sullivan, in his office, swigged from a two-litre bottle of JD he kept in a desk drawer.

Jackson sat across from him, stony-faced, and was only too happy to take hits of firewater.

“We have to get rid of that fucking thing!” Sullivan spat, looking out the window. “It’s either cursed or jinxed or both, or something much worse.”

“I’m still putting it down to bad luck or coincidence, Sullivan.”

“Coincidence—have you lost your marbles, man? Four men have died at the wheel of that, that dinosaur sat out there. Look at it—it’s mocking us!” Sullivan tore his gaze from the window and stared at Jackson. “It’s got to go. Now.”

“What the hell do you propose we do with it?”

“Send it to Willie.”

“At the crushing plant? Now who’s lost their—?”

“We must.”

“And what in the hell do I tell Cunningham when he rings, hmm? That we sent one of his classic Caterpillars to be squashed into a cube-shaped parcel because we thought it was hexed?”

“Yes, you’re goddamn right we do.”

Jackson scoffed, got up and walked to the window. “You’ll be rattling bones and flicking holy water at me or the Cat next, Sull. Get a—”

The phone burst to life with a series of shrill rings.

“You answer it, Jackson. I don’t feel like speaking with anyone. And whatever you do, don’t sign us up for any work.”

Jackson pinned the receiver to his ear. “Sullivan’s, Jackson speaking. How can I help? Oh, hey, Cunningham! We were just talking about you…”

Sullivan looked up, his JD in hand, and scowled. That motherfucker probably sent that contraption knowing it would fuck me over.

“You didn’t? Oh… I see. That’s odd. Any idea who they are? Never? Okay…”

Sullivan’s expression changed to that of wonder, and he mouthed, “Everything okay?” The look on Jackson’s face had him taut with anxiety.

When Jackson put the phone down, he looked as though he’d seen a ghost.

“What is it, lad? What did Cunningham say?”

Jackson could only shake his head, and then, frantically, startling Sullivan, he made a dive for the paperwork on his boss’s desk. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” Sullivan watched as his foreman scrambled through folders and bits of paper. “Well, lad?”

“The Cat’s documentation!”

“Oh, er… It’s right here.” Sullivan opened a desk drawer and pulled out the stapled paperwork. “Here—”

Jackson snatched it out of his hand and thumbed through it.

“I don’t understand?”

“That monstrosity has been everywhere but Timbuktu.”

“And? Haven’t most machines we’ve worked with over the years?” Sullivan suggested.

Jackson went to the office computer and inputted the Cat’s full details. Lo and behold, its colourful history appeared before the foreman’s very eyes; Sullivan’s too, as he stood behind his man. In its chequered record was a string of mysterious accidents and operator deaths.

“It says here the machine disappeared out of circulation some ten years ago. Seems Caterpillar became involved and told a press conference that the machine had been destroyed.”

“But it’s in our fucking yard, Jackson. As plain as the eye can see, for Christ’s sake.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Jackson yelled back, shrugging his shoulder to dislodge Sullivan’s hand nestled there.

“Tell me what Cunningham said.”

Jackson turned to his boss and friend of many years and looked him in the eyes. “He didn’t send it.”

Sullivan gasped. “Then, who—”

“He doesn’t know either. He asked about for us, told other contractors we were stuck for an earthmover, but nobody came up trumps.”

“You’re telling me that haul truck just dropped out of the ether?”

Both men looked out the window at the Caterpillar.

Had its back end moved closer?

Jackson shrugged. “We could always contact the sender?”

“But the postcard had no contact details, short of Florida, USA.”

“It’s still worth a shot. How big a place could that be?”

Jackson turned back to the computer and entered the firm’s name: Fermín Facilitators and Expediters.

The search engine returned no matches.

Jackson tried again, adding different words each time: business, construction, heavy-duty machines, industry, industrial.

Zero results.

“Try—” Sullivan started, but he was cut off by a shrill beeping sound. “What in God’s name?”

They both turned in time to see the haul truck’s back end lifting skyward—and its load of dirt, gravel and timber sliding towards the porter cabin in an avalanche of destruction.

Jackson and Sullivan could only scream as the windows, roof and walls caved in on them, burying both men alive.

About The Author
David Owain Hughes

David Owain Hughes is a word-slinger of horror and crime fiction, who grew up on trashy B-movies from the age of five which helped rapidly instill in him a vivid imagination. He’s had multiple short stories published in various online magazines and anthologies, along with articles, reviews and interviews. He’s written for This Is Horror, Blood Magazine, and Horror Geeks Magazine.

Hughes is the author of six horror novels, four short story collections and a plethora of novellas. Although he predominately writes within the bracket of horror and its multiple sub-genres, he’s recently branched out into crime fiction and is slowly carving out a superb series of crime/noir thrillers under the umbrella title of South Wales.

Sprites And Violets

By: Paige Reiring

There ain’t nothin’ like the spring in Splendor.

When I was a kid, I’d go runnin’ for the woods at the first sign of bloomin’ violets. Mama’d always end up yelling at me for shirkin’ my chores, but I knew she wasn’t too mad. She said she’d been the same way when she was little. I never seemed to grow out of it, though.

Walking from the house to the grocery shouldn’t take longer than a quarter of an hour most days, but when the weather warms up and the world is turnin’ green, I end up takin’ every back road I see. The ways I go usually end up takin’ me ‘bout an hour each way, but it’s well worth it. The world feels a lot different in these parts, especially since you rarely see any cars.

That’s why it’s mighty curious when I see a flashy, black convertible cruisin’ toward me. It sure ain’t anybody from around here; I woulda heard at the grocery if someone had gotten a hotrod like this. It’s a sporty thing with two giant headlights juttin’ out the front, and the grill is shaped like a grinnin’ mouth. It’s pretty cute, truth be told. It’s got the look of an old friend who runs into you when the two of you ain’t seen each other in years.

The car stops beside me. From a distance, I couldn’t be sure even though the car’s top was down, but my initial hunch was right—a woman’s drivin’, and a colored woman, no less. I never seen a woman with skin black as hers. It’s just a few shades lighter than her car. She’s a thin woman, cut into sharp angles. Her light hair floats around her head like a halo.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” she says. She’s got some kinda accent I ain’t ever heard. She raises the hand hanging out the window to wave. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten a bit lost. You wouldn’t happen to know which way Atlanta is, would you?”

I’m the type of woman to blush at near anything, and now’s no different. She’s got an impressive air about her, like she could command crowds. I guess I’m a little jealous.

“It’s sorta complicated,” I say. “You got yourself real lost back here.”

When she smiles, my chest tightens, and I feel my blush grow deeper. A snap of thunder grabs our attention. A shower’s rollin’ in. I didn’t even notice the clouds darken. The wind rustles the buddin’ trees and grass, and the first drops of rain dampen my dress sleeves.

With a curse, the woman hops out of her car and pulls the front seats forward to access the trunk. I oughta be runnin’ for cover myself, but instead I watch her remove the soft top and start affixing it to the car. She must be from the city. Ain’t nobody around here that would dress like this—tight, high-waisted jeans and a cropped turtleneck. I can’t stop thinkin’ about how thin she is. Watchin’ her stretch and reach over the car makes it all the more obvious.

“Are you a model?” I ask.

God, am I stupid?

She laughs. “No, ma’am.”

She gets the top on the car just in time. As she checks that everything is secure, the clouds open up and start rainin’ in earnest. She gets back into her car quick, then looks at me expectantly.

“You just gonna stand out there?” She has to holler over the pelting rain for me to hear. “Get in!”

I run to the passenger’s side. There’s no handle, and when she sees me standin’ there like a fool, she reaches over and opens the door from the inside to let me in. By now, I’m half-drenched, and the top of my groceries have gathered small puddles of water. When I settle into the leather seats, however, I find some comfort. They musta been soakin’ in the sun, because I can feel their warmth through my dress.

“You all right?” asks the woman.

I look for the roller to put the window up, but there ain’t one.

“How do I roll the window up?” I ask.

“There’s no window. Sorry.”

No window? What kind of car is this? Still, only a few drops of water splash on my arm, which is much more bearable than standing out there beneath the storm’s full force.

“Thank you for letting me into your car,” I say. “That was mighty kind of you.”

“No worries. You woulda looked pretty sad out there if I’d just left you.” She smiles. “You live around here? I could give you a ride to your place if you don’t mind telling me how to get to the freeway.”

“Yes, I live about two miles from here.”

“It’s a good thing I happened to drive by then, huh? Otherwise you’d be in a heap of trouble.”

Her smile sure is contagious. Holding my grocery bag in one arm, I press my free hand into the seat’s leather at my side. The woman puts the car into first gear, and it hums to life as we set off down the road.

“You’re not from Splendor, are you?” I ask. “I know just about everybody, but I don’t recognize you.”

She smirks. “Just rolled in. Name’s Aziza.”

A strange name for a strange lady. I struggle with what to say next, not wantin’ her to get the wrong idea. She probably knows, right? She’s obviously not dumb. But I know I can’t, in good conscience, say nothing…

“I know you’re bein’ kind to me, but I feel like I should warn you—folks ain’t kind to your people out here. I realize that maybe you weren’t plannin’ on hanging around, but if you need gas or anything, I would try to wait ‘til you got outta Splendor.”

My voice shakes a little when I say it. I’ve been lookin’ ahead, but I try to peek at her from the corner of my eye to see if what I said upset her.

She don’t look mad at all. She looks more like Mama did back when I was a kid and I asked her if all girls had to get married when they grew up—a little amused, a little sad.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” she says. “Seems I’m having decent enough luck so far. I picked you up, didn’t I?”

As soon as I turn toward her, mouth open, she winks, and I gotta look away just as fast. I’ve always had a hard time with people sayin’ nice things about me. Still, if she’s tryin’ to make me feel better, it ain’t helpin’ a ton. Aziza don’t know ‘bout the awful things that happen around here to colored folk. She didn’t see what the local boys did to the Johnson house, and she don’t know how they talk once they get some whiskey in them.

“Are you from Atlanta?” I ask.

“What makes you say that?”

“You give off a city feeling. Just the way you dress and talk. The car’s too fancy for the country, and it ain’t like any I ever seen.”

“Do you like it?” Aziza asks. “Austin-Healey Sprite. Just came out last year.”

“It’s nice.” I rub my thumb against the smooth, warm leather. “Is it fast?”

Aziza bares a toothy grin, and before I can say anything else, we’re flyin’ down the road like bats outta Hell. The car slices through the curving back roads as we descend toward the river. Then we drive alongside it as the heaving storm churns it into a torrent. The sheets of rain are so thick I can hardly see where we’re going. Every twist of the road surprises me, and they’re accompanied by sharp squeals from the tires. But even when the car slips a few feet across the pavement and our speed throws me into Aziza’s shoulder, I’m not scared. As the rain dies down, Aziza slows to a stop at the edge of a vast field.

“Fantastic!” I laugh. “Wow. I don’t know if I’ve ever gone that fast.”

The sun is just startin’ to poke through the clouds, castin’ thick beams of light around us. Wild violets coat the field beside us, their bright purple petals glistening with raindrops. I ain’t ever seen violets so dense and widespread like this, and I half hang out of the window to marvel at them.

“Those are my favorites,” I say, pointin’ to the field. “I’ve always loved violets.”

We look out into the field in silence, enjoying the view. I can hear the earth around us settlin’ as the dirt drinks the rain and feeds it back to nature. But I can’t hear anything else—no birds, no wind-ruffled trees, no crickets or frogs. And suddenly I realize I don’t know where we are. I’ve walked along all the roads in this area; I oughta know this place, but I can’t say I’ve ever been here. I can’t even tell how long we’d been driving. The sun hovers directly above us, but I know for sure I left the grocery store near two-thirty. It should be lower in the sky.

“Can I ask you a question?” Aziza asks.

I jump and look back at Aziza. She wears a blank expression that holds no trace of the fun girl I’d seen before. Maybe it’s at trick of the sunlight, but her eyes have taken on a gold shimmer.

“Sure, what is it?”

“Why’d you try to warn me about the people around here?” she asks.

I think to myself: Ain’t it obvious? Then I say, “Cause I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Why?”

“Why?” I tilt my head while I think, not really sure whether I understand the question. “I mean, I don’t want nobody to get hurt. And I guess colored people are more at risk around here than anybody else. I’ve heard a lot of the boys around town talkin’ about that stuff on the news with desegregation and whatnot. I know I’m not very smart, but I still don’t think it’s right to be treatin’ your people like that.”

“Why?” she asks again, her tone still flat.

“Well, I guess part of it is that I don’t like the folks that have been sayin’ bad things about colored people to begin with. But also, I ain’t never been hurt by your people. And when I hear the boys talkin’ ‘bout y’all, their stories are always changing.”

A story comes to mind, and I can’t help a humorless laugh. “One day they sayin’ y’all are stupid savages that shouldn’t be allowed to vote or sit in the same places as white people. Next day, they’re out there sayin’ you’re super smart Soviet spies. It’s like they just make things up based on however they’re feelin’ that day.”

When I look at Aziza, I still can’t tell what she’s thinkin’. She’s starin’ ahead, almost like she don’t even hear me.

“Do you have any Klansmen here?” she asks, her voice even.

“Like those folks in the white robes? Oh, yeah. Course, they’re always being secretive even though they meet at Dan Williams’s house every week. Don’t know why they bother with the hoods when the police don’t care that they’re here. I don’t think Dan’s ever hurt nobody. He seems like a good man. Just a little misguided is all.”

“Is it misguided to chase people out of their homes and threaten them with violence?”

I hum for a moment. “I guess you’re right, there. It’s hard to think about the people you know as doing bad things. Maybe I’m just trying to justify it to myself, but it wasn’t ‘til Dan started hangin’ around that Rodney Birch that he started actin’ real ignorant.

Birch is always pickin’ fights. He makes fun of Karen, his wife, too. He curses at her and calls her stupid. And I can tell you for a fact that Karen ain’t stupid.”

At some point during my rant, my hands rolled into fists and started crushin’ my grocery bag. I take a breath to relax myself.

It’s always hard thinkin’ about Karen. Even if we don’t talk much anymore, she was my best friend back in high school. When we’d walk home together from school, she’d ask me how I thought flowers knew when it was spring or what made stars sparkle. I always figured that God had just done it, but then she’d tell me what she’d read in her daddy’s science journal that week.

She’s a remarkable woman to be sure. But since she married Rodney, we haven’t really seen each other except by accident. Truth be told, I hated Rodney from the moment I saw him chattin’ Karen up. It didn’t matter if he was handsome. I could sense he was rotten on the inside. And now that they’re married, sometimes I’ll run into Karen at the store or at church, and she looks like she’s had the life drained out of her.

Hurts my heart.

“Sounds like you’ve got good instincts,” says Aziza, “and a good soul. I’m sorry that the two of you have lost contact. Losing touch with a friend that way is very difficult.”

Did I say all that out loud?

“Thanks,” I mumble.

When she don’t respond, I look at her again. She seems so sad now. She stares off at nothin’ and purses her lips. The sight of her makes my chest ache a little more, and I wonder what she must be thinkin’ about that would change her mood so fast. Maybe the same thing that happened to me and Karen happened to her, too.

“I’m sorry to pressure you, but I think I ought to be getting home,” I tell her.

Whatever she was thinkin’ about, my voice seems to pull her out of it. She looks at me, and her eyes are dark again.

“Right,” she says.

The sun’s gotten low on the horizon now, sunk behind the fields of grass and violets.

“I’m a little embarrassed to say, but I don’t actually know this road,” I admit. “I’m not sure how to get back from here.”

“I remember the way.”

Sure enough, she does. It takes a quarter of an hour to get back to the spot where she picked me up. I try to trace the path in my head, but I can’t figure out for the life of me where these roads came from. When we’re back where we started, I direct her to my home. I’ll have to try to take the path on my own tomorrow.

In the meantime, I keep talking. I tell her about myself and Splendor and whatever else springs to mind. I even get her to talk a little bit. I learn that she was born in Africa, and she only came to the States recently. Even though she ain’t American, she’s been rallyin’ hard for civil rights. That’s why she’s headin’ to Atlanta.

My house is on a street with five others, each givin’ the others a wide berth. When Aziza stops in the driveway of the last house on the left, the sun’s gone and the crickets are chirpin’ like mad. The round moon shines bright above our heads, and the fireflies’ pulsing lights flitter through the grass.

How had we been gone so long?

I climb out of the car, then turn around to face it. Aziza looks both out of place and perfectly at home in her little Sprite, which continues to beam excitedly at me.

“Thank you again for the ride,” I say. My mind is desperate to find to a way to keep her here. Maybe it’s because I’ve gone so long without another girl to talk to. Married life seems to be like that. “Would you like to come in? I still need to make dinner, and I’m sure Henry wouldn’t mind havin’ you join us.”

“Thank you, but I think I’ll have to pass today.”

“Well, maybe, if you don’t end up too far off—come back tomorrow. I’ll bake something, to thank you.” You’d think I was trying to stall her from going off to war. “I mean it. I need to thank you proper, after all.”

Aziza smiles, and the Sprite’s engine purrs in response.

“I’ll see you around, Sylvia.”

She’s gone before I can ask how she knows my name.

* * *

“There you are.”

My heart sinks soon as I hear Henry’s voice. I set the bag of groceries down on the kitchen counter, and he follows me in.

“I was worried about you, Sylv. Worthington said you left his store hours ago, and Dan said he hadn’t seen you since the morning.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. The time just got away from me.”

I turn around and lean against the counter. Henry’s face makes it clear that he’s been worryin’ about me since he got back from the factory. He looks even more tired than usual, and his dark hair is mussed, most likely from running his hands through it all night.

“I was walkin’ home—you know how I like to take the long way. Then this lady drove up to ask me for directions, and it started rainin’, so she told me to get in her car, and then I guess we got lost…”

It’s not ‘til I’m sayin’ it out loud that I realize how silly it sounds. Henry don’t seem sure what to make of it, but eventually he sighs and accepts it.

“Well, I’m glad you’re safe,” he says.

I start putting the groceries away and ask him how his day went. I try to listen, but my mind keeps driftin’ to Aziza. I wonder if she’ll actually stop by tomorrow. I doubt it. I mean, I was the one who told her to stay out of town, after all. Not very fair of me to ask her to come back.

Henry peeks through the window by the dining table. The weekly ruckus of Dan’s meetings has started. After six months of these things takin’ place at Dan’s, we’ve almost gotten used to the yelling, but there’s always an air of fear hanging about. The Johnsons had been kind people, even if they’d mostly stuck to themselves. Henry and I don’t have a reason to feel that Dan and his friends would have any grief with us, but knowing what they did still makes me nervous. I’m glad Aziza dropped me off when she did. Even if she’s on her way out of town, I wouldn’t want any of those folks seeing her.

“Sylvia, can we talk about something?”

“Sure. What’s wrong?”

Henry leans against the wall with his arms crossed.

“I was talkin’ to Mr. Erikson today. He says he wants to take me outta the factory and put me on the sales team.”

My face hurts from the big grin spreading across it.

“That’s great!” I say. “Congratulations. You’re the perfect fit for that kind of work.” But his face don’t make it look like he’s excited. “Ain’t that good?”

“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “But it got me thinkin’, you know. That kinda job means I’ll be spendin’ time in an office, makin’ more money than I am now, hopefully. It’ll be a good, stable setup. Which makes me think that now might be the best time to start tryin’ for a baby.”

The nausea hits me immediately. If I wasn’t leaning on the counter, I surely would have fallen over.

“Oh.”

Henry looks anywhere in the room that ain’t at me.

“I know that you ain’t ever felt ready for us to… But we’re married. Mom’s been on me for two years askin’ when she’s gonna get a grandbaby.”

“Well maybe your mama should mind her own damn business,” I snap.

“She’s right, though.” His voice gets a little louder, and I instinctively shrink back towards the counter. He must notice, because he quickly lowers his voice and talks softly. “We can take it real slow. I’ll make sure you feel comfortable, okay? I love you. You know I don’t wanna hurt you. And you’ll be so happy once we got a baby. You’re always sayin’ how lonely you are here. Maybe having some kids runnin’ around will make it better.”

I start shaking my head.

“No, Henry,” I whisper, my voice crackin’ on his name. “I can’t. I can’t do it. I don’t even want a kid.”

“Hey now.”

Henry crosses the kitchen and pulls me into his arms, against his chest. I always feel safe when he holds me, and it’s no different now. Still, it doesn’t eliminate the fear chillin’ my bones. He runs his hand over my hair, and I cry openly into his neck.

“I know you’re scared, but it’ll be fine. And once I get my promotion all official, we’ll be able to afford a good doctor to make sure everything goes smoothly and there ain’t no complications.”

He sure don’t get it, but I guess neither do I. This fear in me—it’s not about pregnancy or kids or anything like that. It’s something deeper in me that even I don’t understand.

Even so, I can’t help but feel guilty. Course he wants kids. When we was growin’ up, he was always the one keepin’ the other kids in line, makin’ sure everyone was playin’ fair, ensuring apologies made it to the right people when someone’s feelings got hurt. That’s why I agreed to marry him.

He’s a good man, and he deserves a wife that can give him kids and make him dinner on time and not leave him wondering where the hell she’s been for the last six hours.

“I’ll try.”

* * *

On our wedding night, I was so nervous about makin’ love that I threw up on Henry before we even made it to the bed. We chalked it up to too much whiskey, but even if things went better thereafter, we ain’t ever been able to actually consummate our marriage. Tonight, it didn’t go as bad as the first time, but it comes in a strong second.

Our handful of attempts has always involved shaking and a few tears, but something about tonight has me thrown into full hysterics. Maybe it’s the disorientation that came from riding with Aziza. Maybe it’s because I can hear Dan and his friends yelling across the street. Maybe it’s just ‘cause I feel like a piece of shit. Henry has barely gotten my shirt off before I start crying. He holds my face and tells me that it’s okay, he loves me, I’m safe, but all that just makes it worse. He keeps trying to ask what about it all makes me scared, what’s upsetting me, but I can’t find words for it.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I’m a broken record.

But God bless Henry. He tells me it’s okay, strokes my hair, and helps me into my nightgown. When we get in bed, he don’t try anything slick. He just tucks the blankets around me and hugs me tight.

* * *

Once I stop cryin’, it doesn’t take Henry more than half an hour to start snoring. Between his breaths, I hear the clamor from Dan’s house die down until it sounds like everyone has left for the night. When I realize sleep ain’t comin’, I wiggle out of Henry’s arms and grab my robe. I turn on a single lamp in the kitchen as I set up the teakettle. While I wait for the water to boil, I pull aside the curtains and look at Dan’s house across the lawn.

Sure enough, the lights are all out and the only car in his driveway is his Ford. It makes me feel mighty uncomfortable knowin’ they have those meetings over there. The Johnsons were the only colored people around here, and they’re gone now. I don’t know what else Dan and his friends have to complain about.

The darkness outside don’t look natural. Even on cloudy nights, you can see the soft glow from Atlanta to the south. But tonight, there’s nothing. The crickets and bullfrogs seem to have gone silent. I’ve only seen them do that when a hurricane was approachin’, but there ain’t a hint of one. The only sound breakin’ the silence is Henry’s snores in the other room.

I squint to try to see better, but it’s like it only gets darker. The reflection from the table lamp is makin’ it near impossible to see. I turn it off and near press my face against the window. I can barely make out the shape of Dan’s house.

The kettle starts to whistle, but I can’t get it right now. There’s something strange out there. It’s like… two discs floating above the ground, just a few feet apart. It sure ain’t an animal but I don’t know what else it could be. It feels like the darkness is seeping into the house, crawling into my periphery, when I see another shape in the dark, just below the discs—a huge, grinning mouth.

The kettle screeches, and I jump back from the window. When I realize where the noise is coming from, I fumble in the dark to pull it off the heat and rush back to the window. Whatever was out there, it’s gone. The clouds have parted slightly, and the world looks a little more normal. I sigh with relief, realizing only now that I’d been holding my breath the whole time, then back away. The curtain drops into place, obscuring the window.

Exhaustion kicks in immediately. Ain’t no need for tea, now. I let the kettle sit on the stove and return to bed. Henry’s back is to me, and I lie down so that my back is to him, as well.

* * *

Sunlight is just starting to leak into our bedroom by the time I wake up. I can barely make out the hands of the alarm clock to see that it’s six-thirty. Henry’s still got another half-hour to rest, and when I look over at him, all I can feel is the guilt of last night.

I carefully extract myself from bed. I figure I’ll make pancakes for breakfast. Although they’re Henry’s favorite, I don’t usually wake up with enough time to make them. I go through the steps of being a Good Wife: I get out the eggs, milk, and butter; I start the coffee maker; I start warming a pan. But all along, a nagging thought continues to drag my attention to the window next to the dining room table. Last night feels like a nightmare punctuated by that strange vision of… What? It had almost looked like some kind of cruel smile.

My curiosity brings me to the window, and I draw the curtain aside. Whatever had been there before is gone, but there’s something left in its place. I squint to try to make out what the shadowy lump could be. A dog? If it is, it’s a mighty big one. Something on it moves, and it spurs me to run out the front door and toward Dan’s house.

My slippers slap against the pavement. As I draw close, I realize the movement I’d seen hadn’t been the lump itself, but two crows picking at it. As I approach, they fly off and sit on Dan’s roof to watch me. The silhouette in the driveway gains color and detail as I approach, but I can’t believe what I’m seeing until I’m right over it.

It’s Dan Williams himself. He’s got his pajamas on, but they’re torn and covered in dark stains. His mouth is set into a scream, and his eyes are open. At least, one of them is—the other is gone, likely pecked apart by the hungry crows. Still, the worst sights are his right leg and left arm. They’re both gone, leaving bloody, bare stumps.

It feels like the world is twisting around me. I stumble backwards, then forwards, as if looking again will make this less real. Instead, it makes it worse. Now I see the patches of flies on his skin and more gouges where the crows must have been chipping away at him. I open my mouth to scream, but the stench of blood floods my mouth and chokes me. With no other options, I turn tail and sprint fast as I can to my house. My knees keep buckling underneath me, knocking me to the ground, but I bare the pain of them scraping across the road so that I don’t lose my momentum. My breath returns when I slam into my front door, and I scream.

Henry’s out in a hurry with just his pants on, but when he asks me what’s wrong, I can only point across the street with a shaking hand. He goes to investigate, and when he sees it, he doubles over and vomits beside Dan’s body.

The world feels far away, like I’m watching a horror flick at the drive-in. The police arrive and tape off the scene. They ask me questions, but they sound like they’re underwater. I don’t even know if I’m responding, but they eventually leave me alone. At some point, I end up inside, back in bed, a flask of smelling salts clutched in my hand.

The sharp scent of ammonia tugs me back to the present. It’s just as I’m getting my bearings that an officer comes to speak with me.

“Mrs. Butler? Are you feeling any better?”

Sheriff Clark has been in charge around here for fifteen years, but having stayed out of trouble, I haven’t seen him much. Not much happens in Splendor, but he’s still got the lines on his face that say he’s been doing this job for too long.

“A little,” I say.

“I’m glad to hear. I was hopin’ that maybe we could ask you a few questions.”

I grip the flask of salts a little tighter and nod.

“We talked to some of the fellas that visited Mr. Williams last night,” says Sheriff Clark. He pulls a small notebook from his back pocket and flips it open. “Think we may have a lead, and I was hoping to see if you had anything to add. Did you see anything unusual last night outside of Mr. Williams’s house?”

I shake my head. “No, sir. I saw that some folks had come to visit him, but it was the same as every week. Henry and I went to bed after that, so we didn’t see nothin’ else.”

“What time did you get home last night?”

“About… nine, I believe. But I’m not sure. It was late.”

“Where had you been?”

“Worthington’s.”

“They close at six, don’t they?” he asks. “I don’t suppose it took you three hours to get home.”

I nearly forgot. The memory of Aziza comes back like lightning.

“That’s right,” I say. “I left Worthington’s around two-thirty, and I took the back way home, as I usually do. But it started raining, and this girl was driving by, and she offered to give me a ride home.”

“Have you seen her around town before?”

“No, sir.”

He writes that down.

“You said she was in a car,” he says. “Can you describe it to me?”

“It was a black Austin-Healey Sprite with a convertible top. She said it came out last year.”

Sheriff Clark grimaces. “So she took you back here in that car, and you arrived home at nine?”

“Yes.”

“What happened between the hours of three and nine, then? Did the two of you go anywhere else?”

Were we really together for six hours? It doesn’t feel possible, and yet the facts stand as he says.

“We were just talkin’, mostly,” I say. “About her car, where she was going. She was trying to get to Atlanta, but she’d gotten lost on some back roads. I was trying to help her find her way, but I guess we just got caught up talking. She’s real easy to talk to.”

“Can you describe her? Did she give you her name?”

A siren goes off in my head. When the Johnson home was attacked, it took Clark and his boys nearly an hour to get there. By then, the Johnsons were gone, and their home was ashes. Everyone knows it was Rodney, Dan, and their crew that done it, but far as I know, Sheriff Clark has never looked into it.

“She was blonde,” I say. “Bright eyes and real pale. You could tell she was a wealthy type. Guess she had to be with that car, you know? She said her name was Sarah.”

Clark stares at me, and I try not to let my face betray me. After several long seconds, he writes what in his notebook.

“Mrs. Butler, we suspect that this woman may be responsible in part for what happened to Mr. Williams,” he sighs. “A car matching the one you described was seen racing up and down the streets last night around three in the morning. Did you tell Sarah anything about Mr. Williams, by chance?”

They think Aziza did this?

“No, sir. I mostly just talked about myself and Henry.”

Clark waits a little longer to see if I’ll say anything, but I remain quiet. He sighs and tucks his notebook into his back pocket.

“You know the number for the station?”

“Of course.”

“Well if you think of anything that might be of help, you let me know. We don’t want to see this happen to anybody else.”

When he leaves, he closes the door behind him. I lie back down and stare at the ceiling. Aziza sure couldn’t have done that. She didn’t seem malicious in the slightest. Even if she wanted to, she’s thin as a beanpole and doesn’t have much in the way of muscle. And Dan’s arm and leg… It hadn’t been a clean cut. The stumps were ragged, like they’d been ripped off.

I bring the flask to my nose and inhale deeply. It burns my nose, and my eyes water. But I’m here in the present again, and I feel a little more at ease. Once my shoulders loosen a bit, I try to go to sleep.

* * *

I wake to Henry’s knocking. He pokes his head in the room, and we smile at each other when we make eye contact.

“Hey, darlin’,” he says. “Someone’s here to see you.”

My heart jumps into my throat as he opens the door. It’s Karen that walks in, her baby in her arms. She’s wearing a green dress with a white cardigan, and I can see she’s got another baby on the way. Her hair is neatly combed, curling at her shoulders in the same cut she’s had since our freshman year of high school.

“I’ll let you girls have some time alone,” says Henry. “Just holler if you need anything.”

He closes the door behind him. Tears burn my eyes.

“Hey, Karen,” I say, and I fight to keep the tears inside.

“Hey, Sylvia.”

She sits on the bed at my side. Her baby grabs a lock of her hair and puts it in his mouth, but she don’t even seem to notice. I nervously clutch the flask of smelling salts in my lap, and she places a soft hand atop mine.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?”

“Well, I’ve been better,” I say. I try smiling, but she doesn’t smile back. “How about yourself?”

“I’m doing well, thanks.” It sounds rehearsed, as though she’s said it a million times. “When I heard about what happened, I thought I should come over to check on you.”

She still cares about me, just like I still care about her. I knew I’d been crazy to think otherwise. She’s been busy with her toddler and probably prepping for this next baby. The relief from this realization removes nearly all the tension from my body.

“Do you have any idea what happened?” she asks.

“None.”

She bites her lip before speaking again. “Rod said you were the one who found Dan. Seems Lauren didn’t even know he’d gotten out of bed.”

I hadn’t even thought of Dan’s wife. God, I hope she didn’t see him out there. I don’t think about her for long, though. But just the mention of Rodney pushes her out of my mind.

“Is Rodney here?” I ask.

“He’s across the street, talkin’ to the cops.”

Another release of tension from my shoulders.

“Listen,” Karen whispers. “Rodney says that he saw you riding with a Negro woman yesterday.” She hesitates. “In the same car that was seen racing around town.”

I pull my hand away from hers.

“What makes him say that?”

“He went to Dan’s early yesterday before all the boys got together. He told me he heard some kind of hotrod outside, and when he looked, you were in a fancy convertible with a Negro woman.”

“Well, you can ask the police, but I wasn’t riding with a colored woman. She was white, and I don’t see any reason why she should be a suspect.”

I can tell by Karen’s face she knows I’m lying.

“I just want you to be careful. You don’t want to be mixing with the wrong sort of people.”

I can’t help laughing. “Don’t talk to me about mixin’ with the ‘wrong sort of people,’ Karen. You married goddamn Rodney Birch.”

She recoils from me. Maybe it’s not right, but it feels good to see that hurt her. Her toddler gurgles like he’s about to cry, but Karen pats his back and he settles down.

“Is that why you actually came down here?” I press her. “Cause Rodney thinks I know who did it?”

“No,” she says. She doesn’t look tired anymore. Now she’s angry, and I’m happy to see real emotion on her face. She lowers her voice and leans closer to me. “This is a bad situation. Rodney already thinks you’re a dyke, Sylvia, and if he suspects that you’ve been fooling around with a nigger that killed his friend, I don’t think I can stop him from—”

I sit up and shove her shoulder hard as I can. She stands and reels back, nearly dropping her baby.

“Get the hell out of my house.”

The baby starts wailing. Karen tries to console him, but he won’t let up. With any hope of quieting him gone, she glares at me.

“I’m trying to help you,” she hisses. I can’t tell if she’s hurt or scared or mad, but I don’t give a damn either way.

“You ain’t even spoke to me since we graduated. Soon as you started dating Rodney, you forgot all about me.” I’m shaking so bad that I can’t even look at her. I stare at my hands in my lap, curling my fingers into fists and wondering if I could break the metal flask open with just my grip. “Is he that much better than me? Or do you just love being called a ‘bitch’ and getting your ass beat?”

“You…” The word leaves her in a huffed breath. Her arms droop, and the baby nearly slips from her arms again. She clutches him tight to her. The tension breaks on her face, and with it come the tears. “You have no idea what I’ve gone through.”

“How am I supposed to know what you’re going through when you don’t even talk to me?” My voice rises of its own volition. It just eggs her baby on, making him cry louder. “You were my best friend, and you might as well have forgotten I exist.”

“I just told you what he thinks of you. I didn’t want you getting hurt just because I was talking to you,” she says. “Besides, it’s not like he’s wrong, is he?”

For a moment, my anger disappears. I blink at her.

“What?” The word barely slips through my lips. She won’t say what she means, and even worse, her baby is only getting louder. I put my hands over my face, wishing I could grab him by the throat and throttle him. He won’t shut up. His screams are so goddamn loud, and my head already hurts. “You need to get out of my house right now. I swear to God, Karen, I don’t want to ever see your face again.”

I keep my eyes closed and my face covered. After a few seconds, I hear her walk to the door and leave. With the baby’s cries off in the distance, my anger falls away, and I start cryin’ myself. It’s the same kind of sharp, thick wails I had last night. Henry comes in quick, but when he tries to hug me, I shove him away and tell him to leave. I bury my face in my hands as he heads out. The door shuts behind him, and the house is silent once more.

* * *

It’s not until a few days later that I realize that Aziza never came to visit. I can’t focus on anything but the news.

Dan wasn’t the last victim. Every couple nights, another man is found dead, missing his left arm and right leg. Six were found in their front yards, just like Dan. Another man, though, was discovered in an alley not far from a bar he was known to frequent. All of them were friends of Dan’s and Rodney’s. Each time, that same black car was seen racing around town.

No one can catch up with it. The cops managed to chase it a couple nights ago, but the rumor is that the car disappeared around a corner on Willow Road. I know that road well; it’s a long stretch that runs for miles with empty fields all around. There’s no way it could have just vanished, yet it did.

A few news reporters have shown up on the front porch to ask questions. When Henry’s home, he shoos them away. I think he’s trying to forget this is happening. We haven’t talked about it. We haven’t talked about almost anything.

I for one am not being much of a good wife. I try to avoid anyone’s company, and when Henry gets home, I fake a headache or find some other excuse to hole up in the bedroom and sleep.

It’s been almost two weeks since I saw Aziza. I can’t help but wonder if she’s the one responsible for all of this. Part of me says she can’t be—so much about this story makes it sound like the work of the devil, and she was much too kind to be that.

“I got that promotion,” Henry says as he gets dressed. “I’ll be starting in sales on Monday.”

I’m still in bed with my back to him, but I perk up a little when he says that.

“That’s exciting, Henry,” I say, but my tone is lackluster. “I’m really happy for you. Honest.”

He smiles just a little.

“The guys at work said they wanted to take me out tonight to get some drinks. Do you think you’ll be okay here?”

I nod. When he starts to walk past the bed, I reach out to grab his hand and hold him back.

“I’m real sorry. About how I’ve been.” He allows me to pull him a little closer, and I rub my thumb over the back of his hand. “I’m gonna try to do better. Really, I am.”

I don’t know if he’s looking at me with pity or sadness or even amusement. But then he leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead.

“I saw it, too,” he murmurs. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget what he looked like when we found him.”

It takes me a moment to realize that he’s talking about Dan. I don’t dare correct him on what’s actually been bothering me.

“I’m not saying you should lie in bed forever, but I understand you needing to take your time,” he goes on. “All this, it’s just…” He shakes his head. “I’ll see you late tonight, okay?”

I nod, and he gives me another kiss before he leaves the room.

I stay in bed for an hour or so before dragging myself up. I can’t remember the last time I bathed, so I take extra time to clean myself up. The house, too, has fallen into disarray with me being bedridden. Henry’s been trying his best, though, bless his heart.

I start in the bedroom and begin to clean up from there. I don’t turn on the radio, and I don’t look at the newspaper before throwing it away. I know that all I’ll find if I do either is more news stories about the murders. But it’s easy for my mind to wander without a distraction.

I think about how bad a wife I’ve become. I think about how much finding Dan must have upset Henry, and how I didn’t do a damn thing to help him feel better when he has done so much to help me. I think about everything Karen said, each word cut into my brain like scars. By the time the sun starts setting, the loneliness, guilt, and shame are overwhelming. Every inch of my body is yelling at me to run away. I put on an old sweater and head for the door.

I ain’t ever gone on a walk this late at night. The twilight makes the houses look like plastic with toy cars parked out front.

I have to pass Karen’s to get to my usual back roads. Rodney’s truck is parked out front. The living room window glows from a light obscured by curtains. Part of me thinks about stopping to apologize to Karen for what I said. I decide against it. I don’t have nothing to apologize for. I keep walking.

I avoid my usual route, instead choosing those which seem the least familiar. As usual, there’s no traffic. Anyone who was gonna be driving this road’s already come and gone by now. Even the occasional farmhouse I pass by has its lights off. The world seems to be dead asleep. It’s just me and the crickets.

I’ve been walking for probably an hour before I hear the rumble of a car coming down the road. For the first time in weeks, my heart swells with excitement and I turn around, expecting a black car with headlights and grill that make it look like it’s smiling. Instead, I see a rusted Ford. It jerks to a stop at my side.

Rodney Birch leans out of the window to leer down at me. He’s got some of his friends with him, two shoved into the front bench seat and another four sitting in the truck bed. The girls at school used say that they thought Rodney was handsome, but all I see is a mean mug on a Cary Grant wannabe.

“Awful late to be taking a walk, ain’t it?” he asks.

The men in the back of the truck don’t notice me. They’re too busy chatting between sips of beer. The two in front, however, stare intently and whisper between themselves.

I stand as straight as I can, neck craned back to look up at him.

“You haven’t seen a little black racecar out here, have you?” he goes on.

“No.”

He hums, disbelieving. “Well, you better keep your eyes peeled. People are dyin’ all over the place, you know?”

I can’t help but look away.

“If you want, we could give you a ride home.” His smile makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “Does Henry know you’re out here?”

“Course he does,” I say. “He’s expecting me home soon, actually.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s looking out for you,” Rodney says. “Otherwise, I bet it’d be real hard to find you if anything were to happen. Take care, Sylvie.”

His truck squeals and sends up a spray of dirt when he takes off. I watch it fly down the road, and as soon as I lose sight of it, I turn and run. I can feel my pulse hammering against my skull. I’m so stupid. Why’d I think it would be a good idea to come out here? At this time of night. Alone.

After heading back a few streets, I come to the uneasy realization that I am terribly lost. I don’t recognize where I am. The streets, the fields, the woods, all of it feels foreign. My anxiety peaks just in time for the rumbling of another car. I’m ready to throw myself in the ditch, Rodney’s implied threats looming like shadows over me. When I turn to look, though, it’s like fate has smiled on me. It’s not a truck coming down the road but a small black car that looks like it’s happy to see me.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” I’m laughing as the Sprite slides up beside me.

The top is down, and Aziza looks like she’s been enjoying the ride. A headband keeps her hair out of her face; it matches the blue-black of her stylish pantsuit. All of it emphasizes her natural coolness and angelic aura.

“You, too,” she says, and the sound of her voice immediately relaxes me.

I don’t ask for permission, but instead climb straight into her car and lean my head back against the seat.

“I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again,” I say with my eyes closed. “Thought you were gone for good.”

“Yeah, I ended up having some errands to run over here,” she says. “You all right? You looked really worried when I rolled up, and no offense, but you’re a little dirty.”

How can a person put me at ease so quickly?

“I’m lost, actually,” I admit.

“Oh, how the tables have turned.”

We both laugh, and I open my eyes. She’s beaming at me with her big, dark eyes, and I can’t help but blush.

“How are you? Otherwise?” she asks.

I start to tell her I’m fine, but my voice cracks through the word.

“Truthfully? Pretty awful.”

And I just tell her. I tell her everything, starting with not being able to fuck my husband to finding Dan Williams’s body to everything that Karen said to me. When tears leak out of my eyes, Aziza reaches out and places her hand on mine. It’s a solid comfort. I put my other hand atop hers and hold it tight.

“I’m so sorry, Sylvia,” she whispers once I finish. “You shouldn’t have to deal with any of that.”

I sniff and wipe my eyes, then look up at her.

“Can I ask you something? Will you be honest with me?” She doesn’t answer, but I press on. “Did you kill them?”

I don’t actually know whether I’d prefer her to say yes or no.

“Who?” she asks, but she doesn’t look surprised by the question.

“A bunch of the men around town have been found dead, missing an arm and a leg. Ten at this point.”

She don’t seem shocked. “How would I even do that?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “They’ve been seeing a car like yours around town on the nights of the murders, but the police can’t catch it. And if I’m being honest, my time with you don’t feel real. It’s like everything gets skewed when you’re around.” I shake my head. “Like how you knew my name. I never told you it. So how’d you know?”

She stares at me, unmoving. When she tries to take her hand away from mine, I grip it tightly and won’t let go.

“Are you human?” I ask.

She keeps silent, and I soon realize she won’t answer. I allow her to take her hand away, and then I stare into my lap.

“I’m just gonna take you home,” says Aziza. “Okay?”

She puts the car into gear and drives off. When I rode in it before, the car sounded like it was purring. Whatever magic had thrilled me before is gone, though. Now it just sounds sad.

I close my eyes while she drives, and later realize I must’ve dozed off. It feels like nearly no time has passed before we’re home. Henry’s car is missing from the driveway. Aziza pulls in to his spot.

“So, you’re gonna leave me, too?” I ask.

She sighs and turns off the ignition.

“You don’t want to get mixed up with me.”

“Because you kill people?”

“I don’t kill people. I judge them. It’s their past actions that kill them.”

I expect a joke or explanation after that, but I receive neither.

“Were you going to kill me?” My voice wavers even as I ask.

She doesn’t answer for a long time, and I’m not sure if I should view that as good or bad.

“When I picked you up, I assumed you would be the same as all the others I’ve run into—self-serving, hateful, and deserving of death. Once we started talking, though, it became clear that you would not be found guilty. You have a soft heart, and though you have room to grow, you’ve done nothing to condemn yourself.”

“And Dan? The others? They all deserved death?”

“Absolutely.”

“They ain’t killed nobody.”

“There are sins worse than murder, don’t you think?”

I suppose so. I run a hand through my hair. Although I say my next question more as a joke, I still anticipate her answer.

“Some people been calling you a demon. Is that accurate?”

“No.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Then what are you?”

“I’m just Aziza,” she says. “I deal out judgments, punishing the wicked and rewarding the good.”

I smile and raise an eyebrow. “How was I rewarded?”

“I came back to see you like you asked, didn’t I?”

She smiles at me. It’s a little crooked, which ends up making her look more charming. I want to tell her that coming to see me ain’t much of a reward, but it’s too close to a lie. After all, when did I last really smile before this?

“Well, you sure waited a while.”

She laughs.

“I guess I am a bit late,” she says. “What would you like to wish for instead?”

I look up at the sky. The moon’s just a sliver in the sky, but the stars make up for its lost light.

“I guess… to be a good wife? To be the kind of woman that could give my husband kids. To be able to put what Karen said behind me and live my life like a normal person.”

“Are you sure?”

I look at Aziza. The light-heartedness of before is gone.

“If that’s what you want, I can give that to you. But I don’t think that’s what you actually want.”

I rub the back of my neck and stare at the house. “Do you always question your victim’s wish before you grant it?”

“No,” she says. “I’m only questioning yours because I want to see you have lasting happiness. What you’re wishing for, though, will make you feel incomplete for the rest of your life. Being a good wife, as you’ve described it, will not make you happy.”

I can’t help fidgeting. I’m increasingly uncomfortable, and before I know it I’m tapping my foot against the car’s floor.

“And what is it you think I need?”

“A wife of your own.”

I stare at her, open-mouthed. This kind of talk would usually start up the anxiety in my chest, but coming from Aziza, seeing her kind but determined face as she says this to me, only fills me with… what? Is it relief? I can’t look at her anymore. I turn my eyes to the sky.

“That kind of stuff is what puts you in the loony bin,” I tell her.

“Is that where you think you should be?”

No. I know I don’t belong there, even if my feelings aren’t right.

“Sylvia.” Aziza grabs my hands, and I’m forced to look at her. She twists in her seat to more fully face me, her knees knocking against the gearshift. “Come with me. We can travel the world. You’ll get to see so many things that you’ve never even imagined, from now into the future. We don’t have to be alone.”

My cheeks are hot like I ain’t never felt before. I probably look like I have a fever. I’m falterin’ though, a thousand fears running through my head, thinkin’ about everything that could possibly go wrong. And when I take too long to answer, Aziza leans forward and kisses me.

It ain’t like kissing Henry. With Henry, he’s always pushing towards me while I try hard not to move. This ain’t like that at all. Almost as soon as her lips touch mine, my hand slides into her soft hair. I pull her towards me, turning in my seat, as she had, to draw us closer. I kiss her back, pressing towards her as she presses towards me.

A car horn makes us both jump back into our seats. When I spin around, Rodney Birch’s truck is blocking the end of my driveway. The boys that’d been riding in the bed are out, fanned across the yard and drawing closer. Rodney and the two who’d been up front are just now jumping out of the truck.

They’re all much drunker than they were earlier. Rodney rests a steel bat, stained at the end, on his shoulder. The others tote their own weapons of choice: bats, crowbars, hunting knives. They stop a dozen feet from the Sprite.

“Oliver, you owe me quite a bit of money now,” Rodney says. “I told you she was a dyke.”

Oliver James is the one holding the hunting knife.

“Yeah, you was right,” he says. He doesn’t sound much upset about it. “Congratulations. You’s fifty dollars richer.”

“Get out of the car,” Aziza whispers, and she hops over the door, light as a feather.

“A queer and a race traitor,” Rodney says. “You got your work cut out for you, Sylvie.”

I open the car door and quickly move so that the Sprite sits between me and everyone else. There’s too many of them. Whatever Aziza’s done before, she can’t take seven men. She don’t even have a weapon, for God’s sake. She sits on the trunk of the Sprite and crosses her arms over her chest.

“You know, I was hoping to save you for last,” Aziza says. “Got a real bone to pick with you.”

Rodney’s smile disappears.

“You the one that killed my friends?”

“What if I am?”

I ain’t ever seen Rodney look so mean.

“You’re gonna pay for that. They was good men.”

“Oh?”

At first, I think that the truck’s headlights are getting brighter, but when I take a moment to look around, I realize it’s everything else that is getting darker. The moon’s gone from the sky, and the stars along with it. More and more of the surrounding area seems to disappear around us, the darkness too dense to see further than a few feet. My front door should just be a few feet behind me, but when I turn around, it’s like staring at a black wall. A tingling on the back of my neck compels me to turn back towards the others. Although the Sprite’s headlights are off, the image is still clear as day: two headlights like a bug’s eyes hovering over a grill like a huge grinning mouth.

“Those men harassed, attacked, and killed innocent people,” says Aziza. Her voice doesn’t echo in this dark space. “They were judged, and they were found guilty. Just as you all have been.”

Oliver is the first to run forward. Aziza doesn’t move. When he’s just a yard from her, he raises his knife. The Sprite’s headlights pulse softly, and eight jointed spines push out of the space between the seats and the trunk. Seven of the black limbs ascend, their ends disappearing into the darkness. The eighth, though, flicks forward, and Oliver freezes. It takes a beat of silence for any of us to realize what has happened.

While the men panic over Oliver’s missing arm, I’m the only one who sees the worst part. The spine that had attacked Oliver—his arm is impaled on the end of it. The spine bends backward and holds the arm in front of the car. With practiced ease, the metal grill pulls apart, separating like a true mouth. The spine tosses the arm into the maw, and the car chews. When it finishes, the grill returns to that familiar, smiling mouth.

Rodney and the others don’t stand a chance. When the car takes Oliver’s leg, the other men try to run. They’re screaming about devils, witchcraft, voodoo magic, but the darkness around us is shrinking. While they had their backs turned, it swallowed up their truck. The inky black wall ruins their retreat. One by one, the Sprite picks them apart, its spines working independently to gather the limbs for a feast. When it finishes, each man lies twitching on the ground, blood spurting from his wounds.

“Should you survive this, I hope you will atone for your crimes,” Aziza says. All this time, she has not moved from seat on the trunk. “And should you die, may Ọghẹnẹ judge you soundly.”

Satisfied with its offering, the car’s face returns to something akin to normal. The spines retreat back into car, and the darkness around us fades. With the ceremony over, Aziza’s shoulders droop, and she runs back to me.

“Please, come with me,” she says. The hard, angry woman who had condemned the men to death is gone, leaving the beautiful Aziza I’ve known. She looks vulnerable like I ain’t seen before, and it’s when my hands are in hers that I realize how bad I’d been shaking. “I know you’re scared, but it’ll be okay. We can find happiness, Sylvia.”

The men’s cries are slowly fading away, and I realize that one by one they are either fainting or dying.

“I-I don’t know,” I say. “What about Henry? What will he think happened?”

“He’ll be okay. You know he will.” Aziza puts a hand on my neck, cupping my face in her palm. “Please. Please come with me. We’ll be happy together.”

Even with all I’ve seen tonight, it only takes a few seconds for me to find my resolve and rush with her to the car. Henry will be okay. With me gone, he can find a better wife. But deep down, that’s just meant to soothe my guilt. Because even if it’s caked in blood, the world ahead of me feels open and inviting in a way I’ve never experienced before.

Aziza throws the Sprite in gear, and we glide across the yard with ease. Within minutes, we’re flying down an empty highway, the wind gusting through our hair. Fields of violets pass us by, and I cackle like a mad woman once we’ve put Splendor well behind us. For a moment, I’ve gotta wonder if this is some horrific, beautiful dream. But when Aziza puts her hand on mine, it cements that this is reality. All of this is real. And despite the night’s events, I feel happier and safer than I have in my entire life.

About The Author
Paige Reiring

Paige Reiring is committed to writing forward—creating works that embody and empower marginalized identities. After a childhood spent longing for representation in fantasy and horror, she has made it her mission to represent queerness in her writing. Along with writer, she holds many other titles: dog-walker, bookseller, and seamstress, to name a few. She lives in Columbus, Ohio, with her wife and two cats, Shinji and Claudia.

Ugly Joyride

By: R. Perez de Pereda

Bill Schott had finally hit it big.

It’d taken him twelve years, but finally, in his forty-third year of life, he’d been promoted to president of emerging markets at Fennco Global Petroleum. His days as a middle-management peon were over. These days, he rubbed elbows with foreign dignitaries over mint juleps on his corporate crusade to exploit the untapped oil fields of third-world nations.

But for all the perks, the new job came with a raft of changes. His task was to negotiate with Pemex, the Mexican state-run oil enterprise. That meant he’d have to relocate to downtown Mexico City, where Pemex was headquartered. Superficially, he was up in arms about the move, but in truth, his histrionics were intended solely to gain leverage. His complaining ultimately paid off in spades, as Fennco Global ended up footing the bill for his move to a luxury high-rise apartment. The funds that remained after his relocation bought him a Ford Galaxie 500 LTD.

Brand-new for 1965, the car was proof that the company had spared no expense in sending Bill abroad. This land yacht’s 7.0-liter engine corralled three hundred ponies under the hood, harnessed to a three-on-the-tree manual transmission. The two-tone behemoth was a status symbol on wheels, decked in bright red with a white top and chrome at all points in between.

As he cruised the streets of the Mexican capitol, he took in the sights. Mexico wasn’t Kansas City by a longshot. There was a four-hundred year old church on every street corner. Amid them, shimmering towers of glass and steel attracted the country’s corporate elite, and balcony apartments resembling the stepped pyramids of yore housed them.

In the crannies between them all, the “urbanness” of the city center oozed like water from the pores of a sponge. Here you found the street vendors, the drug pushers, the pickpockets, the loose women. Here too you found the tin and cardboard hovels erected in the alleyways. Multistory tenements stretched in corridors several city blocks long, the clotheslines hanging between them coming together with the telephone cables to look like the web of a giant urban spider.

Bill found the city obnoxious to all of his senses. More days than not, an industrial brown haze hung over it like a biblical plague. On those days it was at its worst, visibility was poor and breathing was hazardous to one’s health. Traffic congestion was awful, and road noise was a problem at all hours of the day. The old streets, intended to accommodate pedestrian or horse-drawn carriages, simply were not up to the task of carrying automotive traffic.

Among the city’s many problems, crime was paramount. Fennco Global took several precautions to ensure Bill’s safety. Adhering to the company guidelines was a pain in the ass, but convinced that the alternatives could be far worse, Bill played along, at least for a while.

Each day, Bill would awaken before sunrise. He would take the elevator to the street level, where a hired car awaited him at the curb. The driver—who never picked Bill up in the same car twice consecutively—would drive him to one of three designated garages within a twenty-minute drive of his workplace. Bill would then be let off within the garage, where another driver waited to take him to the skyscraper where he worked.

When he was done for the day, he would take the elevator down to the subsurface parking garage, where his car was parked in a reserved spot. He would drive himself home, and upon arriving, phone for a driver to return his car to the company garage.

The plan seemed ludicrous to Bill, especially since he had to wake up two hours earlier than normal for what amounted to a half-hour drive. After half a year of following these precautions, he gave up on them, preferring to park his Galaxie on the street-level parking behind his apartment and drive himself to and from work.

Little did he know this was the start of his undoing.

Briefcase in tow, Bill alighted from the elevator at garage level B2, headed to the far corner where his car was parked. It had been a long day—a glance at his watch informed him it was almost seven p.m. He’d stayed late to ensure his expense reports would be ready for the accounting department on Monday of the upcoming week.

He jammed his car key into the lock, yanked the door open, and chucked his briefcase into the passenger’s seat. He wasn’t yet settled in behind the wheel when the passenger door flew open. His head snapped to the right to see what was going on beside him, and this caught him a flying briefcase to the teeth.

His face exploded in pain. He screamed into his cupped hands covering his face, and over his screams, he became aware of another voice, shouting frantically.

“Drive-drive-drive-drive-drive!”

Fear froze the blood in Bill’s veins, making him temporarily forget about the dull hurt in his face. Sitting shotgun was a young punk with a switchblade. The kid rapped Bill’s temple with the back of his hand.

“Get moving!” he roared.

“Okay, okay,” Bill answered him, reaching for the ignition.

The Galaxie rolled up the garage ramp and out into the city. It wasn’t yet nightfall, but none of the setting sun’s rays made it through the choking industrial haze, blanketing the streets below in a dusky twilight. Bill flicked his headlights on.

His passenger shot a glance out his window, then sat up in his seat and looked out the rear glass.

“All right man, just… just be cool, okay?” said Bill, trying his best to keep his tone even. “What do you want? You want money? You want my wristwatch? It’s a genuine Rolex, I swear…”

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll cut you, gringo.”

Bill drove in silence, the moments feeling like hours. A film of nervous sweat glistened on his brow. There was moderate traffic on the city streets, the tail end of the commuters heading home after the workday. And yet despite the transit density, the cars were moving at a decent clip.

“How much is your life worth, old man?” the punk with the knife asked.

Old man? Bill thought. He shot his passenger a glance. The kid next to him couldn’t have been older than seventeen, maybe twenty, tops. Bill was scarcely twice the kid’s age, and yet how the kid had said it made Bill feel ancient.

“Don’t look at me,” the kid said, jabbing the air between them with his knife, but keeping sure it remained out of sight of anyone outside their car. “Eyes on the road, fucker.”

“What do you want from me?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Bill hesitated before answering. “You speak English well. Where’d you learn?”

“Los Angeles.”

He restrained a chuckle. “Yeah, right. What the hell would you be doing here, if you could live in L.A.?”

“Hey, fuck you, man!” he yelled, and socked Bill in the ribs with his fist.

Bill could feel his torso fold to look like a parenthesis where the punk slugged him.

“You like that, you arrogant old fuck?” the punk snarled. He shimmied in his seat to get closer to Bill and trained the honed edge of his switchblade on Bill’s abdomen. “Keep that shit up and I’ll stick you. Now turn here.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’re going in a coffin unless you shut up until you’re spoken to.”

Bill slowed at the intersection, then cut the wheel and accelerated as he made the turn onto a side street.

“So, you got an answer for me yet?”

Without turning his head, Bill’s eyes flitted from the road to his passenger. “Answer?”

“Yeah. What is your life worth?”

He kept silent for a long string of moments. “I’ve never given that much thought.”

The punk nodded, then leaned across the center console to glance at the instrument cluster. “Well, you got half a tank of gas. If you haven’t given me what I want by the time your tank runs dry, I’m sticking you full of holes.”

“You haven’t told me what you fucking want!”

The traffic light turned red. Bill rolled to a stop and turned his head to look his passenger in the eyes. The young man’s face held no answers. He stared back at him with the cold malice of a serial killer’s mask.

“It’s your money or your life,” the punk rasped, poking the end of his knife in the meat between Bill’s ribs.

“All right—you can have my wallet…”

“Fuck your wallet. You’re worth more than just the couple of dollars you have there, Mister Big-Shot; Mister Look At Me, I Drive A Big, Fancy Car.” He paused a beat. “You got any family back home in the States?”

“What difference does it make?”

“No reason, really. I just wanna know whether there’s anyone we can mail bits of your fingers to—you know, so they understand we’re serious.”

Bill swallowed hard in a dry throat.

“Look, if you haven’t already noticed, you’ve been kidnapped,” the punk went on. “A businessman like you has got to be worth at least… oh, I’d say ten grand, don’t you think?”

“Are you shitting me?” Bill’s sentence ended in a high falsetto as the punk jabbed the knife against the side of his gut. He didn’t stab him, but he came close enough to show he meant business.

“I don’t have that kind of money!” Bill screamed, glancing at his kidnapper. He could not have picked a worse time, because just that moment his Galaxie barreled over the curb of a traffic circle and went careening though the grass. The big car fishtailed across the freshly-cut lawn. Panicked, Bill gunned the accelerator and cut the wheel the opposite way, and the car overcorrected in the other direction, turning up dirt in a wide swathe. They were doing well over fifty when the Galaxie’s driver-side door slammed into the granite base of the equestrian statue at the park’s center. There was a loud noise and a sudden shock, then all winked out to black.

The sound of distant sirens roused Bill from his stupor. One reluctant eyelid opened, then the other. The park was awash in flashing lights. His ears popped, and his sense of hearing came rushing back. All around him was a cacophony of voices, car horns, and claxons. Shadows backlit by the glare of the rolling lights reached out with featureless black hands and pulled him from the vehicle.

As they lifted him onto a stretcher, he became aware of a stinging pain in his lower back. He winced, instinct directing his hand to reach for the cause of the pain, but his arm was sluggish. His arm flopped halfway to its intended destination and hung over the side of the stretcher, but in its passing his fingers grazed against something cold and metallic sticking out of where he presumed his right kidney would be.

The switchblade! he thought, lacking the energy to speak aloud. Hadn’t anyone seen it? Seen how he was bleeding like a stuck pig?

A crew of paramedics hefted his stretcher into an ambulance and set off for the hospital.

Bill was dead on arrival.

* * *

Bill sprang out of bed clad solely in his briefs, his body slick with cold sweat. His heart jackhammered against his ribcage, threatening to pound its way out of his chest at any moment.

He braced his palms against his bent knees and doubled over to catch his breath. His head spun. Stomach acid churned in his gut—he could taste it each time he drew breath.

“Goddamn,” he muttered.

Before leaving to Mexico, his doctor had told him to quit cigarettes, booze, and red meat; maybe even lose thirty pounds, but what did he know? Doctors were quacks—they smoked and drank more than anybody. Still, the irony that something so trite as a nightmare had almost done him in—just when he was on top of his game—lit a fire in his belly. To go out like that simply wasn’t fair; it wasn’t… American.

He took a cold shower to settle his nerves, then got dressed for work.

It was Friday, and that meant expense accounts were due for processing on Monday. Bill stayed at the office later than he would have liked, until around seven p.m., then took the elevator down to the building’s garage level. Car keys in one hand and briefcase in the other, he walked to where he’d parked his car but stopped short upon recognizing something was amiss.

The car sitting in his spot was indeed his car—he’d parked it there this morning—and yet, in a particular way, it was also not his car.

It was certainly a Ford.

It was definitely red with a white top.

It had the Galaxie LTD badges in all the right spots, except—

“All right, who did this?” Bill shouted, flinging his briefcase to the ground. “Come out, you no-good bastards!” He turned one way, then the other, scanning the garage in broad swathes. There were only a scant few vehicles in the garage, but not another person to be found.

“Come out now! This isn’t funny!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the cavernous garage.

Bill put a hand against the trunk lid for support and got a better look at the decals. In the incandescent glow of the overhead bulbs, the phrase Galaxie 499 gleamed back at him.

Rapid footfalls from nearby snagged his attention. He straightened up and spied the figure of a trim young man slipping out from behind a concrete support pylon.

“You!” Bill bellowed, jabbing a finger at the decal. “Did you do this?”

“Shut your face, gringo!”

Bill’s reply got stuck in his throat when he saw the glint of the punk’s flick knife.

“Get in the car!” the punk ordered, advancing on Bill with his knife in the lead.

“Fuck you!”

Bill wound up to hurl his briefcase at his attacker, but the punk was a much younger man, and faster than he was. Before he knew, he was on his back, groaning from the ripping pain in his gut and sides. The puddle of blood underneath him grew to overtake his shoulders. He was leaking like a sieve.

Furtive hands patted down his pockets, relieving him of his wallet and car keys. The last thing he heard before blackness overtook him was the sound of the Galaxie peeling out of the garage.

* * *

Screaming, Bill kicked off the sheets and was halfway to the door to his apartment before he realized what he’d just experienced was a nightmare. Nausea rippled his field of vision. His knees gave out, depositing him ass-first onto the shag-carpeted floor of his living room.

And then he remembered he’d done this before.

That had not been a nightmare—it had been real, twice over now.

“Oh my god,” he whimpered, chewing his fingers.

The world had stopped making sense.

Part of him wanted to believe that he’d had two near-identical nightmares in rapid succession. Far-fetched as that sounded, it was entirely plausible. And yet… these dreams had been so real. He’d felt the sting of the punk’s knife ripping his side open; he’d felt the blow of his car slamming into the park statue. The other part of him, the part he felt inclined to trust in spite of himself, insinuated that something more was at play here, something he could not yet explain, but So help me God and President Lyndon Johnson, he would get to the bottom of this.

With little more on than his briefs and his overcoat to cover himself, he went to the lot behind his apartment where he had parked his car. Sure enough, there it was, except—

Bill rubbed his eyes. Maybe it was the poor lighting from the streetlamps, but he could swear his Galaxie was a different shade of red than he remembered. It still sported its two-tone paintjob, but now the red sections were no longer candy apple but ruddy, almost brown. Everything else was as he remembered: the whitewall tires, chrome in all the right places, all the Ford badging…

The badges! He’d almost forgotten. He rounded the car and knelt over the fender, and the badge there read: Galaxie 421.

Bill’s stomach fell to his feet. “Oh no,” he said, planting a hand against the fender to catch himself as his knees gave out. “No, no, no, no,” he murmured, shaking his head, on the verge of tears.

He’d seen enough for one night. None of this made any sense, and it was far too early in the morning to start figuring things out. He headed back upstairs to his apartment—particularly, to the liquor cabinet—and reached for a glass, nearly dropping it. With trembling hands, he poured himself a shot of J&B, getting more of it onto the counter than into the glass, and then drank it down in a quick pull.

He poured himself another, this time choking on it, realizing how similarly the sting in his gut felt to when that punk with the knife opened him up. Recalling that nightmare didn’t stop him drinking; it was all the more reason to pour himself a third, a fourth, and so on. Before long, he had foregone the glass and was instead taking the whiskey straight from the bottle. The alcohol burned in a solid stream from his mouth to his belly. In moments, his vision grew dim, and he capsized over the side of his barstool, though he was out cold long before he hit the ground.

* * *

When Bill Schott awoke the following morning, it was already sunrise. His head pounded like a work crew hammering railway spikes. Groaning, he rolled out of bed and sat up, massaged the hurt out of his temples with the pads of his fingers.

“What the hell happened last night?” he asked aloud. He wasn’t hung-over, though judging by how much he had drunk in last night’s dream, he could not rule out vicarious intoxication.

“Sleep-walkers exist, so who says sleep-drinkers can’t be a real thing?” he said with a smirk. To test his theory, he went to his liquor cabinet and found the glasses and bottle of J&B undisturbed. “That solves that,” he said, then got dressed and headed for the car park.

Bill normally left for work at such an early hour that the concierge desk in his apartment’s lobby was not yet staffed. The desk clerk—a lovely brunette señorita in a low-cropped blouse with more by way of bust size than brain cells—showed up around seven most mornings. On the rare occasions in which she and Bill crossed paths, he would always greet her with a passably-pronounced “Buenos días,” and she would reply in kind.

The words, “Buenos días,” were already upon his lips by the time the elevator doors opened and he hustled out into the lobby.

“Monsieur?”

Bill’s shoes squealed against the smooth granite floor as he dug his heels in to halt. He pivoted at the waist to face her. “What did you say?”

Staffing the desk was a young lady—just as pretty as the last, to be sure—but she was a blonde, dressed in a navy blazer and a matching beret. Her face was milk-white, with high cheekbones and a sharply-angled nose, and glistening green eyes.

“Excusez-moi?” she replied, recoiling slightly.

“Never…” he choked out, “never mind,” and headed out the door.

His car was where he had left it. As much to his surprise as to his relief, it was identical to how he’d last seen it. Perhaps it had been the bad lighting that had made his car look a different tone of red. Perhaps he could chalk up his misinterpretation of the decal numbers to that too.

No such luck.

Emblazoned on his Ford’s fender was: Galaxie 374.

Bile churned in the pit of his stomach. He started the engine and drove to work.

The commute to his office was the same as always, except that the environs were markedly different. Hung above alleyways were strands of blue, white, and red pennants. In the place of street corner taquerías were boulangeries, as their etched glass storefronts announced.

It didn’t hit home for Bill until he rolled up to the park with the equestrian statue. While he had never taken the time to learn the name of the Mexican war hero whose statue was erected at the center of the traffic circle, he was observant enough to realize that now, someone else’s likeness had replaced it.

“Napoleon?!”

Eyes on the statue, he mashed the brake pedal absent-mindedly, nearly causing a three-car pileup behind him. Horns blared, and drivers swerved around him, shaking their fists and shouting rude phrases at him that he barely understood.

Sure enough, atop the granite pedestal was the great general himself, cast in bronze astride a massive charger, sabre in one hand raised to lead a charge while the other held aloft a massive French flag that billowed in the wind.

Bill got out of his car and plodded forward as if in a dream, eyes fixed on the statue, his mouth trembling with raspy little breaths on the verge of asking, “How?”

Within his brain, a long-unused synapse fired. In a flash, he was taken back to Ms. Gansevoort’s sixth-grade history class. Her lecture that day: the nineteenth century wars between France and Mexico, which Mexico ultimately won, if memory served.

Bill’s present reality cared not one whit for what he remembered. He certainly wasn’t “in Kansas anymore,” as the saying went, as much as he was no longer in Mexico—at least not the Mexico he knew.

He shambled forward another few steps, then grasped at his hair and shouted, “What the hell’s going on here?” So engrossed was he that he never heard the horn of the delivery truck that blindsided him.

* * *

Bill spun out of bed and landed on the floor, striking his head against the nightstand on the way down.

“Christ,” he groaned, rubbing his injury.

He sat on the ground and waited for the pain to subside before standing up and getting dressed for work.

Wait—work? What was the point of it all? If he was to have any chance at survival, he needed to get out of Mexico City, fast. That is, assuming only Mexico City was affected by the recent… changes.

He swallowed hard. Faced with no other alternatives, it was a risk he had to take.

It was still dark outside his window. He slung on his clothes and grabbed his car keys, then raced downstairs to the car park where his Galaxie 286 awaited him.

Bill dropped the car into gear and floored the gas, rocketing the Galaxie into the empty streets. He drove erratically, cutting corners at the last minute without any sense of where he was headed. The streets were empty and dark, with nary a streetlight to be seen.

He stopped at an intersection and realized he wasn’t getting anywhere. He’d been driving in a panic—a frantic attempt to put as much distance between himself and his apartment, but… but why? That was not where the danger lay. He glanced up and around him for street signs and found none.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. There were no roadway signs, no streetlamps, no billboards. The city was completely dark, except for the swathe of light cut by his headlamps. Worse, he was utterly lost.

He toed the gas, and no sooner had to mash the brake as a figure crossed his headlights.

“Hey!” he yelled, laying into the horn.

The figure slammed onto the hood and rolled into the windshield, shattering it. Bill shielded his face as daggers of glass rained into the cabin of his Galaxie. When finally he withdrew his hands, the figure lay on its side, motionless, atop his hood.

Bill slammed the steering wheel with both fists. “What’s your problem, buddy? Didn’t you see me coming? Jesus!”

He got out of the car to assess the damage, but was taken aback when he got a better look at the man sprawled atop his car.

The man was mostly naked, dressed in an outfit of feathers and jaguar skins. Across his back he wore a wooden paddle with jagged bits of obsidian wedged into it, making it look like the business end of a hacksaw. He groaned, and slowly, he began to stir.

“Look, mister, you’d better have insurance,” said Bill, arms crossed and shaking his head at the dents the man had left in his fender.

Slowly, the man rolled off the front of Bill’s car, landing on his backside in the street. Then, bracing a hand against the fender for support, he stood up, wincing.

“Mister, do you need an ambulance, or… wait, what did you say?” Bill cut his sentence short upon realizing the man had spoken in a language he’d never heard.

The man stood erect and leveled his pair of blazing eyes upon Bill. He stiff-armed Bill in the chest, accentuating the blow with a stream of guttural phrases.

“That’s uncalled for!” Bill shot back. “When my lawyers hear of this, they’ll…”

The man shoved him again, this time with both hands. Bill was knocked off his feet and sent to the ground with his legs whipping up into the air after him. He hardly had time to scream as the man raised his bat over his head and swung it down in a mighty arc, embedding a hooked piece of obsidian into Bill’s frontal lobe. The world vanished in a flash before Bill’s eyes, returning a moment later to catch the man winding up for another swing, from which Bill would not awaken.

* * *

It was all downhill from there.

Galaxie 109 saw Bill snapping awake, screaming, as he had so many times this night, except this time he was no longer in bed in his penthouse suite but pinned down on an altar atop a stepped pyramid. An Aztec priest, his face painted to look like a skull, held aloft a dagger to the cheers of an assembled multitude. No sooner had Bill caught on as to what was happening than the priest rammed the obsidian dagger into his chest and carved out his heart. It happened so fast that Bill’s last memory before succumbing to the massive trauma was the priest—spattered in Bill’s blood—thrusting his still-beating heart skyward to deafening cheers of approval.

Galaxie 81 dropped him into quicksand on the banks of Lake Texcoco. Much as he tried to escape its downward pull, he sank a little more with every stroke of his arms. Eventually, he tired out. He took one final breath as he disappeared into the muck, never to resurface.

He awoke in Galaxie 49, which, by appearances, was in the Permian Period, judging by the massive flora and giant insect fauna. He dropped to all fours, gasping in the toxic oxygen-rich atmosphere, each breath bringing on a fresh wave of giddy euphoria. This did not last long, though, as a passing wasp the size of a Volkswagen swept down from its perch and ran him through the abdomen with its stinger. Bill kicked and writhed feebly, looking like a worm at the end of a fisherman’s hook.

It dropped him onto his back and turned around to plunge its ovipositor into his mouth. The chitinous tube impaled his alimentary canal like a giant insect penis, throbbing rhythmically as it pumped insect larvae into his stomach. His belly swelled near to splitting open with the mass of three, four, five football-sized larvae invading his body. Then, when at last Bill could bear it no longer, the wasp seemed to take notice. It dragged Bill to an underground burrow and sealed him up inside, where his body would feed its young until they were ready to emerge from Bill’s corpse.

Next came Galaxie 23, which hardly was fair to Bill as it deposited him in the space the Earth would have occupied if the planet had existed. He popped into being in the cold vacuum of interstellar space with only his briefs to shield him from the elements and near-instantly froze to death.

Galaxie 5 wasn’t any better. The dimensions had not fully separated into discrete units, and were instead like a tangled ball of yarn. It was a place where time itself did not yet exist. Matter could not exist here either. The only thing that could exist was abstract thought. And since the act of thinking requires there be a thinker, Bill could be said to have existed on some level, though precisely how was anyone’s guess.

Bill experienced, simultaneously: being, unbeing, and non-being; and never having been; and will be and will have been, and even might have been. Nothing made any sense. His mind burned. Bill screamed from a mouth that didn’t exist, his cries heard by no one, not even himself.

It didn’t take much guesswork to conclude when he had arrived at Galaxie 0. All around was an endless expanse of navy blue-blackness, except for an asphalt two-lane roadway that ran straight to a horizon sitting well beyond infinity. Just to make sure, Bill glanced at the fender of his car, which now read: Galaxie. The numbers were gone, but in their place, wherever the LTD badges had been there were now different badges: Un-LTD.

He thought on that some. The Ford salesman at the dealership had told him those letters had stood for Luxury Trim Décor; but colloquially, they were shorthand for Limited, as in Limited Edition.

What did it mean to say that his Galaxie had gone from limited to unlimited?

Bill set off to find out, getting behind the wheel and gunning it for all it was worth.

About The Author
R. Perez de Pereda

Born in Cuba in 1941, Ramiro Perez de Pereda has seen it all. Growing up in a time when then-democratic Cuba was experiencing unprecedented foreign investment, he was exposed to the U.S. pop culture items of the day. Among them: pulp fiction magazines, which young Ramiro avidly read and collected. Far and away, his favorites were the Conan the Barbarian stories by Robert E. Howard.

Ramiro, now retired from the corporate life, is a grandfather of five. He devotes himself to his family, his writing, and the occasional pen-and-ink sketch. He is Darkwater Media Group’s Head Acquisitions Editor—that is to say, he heads the department, he does not collect heads, which is a point he has grown quite fond of making. Indeed, it’s one reason he likes his job so much. He writes poetry and fiction under the name R. Perez de Pereda, often signing his work with a single, enigmatic “R.”

Within Darkwater Media Group, he is known as “the captain.” Others refer to him as their adoptive Cuban uncle. Still others call him “he who flips desks” despite it only happening that one time—well, that one time that he will admit to, at least.

Out On Arrowhead Road

By: Sarah Cannavo

Ted Healey rifled with a dirt-rimmed thumb through the wad of crumpled bills Earl Walker had tossed him. When it came up light, he looked at Earl, expecting to see him fishing in his jeans for the rest. But Earl had already turned his attention back to the inner workings of the 1970 Dodge Challenger, cherry-red, with its hood popped in the dirt strip of his driveway and was humming along with Haggard on the portable radio. The sensation of dismissal stung Ted, simmered like fever under his skin. He crushed the money in his fist, then thrust it at Earl.

“The fuck is this?”

“Your cut, numbnuts,” Earl replied, glancing at Ted. “Those fumes finally gettin’ to you, boy?”

Boy. Like they weren’t both forty; like they hadn’t been partners in this bootlegging business for the last decade. Ted ground his teeth together; his words rolled out like stones. “I know it’s my cut, Earl. I meant: where’s the fucking rest?”

“That is the rest. You saw; there wasn’t that big a haul last run. Hell, there’s the problem,” Earl said to the car, like a doctor to a patient, and walked around the front fender to fish through his toolbox. Ted followed, boots kicking up dust devils along the way.

“Bullshit. I helped you load this bitch up, remember? I know how much there was, and I’m giving you the good shit, Earl. We should be pulling in eighty, ninety bucks a gallon. So what’s with the pay cut? If you’re smarter than you look now’s the time to finally prove it, and tell the fucking truth.”

“Fine.” Earl put his wrench down, looked at Ted. “We did pull in some good money last time. I just don’t think you deserve that big a cut, all right? Happy now?”

Scarlet spots brighter than the Challenger’s paint (E5, 5092LM, Bright Red, Ted’s mind fed him; God knew Earl had yammered on about it enough the past year) flared in Ted’s vision. His first, strongest instinct was to slam the hood down on Earl’s hands, see if he couldn’t at least mash a few fingers out of existence. But Earl drew his hands away before he could, wiping them on a once-white rag. Ted settled for, “Are you fucking kidding me, Earl? It’s my family recipe we use, since your granddaddy turned half the county blind. I built the goddamn still, and it’s in my shed now.”

“Yeah, because I didn’t feel like gettin’ busted and doin’ another year in the pen for havin’ it at my place.”

“A year? Tough shit, Earl. I did more’n that for that robbery out in Louisville, and you don’t hear me bitching about it. Besides, I also load the car up with you for every run, and half the time I’m the one who makes the arrangements with the buyers. Don’t deserve that big a cut? For God’s sake, Earl, I do everything except drive the damn c—” Ted stopped dead as it struck him at last. “What was it, Earl, huh? New hubcaps? Steering wheel? Fuzzy dice?”

“Ted, I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Ted roared. His curly brown hair was heavy with sweat; it felt like the hellish July heat had wormed its way into his skull, blistering his brain.

Earl finally took a step back, paling, as Ted took one forward, the steel toe of his boot striking the edge of the toolbox and spilling its viscera into the dirt.

“What was it, Earl? What did you think the car needed so goddamn bad it was all right to fuck me over for?”

“Brake lights,” Earl said sullenly.

Ted threw his arms up, shook his head in disgust.

“I was having a problem gettin’ ‘em to cut out when I threw the kill switch,” Earl said, his expression hardening. “But I don’t get what you’re crucifyin’ me for, Ted. Without a car to haul our stuff, we’re not making any money, screw a pay cut. And without a driver, you’re shit outta luck. Way I see it, that makes me the most important part of this operation.”

Ted snorted. “I can drive these roads as well as you, Earl. And don’t overestimate yourself. After all, what’s a driver with no product to haul? Just a guy who jacks off to Popular Mechanics, way I see it.” His smirk twisted his echo of Earl into spot-on mockery.

“Snigger all you want, Teddy, but I put myself into this car. It means something. I’m just sorry you don’t have anything to care this much about in your life.”

This time Ted slammed the hood down. Earl snapped his hands back just in time, but the gunshot-crack was still satisfying as hell. For good measure, Ted spat on the hood as he turned away, and Earl dove for the spot with a baby-soft buffing cloth, cleaning as though expecting the saliva to cause the paint to bubble and burn away.

“Have a nice life, you two,” Ted called, holding up his exit pay and middle finger as he walked away. “See ya around.”

* * *

It was a month before Earl called. Ted had filled the days picking up shifts in the Beckett’s Bend hardware store and selling the Healey family’s best by the jarful to those in the holler who preferred their brew local and strong. His nights he filled with Kasie, who’d come back from visiting her sister in Harlan claiming she was going to stay this time. Considering that was what she’d shouted as she stormed off to her sister’s, Ted had his doubts, but he was willing to see where this stretch of road took them.

He was almost glad when the call came, though Earl’s mumbled apology in the message barely made a dent in the anger still biting at Ted like a starved dog. The recent offense had been far from the first. But anger—and pride—didn’t pay the bills, and a few boxes of nails here and a few gallons of white lightning there barely did better.

The morning Earl called, Ted had been snapped awake by Kasie’s scream as her shower turned to ice. With temples pounding, hung-over, he’d fumbled the unpaid, red-stamped water bill out from under his boxers on the floor and groaned just as Kasie flew at him, screeching and whipping him with her wet towel.

Even so, Ted let Earl dangle a few days before answering. Fuck him and the Challenger he rode in on. Ted wasn’t anyone’s bitch, begging for attention or favor, much less a Walker, for Chrissake, one of a family that gave redneck assholes a bad name.

“So when are you calling him back, Teddy?” Kasie stood in the shed doorway in a crop top and tiny shorts, hands on her hips, sunlight feathering her short blonde hair and droplets of sweat snaking between her pert breasts, beside the penny hung on a slim chain around her neck—a birthday gift from Ted, the coin he’d found the night they’d met.

“Don’t know. Maybe I won’t.” Ted screwed the still’s new condenser in place. No radiator coil for him—dead customers couldn’t become return customers.

Kasie sighed and rolled her green eyes. “Kentucky men and their fucking feuds. Guess that means I won’t be showering much over here anymore.”

Ted slid away from the still, watched her walk across the yellow-grassed chicken run of a backyard towards the weather-beaten shack he called home, slim shoulders bare, sweetheart-shaped hips swiveling as she strutted away.

“Hold up,” he called, wrench clattering to the floor as he hopped up and ran after her.

* * *

Shortly after midnight Friday, Ted waited in the stifling blue-black darkness. The Challenger eased up near the shed, headlights dark as a dead man’s eyes. He grunted to Earl as the other man swung his legs out of the driver’s seat.

For all Earl’s faults, he’d done right by the car, Ted admitted. Earl had bought it a year ago after their last car, a midnight-dark Dodge, flipped taking a hairpin turn and hadn’t recovered as well as they had.

Their current car, an R/T hardtop two-door coupe, packed a 383 V-8 Magnum engine under its hood, capable of pushing the car from zero to sixty in six seconds flat. Along with restoring it to museum condition, Earl had tricked it out with all the tools of the trade: beefed-up suspension to handle their illicit cargo’s weight, hidden compartments everywhere from the roof liner to the wheel wells and under the bench seats, and more, all wrapped up in one sweet-ass package.

The only sticking point was the color. It was cool but conspicuous, Ted felt. Earl argued the Duke boys had gotten away with a flashier car than theirs, and if he hadn’t yet figured out that wasn’t a documentary, Ted didn’t want to be the one to disillusion him.

Riding lower to the ground now than when it pulled up to the shed, the Challenger backed away, Earl and Ted seated within, and moonshine stowed everywhere it could possibly fit. Both men wore a handgun under their shirts. A sawed-off shotgun sat under Ted’s seat. Moonshine had been legal since 2010; and the government, like it did every time an honest man tried to make a living, wanted its piece of the action. Unlicensed, untaxed stills continued to be thorns in the side of the “revenooers.” Men in Ted and Earl’s line of work had to be ready for anything.

That night’s run went well. Things didn’t go to shit until they were back over the county line—nearly home, in fact, only an hour or so away from Beckett’s Bend.

“Wait, don’t take Creek,” Ted said, watching a stand of oak trees blur by his window. “Keep going, grab Colcutt, it’ll take you right to Arrowhead.”

Most of the names by which locals knew these tangled, treacherous back roads differed from county and state roadway maps. These names had come down through generations, carried by the locals like folk songs or family heirlooms. They knew them, names and roads both, as no outsider ever could. Arrowhead was the most knotted and desolate of them all, but it was also the one that would take them home.

“Creek’s faster,” said Earl, cutting the wheel.

“Yeah, but I got word the cops’ve been coming down it more often, looking for bootleggers,” Ted explained, but felt like his words were sliding off Earl—not unheard, but dismissed again. Fire flared in him, the sick, hot yellow flame of tainted ‘shine; the rumble of the engine, the churning of the tires against gravel and dirt—all this throbbed and thudded in his skull, and his rough-knuckled hands clenched into fists on his thighs.

Earl snorted. “Who fed you that horseshit?”

“Milton Byers. Told me Monday in the store.”

“Milton drinks more’n he sells. Ain’t no cops stalking Creek—”

Red and blue lights flashed behind them.

“—Road.”

Ted felt the sudden urge to throttle Earl Walker.

Earl rolled to a stop with the police car behind him. The blue-uniformed boy who approached looked barely old enough to shave.

“No problem at all,” Earl chuckled, and since they’d offloaded the product there wouldn’t be one—shouldn’t be, anyway.

“Problem, officer?” Earl grinned into the flashlight beam.

“You know how fast you were going, sir?”

Ted sighed, leaning against the cool glass of the passenger window. Earl drove like the roads were his personal NASCAR track—which wouldn’t be a problem if he didn’t whip by the fucking cops.

But, hell, Ted was only thinking.

“We’re fine,” Earl said under his breath as the cop went to run his ID. “I don’t have any warrants or nothin’.”

“For once,” Ted muttered.

Earl’s eyes shone with a dangerous edge. “What, ‘cause you’re such an angel, boy? After that clusterfuck in Louisville you ran right to your cousin’s house, they picked you up in ten sec—”

Ted jabbed Earl’s ribs. “Shut up.”

“Motherfu—”

“No, shut up.” Ted gestured at the returning cop.

Earl’s scowl morphed into a smile—a bit off-putting, framed by his pale, patchy stubble and teeth crooked and discolored as old tombstones. But the cop, braver than he looked, didn’t flinch, and appeared ready to let them off with a warning. But just as the nervous tension that had coiled hot and tight inside Ted started to ease off, the cop’s voice changed, became stiffer, more official.

“Hold up, Mr. Walker. You got a permit for that?”

Ted looked over, his muscles like wires pulled taut. Oh, fuck. As Earl reached for his ID his shirt had ridden up, exposing the gun shoved inside his jeans. Of course he didn’t have a permit; neither of them did, and there was that shotgun, no more legal, parked under Ted’s seat…

“This thing?” Earl gave his sandpaper chuckle. “See, officer, the funny thing about that is…”

He slammed his foot down on the gas.

“You dumb fuck,” Ted snarled as the Challenger peeled away, whipping down a sharp curve with all lights off and only Earl’s mental map to guide them. In their rearview mirror, the young cop charged back to his Crown Vic and gunned it, siren screaming, in pursuit.

“None of this would be happening if you pulled your head outta your ass and listened to me once’n a while, you inbred prick.”

“Shit, you don’t think I can lose this kid?”

They took a turn that sent the Crown Vic skidding into the grass. When the cop car came to a stop, the nonplussed young patrolman wrestled his cruiser back to the road.

“I’m old but I ain’t dead, boy,” Earl finished his thought.

“But he knows you now, he knows the car, and cops are gonna come sniffin’ around—”

“Then we lay low ‘til the heat dies down. Ain’t nothing we never done before.” Earl shot Ted a doubting glance. “You losin’ your nerve on me now, boy?”

The yellow flame climbed higher in Ted. “Stop calling me that,” he said, so gutturally the engine’s thunder nearly swallowed it. His brain felt black as the humid moonless night, the pine trees they raced past and the dips and valleys between the slumbering hills, black as the gun in his lap. “Pull over,” he said, louder.

They were on Arrowhead now, barreling through one of its many copse-choked knots. The police siren had since faded far behind them.

“Yeah, we’ll wait ‘em out here,” Earl said, easing the Challenger off the road, pulling up under the shadows of the trees to better conceal it. “Just like we did in Bardwell, remember, boy?”

Ted said nothing.

They sat waiting, ready to jump, aware of the weight of each drop of sweat on their skins, of the guns they carried.

Eventually the patrolman’s car screamed past, headed into town. A minute later another car followed—police backup—charging in the same direction.

The bootleggers waited, and when they were convinced no more police were coming, Earl scrambled from the car, throwing an air-punch and letting out a whoop that rent the night.

“You see that, Teddy boy? Dumb pigs just blew by, wouldn’t know their boots from an outhouse—”

So intent was he on celebrating that he never saw Ted’s fist rushing toward Earl’s face. Earl went down clutching his jaw, and as he climbed up on one knee, swaying, Ted stood over him.

“I’m done putting up with your shit, Earl. You never listen, you cut my pay, you kick me around like your damn dog—I’m not your fucking dog, Earl!”

A hot breeze stirred the pine branches, but Ted could almost imagine it was his bellow that made the black needles quiver.

“Nobody said you were, Ted. What the fuck? We got away, didn’t we? Jesus God, what more d’ya want?” Earl still looked stunned, but it was ebbing; his mounting anger would bubble to the surface soon.

“What more do I want?” Ted’s incredulous laugh bounced off the trees, startled the crickets silent. “Some damn respect, Earl. But I know that’s never gonna happen.”

Earl started to his feet, teeth bared. “You sonuva—”

The gun was in Ted’s hand. Through the red haze of adrenaline he felt himself pull the trigger, and Earl jerked back with a quarter-sized hole blown into his forehead. Blood and brains striped the Challenger’s side. An owl screamed and a cloud hid the moon.

The gun still smoking, Ted stood motionless, breathing heavy, unable to believe what he’d done. Earl’s blue eyes were locked on him, his stare even blanker than it had been in life. Later, Ted would find that funny.

There was a shovel in the Challenger’s trunk, left from the time Earl had helped his cousin bury a hound that’d gone rabid and needed putting down. Something reminded Ted of this, and before his hands could start shaking he got out the shovel and got to digging.

* * *

It wasn’t hard convincing people Earl had run off. He’d always been a shiftless bastard, and most of the people in Beckett’s Bend seemed relieved he’d finally gone. The cops came looking for him, of course, but had to move on when they found nothing. Ted holed up with one of his friends until Kasie called to tell him the coast was clear. By then he’d scrubbed the gore from the car. It gleamed as new once again, every trace of Earl gone.

Ted pulled up to his house and backed his car into the lot.

“Ain’t that’s Earl’s car?” asked Kasie, shading her eyes from the sun.

“He wanted me to watch it while he’s gone.” Ted cut the engine, hopped out, patted the hood. He’d be keeping the car. It was already primed perfectly for his work—besides, it was the nicest thing he’d ever owned. He’d be repainting it, but hey, it wasn’t like Earl was around to complain.

“You sure things are all right, Teddy?” Kasie bit her lower lip. “We don’t need more trouble ‘round here.”

“Trust me, babe, things are fine.” Ted grinned. “Tell you what, how ‘bout later on I take you out for a ride, show you what this baby can do?”

“Later?” Kasie smiled. “What about now?”

She squealed as Ted swung her up in his arms.

“I think we’re about to be occupied,” Ted said, and Kasie laughed as he carried her into the house.

The dented screen door slammed after them. The Challenger sat in the late-afternoon sunlight, engine ticking as it cooled.

* * *

When Ted thought of the murder, half the time it was through a drifting sense of disbelief, as if he’d dreamed it one night while the whiskey blurred the edges of reality and sleep: the gunshot, the spray of scarlet rain, the burn in his muscles as he dug the shallow grave and the dirt he’d found under his nails the next day.

I did that?

Then it would hit him, as the bullet must’ve hit Earl, and the question became a statement.

I did it.

He felt satisfaction, relief, amusement, the lightness of dead weight lifted.

But never guilt.

And when Milton Byers told him the cops had moved their attention to Hill Road, Ted cruised down Orchard to Arrowhead—sparing a wave for Earl, who lay under a pine tree—as he drove by on his way home.

All in all, Ted thought, things were going better than they had in years. He should’ve killed Earl a long time ago.

The feeling lasted two weeks. On a Saturday afternoon, when Kasie was hung-over and therefore didn’t want to be talked to or touched, Ted took the car out alone, not for a run but just to open it up, feel that engine’s rumble and the rush of wind on his face. Times like these, he wished Earl’d gotten the convertible Challenger, but that meant less hiding space for the whiskey.

Ted whooped as he tore down the road, windows down and Johnny Cash on the radio. The car was a streak of scarlet, gleaming in the sun; he hadn’t gotten around to repainting it yet, but he would, he told himself.

The radio startled crackling with static as he roared down Orchard. He tuned the knob from station to station, but still the static persisted. His eyes off the road, he didn’t notice his car was edging toward the shoulder until the last minute, and he jerked the wheel to get the car back in line. Meanwhile, the radio continued to jump between stations, the dial dancing between Haggard and Motörhead—Earl’s favorite.

Ice ran up Ted’s spine. “Shut the fuck up!” he yelled, pounding the radio with his fist. Cursing again, Ted looked up in time to see a sharp curve approaching fast. Both hands on the wheel, he threw his weight behind it and twisted hard.

It didn’t budge.

Panic needled Ted’s nerves. He tried again, and when it stayed stuck he jammed his foot on the brake. The pedal sank to the floor effortlessly, but the car did not respond.

Fuck fuck FUCK—

The Challenger rocketed off the road, tires churning up dirt and overgrown yellow grass as it plunged across the field, Ted pumping the brake and clutching the wheel in bone-white hands.

WORK, dammit!

And finally it did, brakes squealing as Ted stomped down one last time. The car skidded to a stop, spooking a nearby flock of crows. Ted was tossed forward and snapped back in his seat by the safety belt. His ears thundered with the echo of the engine’s roar.

The radio was still on. He snapped it off; this time it stayed that way. He sat there, shaking, soaked in sweat that felt, despite the day’s heat, like chips of ice, his stomach a snake pit and his heart beating triple time. Beneath his feet, the floor thrummed until he snapped the ignition off, and then he slumped over, head pressed to the steering wheel, trying to catch his breath. He told himself it was a mechanical fluke, a fault, something that could be fixed, and that explained almost everything—

—except the blank blue eyes he’d glimpsed in the rearview mirror as he’d gone off the road.

* * *

Ted wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or not when the Challenger checked out fine at the mechanic’s shop. Lee Goodwin, the town’s professional wrench-turner, came by for a bottle every once in a while, so he could be trusted not to ask questions about the extra space in the engine compartment.

The car was in perfect working order. The problems Ted had experienced probably wouldn’t happen again—but then, if there was nothing wrong with the car, why had they happened at all? And those eyes—had that been a fluke, too? Not even the hits Ted took from his mason jars could chase away the chill that seized him whenever he thought on it.

Kasie didn’t want him driving the car anymore—easy for her to say, until her showers went cold again. A new car meant spending money he didn’t have.

Use what you got, ‘cause it’s all you got, his father used to say. And while Pop normally chased those words with a cuff to Ted’s head or a strap to the back, it was still good advice, and exactly what Ted intended to do.

When it came time for the next run, Ted stood braced outside the Challenger as if staring down a horse that might kick at any moment. A fine sweat slicked his brow. Much as he needed it, that car just wasn’t right anymore, and he knew it. A dog barked somewhere and he nearly shat himself.

For fuck’s sake, Healy, pull it together. It’s just a goddamn car.

A car that had witnessed him kill a man, but still, just a car. Gears and oil and metal and leather—

—and brake lines and steering wheels—

—and he was being stupid and gutless and chickenshit, and should just nut up and get going.

He got in and started the car.

Ted arrived ten minutes late to his meeting and the buyers were pissed, but he managed to settle up with them. One, a bearded lunk named Mo, asked after Earl, wondering where he’d been the past few weeks. Without missing a beat, Ted repeated the cut-and-run lie he’d spread through town. After a moment spent silently working his cud of chaw, Mo nodded, stroking his bristly black beard.

“Well, he always was an asshole. Left you his car, though.”

His envious eyes crept beetle-like over it.

Ted nodded.

“He was always bragging about that thing,” Mo went on. “You know what he kept sayin’ about it? ‘I put myself in this thing, Mo.’”

Ted smiled. “Oh, he definitely did that.”

Mo clapped him on the back and arranged for another buy two weeks away. Ted, car riding lighter and pocket bulging heavier, laughed with them and promised to be on time before getting behind the wheel once more. He was halfway home when something in the backseat caught his eye.

Ted jammed on the brakes, half expecting them to fail again. The car skidded, then screeched to a stop.

“You’re imagining it,” he muttered, willing himself to believe it. He was, he had to be; when he looked again Earl would be gone. He forced a deep breath and looked back.

And met Earl’s accusing gaze.

Ted twisted around.

There he was, his dead partner, sitting in the backseat—same tank top, dirty jeans, worn-out boots he’d been wearing the night he’d died—with the addition of the bullet hole pulsing gore on his forehead. His eyes stared at him with the empty, accusing gaze of the dead.

Ted’s skin crawled.

“You’re not real,” he told Earl. “You aren’t. I’m hallucinating you or something—I don’t know why, but I am. So go the fuck away, all right? I don’t need this shit in my life.”

Earl just sat there, scowling. Ted thought the chill he felt was internal until he saw his forearms prickling with goosebumps.

“You aren’t real!” Ted snarled and clumsily swung his left fist. It passed through Earl, who vanished without reaction or so much as a drop of blood to prove he’d been there.

“Because he wasn’t.” Ted’s voice, trembling, sounded unreal to his own ears, grated in his dry throat. “He wasn’t. Christ, Ted, get your shit together.”

He rubbed his forehead red; on the back of his eyelids clotted brains began spraying, blood dripping down the Challenger’s side…

Ted kicked the driver’s door open, scrambled out of the car, and vomited.

* * *

“You don’t look sick.” Kasie perched on the edge of his bed, cool hand on his forehead until he grunted and pushed it away.

“You get your medical degree while I was gone last night?”

His heartbeat echoed in his head. He pushed himself deeper into the crumpled pillow, trying to muffle it. He’d call it a hangover, but he hadn’t touched a drop, even though part of him had been screaming for it when he’d stumbled through the door.

He’d been too worried about what else he might see.

Kasie crossed her arms. “Why do you have to be such an asshole all the time?”

“Hey—hey, Kasie, wait.” Ted snagged her wrist, tugged her gently back as she made to storm off. “Look, I’m sorry. I just had a shit night and I’m feelin’ it today. Ain’t your fault, and I shouldn’t be snapping at you.”

Kasie’s sulking mood petered out. “Problem with the run? Or more trouble with the car?”

Earl scowled in the back of his mind. “Nothin’ I can’t handle.” Probably.

Kasie fidgeted, necklace dancing against her throat. “That still doesn’t sound good.”

“You trust me or not, babe?” A taste like sour milk soaked his tongue. His nerves felt raw, gritty.

“Yeah,” Kasie said eventually. “Just don’t get why you can’t get a normal job like my brother-in-law.”

“Rob’s a prick,” Ted said, earning a laugh. “But there’s nothin’ to worry about.”

Whether she believed that or not, she left him alone. Ted tried to catch up on his stolen sleep, willing his headache to dull and stomach to unwind, but mostly tossed and turned for a few hours. Each time he got close to drifting off, memories would break the surface and shock him awake.

Suddenly, a roar in the next room roused him. He groaned, pressing the pillow over his head.

She doesn’t vacuum for six months, and now she starts? Ted considered shouting at her to shut the damn thing off, decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Groaning again, he rolled out of bed. He’d grab a shower, then go out and see if he couldn’t fix that busted section of fence. Passing the bedroom window, he glanced into the yard.

There was a figure moving in the car.

His first thought, even now, was someone trying to steal the Challenger. Probably one of the McCarron boys, those assholes. Out of instinct he went to grab the handgun he kept under the mattress, then remembered he’d ditched it after shooting Earl. The sawed-off was still in the car.

Cursing, he bolted down the hall and out the back door, ignoring Kasie calling after him. The grass scratched his bare feet; the sun pierced his skull, intensifying the throbbing in his head. Still, he saw clearly enough—the shape in the backseat was Earl.

More angry than surprised, he stalked towards the car. “What the fuck do you want, huh? Punk-ass, just sittin’ there—the hell you think you’re gonna do?”

“Ted!”

She must’ve been screaming for some time, but he didn’t notice until he felt her pulling his left arm, yanking with all her strength to catch his attention.

“Teddy, who the hell’re you yelling at?”

Naked fear was scrawled on her face—fear of him, he realized dimly, him and the violence of his rage. What’s she think I’m gonna do, kill someone? It wasn’t as funny now as it might’ve once been.

“Earl!” he spat. “You don’t see…?” But when his gaze followed his outstretched hand, he saw the car was empty.

“What are you talking about? You mean Earl’s back?” Kasie’s brow furrowed.

A clammy hand gripped Ted’s gut, twisted. “No, I… I don’t know.” He shook as adrenaline subsided, ran a hand through his hair. “I saw—I thought I saw, in the car—”

Kasie released his arm, stepped back. “Baby, there’s no one there.”

He rounded on her. “No shit, Sherlock. You think I can’t see that?”

Fear became a glare, flames leaping in her eyes. “You know what, Ted? Screw this shit, and screw you. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on with you, but I don’t need it in my life. Call me if you ever get your shit together, ‘kay?”

She stalked off.

Ted wanted to follow, but couldn’t seem to force his rubbery legs to move. “Kasie!” he called. “Kasie, come back, hey—”

She raised her middle finger and kept going, disappearing around the front of the house.

“Kasie!” he tried one more time, and when no response came he kicked at a clump of dirt, muttering “Fuck,” hands flying to the top of his head. “Shit—fuck—motherfucker—”

He could almost hear Earl chuckling.

* * *

On Monday, Marie Pettimore returned from maternity leave, meaning there were no more shifts for Ted at the hardware store. They’d been his last resort anyway, so this left him with nothing to do but rattle around the empty shack, drink, swear off drinking, leave messages for Kasie that went unreturned, start drinking again, and contemplate the possibility he was going insane.

He couldn’t sleep. For a week every time he tried he was jolted awake by the rev of the Challenger’s engine, loud as a scream in the night and growing in volume as though the car was about to burst through the ground floor. Each time he checked, it was parked in the same place, lights off and with its keys by his bedside. The hood was always cool to the touch, but he knew he’d heard the engine start up, or at least thought he had.

He took to sitting by the bedroom window, staring down at the car until dawn broke and the daylight stung his bloodshot eyes. The car was quiet—until he dozed off, in which case he’d be snapped awake by its noise and scramble to find it sitting there, the sleek curve of the front fender seeming to grin at him, innocent and knowing.

He knew about murder, and ghosts. Hell, he’d had a mama who sung him Appalachian murder ballads as lullabies, at least until she’d run off. And in most of those, if the victim didn’t have anyone willing to get justice for them, the dead tended to do it themselves.

But those were songs and stories of the kind you told with your cousins around a bonfire in someone’s yard while you passed the jar around, trying to scare your girl—or someone else’s—so you might get some later. Legends, dammit, folklore; that’s all they were.

All they were supposed to be, anyway.

And it wasn’t like he could go to anyone and ask for advice. Y’see, I actually blew Earl’s brains out onto the car and dumped him in a shallow grave out on Arrowhead, and now I think he’s haunting me. Not that Earl would be much mourned, but still, murder carried a certain weight with it—not to mention it’d surely spark a blood feud with any Walker still breathing free air, and Ted didn’t need that shitstorm blowing in.

So: alone, possibly haunted, possibly insane. If only Mama could see me now.

“Christ, Ted, you look like death warmed over.” Lee Goodwin settled himself next to Ted at the bar, his stool’s cushion uttering a muffled sigh as he sank down.

Ted smiled wanly, scratching his stubbled jaw. “Still prettier’n you.”

“I concede the point.” Lee sipped, set his brown bottle down. “Car trouble? I didn’t see yours in the lot.”

“Walked.” Not just because of his mental break; he’d planned on getting piss-drunk and had never driven drunk in his life. He was a redneck, not a complete moron.

“Hear from Earl lately?”

Ted’s hand clenched his bottle. “Nah. Looks like he’s gone for good.”

“Good riddance, you ask most anyone. Still, I’m a bit surprised he left the car behind, after all the time he spent on it.”

Ted slammed his hand down on the bar’s scratched wood. “Shit, Lee, can’t you talk about anything besides the damn car? Why do you keep coming back to that fucking thing?”

“Because I’m a mechanic,” Lee said mildly.

Ted’s sigh bent his broad shoulders. He bowed his head, rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know. Sorry ‘bout that.”

Lee looked at the empty bottles in front of Ted. “You celebratin’ or mournin’ somethin’, son?”

Ted let out a raspy laugh. “Just trying to clear my head.”

“Interesting method.” Lee signaled for two more. “Where’s Kasie?”

“Dunno.”

“Ah,” Lee said wisely.

“Yep.”

“Any reason?”

“My fault.”

“Ted,” Lee said gravely, knowingly, “it’s always your fault.”

Ted gave a real laugh at last. He and Lee passed the next few hours drinking and talking. Once, between rounds, Ted almost caved and told him, asked—begged—for help; he could feel the need to tell someone pressing against his chest like a stone he’d swallowed. But then a fight erupted between that Dickerson kid and Jack Hayes, and in the brief tumult the moment was lost.

Lee drove him home at closing time. Ted’s eyes were so heavy he thought he’d probably sleep even if the car did drive through his house. “Thought you were gonna paint the car,” Lee said as he pulled up to Ted’s house.

“Might not now.” Ted stopped fumbling with his seatbelt. Something bubbled up from his subconscious into his fuzzy mind. “Wait, how’d you know I haven’t?”

Lee chuckled. “Son, you are drunk. I’m looking right at it.”

Ted bolted upright, twisted his neck to look. The Challenger, which he’d left in the backyard, was now sitting in the driveway, beaming its fender-grin at him. His heart shot into his throat.

Mother a’ Jesus, mother a’ God; how…?

Once Lee had left, Ted gave the car a wide berth and headed into the house.

He didn’t sleep that night.

* * *

He called but wasn’t expecting an answer, so when Kasie picked up Ted was stunned silent.

“Talk fast,” Kasie said, her tone brooking no argument.

Ted exhaled, pacing, rubbing his head. Both his body and voice shook. “I’m an asshole—no, don’t hang up. I’m losing my shit over here. I can’t sleep, and I’m either seeing things or I’m not, and I honestly don’t know what’s worse. But being alone isn’t helping. I’m here all the time, I’m sinking into my own head, and I miss you, baby; I miss you and I wish you were back here with me.”

“Jesus, Ted.” The steel in her voice softened, melted into concern. “What trouble did you get yourself into?”

Ted squeezed his eyes shut. “Baby, I don’t know.”

Irritation hadn’t left her entirely. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s going on with you.”

“I can’t tell you everything. Trust me, it’s better if I don’t. But… but I need to get out, take my mind off all this or—or, Christ, I don’t know what.”

Silence.

Ted was starting to think she’d hung up when she said, “I’m at Reesa’s. If you want to pick me up tonight, I’ll still be here.”

Shit. “You can’t drive down? The Challenger and I, uh, aren’t on the best terms right now.”

“Reesa’s truck’s in the shop. You want me, come get me.”

Ted pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll be there around eight. We can go to Joe’s, all right? It’ll be just like old times.”

“Yeah, baby. Sure. Just… be careful, Ted, okay?”

“Uh-huh.” He nodded, sucking in a breath. “I will.”

Problem is, I don’t think it’s up to me.

* * *

“Please behave,” he said to the car when it was time to go, though it soured his stomach to ask. He still had the presence of mind to be disgusted at begging a Walker for anything.

But whatever might’ve been riding along with him seemed satisfied with his fraying nerves and self-loathing. The car purred along perfectly all the way to Harlan, though he struggled to unclench his hands from the wheel once he pulled up in front of Reesa’s house. Kasie waited out front, necklace glimmering at her throat.

“Hey, baby.”

He hugged her tight, breathing in the scent of her and soaking up the warmth he’d missed.

“Hey yourself.” Kasie laughed, though after they kissed she drew back and touched his cheek lightly, concern creasing her face. “Jesus, honey.”

He grasped her hand. “Later, huh? Please?”

She studied his face, streetlights streaking her hair with amber stripes. “All right,” she said eventually, and as Ted opened the passenger door and she slid inside the darkened interior, he got the sensation of an abyss yawning wide.

Through the night, though, Ted’s worry crept to the back of his mind. He’d missed Kasie out of more than just fear, and being back with her, even for something as simple as drinks and dancing in a honky-tonk they’d haunted the first few years they were together, stitched up the ravaged places ripped in him lately.

They laughed as they left at closing time, Ted’s arm slung around her slender waist. “You said that?” Kasie bumped him with her shoulder.

“Hell yeah I did. Somebody had to set that asshole straight.” Instinctively, Ted reached past Kasie and opened the passenger door for her.

“What a hero. Lancelot of the backwoods.” Kasie grinned and kissed his cheek before slipping inside the Challenger.

It hit Ted then that he hadn’t unlocked the car. He remembered locking it, clearly, but the keys were still in his pocket, beneath his wallet and a crumpled receipt. His stomach shuddered; ice kissed his skin.

“Babe, you comin’?” Kasie peered out the window.

“Yeah.” He fumbled the keys free and made for the driver’s side, praying as he slipped behind the wheel.

His prayers lasted halfway home. Ted’s skin prickled with a chill. The sensation of being watched drew his reluctant gaze to the backseat, where Earl waited with eyes like chips of ice in the dark.

“Kasie. Please tell me you see that.” His words were throaty, hoarse. Sweat rolled down his temples in thick beads.

She broke off her story, glanced at him and then followed his gaze to the backseat. “See what? Something behind us?”

Dammit, woman, the dead bootlegger in the backseat!

“No, him, in the seat—Kasie, tell me you see him!”

“In our car? Ted, nobody’s there.” Fear overtook her expression. “Is this like the shit back in our yard? Dammit, Ted, you can’t keep doing this! If something’s wrong, you need to tell me, or someone—”

“The problem is that he’s fucking there, and nobody but me is seein’ it!” Ted slammed a fist against the dash, the other hand locked to the wheel. “God, he’s right there, just starin’ at me! How are you not seein’ him?”

“Ted, pull over.”

The wheels kept churning the road.

Bone-white, Kasie grabbed his arm. “Pull over, Ted!”

Eyes more on Earl than the road, Ted started guiding the car to the right, toward the shoulder. Then the wheel yoked hard to the left and the car followed suit, lurching back onto the road. Kasie screamed; Ted jerked the wheel in response, trying to right the car while stomping the brakes, but the car responded to neither.

Engine roaring, the Challenger pushed triple-digit speeds. Kasie was still screaming and Ted’s heart was a moment away from leaping out of his throat, his nuts were trying to shrink up into his stomach—

—and then the headlights appeared.

Twenty yards down the road, a black pickup barreled toward them. Ted could see the end clearly: the truck’s horn blaring, the screech and scream of crumpling metal, shards of steel and bone amidst streaks of blood and scarlet paint.

Jesus, Kasie, I’m so sorry—

At the last second the wheel spun again, and the Challenger veered out of the pickup’s path, the vehicles coming close enough to kiss. The blare of the truck’s horn trailed after them as the Challenger finally coasted to a stop on the shoulder.

Earl was gone. Ted noticed this peripherally as he turned to check on Kasie, who was wide-eyed and ghostly in the dim light.

“What the fuck was that?” she whispered, cheeks wet, hands curled into fists.

“Baby, are you okay?”

“What the fuck was that, Ted?” she repeated, her voice jagged with hysteria.

“I don’t know, I—”

“We could’ve died, we could’ve just fucking died!” She bent at the waist, her bowed back heaving with her sobs.

Ted pushed his door open as hard as his rubbery arms allowed and then reached for her, helping her across the bench seat, arm tight and protective around her shaking shoulders.

“C’mon.” He was amazed he could still speak; his voice and movements were rough, rushed. “C’mon, baby, we’re walking home. C’mon.”

Kasie stumbled, clutching at him, as the road crunched under her heels. “Wh… what about…?”

“I’ll call Lee, have him tow it or something. Doesn’t matter.” Ted’s thoughts were tumbling fragments. He didn’t care about later, or tomorrow, just getting Kasie and himself as far from the car as possible.

As they started down the road he looked back, half-expecting to see the Challenger prowling after them, headlights dark and engine growling, but it was where he’d left it, still and silent, shrinking in the distance.

They hardly talked the rest of the night. When Ted and Kasie got home they collapsed from exhaustion. Kasie fell asleep first, curled up and trembling in Ted’s arms in the living room, while he stayed awake watching through the dark window, the sawed-off he’d taken inside a week ago close at hand. Admittedly, he didn’t know what he could do with it if the car did show up.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. Next thing he knew, he was blinking. It was daylight, and Kasie was bringing him coffee. The laughing girl of last night was gone. Her demeanor was subdued, her hair was a mess, and her eyes were shadowed.

“I didn’t think Lee ever got up before noon,” she said, making a face at her own coffee.

“Huh?” Ted stammered, his mind still sludgy.

“Guess he checked the car over already. When did you call him?”

He hadn’t called Lee. Whatever she said couldn’t be true. The implications reached into his core and clawed at the deep, dark, primal nerve cluster that signaled danger.

But Ted knew—oh, he knew what he’d see as he drew back the ragged curtain with a brush of the shotgun. The Challenger didn’t disappoint. It gleamed, grinning, in the driveway, facing the house—facing Ted. He dropped the curtain and sat back, not realizing he was shaking until his forgotten coffee splashed onto his hand, scalding him.

“Ted?” Kasie jumped back from the spray of coffee. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer—couldn’t. If he opened his mouth, he’d start screaming.

* * *

He contemplated fire, pushing it off a mountain, explosives stolen from one of the mines in the area; but he was too leery of the car to touch it. Beneath that fear lurked another: that even if he smashed it, slashed it, and tore it apart, he’d find the Challenger waiting for him back at home, not a scratch on its paint.

Ted asked a few acquaintances and found a line on a car—a black Ford that belonged to Julian, one of Jack Hayes’s brothers who lived two towns over. Ted was a few thousand bucks short of what he was asking, but he figured he’d have the money after another successful hooch haul. The only problem was, that meant taking the Challenger, which he hadn’t touched since the near-accident.

Kasie, too, was on eggshells around it—and him, if he was being honest with himself. Just hearing her footfalls on the stairs hurt—made him want to scream, put a fist through the wall. Maybe she was right; maybe it was time to switch professions, ask Rob if he would put some feelers out…

Screw that shit. I’m a Healey. Healeys’ve never begged for anything, and no fucking Walker’s gonna get ‘em to start.

“Your goddamn pride’ll get you killed,” Kasie said as he kissed her goodbye Friday night.

“Love you, baby.” The words had a strange weight on his tongue.

She turned away. “Sure have a helluva strange way of showing it.”

He sat in the car a minute before turning it on. Hands on the wheel, he took a deep breath to settle himself, taking in the sharp smell of leather and sweat. “Look, Earl, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t. But I know why. And I’m s—”

The word clotted on his tongue. Even now, he wasn’t sorry. Earl had had that bullet coming for a while, and Ted couldn’t, wouldn’t, take it back. Maybe he was owed one, too, and it’d find him someday—fine. But in this respect, at least, he’d go to his grave an honest man.

Anger helped steel his resolve. He gripped the wheel, turned the key, and said, hard as a hammer on a coffin lid, “But you’re dead, and this car’s mine now. Move on, boy.”

And he headed out on the road.

* * *

There was no moon that night. Ted wove his way across the black knot of roads as skillfully as Earl had ever done. Thankfully, the wheel and brakes were obedient, acting only when he called on them. Maybe he’d just needed to find his balls; maybe standing up to Earl was all he’d needed to make the bastard stand down, dead or not. By the end of the ride, Ted let himself grin. Maybe it was all over now.

After he’d made the sale and was on the return trip, he was almost home when the radio started to fuzz. Ice and fire warred in his gut, fear and anger clashing as Hank Williams became Pantera became Charlie Daniels, static buzzing between each station like snatches of malevolent laughter.

“No, dammit,” he snarled, glancing in the rearview mirror but not seeing Earl in the backseat. “I told you, this is my car now, not yours. I don’t care how pissed you are, leave me the fuck alone.”

The temperature in the Challenger plummeted; Ted could see his breath with every exhalation. The radio cut out completely. A flicker of movement caught Ted’s eye—but to his right, not in the mirror. Horror dragged his eyes over. Earl was sitting in the passenger seat, another gout of blood pulsing slowly from his bullet wound.

And this time, he was smiling.

“Should’ve said sorry, boy,” he said, and reached over and grabbed the wheel.

Ted hung on as Earl yanked, pulling back as hard as he could but struggling to budge it even the little he could. Earl was exerting strength beyond what he’d had in life, when most of their competitions had come away dead even. They wrestled, and the Challenger weaved back and forth across the road.

Ted lost all sense of the world outside the car, aware only of the need to wrest the wheel back from the dead man laughing beside him—oh God, he’d always hated that goddamn laugh—

Earl let go of the wheel, and it was Ted’s turn to laugh in triumph, until he noticed Earl was still smiling.

And then he saw the tree.

* * *

The one thing Ted had impressed on Kasie was to never, never, never call the cops when he was out on a run, for any reason, and no matter the scares he’d given her, she never had. But this time, when night turned to day and started creeping towards evening again, it had been the longest he’d been gone without calling. Fear crept into her stronger than ever before, with recent terrors eating away at her resolve until finally she picked up the phone and dialed the boys in blue.

They found the Challenger that same night out on Arrowhead Road. The car had collided head-on, at full speed, with a pine tree. It took the lab techs back at the station considerably longer to identify the mess of meat inside the car as Ted’s remains.

“Probably drunk,” one of the cops said, surveying the scene. “Healey supplied half the county with ‘shine. Shame about that car, though.”

Once the car was hauled away and the police were ready to head back, a detective spotted something the others had missed. In the deep ruts the tires had dug as the car slid into the tree, police found a rusted gun, fired once. Buried a little deeper than that, they found the rotting corpse of the missing Earl Walker.

About The Author
Sarah Cannavo

Sarah Cannavo is a writer of prose and poetry living in southern New Jersey, a short trip from the Pine Barrens. Her poems and short stories have appeared in anthologies and magazines such as Carrying On, Untimely Frost, Parody, Poetry Quarterly, Postcards from the Void, Schlock! Horror!, Darkling’s Beasts and Brews, and The Literary Hatchet; and her poem The 5 Stages of Being on Hold won third place in the 2018 Wergle Flomp Humor Poetry Contest.

The Driver

By: Alana Turner

I was itching to get behind the wheel again, literally counting down the days (two months, three weeks, and three days so far, to be exact). My car, a 2018 Mazda Miata MX-5 hardtop convertible, was a gift from my uncle when I got my license. She was almost an antique at this point, but I could still tear up the track with her.

She had all the bells and whistles—brand new suspension, a full tank of nitrous, virgin brakes, and a fresh paint job and wax, just to top things off. I’d spent these past weeks fixing her up. With the way she glowed in the sunlight filtering in from the garage door window, I felt like she was just as ready for me as I was for her.

I just had to endure one more day in a government-issued hunk of junk. It was a 2029 Safe Independent Transport, or SAINT, made and issued by the quasi-governmental entity, Safe Tracks. The guys at my garage called them “Bowling Balls”, and for good reason.

The car, if it could even be called that, was the only way for me to get to work and back without a license. It was perfectly round, the wheels squeezed under it at odd angles, and originally painted antiseptic white. Rust now outlined the windows and doors. The guys at my garage gave me hell for it, but it was still better than taking the bus—that was the ultimate reputation killer.

The government assigned me a SAINT as part of their “forgiveness for felons” program. It crushed my soul each time I crawled into the seat. It was a slow, artless, lumbering behemoth, and so utterly bland that no one but a government contractor could have devised the thing. Getting inside and shutting the door behind you activated the “Driver,” Karen.

“Good afternoon, Samantha!” A smiley-face emoji lit up on the dash to go with her voice. “The date is October 10th, 2036. Time: 7:55 a.m. My schedule says we are going to work today. Is that correct?”

“Yep, let’s go.”

I propped my feet onto the dashboard to hide Karen’s smiley-face. Normally, even the self-driving cars had the option for human drivers to take over, but not SAINTs. The government had seen to it that these vehicles came without a steering wheel, pedals, or even a gear shift. You were completely at the mercy of your digital chauffeur, who constantly smiled at you from the LCD screen in the dash. Alongside her face was the vehicle’s speedometer, which was a constant reminder that you were being punished. A SAINT never exceeded the speed limit, no matter the circumstances. This was all the more chiding to a convicted racer like me, being cooped up in a bland ball of a vehicle that always followed the rules and smiled at you constantly.

“Samantha, my sensors indicate several problems including rust and—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know,” I cut her off. “Proceed anyway. The tire is one PSI low, it doesn’t matter—just go!”

Karen was a programmed to be a worrier. Her routine system scans picked up every slight abnormality and reported them back to me with a request that they be corrected. I refused each time. I wasn’t about to put my money into this thing. The state gave it to me rusty, and it was getting it back that way.

“I must inform you your brake fluid is low. While acceptable, it—”

“You’ll last one more day. Go!” I kicked the dash for good measure. The screen cut to static for a moment, then displayed a worried face emoji. Karen took the hint.

I was so close to being freed from the Bowling Ball that I could hardly believe my sentence was almost over. One minute, I’m winning the race of my life; and the next, I’m arrested for street racing and sentenced to a SAINT. That didn’t help the fact that I still needed to get to work. Let’s face it, we all need day jobs. The rat race must go on after all.

As much as I hated Karen the Bowling Ball, sometimes it was nice to leave the driving to someone else. It helped me take in my surroundings while on my commute. On Fridays, I’d give yesterday’s leftovers to a Great Dane that plodded along Oak Street. It stung me a little that I had to throw the food out the window at him; once Karen’s destination was set, she would not stop or divert her path for anyone.

Sometimes, I even enjoyed commuting with Karen, like when we hit the freeway. The speed limit was higher there than in the suburbs. It reminded me of when I used to tear up the road in my Miata. Moments like those made me feel alive again. I would be there soon enough.

“One more day,” I said under my breath.

I closed my eyes and imagined I was back in my car—my real car. I was lined up at a stoplight, waiting for the green. My opponent revved his engine; I answered in response. My pulse raced, my hands got slick with the sweat of anticipation, and just as the light turned green…

Bump.

I opened my eyes.

Whatever that bump had been, I hadn’t imagined it. It had been real. I sat up in my chair and checked the mirrors to see what we’d hit. Behind us, fading quickly into the horizon, was a lump of fur sitting in a puddle of blood. It was on its back with its legs in the air, its limbs twitching as it went into its death throes.

“Karen, why did you run over that cat?” I demanded.

Karen was slow in answering. We had traveled for near to a quarter mile when she said, “The animal moved in an unexpected pattern. I was unable to avoid it.”

“Aren’t you programmed to brake when animals are in the road?” Caution above all else was the government’s policy.

“My sensors indicate that the brake fluid has now reached critical levels, which will greatly impair my ability to stop.”

My stomach dropped to the floor.

“It also appears that, after hitting the animal, my accelerator is stuck,” she went on, her voice as perky as ever.

“What? How did—why didn’t you say anything?”

“I am sorry,” she said in a tone that sounded almost gleeful. “But I am programmed to keep all passengers calm, especially during emergencies. Studies show that passengers involved in car crashes suffer less injuries if they are calm immediately before the incident.”

“Karen, this isn’t like you. What caused this?”

Her response turned my veins to ice—not what she said but how she said it, in her bubbly tone of voice that seemed to take on a malicious edge. “The exact cause of these malfunctions is uncertain. The most likely causes are: lack of maintenance, roadkill jarring loose components, and rust.”

I turned to face the windshield. We’d left the suburbs and were gunning down an empty country highway toward the city. My heart thudded heavily in my chest. The road wouldn’t be clear for too long—soon there’d be buildings, other cars, and far too many people.

“Where are we heading now? What’s the plan?”

“We are no longer continuing on our original route, as it goes through a densely populated area of the city. Instead, I am programmed to navigate around the outskirts of town while alerting police to our situation.”

“Oh thank God,” I muttered, perhaps for the first time in my life thankful for the police.

“I have no signal at the moment,” Karen chimed in, “but I am primed to contact the authorities as soon as we are within range.”

I wanted to scream. “Why can’t we just turn around? Or just stay on this road?” Glimpsing at the speedometer, I felt I already knew why.

“A turn at these speeds would surely flip the vehicle, which has high odds of injuring or killing you. I am programmed to protect human lives as efficiently as possible.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if human lives—mine included—were incidental.

I took slow, deep breaths to keep from hyperventilating. We were still on the outskirts of town; that meant there wouldn’t be too many people around. Odds were that I might come out of this alive, and with no one else hurt. I almost smiled, but then I saw the first of the city’s traffic lights loom over the horizon. At the intersection were hundreds of people getting out of buses and milling about the sidewalks. None of them had any idea of what was coming; that Karen the “Bowling Ball turned Wrecking Ball” was barreling in on them.

We got lucky at first. The first few lights stayed green as we roared past. We hit no one, but earned the harsh words and nasty gestures of everyone on the street. As a sick courtesy to other drivers, Karen turned on her emergency flashers as she weaved through the early morning traffic.

Then I noticed the light ahead turn yellow. We were too far off to make it through and approaching too fast to hope for another green. The light turned red and five cars rolled to a halt at the intersection. Cross traffic began to take its turn.

“Karen, what’s the plan?” I demanded. My eyes locked with razor precision on the cross traffic. Those cars may well have been a solid wall, what with there being hardly any space to maneuver between them.

They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die. I instead saw my immediate death pan out as we flew closer. Quick visions of getting T-boned and squashed, head-on collisions, and other bone-shattering lethalities eclipsed my senses.

“Going through traffic would almost certainly cause serious injury and death to many people. Hitting the street light would only result in you being injured or dead. At the moment, that is the most efficient course.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I snapped, envisioning myself crushed to death as the Bowling Ball wrapped itself around a pole.

Karen weaved through the cars stopped at the light, her unwieldy chassis bucking and rolling as she changed directions. Once she was through, she made a beeline for the light pole. I dove headfirst for cover into the rear compartment. Tires squealed and horns blared, but the life-ending collision did not come.

I don’t know how long I cowered in the rear compartment, but upon realizing I was still alive, I picked myself up and settled back into the seat. My whole body shook with nervous tension.

“W-what just happened?” I almost didn’t recognize my own voice from how it wavered with anxiety.

“I sent a ‘priority stop’ signal to those two vehicles via the SAINT network. No injuries were sustained.”

I smirked. SAINT programming was installed in all modern cars thanks to government regulations. It was the modern day version of the seatbelt, though most people kept it turned off. No one trusted a machine to make a better judgment than them. I know I didn’t. It was nothing short of a miracle I was alive.

I didn’t get to appreciate my good fortune for long.

Up ahead on the right was the community center. A young boy in a sports uniform ran out its front doors with an elderly lady chasing after him. They were headed for the crosswalk, none the wiser that we were charging toward them.

It all happened so fast, and yet, in the moment, the events unfurled in slow-motion. The light changed, and the boy and his grandmother entered the crosswalk. They hadn’t gone very far across the way when the woman stopped and let go of the boy to search her purse. On her face was a look of alarm; I could read her even from a distance. She looked like someone who just realized she left her billfold at the last store she visited.

The boy turned, having spied something that caught his interest across the street. His eyes grew wide with excitement and he bolted from her side. His grandmother was too late in reacting—she yelled and groped for him and missed, and the boy kept running.

Just then I saw a young woman emerge from the community center’s entrance. In her hand was some paperwork, likely what the boy’s grandmother had been searching her purse for. She had come out just as Karen was upon the old lady in the street and froze in place, her hands flying to the sides of her head as she screamed.

Karen sounded her horn—it was a futile gesture, as we were already too close for anyone to react in time—but it stoked in me a newfound hatred for SAINTs.

The grandmother never so much as looked up at what hit her.

The old lady vanished with a sickening crunch as Bowling Ball’s windshield was smeared in blood. The chassis pitched upward slightly as the old lady went beneath our wheels. The impact had sent me face-first into the dashboard. My nose was broken, I could feel it. I clutched my bleeding face and hollered in pain.

It took a moment to regain myself. I sat back down in the seat, then looked in the rear view mirror. Our tires traced a solid red line of blood back to the mangled heap that had once been that boy’s grandmother.

“Oh my God! That grandma… you killed her!” Bile surged up my throat. I cupped my hands over my mouth and forced it back down. I clenched my eyes shut to blot out the carnage, and before I knew, I was bawling.

“Given the options, the elderly woman was lowest on my lifesaving priorities,” Karen said. “The child, the woman at the community center, and you all have more life ahead of you than the old lady did. She was also past childbearing age. Therefore, choosing her over the others is better for society overall. My systems estimate she has a 6.7% chance of survival.”

Now, for the first time, I had seen Karen for what she was. She was a machine, nothing more. Her cheery tone and bubbly demeanor tried to hide it, but the fact remained that she was nothing more than a lifeless hunk of metal with a processor that spoke only 0’s and 1’s and knew as much of the value of human life as a hammer or a wrench might. That this soulless tool had made a value judgment on who ought to live and die made me sick to my stomach. I cupped my face again and choked down fresh spew.

My nerves were on fire with stimuli. I was hyperventilating again. I had become hyperaware of my situation and yet was detached from it. The windshield was no longer a glass pane but a movie screen. None of this was happening, and if it was, it was happening to someone else, it wasn’t happening to me. The cars on the road were mere streaks as Karen bowled past them.

My heart raced. My thoughts slowed. The Bowling Ball charged on.

Left with no other alternative, I brought my knees up to my chest and hugged them. During my days as a street racer, I’d craved the freedom of the streets, the rush of speed. Today, I had gotten all that in spades, but the experience had been poisoned. There was blood on my hands—the stray cat’s, the old lady’s, and anybody else’s who might be so unfortunate as to cross Karen’s path. I set my head against my knees and cried, my tears soaking into the fabric of my work pants.

The whoop of a police siren drew my gaze. In the rear view mirror was a line of police cars trailing after Karen. One of them pulled up alongside me.

“Samantha Harris,” the officer said through his bullhorn, “everything’s going to be okay.”

“Yeah right,” I muttered bitterly.

“We are going to deploy spike strips to stop your vehicle,” the officer went on. “The system has been instructed to drive right over them. Prepare yourself for the deceleration.”

I gave a meek thumbs-up. The cruiser took off ahead of me to lead the procession.

I wanted out. I wanted to scream. I wanted this over already. Before today, I thought the worst moment of my life was getting nabbed by that smug cop. He seemed so proud to get another racer off the streets. I never hurt anyone in my races. I always made sure it was safe. But today was different. Today, someone was dead. She was dead because I was caught racing.

Buildings and cars alike were a blur as Karen shot down that straight patch of road. Up ahead, a blonde cop crouched alongside a parked squad car. He was awaiting my approach with the spike strips in hand.

The lead police cruiser roared past the cop with the strips, flicking his lights to signal the go-ahead. The blonde policeman wound up and flung the strips across the roadway with trained precision—except he hadn’t realized that part of the pullback cord had wrapped around his leg. The cord tugged at his thigh with all the force of his throw, sending him face-first into the roadway.

The officer did a push-up and tried to stand, but could not manage to straighten up. The weight of the strips kept him hunched over at the waist. Realizing what had happened, he tore at the cord around his leg, managing to get free only moments before Karen smashed into him.

I screamed my throat raw.

Our momentum had pegged him to Karen’s front like an insect splattered against a windshield. His body was destroyed, though he was still alive—I could see his arm twitch, his mouth move weakly, his one good eye fix me with his stare.

Suddenly, my blood froze in my veins. I recognized him—he was that same smug cop months ago who booked me for street racing. My hands instinctively clenched into angry fists on realizing he was why I had suffered as much as I had, but then I softened.

He didn’t deserve what he got. He thought he was helping, doing good, doing the right thing. He had no way of knowing this would be his reward.

He was still alive when his body began to slip down toward the roadway.

Then he fell under our tires.

I counted three bumps.

My stomach could not take any more abuse and emptied its contents onto the dashboard.

Just then, Karen skidded to a halt. When the police opened the door to drag me out, I was a mess of bodily fluids and emotions—blood, pain, tears, guilt, vomit, and grief all smeared together. The smell was awful. I vaguely wondered if it was what death smelled like; an invasive, putrid stench that tainted all thoughts. My hands shook violently. A policeman helped me out of the vehicle as he radioed for an ambulance.

“Are you all right?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned, like I was the victim in all this. It was my fault for getting caught in the first place, for thinking I was invincible. My arrogance got me caught. It also got two people killed.

I looked at him, then ashamedly back at the ground, and answered, “I don’t know.”

About The Author
Alana Turner

Alana Turner is an award-winning author from sunny Florida who writes about the darker side of life. She specializes in short stories, particularly those in the horror genre. She also loves vintage cars, including her own 1990 Mazda Miata.

Prodded, Hot-Rodded And Garroted

By: Douglas Fairbanks

Detective Frank Simms stood beside the one-way mirror, peering into the holding cell as he slurped his coffee. The kid in the adjoining room was guilty—Simms could tell as much by his body language if not by his gang-affiliation tattoos. Only, he doggedly refused to confess, despite the police department’s high-pressure interrogation tactics. If Simms could credit the thug anything, it was that his story was consistent, despite how ludicrous it sounded.

“The kid’s so high on his own supply that he actually believes his fairy tale,” Simms groused.

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

Simms shifted his gaze to address Officer Chauncey, who stood with arms crossed, leaning with his shoulder against the wall.

“Nothin’. Just talking to myself, that’s all,” Simms muttered, then took a pull of his coffee. The drink had long since gone tepid and tasted of wet cardboard, but if it did him any good, it was by virtue of its caffeine. Simms had been on his feet for the last twenty hours. He was about to clock-out for the day when Chauncey and his men hauled the punk in on suspicion of arson and murder.

“Gimme the file again,” Simms ordered Chauncey with a palm extended. “I want another look at the photos before I go back in to ask some more questions.”

No sooner had Chauncey handed it over than Simms was flipping through the dossier. The kid’s story was pure bullshit, although surprisingly, his testimony did align at times with the evidence gathered at the crime scene.

Things just didn’t add up. In the deepest part of Simms’s brain, he knew the kid was guilty—all his training and experience said so. And yet, his conscience informed him otherwise. There was a piece to the puzzle that was missing, which, when found, would complete the narrative, and ultimately determine the punk’s guilt or innocence.

Simms looked up from the folder to stare at the kid in the cell. Slouched into a metal chair with his wrists handcuffed behind his back, the young punk looked utterly defeated. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-two, and yet he was no stranger to the justice system, having amassed a lengthy a rap sheet. His priors were misdemeanors—mostly drug possession and street racing—petty offenses that had gotten him sentenced to a few hours of community service, but never jail time. He was a known member of the Neon Ryders street racing gang, but short of traffic offenses, those guys were saints compared to some of the other street gangs in the city.

Simms clapped the folder shut. “Chauncey, buzz me in. I’m gonna take it from the top and see if he changes his tune.”

Simms exited the observation room and sauntered into the holding pen with his practiced “good cop, bad cop” swagger.

He was the “bad cop.”

“All right, son,” he said, letting out a sigh as he settled into his chair. “Let’s do this again. Oh, you mind if I smoke?”

Whether the kid cared or not was of little import to Simms, who had voiced that question with a cigarette clenched between his teeth. He struck a match and lit it, took a drag and jetted smoke out his nostrils. His body language said far more than his words had—they were in for a long night.

“What’d you say your name was again?”

The punk did not look up to address Simms. His eyes were fixed to the floor.

“Well, son?”

“Pedro,” the thug murmured. He sniffled, sounding as though he fought back the urge to cry. “Pedro Canarias.”

“All right, boy,” Simms said, propping his elbows on the desk so he could blow smoke in the thug’s face, “why don’t you tell me what you did, and this time leave off all the bullshit?”

* * *

Pedro’s shift at the Mecha Lube ended at six p.m., and five minutes past the hour saw him in the driver’s seat of his Lancer Evo. He drove it home for a change of clothes and a quick wash, then headed for the Thursday night meet. There’d be no racing tonight, only loud music, scantily-clad honeys, and fair amount of shit-talking.

It was an open secret that the first Thursday night of each month was when the Neon Ryders met. The group consisted entirely of Evo owners. The meets were also when drivers who had beef with each other would schedule races to be held in a few days’ time. The dates and times for these races were always selected at random, so not to draw attention from the cops.

No one ever raced for pinks—the maximum pot was five hundred bucks and bragging rights—but you put up and shut up, because rematches were rarely permitted. It was also an unspoken fact among the group that if you bitched too much about losing, your car would “get taken to Lego Land,” which was to say, it would be taken apart with its pieces scattered across the front lawns of every house on your street. There were many talented mechanics among the Neon Ryders; they knew Evos inside and out, and they worked fast.

Pedro backed into a parking spot reserved for him as the second in command of the Neon Ryders. To his right, leaning against the fender of his ride, was José Luis Marrero, the group’s leader. Pedro lowered his window as José came around to greet him.

“Hey man, lookin’ good!” said José, propping his skinny forearms against the windowsill.

José cut a sharp figure with his linen shirt and ever-present aviators he wore even at night. His head and face were clean shaven, except for a trim goatee that accentuated his winning smile.

“How you been, my man?” José went on, beaming his pearly whites.

“Been good, brother,” said Pedro. “Been giving the ol’ missus some TLC,” he added, toeing the gas to rev the engine.

“Yeah? Well drop her panties and let’s have a look.”

Pedro popped the hood and got out. José went to the car’s front, waiting expectantly as Pedro lifted the hatch.

“Check her out,” said Pedro, grinning like a schoolboy showing his parents an A+ on his math homework. “New blow-off valve, cat-back exhaust. I’ve got her boosting twenty-five psi. I’ll have her running low tens by next month.”

José whistled a flat note. “Very nice,” he said, sounding genuinely impressed. “But now I’m gonna show you something that will make you cream your pants.”

José motioned with his finger for Pedro to follow. When he lifted the hood of his 2006 Evo, Pedro could feel the blood rush out of his brain and into his rock-hard penis.

“Madre santísima,” Pedro uttered, running his hands through his hair. “How is this even fucking possible?”

Crammed between the fenders was Mitsubishi’s 4G63T inline four-banger, but with a turbocharger that looked like an airliner’s jet engine.

“Where did you get that?” Pedro asked, flabbergasted. “How did you fit that in there?”

José patted him on the shoulder, silencing him before he could ask anything else. “I know a guy,” he said. “He deals in custom parts.” He paused, and a chill seemed to come over him, because a wince soured his otherwise cool demeanor. “He ain’t cheap, but you get what you pay for.”

Pedro leaned into the engine compartment. He did not recognize the brand badging for any of José’s aftermarket parts.

“Who the hell is S.P.E.?” he asked.

“A custom shop. Seighton Performance Engineering. I met the guy a little over two months ago. He does good work.”

“How much did it set you back?”

Again, Pedro picked up on the tell in José’s demeanor. “A lot.”

“Bro, cut the bullshit and just tell me. I might want to buy some parts off of him too.”

“And give you a chance at having the fastest car in the gang?” He laughed. “Ain’t happening.”

* * *

“All right,” said Detective Simms with a single handclap for emphasis. “Now we’re getting somewhere. So you torched your friend’s garage because you envied what his car could do.”

“No man,” Pedro uttered, vehemently shaking his head. “It’s not like that. José and I were like brothers.”

With a sigh that was purely theatrical, Simms collapsed back into his chair. “You’re not making this any easier on yourself.”

“I swear I’m telling the truth!”

Simms rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, kiddo.” He stubbed out his cigarette and started on another. “So go on. Tell me more.”

* * *

For a month after he’d been introduced to the handiwork of Seighton Performance Engineering, Pedro had scoured the Internet and just about every phone book in town in search of that business. Despite his efforts, he had turned up nothing, and was resolved to press José for details at the next car meet.

José was late in arriving, which was out of the ordinary. He was always among the first to every meet. Pedro parked diagonally across two spots to reserve one for his friend, intending to move his car when José got there.

Eventually, José pulled into the lot close to an hour into the event.

Pedro waved him over. “Hey man,” he said, leaning against the driver’s side door of José’s car. “Where were you?”

The window slid down a crack, then lowered the rest of the way. “Hey bro,” José croaked, then cupped his mouth with his hand and went into a coughing fit.

“Christ, man! What the hell’s wrong with you? You’re gonna cough out a lung.”

Even in the shadowy recesses of José’s car, the man looked milk-white.

“I… I’m just sick, that’s all,” he stammered, batting his hand at Pedro. “It’s the flu. I’ll be fine, just…” He cut off and went into another coughing fit. “Move your car already,” he croaked. “I’m late enough as it is.”

Pedro straightened out his car, freeing up the spot for José. Eyes shut and with his car shut off, he listened to the engine in José’s ride. The motor ticked like a precision watch with a pleasing bass rumble out the exhaust.

Once José was in his spot, he shoved open the door and clambered out, nearly falling headlong in the process. He caught himself with both hands, breaking his fall against the passenger side of Pedro’s car.

“Hey man, you need help?” Pedro called out to him.

José, shoulders slouched and head hung low, shook his head. “Nah.” He straightened up, and with a hitching gait that was painful to watch, he shuffled away.

Pedro got out of his car and jogged to his friend, put an arm across his shoulders to steady him, but José batted his arm away.

“Don’t touch me!” he seethed.

“Hey, hey, it’s cool, man; it’s cool,” said Pedro, palms up as he backed off.

José glowered at him for a moment before setting his eyes forward and continuing on his way.

Pedro stood on the asphalt, dumbfounded. He’d known José since freshman year at high school, and never had he known him to act this way. José was the class clown—always genial, always smiling—but despite his propensity to silliness, he always treated people with respect. He was never the sort who’d lash out at anyone, especially not his best friend.

He turned his gaze to José’s car. Since last they’d met, José had installed a new hood with custom-painted stripes along the sides. It was tight work, but what most intrigued Pedro was what lay beneath the hood. Judging by the hood’s contours, José must have gotten more engine work done, and the new hood was needed to contain the latest bolt-on hardware. Emblazoned across the side of the hood scoop were the letters S.P.E., in jagged red stenciling.

Pedro rounded the car to the driver’s side. The window was down, allowing him a full view to the passenger cabin. By appearances, José’s latest upgrades had not solely been mechanical. The seats had been reupholstered in an aftermarket tan covering. He brushed his fingers against the headrest. It looked and felt like leather but was much softer.

A deviant sensation stole into his consciousness from the back of mind. He shuddered.

The seat cover felt almost like human flesh.

He was about to retract his hand from the interior of José’s car when something caught his eye. Sitting in the cup holder was a bright red business card with gilded lettering that twinkled under the streetlights. Before he could convince himself against it, he snatched the card up and looked at it in his palm. Printed across its surface in embossed gold foil letters was: S.P.E. Turning it around to the back was the business’s address.

His smile was ear to ear.

* * *

The following day, Pedro asked his boss to let him leave work early, citing unbearable indigestion. Grudgingly, his boss acquiesced, and Pedro clocked out of the Mecha Lube at three in the afternoon. He didn’t head for home—instead, he drove across town to the address printed on the business card he’d found the night before.

Pedro idled down a two-lane street flanked on both sides by warehouses that ran the length of a city block. These monolithic structures sported bays every ten feet or so, each fronted by a metal roll-up grate and a sign above it advertising the business contained within. His eyes darted from one side of the street to the other as he rolled past, searching for his destination. Welders, fabricators, machine shops, mechanic’s bays, junkyards, scrappers, recyclers—here was where the city’s heavier industries had taken root. He paused at a stop sign, then turned right onto a dead-end street. A dozen storefronts down the lane, nearly at the end of the roadway’s depth, he spotted what he had come for and pulled into a vacant parking space.

The business was nothing special. S.P.E. was sprayed in faded white paint above an iron roll-up door that looked like it had rusted shut back when Clinton was president. The wall around the doorway was pitted concrete; its masonry blocks were plainly visible.

There was no other way in except through the bay door. Balling his hand into a fist, Pedro banged against the metal shutter, letting up an awful racket as it shook within its supports.

“Hello?” he shouted. “Is anyone here?”

A freezing needle descended onto his hand. A cold rain had begun to fall. Dark clouds had rolled in seemingly from nowhere, and presaged a heavy downpour.

He pounded on the gate some more. “Hel—”

“I’m coming, keep your pants on!” came a thundering voice from within. Just the sound of the voice alone was enough to startle Pedro into inaction. His hand lingered six inches from banging on the shutter again. He thought it better to quit knocking and opted to wait silently.

An air compressor came to life inside the warehouse with a loud bang, sounding like a two stroke motorcycle someone had kick-started on. The shutter crept upward, screeching against its rusted frame. Pedro didn’t wait for it to rise fully, and instead ducked beneath it to get out of the strengthening rain.

It was dark inside the warehouse. Pedro plodded carefully down a center aisle flanked on either side by junk parts sitting in heaps as tall as his chest. He squinted, but could not make out much more than outlines among the shadows.

The overhead lights came on in a blinding flash of stinging white light.

“Jeez!” he hissed, staggering backward with a hand up to cover his eyes.

“Now there’s some blasphemy if ever I heard it.”

Pedro’s hands flew from his face when he realized he was not alone.

Before him stood a man in his fifties dressed in white and red striped mechanic’s coveralls. He was perfectly bald except for a band of cottony white hair that ringed his head like a circlet. Both short and stout, the man was fat in the middle—he was a grease-stained Santa Claus, minus the facial hair. His hands were proof of his trade: he had hands the size of catcher’s mitts, the sort you get from a lifetime of turning wrenches.

“Are…” Pedro stammered. “Are you Seighton?”

The man laughed. “Nah,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder with a meaty palm. “Name’s Billy Zee. Me an’ my brother Bub run this place.”

“Billy Zee? Bub?” Pedro thought out loud, scratching his head.

“That’s right! My brother and I bought S.P.E. a while back. The place had garnered some fame to it, and we liked the name, so we just kinda went with it.”

Billy Zee smiled, but there was no warmth to it. Something was not right about the man. He was too sugar-coated, too ingratiating. It occurred to Pedro just then that Billy Zee had ended each of his sentences with either a chuckle or an open-mouth laugh. The man was trying too hard to be likeable, and it was creeping Pedro out.

“A friend of mine—maybe you know him, José? He told me about your shop.”

Billy Zee shook his head slowly, seeming not to recognize José by the description Pedro gave.

“He drives an Evo—2006, custom paint,” Pedro went on. “C’mon man, he mentioned your shop by name.”

Billy Zee scratched a tuft of hair beside his ear. “Oh yeah, I reckon I do know the young man. Is he the one I made a custom intake for?”

Thunder rumbled outside the workshop, but the lightning struck within Pedro’s temples. In a flash, his memory flew back to José coughing his lungs out. The vision left Pedro just as suddenly, leaving him with a mild feeling of disorientation.

“You okay, fella?” Billy Zee asked with a bushy eyebrow askew.

“Fine,” said Pedro.

“Well, I’m just tickled pink that your buddy would recommend us. You’ll soon discover we’re all about customer service—giving the customer exactly what he wants.” Putting an arm around Pedro’s shoulders, he escorted him into the recesses of the workshop. “Come on in, I’m sure you’ll find something you’ll like. If not, I can make it right here in my shop.”

Pedro’s eyes wandered from one end of the shop to the other. On the walls were intakes, mufflers, and exhausts for cars of seemingly all makes and models.

“He’s got quite a car, that friend of yours,” Billy Zee went on. “You can tell he’s put a lot of himself into it. It’s quite becoming of him, too.”

Another flash of lightning blinded Pedro. He blinked, and when next he could see he nearly fainted. Where once there had been intakes were now pairs of throbbing, fleshy lungs; and in the place of exhaust tubes and mufflers were kidneys strung up by the arteries that fed them.

“You sure you’re all right, son?” Billy Zee spoke into Pedro’s face, his hands on his shoulders as though to steady the young man. “You look downright spooked.” Again with that chuckle—that syrupy, ever-present chuckle.

“Yeah man, I’m fine,” Pedro said in a huff. He glanced at the walls again but found nothing but auto parts. “Look, I’m sorry I interrupted you, but I’ve got to go,” he stammered, instinctively backing away from Billy Zee.

The old man frowned. “Don’t be so hasty, now. You came all the way out here in this dreadful weather. I’m sure I can interest you in something.”

“I don’t have any money,” Pedro blurted as he backed toward the exit, his eyes on Billy Zee the same way a prey animal watches its hunter.

“Money ain’t a problem. Look, I’ll set you up on our installment plan. You can pay piecemeal, just like your buddy.”

Lightning flashed again, and this time, Pedro saw José on his knees and doubled over, both hands on his mouth to staunch the torrent of blood he barfed up onto the floor. José shuddered, his hands falling away from his face, and a fleshy mass that resembled his liver heaved out of his gaping mouth, landing with a wet splatter in the mess that coated the ground.

“I… I’m sorry, I really have to go!”

Pedro turned and ran for the exit, ducking under the shutter that had only risen partway. It was pouring rain now, and the short sprint from the warehouse to his car got him thoroughly soaked. No sooner had he started his car than he jammed the gearshift into reverse. His Evo jackknifed backward out of the warehouse block, the tires hydroplaning in standing water that flooded the streets to a depth of two inches. Once he got his car back under control, he threw it into first and gunned it for freeway.

He should have trusted his instincts. Only in retrospect now could he tell that everything about S.P.E., even its name, let up too many red flags for his liking. He had to tell José he was not comfortable with his best friend doing business with people that gave off such strange vibes; warn him that, if he kept this up, he might end up worse off than the last time he’d seen him, when José was coughing up his innards.

Pedro upshifted and toed the throttle, passing a sedan that had stopped at an intersection. He blew through the stoplight without so much as slowing down to check for cross traffic. Once on the freeway, he weaved through traffic, then cut across three lanes to merge into the off-ramp. Back on the surface roads, he charged through another stoplight, narrowly dodging a tractor-trailer in the midst of making a left turn.

It was not yet evening by the time Pedro rolled into José’s neighborhood, but with the sky so heavily overcast, it may as well have been nighttime. The streetlights burned, casting incandescent orange lily pads of light in sparse intervals against the dark. This complex of low-rise townhomes was in bad shape, but the rent was cheap. Ever since José’s girlfriend walked out on him with their son, it was the best housing he could afford.

Its flaking taupe paint was faded to a sickly puke pink color. Elsewhere, especially at the corners, the pitted concrete had been chipped away by time or vagrants, exposing the rusted reinforcement bars beneath.

José’s was a corner unit. His living space was upstairs, with a one-car garage occupying the first floor. This arrangement was costlier in terms of rent, but was an absolute must if he didn’t want to wake up one morning and discover the neighborhood punks had stripped his car and left it on blocks.

Pedro tore past the visitor parking area and brought his car to a skidding halt before the garage shutter of José’s home. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed José’s number, but each call went straight to voicemail.

“Shit,” he said under his breath, flinging the phone into the passenger seat. He glanced out the window. The rain was still coming down in sheets. No lights burned in any of the windows. The dashboard clock read 4:42 p.m. By appearances, José was not home, but where else could he be at this hour? He worked the early morning shift. His workday ended almost two hours ago.

Going against his better judgment, Pedro got out of his car and ran for the awning above José’s garage door. That quick jaunt of about five paces drenched him so thoroughly that his clothes stuck to his body like a second skin. He prodded the doorbell and waited a beat, and when that got him no response, he rapped on the garage door with his fist.

“José!” he called out. “Open up, man! It’s me, Pedro!”

A stiff wind kicked up. Pedro shivered and wrapped his arms around his body for warmth. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

“Hey man, open up!” he shouted, louder this time.

Through the howl of the wind and the steady beat of the rain, Pedro heard a loud crash come from within the garage. That was all the proof he needed of there being someone within José’s house. Without a second thought, Pedro grabbed the garage door’s handle and gave it a tug. It was unlocked. The articulated door rolled up then recessed along its track built into the ceiling.

Pedro hesitated before entering. What if José wasn’t home? What if that crash he’d heard had come from someone who’d broken into his house?

“José?” Pedro shouted into the garage.

The lights were off inside. From the shadowy recesses of the room, Pedro spied movement.

“Who’s there?” Pedro demanded.

Silence, then: “Pedro?”

It was José’s voice, hardly above a whisper. He sounded sicker than he’d ever been.

Pedro’s heart raced when he heard his friend’s voice. He was about to run inside when José said: “Don’t come in.”

“Hey man, I’ve been worried about you,” he said from the threshold. “You’ve been sick for so long, and you don’t sound like you’re getting any better.”

José went into a coughing fit that lasted all of several seconds, much too long for Pedro’s comfort. Then he said, in a weak voice, “You should leave.”

“I went to S.P.E.,” Pedro spoke over him. “Those guys give off bad vibes. I don’t know how to tell you this, but maybe you shouldn’t go there anymore.”

“Yeah,” José said, and was nearly cut off by another fit of hacking coughs. “And you shouldn’t either.” José sputtered, then sounded like he was retching up his dinner. Seconds later, a wet stream hit the floor with a loud splatter. He groaned.

“José, buddy,” Pedro began, “you need a doctor.”

“No,” José shot back, voice trembling.

“I came to help you,” said Pedro, advancing a step to flick the light switch mounted into the wall.

“Don’t…!” José cut off abruptly as the lights came on.

José’s car was not in the garage, and neither was he—rather, an amalgam of both sat backed into the far corner of the room like a dying animal in its burrow. The body of the Evo was covered in human skin and hair, except for the glass, which was opaque and milky, looking like the whites of the eyes. The tires were flesh also, with the spokes of the rims made of bone, except the bones had pierced through the skin which bled from every pore. In the place of headlights was a pair of sad eyes—José’s eyes, Pedro recognized them immediately. The grille was a mouth complete with lips and teeth, which were stained with a foul-smelling, viscous fluid that looked equal parts blood and motor oil. That same fluid sputtered from the man-car’s trembling lips each time it coughed.

“Oh my god,” the words left Pedro in a rushed whisper. “José, is that…? What happened to you?”

The man-car shook with terrible hacking coughs. “S.P.E.,” it struggled to say, before vomiting a quart of oily blood.

Pedro backed away, threading the fingers of both hands in his hair. “This… this isn’t possible.” He clenched his fists in his scalp. “José—por Dios, José—what do I do?”

With great effort, the man-car motioned with its eyes toward the corner of the garage where José kept his automotive equipment. Pedro headed for the designated spot, but stopped short when his foot bumped against a five-gallon petrol container. His gaze shot to the can at his feet, then to the man-car. The two locked looks for a tense moment, then it spoke the phrase Pedro had been dreading.

“Kill me,” said the car that once was José.

“Bro, there’s no way…”

“Kill me!” it shouted, its voice underpinned by the revving of its four-cylinder engine. It was faint, but Pedro could have sworn he heard the blow-off valve hiss in the silence that followed.

Then the thought hit Pedro that the man-car possessed a working internal combustion engine made of flesh. With all he knew of engines, his rampant imagination served up images of pushrods and valves; crankshafts, meshed gears, and flywheels—all comprised of veiny skin, bone, and tissue. Hot vomit surged into his mouth. He doubled over and heaved, hugging his sides as his stomach clenched to the size of a grape.

“Kill me,” the man-car said resignedly, quieter this time.

Pedro looked up from the mess he’d spewed onto the floor, and once again locked eyes with the man-car. It was all so very absurd, so unreal—none of this could be real. Moving as if in a dream, he straightened up and hefted the petrol can over his head. Then, tipping it over, he sidled crabwise around the man-car, making sure to douse every inch of it in fuel.

“Kiiiill meeeee,” the man-car groaned, as though its end could not come any sooner.

Once the can was empty, Pedro tossed it to one side. He flicked his lighter, but hesitated to take one last look into the eyes of the man-car.

“José,” said Pedro.

The man-car sighed. Things akin to eyelids slipped down over the headlights like tiny stage curtains.

“I’m sorry.”

Pedro balled up a shop towel and lit it, then threw it at José. All the air was sucked out of the garage as a miniature mushroom cloud erupted within its tight confines. Above the roar of the flames, the man-car let up an earsplitting howl of agony.

Pedro jumped into his car and floored it for the open road as windows all over the neighborhood started lighting up. Surely everyone had heard the explosion, if not the scream. Already, a small group of residents had discovered the flames and were attempting to douse them with a garden hose. Still others stood outside their homes with their cell phones in hand, calling the authorities.

He made a beeline for home, but got nowhere near that far, because in his rush he T-boned a police car responding to the emergency call. More stunned than hurt, he hardly felt anything as a pair of officers from the struck vehicle yanked him out of his car, handcuffed him, and sat him in the back of their cruiser to await a pickup.

* * *

“Next thing I know, I’m here, in this room, answering your questions,” Pedro finished his account.

Detective Simms rolled his eyes. Laying the theatrics on thick, he lowered his head and shook it slowly, one side then the other, with funereal gravity.

“It’s the truth! Honest!” shouted Pedro. “You’ve got to believe me!”

Simms sucked his teeth. “Son, I don’t have to believe anything. All I can tell you is, you’d better start remembering what really happened, because if you think I’m bad, the judge in your murder-one case will be the one who throws the book at you.”

There was a knock at the door.

“One second,” Simms told Pedro as he stood to leave.

Once Simms was back out in the hallway, Officer Chauncey addressed him with a tip of his cap.

“Whaddaya want, Chauncey?” Simms asked. “You’re not in the army; you don’t have to salute.”

“Sorry, boss,” the younger officer chimed in. “How’s it going in there?”

Simms gave an exhausted sigh. “We got him to admit he torched the place, so we’ve got him on arson. The body hasn’t turned up yet, so murder is out, though he keeps insisting his friend was inside when he started the fire. The rest of his story is bullshit. Still, I can’t shake the feeling he actually believes this nonsense.” He eyed the manila folder in Chauncey’s hands. “You got something for me?”

“Yes sir,” Chauncey piped up. “We ran searches on Billy Zee, Bub Zee, and S.P.E. They turned up no hits in any of our public records databases.”

“Oh?”

“That’s right. No business tax records, no operating licenses, no utility bills—nothing.”

“You interrupted me just to say you’ve found nothing?” Simms hissed through a clenched jaw.

“Not quite. Our search of the victim’s home turned up a shoebox full of invoices for car parts from S.P.E. Some of these go back a few months, so the Zee brothers must have been in business at their location for at least as long, despite the zeroes our searches returned. The address on the invoices matches the same address our perp gave, so we sent a squad car to scope the place out.”

Simms plucked a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. “Anything?”

“The officers radioed in that the business was built into a warehouse. When they arrived, they saw there was no door in front of the business, so they took a look inside.”

“No door?”

“Just a square opening cut into the front of the building.”

“So what was inside?”

Chauncey shook his head. “Nothing. The place was completely empty, and looked like it had been for a long time.”

“Chauncey, you’re confusing the shit out of me. First you say you’ve got something, then you say our searches turned up zilch, then you say our boys found the place, then you say there was nothing inside. Exactly what are you trying to tell me?”

“Bear with me: we’ve got invoices going back weeks, but no public records; we’ve got a match on the business address but nothing inside at the location; and here’s the part you haven’t heard yet—remember that other gang of racers we popped a week ago?”

“You mean the Road Hoggs?”

Chauncey nodded. “Looking at the transcripts of their interrogations, several of them mentioned they had bought parts off of S.P.E. and the Zee brothers as recently as a few days ago. Those who’d visited the place said it looked like it was going gangbusters.”

Simms chewed the end of his cigarette. “So what’re you saying?”

Chauncey broke eye contact momentarily to glance at his papers, then, sheepishly, raised his gaze to meet Simms’s.

“What I’m saying is…” he trailed off. “That this place exists for some people, and not for others.”

Simms turned plum purple. He took a sharp breath and nearly inhaled his lit cigarette. “Chauncey, don’t tell me we’ve got a ghost story on our hands.”

Chauncey drilled the detective in the eyes with his stare. “I don’t know if it’s a ghost story, but I’m dead serious it sure looks like one.”

“Jesus Christ, man!” Simms roared, slamming his fist against the door at his side. “What are you, mad? You can’t go public with this; they’ll throw you off the force for mental illness!”

“I’ve checked and re-checked, and everything turns up the same way.”

“Seriously?” Simms balled his fists on his hips. “You’ve got a business whose name conveniently sounds like that of some big red devil, and two brothers whose names together sound like Beelzebub! I mean, this is so contrived I’d think it was a joke if it weren’t actually happening! Who’s gonna believe you?”

Chauncey opened his mouth to respond, but hesitated. “You, sir.”

Simms reeled back a step.

“You believe this is happening, don’t you?” asked Chauncey.

This time, Simms took a long pause. One arm crossed at his chest and the other at vertical to pinch his cigarette between his fingers, the detective held his tongue as he took an exasperated puff. When next he spoke, it was in low tones. “You’re really serious?”

Chauncey nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m calling it like I see it.”

Simms turned, giving Chauncey his shoulder as he took a long drag. “Do we need any of what you just told me to convict this perp?”

Chauncey thought on that for a moment. “No, sir.”

“Good,” he spoke around the cigarette between his lips. “Shred it all.”

“But sir…”

“But nothing, Chauncey. If this comes to light, we’ll be screwed, blued, and tattooed. I’m not throwing away my career by passing ghost stories off as police reports. Besides, if everything you say is true and the Zee brothers really are preying on racers, then they’re only making our job easier by getting this trash off our streets.”

Chauncey was so shaken he looked on the verge of tears.

“Tell you what I’m gonna do,” Simms went on. “Tomorrow, I’m getting the state prosecutor on the phone to recommend our perp go up on arson charges. The sooner we put this case behind us, the better. And Chauncey?”

“Sir?” The young officer was white as a sheet.

“If you ever speak to me again about ghost stories, I’ll have your badge.”

About The Author
Douglas Fairbanks

Douglas Fairbanks (no, not the Douglas Fairbanks, it should be noted) is an enigmatic individual. If there are two things he enjoys above all, they are being different and telling a good story. Perhaps he gets it from having been conceived on an oil platform off the coast of South America to a Belizean mother and an American expatriate father, a claim that serves these purposes splendidly, despite his unwillingness to corroborate it.

Regardless, he is an unnervingly talented individual, in the sense that he is at his best when he is getting things done for others, so long as they don’t ask how he does what he does. That would “spoil the magic,” as he is wont to say, and might also lead to indictments, which he is often quick to add. Ever cool and collected—sometimes to disturbing levels—Douglas serves Darkwater Media Group as an associate editor working closely with Ramiro Perez de Pereda. He writes horror and bizarro fiction.

The Cavalier Cavalier

By: Jonathan Edward Ondrashek

Bass pounded from her six 12-inch Focal subwoofers, rattling the darkly tinted windows and door panels. Caprice’s foot-long hair flailed as if she’d hit the mother lode of static electricity. “Ooh, fuck yes,” she said, her words lost to the deep thumping.

She shut her eyes and spread her legs wider, hiking her mini-skirt to above her hips. The plush leather seat vibrated against her exposed labia. Cum-inducing tremors slammed her clitoris. She tightened her kung-fu grip on the chrome claw-like shifter knob as if it were a purple-headed cock. A few more earth-shattering bumps, and her face flushed. Veiny monochromatic fireworks exploded across her closed eyelids. She screeched as an orgasm rippled through her from on-end locks to her soles.

She reached a jerky hand to the steering wheel, somehow found the correct button, and muted the stereo.

Caprice opened her eyes and tilted her head back, shoulders heaving. “Jesus fucking Christ, Chev!” she said, blinking at the Byzantium-colored headliner, shag-covered roll cage bars, and LED strip lights that ran the roof’s perimeter. “That might be the best fucking orgasm I’ve ever had.”

Once she regained control of her breathing, she leaned forward and petted the plum-tinted Sherwood wood-paneled dashboard. A slutty smile turned her lips upward. “You get me off so well, Chev. Better than any real man ever has. So attentive to my needs, never get jealous when I bring another guy into the mix, always obedient—why can’t you be human, huh?”

She tittered. If he were, we would’ve had countless threesomes by now! It had only been a week since she’d fucked Tuck on the passenger-side seat; two weeks since some rando she’d met at the bar had bent her over the hood; a month since she’d taken a shot to the throat while letting her most recent ex-boyfriend drive her car. That didn’t account for the dozens of others since she’d inherited the vehicle the previous year, including some women. Yet, through it all, nothing could make her toes curl like good ol’ Chev.

She sighed in fondness, adjusted her skirt, and peered into the rearview mirror, smoothing her wild hair back into place. Once satisfied, she inspected her makeup and found it up to standard.

Caprice slipped her arms into the safety harness, nestled into her seat, and clasped the buckles together. The jitteriness that had paralyzed her prior to coming to the countryside for a quick diddle had finally been quelled. That was just what I needed. Now I’m nice and loosened up.

She pressed her feet onto the specially-designed amethyst-plated pedals and cranked the ignition. Chev revved to life. The LEDs above her, along the floor trim, and within the cluster flared with a mixture of soft and dark purples. In her peripherals, she detected the warm glow of her likewise-colored undercarriage lights, which blared tenfold in the darkness.

Caprice unmuted the stereo, lowered the volume, and gripped the shifter knob. “Time to show these boys how we roll, Chev.”

She popped into first, eased off the clutch while pressing the gas pedal and peeled out, kicking up loose chunks of asphalt.

* * *

Caprice continued the slow crawl down the designated gathering strip two miles from her auto-assisted masturbation location, happy she’d gotten past the checkpoint. It hadn’t taken much: some extra cleavage, a nibble on her lower lip, batting of her eyes, and a mention of Tuck. The lookout had blushed and waved her through, his walkie-talkie squawking in his hand.

A man wearing a bright yellow vest directed her to a spot amongst the crowd, and she obliged. Once parked, Caprice turned the ignition to accessory mode, unbuckled, smoothed her button-up blouse, and opened the door. The steady thrum of her trunk speakers spilled out along with crisp notes from her multiple tweeters and six-by-nines. She stretched her toned leg out in a dainty fashion (mindful to keep her bare muff from being exposed) and rose from Chev.

All around, music ranging from country ballads to hardcore gangster rap thumped out of doors, windows, and trunks. Laughter and voices mingled with the hubbub. People meandered from car to car, alternating between standing and squatting as they scrutinized the array of body kits, spoilers, rims, wheels, paint jobs, and other custom and stock enhancements on display. Caprice soaked it all in: a Kia, a few different Hondas, even a Mercedes—it was a veritable buffet of vehicular porn.

A shrill wolf-whistle broke above the din of jabber-jawers and music. She turned and looked over her shoulder, almost tripping in her haste. Walking toward her was a handsome, ripped guy in tight jeans and a two-sizes-too-small white tee. Confidence oozed from his pores as he swaggered up to her.

“That’s a beautiful fuckin’ Cavalier,” he said, smiling. Dimples appeared on his cheeks, adding a sweetness to his rugged looks. “One of the best paint jobs I’ve ever seen.”

Caprice beamed and gave Chev the once-over. She’d come up with the concept and color schemes, and had paid a hefty sum to the best painter in the biz to bring her vision to fruition. It deserved to be ogled.

The idea had been to make it seem the paint was peeling from the hood onto the guards, exposing a maw. Centered on the partially black hood was a giant mouth, lips curled in a snarl, fangs glinting inside it. A few jagged chunks of a Mardi Gras hue dotted the sable pearl-flecked paint surrounding the orifice. Shredded, rolled-back, and creased hunks of the same coloration extended to the wheel hubs and door hinges, completing the effect.

From there to the rear bumper, the body was painted a sleek eminence tone. On the doors themselves, oblong eyeballs glared, made more prominent by the fact it was a two-door. They were bloodshot, and the large pupils made it seem as if Chev were crazed. Chrome accent pieces rounded out the aesthetics.

Dimples eyed the mirrors and trim along the side. He paced toward the trunk and halted to gaze upon the airfoil, which had been another custom design: metallic fangs hung like tiny icicles off its edges. He pointed at it. “Now that’s fucking wicked. Causes little drag too, I bet, which you don’t really want for a front-wheeler anyway.”

Her pussy quivered. Fuck, he knows a lot about cars. That had always been a turn-on for her. In fact, such dirty talk had been the reason she’d initiated conversation with Tuck the weekend prior, after overhearing him speaking to others in a club. Though not her typical type, she’d discovered he was the emcee for the local underground street-racing circuit and he knew his shit, so she hadn’t minded offering her holes to him to guarantee her a slot in the current contest.

I fucked my way in, and maybe I’ll fuck you on my way up, Dimples, if you play your cards right, she thought, fully soaked now.

He continued around Chev until he reached the driver-side door. He leaned into the open window and studied the interior, craning his neck every which way. “Cute,” he said, spinning on his heels to address her. “She’s got the curves of the later years. What is she, an oh-two? Oh-three?”

“He’s an oh-one,” she lied, though it wasn’t exactly false.

Dimples scrunched his face as if impressed. “That’d be before the Ecotec, right? So you’re running on, what, a hundred fifty horsepower stock? One-ninety with mods?”

She hesitated. “Sure, something like that.”

“What are you planning to race? A fucking horse and buggy?” He laughed a deep, throaty chuckle that soured his allure.

His mock merriment died and Dimples stepped forward, menace apparent in his scowl. “You’re outta your league, lady. Hell, my car could beat you even with half a dozen sets of length in your favor.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, refusing to be bullied. She’d expected some resistance from the opposite sex, sure—that was the primary reason for her one-nighter with Tuck. But she hadn’t expected it to be so blatant right out the gate.

“Yeah.” He pointed to the next car over: a silver Honda Civic Si, likely a 2018. It was decked out with a full, low body kit, pinstripes, a huge spoiler, dual mufflers—not as expensive as hers, but still just as nice to look at.

She tittered. “Oh, then I know I wouldn’t need a head start.”

“A sassy one, huh?” He narrowed his eyes. “Your bells and whistles and purple shit don’t belong here. Go back to your Barbie dollhouse and come back when you’ve got something worth a dollar, toots.”

Anger bubbled within Caprice as the cocky man strutted away. Flustered, she set her covered ass cheeks against Chev’s frame, keeping a close eye on Dimples.

“Sexist asshole,” she grumbled. She was used to such machismo, though. Her father had been the same way.

Dear old Daddy, she thought with a sneer. The rich, chauvinistic, cheating, needle-dicked bastard had driven her mother to suicide by pill overdose five years ago. Then he’d become too busy with his plethora of new girlfriends, and his daughter had taken a backseat. From there, their relationship had been tenuous at best. Caprice had been happy when he’d passed (of natural causes) and even more ecstatic when she found he’d left her his fortune and belongings, including Chev.

Especially Chev.

The car had been tucked away in a corner of their ten-car garage, covered in a tarp and a half-inch layer of dust. When Daddy had first gotten it, he’d adored it and had even taken her on ride-alongs, during which she discovered orgasms for the first time at the age of twelve (unbeknownst to her father). But after a year, he’d secreted it away, and was often heard mumbling “Something’s not right with it” following a speedy solo jaunt to the countryside.

She’d asked for the car multiple times until she turned eighteen, at which point she gave up (he kept claiming it was unfit to drive and a woman couldn’t handle it anyway). So, when he’d died, she’d taken to Chev as if he were an older boyfriend Daddy never would have approved of. After fixing him up and discovering he was a beast under the hood, she’d decided to stick it to men like her father who had demeaned her sex throughout history.

She started out toying with speed and drifting on rural back roads. The resulting natural high led to her flirting with exposure on public streets and engaging in random amateur drags in broad daylight until she felt as though she’d mastered Chev, as if he were her servile sub on a leash (which she supposed was an odd thing to think of an inanimate object).

She’d proven her sexist father wrong and tamed the wily Cavalier. And now she wanted to take it a step further.

Tonight she would emerge from the shadows, all teeth and glory.

Tonight, she’d begin her journey to squash the balls of the patriarchy so prevalent in the car world.

But if I’m gonna do that, I can’t let dicks like Dimples get to me. Caprice sighed through her nostrils. “Don’t worry about him.” She patted her ride. “He’s just trying to rile us up. You’re worth every penny, Chev. Fuck him. Fuck him right in his stupid ass.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Tuck—heavyset, bearded, and sporting tattoos on every inch of visible skin—bellowed into a megaphone, calling everyone in attendance to a huddle at the starting line with the pomp and circumstance of a professional ring announcer.

Front and center, Caprice snarled as she spotted Dimples approaching on the opposite side of the forming circle. In your dreams, you fucking pig, she thought with a snicker as the oaf winked at her.

Tuck, giving her an all-knowing nod and half-smile, laid some ground rules: “Remember, no spectator wagers—only contenders can put in on their own races, and it’s cash only. Tonight’s winners will be invited to next weekend’s top-secret location to face off against the big dogs. The losers, well, y’all can go the fuck home and drown your sorrows.” He laughed, then carried on with some technical protocol, including information on how the races had been prearranged based on engines, horsepower, and so on to ensure fair match-ups.

Once finished, he prattled off the names of the first two competitors, who stepped forward and placed their bets. After the prize was agreed upon ($500), they rushed to their vehicles. The cars lined up, neither with a handicap. It was to be a great American showdown: a 2018 Mustang versus a 2017 Camaro.

The flagger gave the signal and the cars took off, dragging down the quarter-mile highway strip. The stink of tire smoke lingered in a plume that hovered over the spectators. Moments later, cheers erupted from the crowd. Caprice had a difficult time determining the winner from so far away, but someone announced that it was the Camaro.

You can never go wrong with a Chevy! she thought.

The next race followed quickly thereafter, then the next, and so on. Caprice lost track of who had gone and who remained, but she was enjoying herself. This was definitely her scene. I should’ve defied you all those years ago, Daddy. This is so thrilling!

Forty minutes later, Tuck called out the final face-off: “McReedy! Stiles!”

Murmurs circulated as Caprice sashayed forward. That’s right, motherfuckers, she thought, glad her name preceded her.

Her initial excitement waned as Dimples stepped to Tuck’s other side.

“What’s the wager, lady, gent?”

“Stiles,” Dimples—McReedy—uttered, eyes narrowed. “As in, the daughter of Carver Stiles, the retired GM mogul who kicked the can last year?”

Caprice nodded.

“I hear you’re fuckin’ loaded. But, even so, I can’t just take money from a girl, as fun and easy as it would be. I’ve seen what you’re working with.” He addressed Tuck. “I think you mismatched us. There’s no way—”

“Oh, I got it right,” Tuck interrupted, voice stern. “I’ve never been wrong.”

McReedy stared him down for a moment. “You sure you wanna do this?” he asked, acknowledging Caprice.

Her nostrils flared. “Damn straight.”

“All right, let’s make this interesting then. It just so happens that I brought some disposable cash with me tonight.” He paused, eyes twinkling. “Two grand.”

A few people chirped around them.

Caprice crossed her arms at her chest. “Is that it? I thought you were going to make it interesting.”

His face reddened. “Three.”

“Five.”

“Whoa,” Tuck said, holding his hands up to stifle hoots and hollers. “Caprice—er, Miss Stiles, that’s a lot of dough. I can’t—”

“I’m in,” McReedy blurted, snarling.

The gathered men erupted in a glorious clamor.

Tuck hushed everyone. “I…” He raised an eyebrow at McReedy. “You sure, bro?”

He nodded.

“Fuck it.” Tuck threw his arms up. “Let’s do this then.”

Forgoing a handshake, McReedy and Caprice went to their respective automobiles.

With the clutch disengaged, Caprice tapped the gas pedal. Chev growled. She could feel him wanting to surge forward, imagined him as a beast with muscles flexing in anticipation. “Easy, fella,” she cooed.

As if he understood her, Chev simmered to an idle.

To the left, McReedy’s Si roared like a cheap lawnmower as he toed the gas pedal in response.

The flagger gestured.

Caprice engaged the clutch and eased down on the accelerator, careful to avoid a burnout. Every millisecond could make the difference between a win and a shameful ride home, and she couldn’t afford to fuck it all up over an amateur showboating move.

She slipped into second, mindful of the Honda in her peripherals. Their grills were neck and neck.

Third.

Fourth.

They were midway down the strip and still even.

Sweat broke across her brow. Her hair whipped out the window like a flag. Chev, with all his souped-up, ultra-customized bits, had one flaw even the most skilled mechanics hadn’t been able to figure out: dying on the transition to fifth. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t; it seemed to depend on his mood.

“All right, Chev,” she uttered over the ruckus of their gurgling mufflers. “Treat me right on this one, and I’ll make it worth your while. Say, some more pussy play on the way to the pad?”

She disengaged the clutch as her RPMs approached 4,500. Tentative, she moved the shifter.

“C’mon, baby. Don’t let me down.”

She felt the bite point as the gear teeth slid into place.

Her foot crashed down on the accelerator. She’d lost a few inches, but Chev wasn’t near his peak yet.

The finish line and flagman drew ever closer.

Chev shook as if waking from a doze. Suddenly, the car bucked and the speedometer jumped an additional 30 mph with impossible quickness.

Caprice zipped across the line a half-dozen car lengths ahead of McReedy—and in the throes of an unanticipated second orgasm.

* * *

Caprice strode toward Tuck, smiling like the Cheshire cat.

Likewise grinning ear to ear, he broke away from a group he’d been chatting with. Upon reaching her, he raised his hand. “You fuckin’ rocked it!”

Caprice high-fived him, riding a wave of euphoria. She wished her father had been alive so she could rub it in his wrinkly, jowly face. Eat your fuckin’ heart out, Daddy!

“You fuckin’ bitch!”

She turned as McReedy stalked toward her.

He halted inches away. “There’s no goddamn way that little piece of shit Cavalier could’ve beat me. No way. You cheated!”

“Fuck you, asshole,” Caprice said, feeling relaxed now that the sexual tension had eased. “I don’t need to cheat. I can race. Imagine that.”

“I could outrace you fully drunk and crazed, cunt.”

“Hey, now,” Tuck said, stepping between them. “That’s no way to talk to a lady. She beat you fair and square. You’re being salty and I told you we don’t play that shit here.” He squared his jaw and brandished an open palm. “Pay up and then get the fuck outta here.”

McReedy’s jaw clicked as he removed a fat, folded stack of bills from his pocket and mashed it into Tuck’s hand. His glare bored into Caprice. “I’ll see you around, bitch.” He spat a glob of phlegm onto the asphalt and stormed away.

Once he was out of earshot, Caprice uttered, “He’s just pissed he got beat by someone with tits and a pussy.”

Tuck chuckled, handing over her earnings. “Speaking of tits and pussy,” he said as she flipped through the wad, not really counting it, “I was hoping I could come back to your place. I could even leave my car here and roll with you.”

Caprice thought on it as she slipped the cash into her clutch. An after-victory bang would do her good, and Tuck had been decent (and large) enough to merit a second lay. Not to mention the fact he’d defended her.

Chev’s body caught the moonlight and glinted in the background.

“I can’t,” she said, recalling her promise to him. “Not tonight, anyway.”

After arranging a meet-up with Tuck for the following weekend (which she felt would bring an inevitable second win), Caprice made her exit, hopping into Chev’s open driver-side window with the ease of a Duke. She buckled in and grinned at the cluster as if it were a face.

“Guess you wanted that pussy juice after all, huh, Chev?”

She drove off.

Minutes later, with an old-school Korn track jolting her to the core, she’d come, and was on the verge of her fourth orgasm in half as many hours.

* * *

Caprice stumbled out of bed, the sheets wrapped about her sleek, naked body. The foggy veil of sleep slipped down her visage as curses and loud metallic clunks echoed outside her home. What the fuck?

She glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand: 2:00 a.m.

The sounds intensified.

She hadn’t passed out but an hour prior. The maid and butler—salaries paid until death and beyond (Thanks, Daddy!)—had withdrawn to their respective live-in quarters on the other side of the mansion. She resided on a secluded cul-de-sac, and all the neighbors were of retirement age. Who the hell would cause such racket this early in the goddamn morning?

She slipped on some coochie-cutters and a tank top, wiped the crust from her eyes, and proceeded into the foyer, her Milk-Dud-sized nipples poking out like micro-dick erections. When she reached the front door, she gazed through the peephole, and any remaining drowsiness evaporated.

“Son of a bitch!”

Without thinking about grabbing a weapon, she threw the multiple locks, ripped the door open, and stomped outside, heart racing.

On the driveway, Chev’s hood stood upright, hinged at the front as she’d had it designed (the removable one-piece front end had been too much for her to handle on her own). A figure hunched over the engine, back facing her.

“Way more than she let on,” the man muttered. He stood tall in the darkness. The bottle he clutched glinted as he raised it and took a swig.

Caprice cleared her throat.

The man turned, practically deep-throating the bottle’s neck.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, McReedy?”

Alcohol trickled down his chin. He lowered the container and smacked his lips, swaying. Malice twinkled in his pupils. “I followed you home. You fuckin’ lied, bitch,” he slurred. He indicated Chev. Liquid sloshed within the bottle. “This is more than just a normal oh-one with a few sissy fuckin’ add-ons.”

He was right. Chev was the Chevy Cavalier A/FX Coupe Exhibition. He’d been decommissioned some odd years after his debut in 2001, and the bigwigs had scheduled him to be crushed. Her father had stepped in and saved him—for a fair price, of course—and she was glad he had. Chev was one of a fucking kind, and customized even more than the GM dream team could’ve imagined.

“This fucker’s on ‘roids. Must have, what, four hundred horses?”

“Four twenty-five on a bad day.”

“You knew, coming to the race. You knew you’d whoop anyone you faced. You didn’t play fair.” He staggered toward her, eyes wild. “Tuck knew, didn’t he? You were in on it together. I could tell: the way you high-fived, the way he stood up for you. He was in on it.”

“No, he wasn’t, asshole. He just so happens to be a friend of—”

“He knew—he had to get the specs beforehand.”

“And that’s exactly why he paired us against each other. It’s your own damn fault for assuming my car was basically stock, and that I couldn’t drive.”

“Why’d you guys fuck me like that?” he continued, ignoring her. “You… you piss money. You wipe your ass with it. You don’t need my money—that was my entire monthly check! Why? Was it to be somebody, huh?” He stalked toward her now, his gait loping yet steady. “To be known for something other than being the rich-bitch daughter of some dead snobby fucker? Is that it?”

“McReedy, get the fuck out of here or I’m calling the—”

He was in her face, breath reeking of Atomic Fireballs. He gripped her shoulders. “You wanna be someone, bitch?”

He was stronger than he looked. Before she could react, he grabbed her, wrestling her toward Chev.

“McReedy, stop it! St—”

He shoved her with a snarl.

Caprice lost her balance and twirled on the way down, the side of her head slamming against the exposed frame surrounding the engine. She cried out, her eyes chasing white dots, and slunk to the ground.

As a shadow loomed over her, she caught a glimpse of Chev’s painted eyeball. It had narrowed further and was redder, not just bloodshot. The pupil was a speck compared to its usual size.

In her daze, the upper curve of the door looked like a furiously slanted eyebrow.

“I’ll make you famous, you cheatin’ whore,” she heard McReedy say before darkness consumed her.

* * *

Caprice came to with a groan. She blinked. Pain exploded across her temples and she squeezed her eyes shut again.

Sounds erupted around her: The unmistakable glug of a tilted bottle. An obnoxious gulp. A satisfied “Ahhh.” Horns blaring. Shouted epithets.

“Yeah, fuck you too, buddy!” McReedy yelled back.

She caught Chev’s usual rumble, felt the world moving. Patches of light and blackness flipped through the steady gray behind her lids.

“Jesus,” she hissed, peeling her eyes open. The blurred intensity of streetlamps and passing vehicles set her stomach to tossing.

McReedy, slouching in the driver’s seat with his liquor bottle in one hand and the other draped over the wheel in a douchey way, chuckled. “Welcome back, Stiles.”

She groaned and made to massage her aching dome but found her wrists tied behind her back. “What the…?”

“Sit back and relax, doll. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“What are you talking about? What the hell’s going on?”

“You fucked me, so now I’m gonna fuck you.”

A dull yellow blob hanging above them skipped upward and turned reddish-brown. Head-splitting screeches and angry car horns followed.

“Did you just run a red?” Caprice asked.

McReedy chugged from the bottle. “See,” he said, ignoring her question, “we decided to celebrate together after the race tonight. You know, being good sports and all. We went for a ride in your rad girly car, even though I protested, of course.

“We’ll speed, run roughshod. Maybe crash into a hydrant—hell, maybe even run over some innocent fuck who’s just minding his business. Whatever it takes to get the pigs’ attention. You’ll get hit with a shit-ton of charges, become famous in the local rags, and this fucker will be up for auction within a week. I lose, you’ll lose—it all evens out in the end.”

“Charges?”

“Reckless driving—”

“I’m not behind the fucking wheel, dipshit.”

“Pretty sure those cameras,” he pointed toward the hazy sky as more horns trumpeted in the night, “won’t know who was driving and who wasn’t, thanks to this.” He rapped on the tinted window. “Anyway, as I was saying: reckless driving, DUI—”

“I haven’t drunk shit, moron,” she dared to say, her vision clearing, bravado surging through her. She twisted her wrists but to no avail: the plastic restraints had no give.

“Oh, they’ll think you have. After I knock you out, untie you, and switch places, I’m going to pour the rest of this bottle down your throat, all over you. Then I’m gonna wipe my prints off and stumble out, playing the victim. That’s not even the best part, though. These oughta guarantee your faggot-ass car gets impounded and you face some serious shit in court.”

He withdrew two sandwich bags from his jeans and held them aloft: one filled with white powder and the other with nickel-sized green-and-purple-haired Christmas trees.

He dropped them on her lap and half-hiccupped, half-laughed. “Payback’s a bitch, huh, bitch?”

A guttural growl like that of a threatened mongrel filled the cabin.

They approached yet another intersection. In her peripherals, Caprice sighted a late-night bus barreling toward them.

McReedy glanced sideways. “Motherfucker…” His free hand dashed to the shifter knob.

She lowered her gaze and gasped. “No, wait—”

He slipped into fifth.

A horrendous grinding noise ratcheted up from beneath Caprice’s undercarriage.

The car stalled.

“What the fuck? Stupid fucking car!” McReedy raged.

Caprice felt something solid, like a belt buckle, glide between her bound limbs. Something snapped. The pressure around her wrists subsided.

The next instant, the squeal of tires filled her ears, followed by a vicious impact.

Chev buckled. Glass shattered. The shrill pitch of metal getting shorn apart sliced through the chaos.

The dashboard airbag deployed, but instead of hitting Caprice hard, it seemed to wrap around her like a down blanket, protecting her as she jounced toward the passenger-side door, unable to brace herself even with her arms freed.

For a moment, the beat of her heart eclipsed that of all other noises and she lost touch with reality.

Her eyelids fluttered open. A bright light from the left blinded her. Dull throbs pounded against her skull, and the world became a stained-glass window.

A steady hiss of air breathed somewhere in the background. Something creaked nearby, overhead. A surreal noise akin to someone sucking on a popsicle followed.

Something brushed against her elbow.

There was that creak again, the blowjob sound, the cloth-like caress.

The world came into focus. Smoke billowed from the vents at the center of the busted dashboard. A loose strip dangled over her right shoulder, LEDs flickering like strobe lights. She scanned the remainder of the carnage and blinked as shock settled in.

Chev’s driver’s side had been torn asunder from the door to within several inches of the gearshift. The roll cage had split clean from its bolts on that side and stood on end above her. Shards of glass, chunks of metal, and thin flakes of purplish paint decked the interior… at least, in those places where the bus that had plowed into them didn’t poke through.

The bus hadn’t suffered much damage other than a peeled-open nose from bottom to top. One of the loose metallic strips had curly-cued and draped over the upended roll cage, wrapping about McReedy’s neck, somehow not decapitating him but rather holding him tight and in midair. His eyes bulged; blood seeped from his gaping mouth. From Caprice’s angle, it looked like he was missing his arm on the side opposite her.

As the wreckage continued to settle, McReedy bobbed as if attached to a taut, creaky spring, his limp leg rubbing against Caprice.

The shifter claw slid in and out of his ass with a sickening, rhythmic squelching as he bounced. Rivulets of shit and claret oozed down to the console, along with what looked like an empty blue-green sausage casing.

Something she’d said at the race reverberated through her sluggish mind: “Fuck him. Fuck him right in his stupid ass.”

Nausea punched her gut. The world spun. She shoved the deflated airbag aside, sputtering incoherently. The door swung open of its own accord.

She teetered outside, vaguely aware of dozens of automobiles surrounding them, silhouettes rushing toward her.

She turned to find Chev’s fang-filled snarl was gone, replaced by a doofy, block-toothed grin.

Loud bangs echoed beneath Chev’s chassis. Jettisons of air blasted outward. Debris shifted. Metal grated. With a deafening thud, the unique Cavalier’s front end collapsed in a heap.

Before she passed out, she couldn’t help but think Chev appeared to be bowing like a courtly gentleman. His final act had been a hell of a performance, and it was only fitting that he went out with a bow.

About The Author
Jonathan Edward Ondrashek

Jonathan Edward Ondrashek is an operations supervisor by day and moonlights as a horror/dark fantasy writer and editor. He’s the author of The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Dark Intentions, Patriarch, and A Kingdom’s Fall). His short stories have appeared in numerous horror anthologies, including the highly acclaimed Rejected for Content and VS: US vs UK Horror series. He also co-edited F*ck the Rules, What Goes Around, and Man Behind the Mask, anthologies featuring work from established and new voices in the horror genre.

If he isn’t working at his day job, reading, editing, or writing, he’s probably drinking beer and making his wife regret marrying a lunatic. Feel free to stalk him on social media.

A Moment In Time With Black Shadow Tess

By: Richard Ayre

Money.

Money, money, money—so much money!

How much? Shit, lots—that’s how much.

More money than I knew what to do with; more than I could possibly spend.

Millions, my friend, millions.

So much money that for a week or two after the win, I forgot about it for minutes at a time and reverted back to the everyday worries I’d had before.

Before.

Before and After.

These two words framed my life now. Before I was a millionaire, and After I was a millionaire.

I won the lottery, you see. “It could be you,” as the saying goes. And it was. It was me.

I won the rollover jackpot. Six weeks of nobody winning across the whole of Europe and I walked into the petrol station to pay the ten quid I could afford to put a few gallons into the only transport I had at the time, a rust-crowned 1998 Suzuki Bandit (the 600 cc of course, I couldn’t even upgrade to the old 1200).

I handed over the tenner and noticed the sign beside the lottery machine.

Tonight’s Euro-Lottery is a whopping £410,000,000! What would you do?

I remember sneering at the sign. I knew what I would do. Number one on the list would be to leave work. Yeah, I would shit in the lunchbox of the bastard supervisor I had the misfortune to work for and then conga, naked, out of the factory.

I smiled a sour smile at this thought. Like that was going to happen.

However, as I collected the receipt for the fuel, something jingled in my worn leather bike jacket. I dug into the pocket and was amazed to find £3. I looked at the bored girl behind the counter and shrugged.

“Why not?” I said to her. “Might win my tenner back, eh?”

She didn’t smile, but took the money with the air of a casino dealer knowing she was retrieving all the previous winnings of some poor sap and gave me fifty pence back, along with a lottery ticket. I stuffed both of them into my jacket and went to work.

It was the following Monday when I remembered about the lottery ticket, and this was only because I was dressing to get ready for the night shift. I put my hand in the pocket of the jacket to grab my dirty ear-plugs for the ride to the factory and it came out holding the crumpled ticket. My laptop was open, so I thought I’d have a quick look at the winning numbers. Maybe I’d won that tenner back indeed.

I don’t think the expression on my face changed as I checked the numbers. I think I was too shocked for that to happen. I shook my head. Must have the wrong week’s numbers. This couldn’t happen to me.

I checked and checked again. Then I checked again. It seemed to match. The right day, the right week, and—God save us—the right numbers. All six. With shaking hands, I phoned the lottery winner’s hotline.

I really don’t remember much about that phone call. I just recall sitting by the laptop, my heart galloping and my breathing ragged.

“Only one winner?” I asked.

It was confirmed. I had just become the biggest lottery winner the UK had ever produced. I was now worth almost half a billion pounds.

I phoned in sick (still believing it might be a mistake) and put the phone down on the supervisor as he started to shout at me. Carefully, I signed the back of the ticket, took a photograph of me with it and locked it safely in a desk drawer, hidden under a load of old Christmas cards. Then I went down to the local off-licence, spent my rent on as much booze as I could carry home and got absolutely shit-faced.

The weeks after that flew by. I got the cheque, but decided to remain anonymous (not hard, seeing as nobody really knew me anyway). I resigned from the factory, unfortunately not getting the chance to complete my previous fantasy, although I did have great pleasure in telling the supervisor what an absolute spunk-trumpet he was. Then I went on holiday for three months. The Caribbean is lovely, by the way. You should try it sometime.

Those weeks on the beach grounded me a little as I thought about what I was going to buy. I made a list in the pure, white sand.

One: A house. Somewhere nice, not the shit-hole neighbourhood I had previously rented in.

Two: Furniture for said house.

Three: A car. Aston Martin? Lamborghini? Ferrari? I would decide later, I could rent something nice until then.

Four: A bike. Or to be more precise, several bikes. The house I’d buy would have more than enough room.

And that was it, really. I had no family, no real friends; no free-loading bastards to come out of the woodwork and start bugging me.

Charity? Fuck that. When had anyone given me charity? I was all right, Jack, and all right I would stay.

I got on with it. I got my house in millionaire’s row in Buckinghamshire; huge garden, eight bedrooms and a swimming pool, but more importantly, three garages. I bought my furniture too—no more flat pack garbage for me. I got my car—plumped for the Aston Martin DBS, if you’re interested.

But where I really had my fun was in buying four bikes. This was still my only real passion. For hooning around like a hooligan, I bought a blue and white BMW S1000RR. For days out in the sun I bought a Triumph T100 Scrambler Steve McQueen Special Edition. For touring I got myself a BMW 1200 GS Adventure (fully loaded, I’ll have you know), and for cruising I bought a Ducati Diavel Carbon. Lovely.

And that should have been that. It should have been my “and he lived happily ever after” moment.

Ha!

A year or so after my win, I was wandering around a motorcycle showroom near where I lived. I had been through swathes of bikes since the original four, part-exing them almost as soon as they got dirty. Why not? Money was no object, after all.

I suppose I was bored by then. I had got used to the money and I wore it well, if you don’t mind me saying. I looked casual, but fucking rich, you know? The salesman at the showroom certainly knew I was rich as I’d bought so many bikes there. As soon as he saw me, he dropped the customer he had been talking to and scuttled over, thrusting out his greasy hand like he was my best mate and shouting “Daaaaaave!” all the way across the showroom floor. If you didn’t know better, it looked as if we were long lost brothers who hadn’t seen each other in years.

I nodded at him, all cool-like. “Hi, Tom.”

He proceeded with the usual small talk, leading me gently by the arm towards the back of the showroom. He was good, that Tom. I didn’t realise I was being hustled until we got to a door near the office.

“So,” he said, beaming at me. “How are you doing, Dave?”

What he really meant was: “Do you still have a load of disposable income?” but I let it pass.

“Doing fine, Tom,” I answered.

Tom looked furtively around the showroom, then dug out a key from his trouser pocket. He shot me a conspiratorial grin.

“I’ve got something to show you,” he whispered.

I recoiled slightly. The way he spoke made me think he was going to take me into the room, unzip his trousers and whip out his wang.

“What do you think of that?” he’d say, and I would nod and reply, unamused: “That’s impressive, Tom; really impressive.”

Of course he didn’t want to show me his nob—well, if he did, he didn’t do it then—but he did say: “What do you think of that?”

He stood to one side, and I saw her for the first time.

It took only a second to realise what I was looking at. I actually licked my lips.

Her paintwork gleamed; a shining, midnight black, her manufacturer’s name embossed in gold on the tank. Her guards and pipework were sparkling chrome, and her spoked wheels glittered in the harsh light of the small back garage. The leather of her saddle glowed. Oh yes. I recognised her. I had coveted her ilk my entire youth.

A Vincent Black Shadow, circa 1952.

I knew the specs. They were tattooed on my brain: 998 cubic inch engine; 55 base horsepower at 5500 rpm; top speed of 125 mph, although it was said that in 1948, an American called Rollie Free had piloted a Vincent at Bonneville Salt Flats, Utah taking her up to 150 mph, in nothing more than a bathing suit and canvas shoes. There’s a photo of this if you don’t believe me. Its speed was nothing compared to the bikes of today, of course. But that’s not the point.

The world’s fastest standard motorcycle, the ad campaigns had roared. This is a FACT—NOT a slogan.

Tom was still gibbering away, but I didn’t hear him. I walked around her, noticing the number plate. TES 125. In my mind she had already been named “Tess.”

“Got it only yesterday morning,” gushed Tom. “Very rare. Very Expensive.”

I nodded, still staring at her.

“Yep. Cost a hell of a lot of money,” Tom continued.

I nodded again. I wanted her. In fact, I was surprised Tom couldn’t see the want in me flashing over my head like a big neon sign that glowed: “I WANT HER!”

I turned to him.

“Nice,” I said, and made to exit, feigning disinterest as best I could. Rich beyond the wildest dreams of avarice I might have been, but I wanted to make Tom squirm. Just for the hell of it.

Tom grabbed my arm.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked. “This is the most coveted motorcycle ever made! A Vincent Black Shadow, Dave. And a beauty too. Fully restored only four years ago. Perfect working order. This, my friend, is the ultimate motorcycle.”

I turned back to him, trying to look bored.

“Too expensive,” I said.

“I haven’t even told you how much it is,” he responded with a shark’s grin. He knew he had me, even if I was stalling.

“How much?”

“£97,999.”

I scoffed.

“Dave,” said Tom. “You need this bike.”

He was right, of course. I bought her then and there. What was ninety-eight grand to me?

She was delivered a week later. That night I stood in the garage with a whiskey in my hand, staring at her. She stared back at me. After an hour or so of mutual scrutinising, we smiled at each other.

* * *

One hundred miles per hour.

Tess was howling like a banshee and I was crouched low over her tank as we entered the long straight. I tore my eyes from the track and glanced at the speedo; 104. I crouched lower, the slipstream starting to make my leathers vibrate.

I throttled back as the turn approached and went past the pits doing about fifty, glimpsing Jack standing there with a stop watch. He gave me a thumbs-up and then a “get on with” motion with his arm. I grinned and cracked the throttle open again.

I’d met Jack about two weeks after buying Tess. I had been gingerly pottering about the locality, getting used to the old British system of having the back brake and gear selector on opposite sides to what I was used to. The last thing I wanted to do was to throw Tess down the road because I mixed them up.

I stopped at my local (thatched roof, Tudor timbers, et al.) and was sipping a lemonade outside, gazing at Tess lovingly as she ticked and cooled in the sunshine.

An old guy, holding a pint, wandered up to her and then hunkered down, giving her a real visual going-over. Then he turned to me and came across.

Here we go, I thought. Fuck off, grandad, I don’t want your life story. I sneered at him as he approached. I didn’t want any conversation.

He nodded at me and started with the usual opening gambit.

“Nice bike.”

I gave a sort of half nod, then drained the lemonade, making to leave.

“I worked on the Shadows when I was a lad,” he continued.

That stopped me.

He nodded. “Aye, back in the fifties. I was an apprentice. Probably built parts for that one. A ‘52 if I’m not mistaken.”

He had my interest now. I indicated for him to sit down at the table.

On closer inspection, he was a very old man. Somewhere in his eighties, I guessed. But his eyes were cool and clear, his voice was strong and his hands, when he picked up his beer, were steady. They were scarred and battered. A worker’s hands. He whipped off his flat cap and scratched his bald pate vigorously before replacing it.

“You’ll be that rich kid,” he said. “The one who won all the money? You need to be rich to buy one of those nowadays.”

There was no animosity in his voice, only interest. I nodded. No doubt my appearance in the vicinity had led to some Googling. Although I’d kept the news to myself, rumours would have spread by now. They always do.

“You worked on these?” I prompted him.

“Yep. ‘49 to ‘55. Loved it. Eventually had to move on to those awful Japanese imports after that, but my heart always belonged to Vincent. They were proper bikes.” He nodded to himself. “My whole working life was spent building and fixing bikes. It’s all I’ve ever known, really.” He sighed. “Just imagine the changes that have happened in the world since that bike was first started up. Imagine what she’s seen.”

Sitting in the sun outside that old pub in the heart of England, I found out more about Jack. He had retired in the ‘80’s but had continued to work on bikes afterward. “Tinkering,” he called it. His wife had died in ‘04 and he spent his days between his allotment and his garage. He seemed content enough.

After a brief conversation, we went back to Tess and he showed me some of her secrets. I watched him as he talked animatedly, and a secret smile appeared on my lips. He looked up at me just as this happened and he smiled back. We both turned to Tess, and I’m sure I felt her smile as well. The trio was complete.

He’d been to my house on numerous occasions since that meeting and had given Tess a good going-over, finally informing me that she was in tip top condition.

I told him I wanted to see what she could do, and his eyes shone with a youthful mischievousness.

“I’d like to see that too,” he whispered.

So I booked the track for half a day. It was only thirty miles from where Jack and I lived. I bought vintage leathers for the blast, complete with piss-pot helmet and goggles. I looked like the bad biker guy from the A-ha video.

Once I was past Jack I throttled hard, and Tess leapt forward. I had the whole of the two mile straight in front of me now. Tess was screaming throatily, and I was grinning like a loon.

The speedo was jumping all over, so it was difficult to tell what speed I was going now. In her heyday, the top end was 125. That’s what I wanted. I wanted to set her free.

A mile into the straight and the needle was jumping around 120.

Come on! I urged. Come on!

The needle crept up. 122, 123, 124.

As the needle hit the legendary 125, everything changed.

The wind noise stopped. It wasn’t an air pocket or anything like that. It just stopped, along with its buffeting effects.

I was sat, doing 125 mph in an oasis of calm. I had time to sit up slightly before something slammed into my face, completely covering my goggles. I felt warm liquid pouring all over my nose and mouth and for a second I thought it was oil, that I had burst something in Tess and oil was spraying all over me.

But this liquid was red.

Instinctively, I jumped on the brakes, but my right foot clicked down a gear instead of engaging the rear brake. These fucking old British bikes and their cockeyed mechanics!

Tess screamed as she slotted down the gear, going far too fast for it. Her back wheel locked, screeching black rubber along the race track.

Still blind from the red spray covering my goggles, I felt her starting to go. Instinct kicked in again and I let the brakes off, giving me a chance to reapply them again gently. I prayed I was still in the middle of the track as I couldn’t see, but I had no time yet to wipe my goggles, and slowly, slowly, the speed dropped.

I stopped her and put my feet down, panting, before tearing the goggles from my face and switching her off, tasting a saltiness on my lips from that fluid.

It was still dead silent. That weird soundless effect still surrounded me.

As I held the goggles and looked around, amazed I was still upright and on the track, I frowned.

For an instant, a frozen second, I was sure I saw the empty stands full of silently cheering crowds. I blinked. Something hurtled by, soundlessly. Then another, and another.

I gaped.

Bikes! Racing bikes! Numbers on their fairings, tearing past me. Ghostly though, hardly seen. Nebulous.

They were gone before I could really note them, and when I looked again, the stands were empty as before.

Except for one person.

A woman stood at the front, right opposite me, pressed up close against the barrier. A woman whose raven hair was partly covered by a green scarf, wearing a tight white blouse that seemed to be tied at her midriff, showing a taught, tanned stomach. She looked to be wearing a dark skirt under that blouse. Her eyes were black, her lips were red. And she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. As I stared at her she raised an arm and waved at me. She was smiling.

And you know what? I got an erection.

Yep.

I’d just nearly died in what should have been the tank slapper to end all tank slappers. I was deaf to the world and I had just seen half a dozen ghost bikes flash by me. Yet, as I stared at that black-haired woman, I felt a tingling in the old fella and my leathers bulged at the crotch like a balloon was being inflated down there.

The woman had stopped waving. She had stopped smiling too, and was just staring at me.

Then she lifted her arm again and pointed straight at me.

For some reason, this killed the snake in my trousers. I felt something then. A fear I’d never known before. Like I had ripped open a container that should have never been touched, and let out something rank and black. A horrifying, catastrophic Pandora’s Box. It was cold, this sudden terror. It was eternal. It was like a hole in time itself. It clawed at my soul.

I think I would have screamed at its touch. I even think I could have died because of it. And maybe I would have, except a hand grabbed my shoulder and jerked me around, and I found myself staring into the frantic, puce-coloured face of Jack.

Suddenly, the sound banged back into me. Birds tweeting, a passing plane overhead, bike engines revving in the pits. And Jack’s voice.

“I said are you all right?” he screamed at me.

I looked at him blankly, then turned to the stands. The woman was nowhere to be seen.

“Christ alive, what have you done?” asked Jack, his face concerned. “Where does it hurt?”

“What?” I managed.

“Dave, there’s blood all over your face, lad. Where are you hurt?”

I frowned at him and glanced down at the goggles in my hands. He was right. They were covered in blood. I bent down to one of Tess’s wing mirrors and inspected my face. It was enveloped in thick, jellied blood apart from where the goggles had been. I shook my head and started to wipe it from my face.

“Not mine,” I whispered.

“What?”

“It’s not my blood,” I replied.

* * *

Back home that night, I showered and had a couple of stiff drinks. Jack had checked Tess over and she seemed fine. She’d suffered no damage after my cack-handed attempts at an emergency stop.

But I couldn’t get those images out of my head. The crowds (I remembered now all the men seemed to have Brylcreemed hair), and those bikes flashing by me. They all seemed to be Nortons and old Triumphs from the 1960’s or ‘70’s.

And that woman.

What was wrong with me?

We’d put the blood down to a bird or something hitting me, even though no carcass was found and my face was undamaged. But I remembered licking blood from my lips. I remembered the carnal pleasure its taste had brought forth, hovering around inside the chrome terror of the moment.

The woman haunted me. Who was she? Could I meet her again?

I wanted to. I desperately wanted to. Even Before—that’s Before with a capital B, as in before my winnings—I’d had no interest in settling down. There had been a few girls in my life but it was something I just wasn’t that bothered about. Don’t get me wrong, I’m up for a shag as much as the next man, but relationships seemed too complicated for me to bother with. I preferred the simplicity of being my own man. God knows I could get some tail if I wanted it, money can get you anything, but I hadn’t attempted it. I liked my own company too much.

But that woman. There had been something in her eyes, something about that lithe figure. I wanted her, wanted her badly, but I didn’t even know if she was real or just some weird dream dredged up by a near-death experience.

I tried to dismiss the event and went upstairs, staring out from my huge bed, willing sleep to take me.

Sometime in the early morning, I eventually drifted off.

In my sleep I heard the door to the garage downstairs open (ridiculous, as the alarm would have gone off, but still). I heard soft padding footsteps on the stairs, and then that woman was standing at the foot of the bed, smiling down at me.

I swallowed. Without taking her eyes off me, she came around the bed.

The tight blouse emphasised her perfect, full breasts. They pushed against the silky material. Her stomach was flat, lightly muscled and tanned, and the calf length skirt was low on her hips. Her black hair was tangled and long and her red lips smiled, showing white, even teeth. There was something of the gypsy about this girl.

“Thank you, Dave,” she whispered, her voice like liquid silk in my ears.

I tried to ask a question, but I couldn’t. But even so, she seemed to understand me.

“For setting me free,” she went on.

As I continued to stare at those immeasurably dark eyes, she bent towards me and I smelled sandalwood mixed with the dense, heady aroma of woman.

“This is your reward,” she whispered.

She kissed me.

As her tongue slipped between my lips, her saliva mixing with mine, another vision erupted in my head.

I was in a small bedsit. It contained a bed, a chair, an old turntable and a small kitchenette. And that was it.

Apart from the steaming, dismembered corpse lying on the floor before me.

I think it was a woman. I couldn’t really be sure though, for the simple fact that parts of the body had been flung all around the tiny room. Blood pooled and dripped from every surface. Entrails were strewn everywhere, releasing the coppery smell of blood and the heavy odour of shit into the air.

I gagged at the horrific scene, putting my hands to my mouth in horror. I felt a cold stickiness on my face, and when I looked down at my hands I saw they were covered in blood.

I turned, blindly wanting to make my escape, and caught a glimpse of my face in the blood smeared mirror. I was enveloped in red. My foot knocked something and I saw a long butcher’s knife on the floor, as red as the rest of that awful room.

Then the woman was suddenly beside me. She smiled into my horrified eyes. She kept her gaze on me as she unbuttoned the blouse and let it fall to the sodden carpet, stepping out of the skirt too. She wore no underwear and she stood, naked, in front of me. She was magnificent.

She held out her hand and I took it, dumbly, aware of my need for her throbbing once more, in spite of my horror.

Still holding my hand, she pulled me down towards the dismembered corpse on the floor. She lay on it. She rolled in the carnage, covering herself with gore. She grabbed me and with a terrifying ferocity, she ripped the clothes from me. We were both covered in blood, and the glassy eyes of the corpse watched us unseeingly as I entered her and we made love in the hacked detritus of what had once been a human being.

And it was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

I awoke with a scream, immediately jumping from the bed and looking in the mirror.

Nothing. No blood. A dream, that’s all. Just a dream. But the mattress was wet where I’d ejaculated in my sleep, so that part was real, at least. I eventually managed to dress myself and went downstairs.

And that’s when I saw the open door to the garage, the alarm’s control panel twinkling happily as if it was pleased it had failed in its only task. I pushed the door open further, flicked on the light and stared at Tess.

Her single headlight regarded me contentedly.

She seemed replete.

* * *

An hour later found me hurtling down the road near my house. I was going much faster than the speed limit. I had to hit 125—Tess had made this clear. It was the only way. The only way I could be with her again.

I came to a straight part of the road. It was still early morning, the sun only just peeking over the horizon. There was no traffic and I doubted Plod would be out. The people who lived around here tended to stick to the rules. I cracked open the throttle.

Tess screamed, and in my ears it sounded like that dark woman crying out in orgasm. I wound the throttle tighter.

123. 124. 125.

The wind stopped. I hurtled forward in a bubble of silence.

The trees on either side of me were a blur, flicking past in a green tunnel. The road ahead seemed to stretch to infinity. I screamed in delight.

The silence got louder. I closed my eyes. And Tess made time move.

I opened my eyes to find myself standing in a noisy, crowded bar. The Beatles were playing from a ropy sound system: Come Together.

I looked around and saw that I was standing beside a young girl. Long, blonde hair, Afghan coat and miniskirt with platform boots. Pretty.

“Are you coming, or not?” she asked me. I nodded.

It was night out. We left the bar and found ourselves in a busy street. Young men and women with long hair, wearing striped suits, large collared shirts and more miniskirts hustled by us. There was a frost in the air.

“Come on,” the girl insisted.

She led me down an alleyway and stopped at a door, trying to get the key in the lock. She eventually succeeded and led me upstairs, putting a finger to her lips.

“Landlady,” she whispered, the alcohol inside her blowing into my face. “Shhh.”

She stopped at a door on the landing and once more fumbled a key into the lock, then led me in.

It was the bedsit. The one from my dream. I recognised it immediately.

The girl giggled, unzipping her boots and letting them fall to the floor.

“Drink?” she asked. I nodded.

It’s strange, but I knew what I had to do if I wanted Tess to come to me for real. The really strange thing though, was that I was looking forward to doing it.

“Toilet?” I asked, and she pointed to a door. I watched as she turned to the turntable, selecting a record.

“What year is this, again?” I asked.

She laughed without turning around, still bent over the record player.

“Christ, you’re having a good New Year. It’s 1970, love. Has been for the last twenty minutes. The sixties are no more.”

I picked up the knife from the rack on the small kitchenette.

“Tess is eighteen,” I whispered to myself.

I took two long steps towards the girl and rammed the knife into her back.

She didn’t scream as her back arched, I don’t think she could. I eviscerated her.

When it was over and the room was a dripping, stinking slaughterhouse, Tess came to me.

She fucked me once again in that house of horror.

* * *

And that was how it went on. Tess completed me. She was a drug I could not live without. I hit the magic 125 and travelled through her time to kill and kill again, just to be with her.

That first one was in London. I looked it up. It really happened, as they all had. A girl called Sally Johnson was mutilated in a bedsit just off Carnaby Street in January 1970. No one was ever brought to justice for it.

After another early morning ride out, I shot a couple of dozen people in New York in 1964 with a high powered rifle. I was in an apartment block and they were on the street. It was easy. Aim, squeeze, kill. They scattered as best they could, but they couldn’t get away. Afterwards, Tess made me come so hard it hurt.

In 1956, I murdered four prostitutes in one night in Rio. That one was great because Carnival was on, and the passers-by thought the severed head Tess proudly carried about was a prop. We were still laughing when I entered her exquisite body in the blood-strewn back alley where the decapitated corpses lay.

On and on it went, time after time. I began to love the slaughter as much as the reward after it. Was it really me who killed all those people? Or was it something I’d read and just imagined? It seemed real. I didn’t know, and to be honest, I didn’t care. I just wanted Tess. I needed Tess. We killed like monsters and we fucked like alley cats, all through time. My money had allowed me to buy her and set her free, and I was as happy as a man could be.

I remembered what Jack had said when we’d first met: “Imagine what she’s seen.”

Well.

Now I knew.

A month after my escapade on the track, Jack came to see me. He looked concerned when I answered the door.

“Jesus, Dave—are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m absolutely fine, Jack. Foine, as our Irish neighbours would say.”

Jack looked like he didn’t believe me, and I couldn’t blame him.

Whatever Tess was doing to me, whatever she got out of it, it was draining me. I was like a skeleton. I ate, I drank, but the weight was falling away from me. I think she was draining my soul. That’s what I think now. I couldn’t do anything about it, but then again, I didn’t want to.

I really didn’t care. As long as I could have Tess, as long as I could kill, I was happy. I led Jack into the sitting room.

“How have you been?” I asked him as we settled into the huge room.

He nodded, but his face was grave.

“Dave, I’m worried about you,” he said. “People in town are talking. They say you’ve been out on the Vincent every day. Speeding, going far too fast for your own good…”

“Tess,” I whispered.

“What?”

“Her name is Tess. I’ve been riding her hard.” I giggled into my glass.

Jack swallowed and nodded slightly, as one would do with someone who seems a little “off.” Not dangerous, really. Just a bit “off.” I grinned at him, swirling the whiskey in my hand.

He cleared his throat. “You do know it’s only ten-thirty in the morning, don’t you?”

I scratched an ear and sniffed.

“Come on, lad,” he insisted. “Tell me what’s wrong. I’ve hardly seen you these past few weeks. I know you love that bike, but it’s becoming an obsession. You have to get out and do other things.”

The door to the garage opened and Tess walked in, her hips swaying in the gypsy skirt. I watched her, my want for her becoming evident, although Jack didn’t seem to notice her. She smiled at me and I smiled back.

“Obsessions are sometimes good things,” I said, dreamily, still staring at Tess.

Jack frowned and glanced towards where I was looking. He licked his lips.

“Dave, the police know what you’ve been up to.”

That brought me round quick enough.

“How could they?” I asked, sharply. “They all happened years ago.”

Concern darkened Jack’s face. “I mean, they know you’ve been speeding. They’re going to catch you, lad. You have to stop.”

I stood up and stared into the empty fireplace.

“I can’t stop,” I muttered, and Tess laughed.

Jack sighed and stood up as well.

“That bike will be the death of you,” he said, wagging his finger. “I urge you. As a friend. Please, please stop with the early morning blasts. You’ve got everything anyone could ever want, Dave. Don’t chuck it all away because of an old bike.”

I turned to him, sharply. “Don’t you dare call her that. She’s shown me things you could never imagine. I’ve done things you could never imagine! Tess and I are in love! We are love!”

As I shouted these words at him, I bent and picked up the poker from the fireplace bucket. I felt the now familiar anger and strength come over me. The same feelings I’d had on so many occasions since meeting Tess. I turned towards my only friend and smashed him across the skull with the poker. I actually saw his head buckle under that blow. He was an old man, and the one blow was enough.

But that didn’t stop me.

I hit him again and again, as Tess urged me on. I could hear the want in her voice, could imagine the silky liquid gathering between her legs, and I belted the poker into Jack maniacally.

I reduced his skull to mush.

I turned, blood-spattered and grinning, towards Tess for my reward.

But she was gone.

I frowned. Where was she? Where was my naked, glistening prize?

As I stood there, I heard tyres crunching on my gravel driveway. I glanced outside and saw a police car pull up at the door. No doubt coppers coming to warn me about my speeding antics.

I looked at the battered corpse of Jack at my feet, the blood soaking into the inch-high pile of the carpet. I heard the doorbell ring, then saw a young policeman’s face peer through the window. I saw him register the first forewarnings of shock as he spied me with the blood-smeared poker in my hand and the battered corpse at my feet.

I dropped the poker and walked through to the garage.

Tess smiled wickedly at me.

“I did everything you wanted,” I whispered, shocked at her treachery. “Everything you asked. We went through time together, you and I. Why are you doing this to me now?” My eyes clouded in tears.

“It’s your own fault,” she said, coldly. “I am time. You are nothing. You should have kept to the bargain.”

“Bargain?” My voice was shaking.

“You’re no good to me now, Dave. You’ve blown it. You can’t ride me anymore. I need someone else now.”

“I…” I started to say, but she shook her head.

“You shouldn’t have killed Jack. Not in your own time. That’s not how it works.”

“You wanted me to!” I howled at her. “I felt it!”

She just smiled.

I dropped to my knees in front of her.

“I love you,” I whimpered, hollowly.

Tess didn’t answer.

There was a loud crash as the police kicked in the front door.

* * *

A young man sauntered past the Suzukis and the Triumphs and the BMWs. They were nice, but he was looking for something special. Something no one else had.

The salesman came across, looking bored. He brightened up considerably when the young man told him how much he had to spend.

“A Dot Com business, you say? Wow, that must have made you a mint! My name’s Tom, by the way. I’ll tell you what, if you want special, I’ve got special. Come, let’s have a look in the back.”

He led the young man to the rear of the showroom.

“Got her back just the other week,” Tom went on. “Apparently, the guy who used to own her is in prison or dead or something.”

He clicked on the light.

“What do you think of that?” he asked, proudly.

A grin crossed the young man’s face. By the way he smiled, it looked almost as though the bike were smiling back at him.

About The Author
Richard Ayre

Richard Ayre was born in Northumberland, Northern England, and now lives in Newcastle upon Tyne where he continues to write horror fiction. At an impressionable age he fell in love with new wave heavy metal and rock music, and at the same time read his first James Herbert novel. The combination of these two magnificent things led him to write Minstrel’s Bargain, a tale of music and horror.

Minstrel’s Bargain is the first novel in the Prophecy Books. Richard has also written Minstrel’s Renaissance and Minstrel’s Requiem, the second and third of that trilogy. He has also written Point of Contact, a sci-fi chiller, as well as the short story anthology, A Hatful of Shadows. When not writing, Richard can be found zooming around the Northumberland countryside on his motorcycle, Tracy (not Tess.)

The Highway Phantom

By: Michael Warriner

The following has been logged into evidence with missing person case 85-15772 of the Virginia State Police:

January 2, 1983

The Law Offices of Colin & Quinn

Criminal Defense Attorneys

Dear Mr. Jeffrey Slater:

From the Law Offices of Colin & Quinn, we want to wish all our clients a Happy New Year!

As you know, our firm continues to pursue all possible avenues within the law to appeal your criminal conviction. We are cognizant that you face the death penalty, and that your sentence is due to be carried out in a little over a month. You can rest assured that our firm will work diligently to reverse the judge’s decision, or at the very least commute it to life in prison.

(Continued on page two, over please.)

Please allow me to properly introduce myself, Mr. Slater. For now, you can refer to me as Sam Adams. I took the liberty of copying your attorney’s letterhead to ensure this message would pass for an attorney-client privileged communication, and therefore, would not be opened and read by prison security officers.

I understand you must receive numerous letters from so-called “fans.” Being the legend known as the “Highway Phantom” comes with its requisite degree of infamy. Please do not mistake me for this, as I’ve developed a true admiration for what you’ve accomplished. The trail of death you’ve left along Interstate 81 can only be described as the artful expression of a calculated mind. Before your capture, I followed your career raptly, hoping one day to speak with the rebel who couldn’t be caught. I followed press conferences, missing persons cases, gossip columns, anything that would give me the opportunity to see the world through your eyes.

One day, it hit me. Everywhere I looked, there was only the one-sided hypocrisy of emotional attachment the media tried to spin as normal. Their unrelenting goal to smear your brilliant mind and sublime thoughts as abhorrent could only be described as criminal. They just can’t understand how strangulation allows you to feel the threshold of life and death the moment one makes that transition; or how the fifteen “projects” you placed around the Shenandoah National Park showed your respect for oblivion returning us to nature. I understand what you see. I appreciate your work, and relate to it wholeheartedly.

Another reason I’m writing is to inform you I bought a car. The car, I believe, you used to find and scatter your projects. I purchased it at a police auction a couple of months back and hoped you could confirm if it once belonged to you. It’s a 1971 Buick Riviera painted as black as the night, with a black vinyl interior and pearl inserts in the bucket seats. A crack runs down the middle of the radio tuner case, splitting it in half, right under the clock. I know this is a long shot, but could this beast be the Highway Phantom’s mythical companion?

I hope you will respond back. Should you choose to do so, please send your reply to the address on the envelope. Never mind that it appears to go to your attorney’s offices, your message will in fact be rerouted to a P.O. box I can access.

I wish you resolute peace before death tries to claim its greatest prize.

Regards,

Sam Adams, Esq.

* * *

January 12, 1983

Buckingham Correctional Center

Prisoner 1224

Dear Mr. Samuel Adams,

Your compliments are but fireworks to the blind. Sure, they sound good, but they are void of any true meaning. It’s clear you mistake me for some cheap prostitute who will accept anything thrown in their direction. Allow me to educate you otherwise.

If you’ve guessed anything correctly, it’s that the amount of “fan” mail I get would put Santa Claus to shame. Having toiled through endless empty praise from bacteria longing to be viruses, I can say without a doubt, that your words are nothing more than self-serving attempts to get me to verify the authenticity of your new car. Your accounts of my actions are so generic and vague; while your descriptions of the 1971 Riviera reveal where your true intents lie.

I can imagine someone at a pedestal calling for bids on your “boat-tail” Buick and spinning an epic on how it once obeyed only me, slicing through the mist of the midnight air as I hunted my next prey. Oh, how I can imagine your eyes widening as you glimpse an opportunity to touch even the smallest understanding of what eludes you. I have no desire to verify whether or not you have my old steed from Hell.

Continue to wonder if you have something of value. It makes no difference to me. A disrespectful brownnoser isn’t worth what little time I have left.

Jeffery Slater

* * *

January 16, 1983

Dear Mr. Slater:

I’d like to ask your forgiveness if my previous letter offended you. I had hoped to gain your favor; and to cause offense was the furthest thing from my mind.

It is true, some of the actions you’ve taken part in are difficult to empathize with. You’ve chosen to keep the motivations of your late-night activities a personal matter, and I can see how my guessing as to your motives can be seen as disrespectful. For this, I apologize.

Indeed, I did purchase the vehicle at a police auction, but no one insinuated it might previously have been yours. I didn’t even want to attend the auction, but my girlfriend insisted we go. But when I first laid eyes upon the car, it was love at first sight. The image still burns in my mind how the surface reflected the faces of those attending the auction as clear as a painting on a black canvas. The chrome outlines showed off its sharp edges… and that boat-tail rear! I could picture the car like a knife, slicing through the midnight air. I had to have it. Shortly before penning my first letter to you, a neighbor showed me a picture of your old car, and I have to admit, the likeness is remarkable.

I’ve been hard at work, trying to bring the engine back to life. I’m getting close to hearing it roar once more. My girlfriend thinks it’s foolish, but there’s something about this car that gets me out of bed every morning to work on it. I understand you don’t wish to confirm or deny whether it’s yours, and I respect that. I apologize once again for the offense I’ve caused, and want to thank you for taking the time to write me back regardless.

Regards,

Sam Adams, Esq.

* * *

January 20, 1983

Dear Mr. Adams,

I accept your apology. Writing me again, however misguided, shows more depth to you than your previous letter. I’m elated to hear the car is a passion project for you. How you’ve described your captivation would make a lonely man envious. Like love at first sight, indeed.

Tell me, did you fall in love with your girlfriend the same way? What did your eyes see when you first discovered beauty in her? She may not understand the car the way you do, but something must have drawn you two together. Please describe it for me, and I’ll tell you if the car you possess was once mine.

Respectfully yours,

Jeffery Slater

* * *

January 24, 1983

Dear Mr. Slater:

Considering how we got off on the wrong foot, I reckon your price to be more than fair.

I met my girlfriend at my last job. She worked in the computer services department. I’d pass through her workspace every morning on the way to my cubicle. She has the brightest fiery red hair you’ve even seen. Each time she’d turn her head, her hair would follow in waves and encircle her freckled face.

Here’s how we got together. At first, she never paid me much attention when we crossed each other in the break room or in the hallways. I was too shy to approach her directly, so I’d phone in for technical support and hope she’d be the one who’d come by my cubicle. Eventually, she caught on to my “false alarms,” but by then I felt ready to ask her out on a date. To my great surprise, she said, “Yes.”

She’s everything to me. I love making her happy. What keeps us together is my drive to make her smile.

How’s that for an answer?

Regards,

Sam Adams, Esq.

* * *

January 28, 1983

Dear Mr. Adams,

The passion with which you describe her drives me toward envy. How lucky she is to have found someone who holds her in such high esteem. Does she think the same of you?

What I mean to ask is, how often is she doing things to make you smile? When you first met, you said she didn’t pay any attention to you, but why? Clearly you had a great deal to offer. You sound supportive to her needs and ready to show her attention the second she needs it. Has she returned this attentiveness in equal measure?

From the previous descriptions you gave of the car, it sounds like it could be mine, but to know for sure, I’ll have to see it. Please send me a photo of the car’s exterior. Also, send a photo of the dashboard showing the cracked radio tuner and clock. I should be able to tell you for sure if it’s mine just from those two.

Sincerely,

Jeffery Slater

The Highway Phantom

* * *

January 31, 1983

Dear Mr. Slater:

Since it’s just you and me, I don’t mind admitting my relationship with my girlfriend is one-sided from time to time. I neglected to mention in my previous letter that she only started warming up to me when I helped her at the office with tasks she didn’t want to do. After a while, I bartered a date out of her. Some days, the fear of losing her impels me to try harder to please her, and even with my best efforts, I seem to accomplish this less and less.

She is my first and only love, outside the growing relationship with the Riviera of course. I think she’s been upset about it lately. I’m now doing less for her as more time is spent restoring the car. Which, by the way, is looking new once again. Turned the ignition the other day and heard her speak for the first time. Her triumphant roar could out-thunder the trumpets of heralding angels. She lives again. The dashboard clock, though, that’s another story. For the life of me, I just can’t get it to work.

Enclosed are the photos you requested.

Regards,

Sam Adams, Esq.

* * *

February 3, 1983

Dear Mr. Adams,

Congratulations to you for bringing my old steed back to life. With the pictures you’ve sent, I can confirm the vehicle in your possession once belonged to me.

I remember when I first laid eyes on her, the car, I mean. Though it wouldn’t be a stretch of the imagination to believe, I actually bought it to impress a girl. Unlike the technologically-savvy redhead you’ve taken care of, mine was a mechanic with hair as black as the grease under her fingernails. And yet, no matter how filthy she would get, she always smelled of lavender, which I found all the more alluring.

Her uniqueness attracted me. I’m not accustomed to seeing women in garages, nor with the knowledge she possessed of engines; and despite these, she managed to retain a certain femininity I’ve never encountered before. I bought a unique car to attract a unique woman.

The ‘71 Riviera was a luxury model. Each time I rolled up to her garage, we’d chat about its engine and unique shape in the back. Then, one day, I offered her a ride, and she didn’t hesitate to accept.

Like you, I did everything I could for her. She wasn’t my first love, but my first in another way. As time passed, however, I realized she would only see me if I brought the car along.

I remember our last night together; and can see it all as though it were happening presently. It was raining, but not storming. The only light around came from my headlights. We drove through Shenandoah and parked by a hiking trail, listening to the radio. I can hear the song even now. I don’t remember its name, but it was French and had something to do with not having any regrets. How perfect the song turned out to be, upon reflection.

We joked a little and shared a kiss in the darkness of my majestic vehicle… and as I parted ways with her soft lips, I professed my love for her. She laughed. I didn’t know how to respond. Once she finished laughing, she asked if she could drive the car. In those few seconds, I felt beyond broken. No matter what I did, it would never be good enough for her. She would never be satisfied. I gave her everything and asked only for her love in return. I understood then what true helplessness felt like.

I asked her to kiss me, if she wanted a turn at driving. She hopped on my lap and shoved her tongue down my throat. All this passion, just to get behind the wheel of the car. I ran one hand up her torso until it reached her neck and clasped her throat. This excited her. I applied more pressure and slowly removed her from my lips.

“This car is mine,” I breathed.

Her face flushed. She was enjoying the rough play. She leaned forward and tried to nibble my chin, but I kept a firm grip on her throat and would not let her near. I felt her blood race beneath my fingers with each throb of the artery in her neck. Then her body started bucking and heaving, struggling for air. Each raspy breath, each shudder, was for me like the vibration you feel in the steering wheel when you have the accelerator floored and you’re speeding down the highway. That sort of excitement makes your fingers clench white-knuckle tight, so I did.

The fight ebbed out of her as I felt the pulse in her neck weaken. Her movements became sluggish. With a hand still on her throat, I wrestled her into the backseat. She kicked at me with her high heel in a last ditch attempt to free herself but missed, smashing into the radio tuner instead. All the while, my eyes were locked on hers. I saw the light go out of her eyes. I saw her face slacken and her pupils expand just before her eyes rolled backward in their sockets. I felt her last breath slip out from between her lips and caress my face.

Then came a beautiful stillness. I was alone, with nothing but the drumming of the rain and the French song on the radio. The scent of lavender hung faintly in the air, like a passing memory from a long time ago.

That night, something new was born within me; a sense of control I never felt before, except when driving my Riviera. When you drive it next, clutch the steering wheel with all your might. You’ll feel the engine breathe, just as she tried to. Feeling a life controlled in your hands is nothing short of intoxicating.

I apologize for prattling on, but seeing pictures of my Riviera recalled a bittersweet memory. That night, I started upon a new adventure. One day, you might also. That said, now that you know the story behind the car, I’m sure you can get more money out of it than you put in.

Behind the wheel of my trusted steed, I felt free to go anywhere along Interstate 81. The highway helps me to feel connected with so many other places. Take Route 250, for instance, another vein of the states my vehicle pulsed through, a countryside filled with open beauty as you pass into West Virginia. I’ve seen my share of freckled lasses along this stretch of highway. Maybe one will catch your eye.

I hope your girlfriend doesn’t make the same mistakes mine did. I see the truth within women, but I also recognize some men get lucky and don’t find themselves powerless before their partner. Have you ever suspected her of being intimate with you just to get something she wants? From my experience, men do everything they can to attract a woman in the hopes of intimacy, but when they think they’re winning favor, they don’t realize the trap they’ve fallen into. It’s the woman who possesses the power, using their sexuality to bend men to their whim. An intelligent observer once said: “All interactions revolve around intimacy, except for the act itself, because intimacy revolves around power.” Be wary of this trap, my new friend. Stay alert and remain in control.

Your friend,

Jeffery Slater

* * *

February 6, 1983

Dear Mr. Slater:

The story of your birth as the Highway Phantom kept me on the edge of my seat. With some shame, I also admit it possesses an empowering quality, too. But I would never think to harm my girlfriend, she’s too important to me.

It’s easy to say, “Yes, she’s used intimacy against me before.” What woman hasn’t? She knows how to get under my skin. After all, isn’t that the definition of love? Not to sound cynical, but nothing is ever all sunshine and roses, or even lavender.

Times have been hard for us as we’re struggling to see eye to eye, but these troubles will pass. There’s a selfishness in me that wants to walk away every so often, but what would that accomplish? My mind has performed incredible gymnastics and will occasionally conclude that if I leave, she’ll terrorize someone else; but if I stay, then only I suffer. Piteous, I know, but I can’t always control these thoughts.

While your corroboration that the car was once yours will help its resale value, I can’t stand the thought of parting with it. I’ve driven it around the city several times, and it never fails to turn heads. People of all sorts approach me in parking lots to talk about it, but neither they nor I have mentioned it belonged to the Highway Phantom. We talk about its engine, but more often than not, we talk about the rear’s boat-tail. I haven’t done any night driving yet, but I’m looking forward to it, knowing the Buick would be a stealthy phantom in its own right.

Naturally, my girlfriend wants me to get rid of the car. Of course, this is out of the question. She can’t stand to have anything taking priority over her. Already, I feel helpless.

Regards,

Sam Adams, Esq.

* * *

February 8, 1983

Dear Mr. Adams,

There are many roads to life. Whichever you chose will lead to another set of unique forks to pick from. You see the situation as only having two choices—run, or suffer—but I can assure you, there are always more.

You feel helpless in your relationship, so you drove yourself to find another avenue of control by escaping into and restoring the Riviera. But even feeling empowered by this, it wasn’t anywhere near enough to refill your cup of control, which emptied long ago. A more drastic means of regaining confidence is necessary to feel comfortable in your own skin again. Believe me, I understand how you feel.

Lie with her in bed tonight. Embrace her lovingly around her stomach and neck, then tell her how you feel. If she responds in any way showing she doesn’t care, then give her a little squeeze. Do this only for a couple of seconds, just long enough for her to recognize you’re in control of this conversation. Let everything you’ve done for her become clear in these few moments. Then see if she can see things from your perspective at last. If she can’t, know you still have someone who understands you here, for another week and a half anyway.

Your friend,

Jeffrey Slater

* * *

February 10, 1983

Dear Mr. Slater:

I don’t know what to do. I need help! Right after I wrote you my last letter, she got on me about getting rid of the car again. I brushed her off. Then she continued to tear apart who I am, calling me pathetic and dim-witted, saying I couldn’t survive without her. Then she gave me an ultimatum: either I did what she said, or she would leave.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I did what you suggested. That night, we lay in bed, both of us naked.

She’d made another wall of pillows between us which I threw over the side of the bed. I cuddled her with her back to my chest. At first she resisted, slapping my arms away, but eventually she let me hold her. I poured out all my feelings, whispering them into her ear. When I was done, I felt… better? I’m not entirely sure. It was as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, and yet, the gesture seemed hollow.

She laughed.

As if they had minds of their own, I could feel my arms tightening around her.

She called me a miserable excuse for a man, and then laughed some more.

I could not believe what I’d heard. Why would she cut me so deeply? Physically and emotionally, I’d laid myself bare, and she cut me when I was most vulnerable. How dare she hurt me so! I gave my all to this woman, and she had the nerve to laugh at my infirmities!

I matter!

I have my own thoughts and dreams!

I want things like everybody else!

How could she laugh at me?

Even after she stopped breathing, I couldn’t stop myself from squeezing. Whether from love, or hate, or both, I couldn’t stop.

I don’t know what to do.

Please help me!

Sam Adams, Esq.

* * *

February 12, 1983

Dear Mr. Adams,

First, and most important, you need to remain calm. Yes, I can and will help. You are my friend. I will walk to my death knowing that my last act was a good deed.

The answer you need is in the Riviera. Get into the vehicle and take the faceplate off the clock. Move the hands of the clock to read 3:30. You’ll find out why the clock never worked.

Afterwards, proceed to a circle outside Virginia with the body. You’ll understand what I mean by this once you’ve followed my preceding instructions. Act fast and drive only under the cover of night. There’s a reason they couldn’t catch me for so long. At night, you will be invisible in the car. At night, you will become the Highway Phantom.

Your friend always,

Jeffery Slater

* * *

February 14, 1983

Dear Mr. Slater:

Thank you, my friend. I turned the clock to 3:30 like you said. It unlocked a hidden compartment with a map folded inside. That’s proof beyond doubt this car belonged to you, but I digress.

The map is covered in X’s and O’s. I recognized the X’s; they’re locations where police found the bodies you’d disposed of. There are a lot more O’s on here than X’s. Disposal sites for them yet to discover. I knew you were intelligent, but I didn’t realize the extent of just how many there were.

Your map left many options. I decided to drive down Route 250, like you mentioned before, and stopped in Wetzel County. Yesterday, I disposed of her body there in the snow by the road. She will likely be found, but I’m not concerned.

I have never felt more in control of my life, thanks to you. There is so much still to learn from you, if only time were on our side.

People find me more approachable when I’m with this car. It’s becoming an extension of myself. The Buick’s cabin still smells a little of death, but I’m taking care of that with some lavender air fresheners.

I still earn a living during the day, but the night belongs to me. Once I get in the Riviera and surround myself with the starlit sky, the roads are mine. I am the Highway Phantom reborn, all thanks to you. I even think I found that French song you liked on tape. It sounds liberating through the new speakers.

Thank you,

Sam Adams, Esq.

* * *

February 18, 1983

Dear Mr. Adams,

My congratulations to you again, my dear Samuel Adams. Not only have you brought your new steed to life, you have also found a purpose most cannot understand. Our time together has been short, but meaningful. Feel free to use the map to your heart’s content, but don’t ever let the police get their hands on it. Some secrets should be kept forever.

Tomorrow I face the electric chair. I have spent these last few hours reliving every intimate account of my crimes. What you’ll soon learn is just how important it is to memorialize the experience after the fact. Soon, the memory you shared with me of your first in an emotional and incoherent way will turn into a steady and flowing stream of consciousness which will invoke emotions of joy and passion with perfect clarity. In the end, what becomes most important isn’t the act, but the remembrance of the act.

Your rebirth brings a smile to a dying man’s face. The Bible Belt will provide you many options and more grounds to cover. So many opportunities await you. I can picture you now, driving toward a sunset in the Riviera, waiting for the veil of night to claim the roads… to claim your new domain. Tell the car where you want to go, push on the accelerator, and feel the engine breathe beneath your fingers gripping the steering wheel.

You are in control now.

Happy hunting!

Your departed friend,

Jeffery Slater

The Original Highway Phantom

About The Author
Michael Warriner

Born and raised in Central Florida, Michael Warriner is the author of The Man in the Forest, a paranormal horror novel about dueling musicians and a deadly curse.

He pursued an early interest in learning music and creating characters in hand-drawn comic books. He began his career working simultaneously in the mental health industry and as a character performer at his local theme park. It was while pursuing his degree in Psychology that he began writing stories “just to kill time.” Before long, he had written two manuscripts. This developing interest in telling stories was further driven by his fascination with amateur filmmaking.

By day, Michael now applies his education and training to assist clients diagnosed with mental illness. By night, he writes novels, and in his free time he composes music. He draws upon these varied interests to create unique characters and thrust them into memorable stories.

The Black Engine

By: Nicholas Paschall

“You look like you been eatin’ from a bucket of lemons, boy,” William drawled, sucking on his cigarette.

Ben rolled his eyes but didn’t respond.

William took this as permission to continue. “Don’ see why you be so upset, you don’ have ta drive the fuckin’ thing.”

Ben, the larger of the two paramedics, looked askance at his partner. The older Creole didn’t seem to care that they were waiting for the hand-me-down ambulance they were slated to drive for the foreseeable future. The fact that it came from a wealthier parish made little difference to Ben.

He didn’t like change. Switching out his tried-and-true Miller-Meteor for the newer model sat poorly with him.

“No, I don’t have ta drive it,” Ben replied. “But I gotta stock the thing, and I memorized where everything is in the Boat. Now I gotta relearn something while on the clock, which could lead ta someone bleeds out on me.”

Accustomed as he was to the Boat, a 1959 Miller-Meteor, there was no denying it had outlived its usefulness. Compared to more modern ambulances, theirs was cramped, always needed a tune-up, and leaked oil. But for all its faults, it was what Ben had worked with since becoming a paramedic. Losing it felt as though he were losing a parent.

“You win some, you lose some,” William shrugged.

“Your compassion really warms my heart, ya know that?”

“What can I say?” William smiled, blowing a cloud of acrid smoke. “Been doin’ this fer twelve years boy. Got a thick skin. You should too.”

Ben smirked. “Day I stop caring is th’ day I sign up for administration.”

William let out a deep belly laugh, which devolved into wet coughing. “Tha’ the way to the devil,” he wheezed. “Though I ‘magine you could do somethin’ bout the idgits who keep harpin’ on me ev’ry other week.”

“Oh, I’d come down on you like a box of hammers, Will.” Ben laughed. “Drive you fucking nuts, I would.”

“Bastard.” William took a long drag off the last of his cigarette before dropping the smoldering butt to the cement. Crushing it out, he looked up at the sound of an engine approaching. “You hear tha’? Sounds like the Boat ‘bout to go the way of the dodo.”

“Great,” Ben groused, looking through the entrance to the covered bay.

Coming up the path was a bright red and white 1974 Cadillac Miller-Meteor Criterion, a long vehicle with a high-top tall enough for Ben to stand up in. Its red rolling lights were on, casting it and its environs in a crimson glow.

The ambulance skidded to a halt on the asphalt in front of the vehicle bay. The engine cut out, and from the driver’s door emerged a wide-eyed young man in a sweat-stained paramedic’s outfit. The driver looked panicked, his eyes darting anxiously from William to Ben. “You guys the one’s signing off on her?”

Ben raised an eyebrow, then shot William a glance. “Um, no? We’re the paramedics who will be driving this, um…” He eyed the ambulance over. “Thing. The administrators should be down here soon.”

“You’re early,” William stated, crossing his arms. “Musta been speedin’ to get here this fast.”

“Yeah,” the young man said with a nervous chuckle. “Kinda wanted to get this up here, you know?”

“So ya plowed on through the parish like a bat outta hell?” William drawled. “Not wise, boy. Coulda got yerself hurt.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Oh, calm down, Will—you drive like a lunatic all the time. Hell, you have like a dozen speeding tickets!”

“But I know the roads, been here all mah life. Know where it’s safe ta hurry, where it ain’t.”

“Yeah, well… I’m familiar with this old girl, been driving her since we got her,” the young man spoke up. He stuck out his hand. “Name’s Gerard, by the way.”

“That’s William,” he said, thumbing toward his partner, “and I’m Ben.”

“Nice to meet you folks.” Gerard motioned with his eyes to the ambulance. “I did a tune up before driving her up here, topped off her fluids and changed her oil. She’ll run smooth for you, I guarantee it.”

“You did the work?” William asked, skeptical.

“Yeah,” Gerard said with a laugh. “I don’t look it, but I was a mechanic before I became a paramedic. Spent some time smacking wrench to pumps at an Alaskan oil field. I was the chief mechanic for the Prudhoe Company pump stations before I found my true calling.”

“Ya ditched a high payin’ job to help carry hurt folks?” William asked, incredulous.

Gerard smiled. “I’m as dedicated to the job as you. Helps me stay sane, really.”

Ben laughed. “Yeah, after a two-day shift I feel a little frayed myself.”

“Speaking of that,” Gerard said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m kind of tired… You guys mind if I kip up somewhere?”

“Sure,” Ben said, thumbing back to the loading bay doors. “Head on in, there’s a staff room two doors down to your right. You’ll find the bunkroom next to it.”

The young man heaved a sigh. He reminded Ben of how he looked after working a fourteen-hour shift—stressed, worn, and tired to the bone.

Ben walked up to the side of the red high-top, walking his fingers along its curves. The paint was glossy and fresh, looking almost brand-new, which was out of place for service vehicles that saw such heavy usage as these.

He snapped his hand off the car and leapt back as if stung.

William laughed. “Wha’, ya shock yerself or somethin’?”

“No,” Ben said, puzzled. “It’s… it’s cold!”

“Cold? Well, so what?”

“So what? What do you mean, so what? It’s like a hundred degrees out!”

“Huh,” William grunted, then went into a pause. “Maybe he left the A/C on?”

“Yeah,” said Ben. “Must be one hell of an A/C, then.”

Ben walked to the back of the ambulance. His initial hesitation aside, he had to admit this was a fine vehicle, though he still did his best to look unimpressed. Despite it being a few years old, the paint job was immaculate and looked as though it had been buffed to a high gleam recently. Bending down, he looked at the tires and saw there was hardly any mud in the wheel wells. He straightened up and pressed his face against the window. Inside the ambulance was a stretcher with chrome rails that looked like it had never been used. In the middle was a seat that separated the rear cab from the front bench. The interior was upholstered in carpeting that was unusually clean for an ambulance.

The ambulance shook as William settled into the driver’s seat. He unlocked the rear hatch for Ben, who climbed into the back for a better view.

Ben whistled a long, flat note. “If this ain’t the nicest ride I ever been in…” he said under his breath, but stopped short in case William was listening. “This… might not be so bad.”

“Told ya,” William answered him. “This’ll be simple enough, once ya get used ta this tank, you’ll be set.”

“I’ll load her up, then I’m gonna grab chow. You know when we’re supposed to have this thing ready to go?”

“Richards and Dupont have the Boat for its last run ‘til three, so we got more than enough time. Grab some shut-eye too, if ya can.”

Ben nodded and clapped William on the shoulder. “Cool, see you in a few hours.”

William nodded in reply, then went back to flipping switches and reading through the owner’s manual.

* * *

Ben spent the next two hours loading the Criterion with medical equipment and supplies. As he worked, he noticed a large brown stain he had not spotted during his previous examination of the ambulance. It irked him—someone had apparently taken great pains to clean this vehicle prior to its delivery; how could they have missed so large a stain as this?

When lunchtime rolled around, he ate in the cafeteria, then went to the bunkroom. Gerard was passed out in a nearby cot, snoring louder than a jet at takeoff. Ben gave the young man a wide berth, opting to settle into a cot at the room’s far end for a nap.

It felt as though no sooner had he shut his eyes, Ben was awake again. He sat up in bed, grumbling at how restless his sleep had been, when suddenly he became aware of a subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere.

The air felt… wrong.

Granted, the air in the bunkroom was normally dry, stale, and carried an undertone of sweat; but now there was a dankness that was unmistakable, even for a Louisiana afternoon. Even stranger: there was an unseasonable chill in the air. Ben shivered, and not solely from the cold. He swung his legs off the bed and winced—the floor beneath his bare feet was like ice.

He hadn’t noticed it at first, but the room had gotten darker. When first he awoke, he thought a cloud had passed overhead, dimming the light coming in through the windows, but now it was so dark he could hardly see.

“What in the…?” he cut off, noticing his echo. “Where the hell am I?”

A wave of cold bit into his flesh, sinking into his bones. He could feel it whipping at his exposed flesh, fraying his nerves, crystalizing his blood.

Ben spun in place to look over his shoulder, then looked back the way he was originally facing. He could not shake the feeling that something was watching him, something dark and foul, but he could see nothing in the pitch black that surrounded him.

He screwed up his nose as the tang of gasoline wafted into the room. Ben coughed into his fist, fighting his gag reflex as it threatened to empty his stomach’s contents all over the floor.

Then came a dull groan, like the sound of an ancient ship’s hull creaking against the buffeting of the waves. The sound was subtle at first, but then roared like thunder. Ben turned to face the noise and was met with twin lights that stung his pupils. He covered his face with his arms as he shuffled toward it.

Another groan echoed from the distance. A thud of something heavy striking the earth shook the ground beneath Ben’s feet. Despite the numbing cold, a slick sheen of sweat coated Ben’s body. Another mighty blow fell, this time shaking the ground out from under him, and he nearly fell over, regaining his balance at the last minute.

“Who’s there?” Ben called out, lips numb. Squinting, he stared into the light to try to discern its source, but could not.

Then the lights blinked.

Terror gripped Ben that instant. His legs gave out, dropping him onto his ass, and he pushed at the ground with his heels and palms to get away.

Those were not lights but eyes.

The lights ground into the stone with a metallic screech before rising into the air. A low, keening wail emerged from what Ben could only assume was the mouth of the beast before him. In the dark around the corona of the twin glowing eyes, he heard metal pop, stretch and strain. The air stank of oil. Greasy sludge spattered onto him from above, streaking his face and chest with the stuff.

Far above him were the blinking eyes of a metallic titan he could see only in silhouette. Its head thrown back, it crowed a deafening bellow from a black gullet ringed in glistening chrome teeth. Before Ben could even think to react, the giant dove at him with its unholy maw in the lead, accompanied by all the crunching and shrieking sounds of a train wreck.

Ben screamed.

* * *

“Ben!” William shouted in his face, shaking him.

Ben stopped screaming and jerked awake, utterly out of breath. He was in the bunkroom, which was empty save for some nurses, a bewildered Gerard, and William, whose face bore a heavy note of concern.

Ben rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, which were still shaking as much from fright as from the cold. This had been no ordinary dream. He could feel the frost in his veins only now receding.

“Damn boy,” William groused, standing up to his full height. “Musta been some nightmare. You been screamin’ fer ten minutes!”

“W-what?” Ben rasped, his throat scratchy and raw. He shook his head. “Water…”

William looked over at a nurse and nodded. “You heard him, get water.”

She left the room, her hard-soled shoes clacking up the hallway. The other nurses dispersed, each casting concerned looks at Ben before walking away.

“You okay, kid?” William asked, drawing an unlit cigarette from behind his ear and putting it between his clenched teeth. He fished around in his pocket for a lighter.

Ben ran a hand through his hair. He was still shaking from the nightmare. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Good, because we need to swing by the firehouse to make sure they have fully stocked first-aid supplies. Good time as any to test out the Criterion.”

Ben stood up, legs weak. “Lemme hit the can first. I’ll be out in a minute.”

William nodded, withdrawing his hands from his face as the spark from his lighter took to the cigarette. “Take your time. We’re not on call for another two hours.”

Ben left the bunkroom, headed across the hallway to a single stall bathroom. Within were a sink and urinal that were perpetually out of order. Ben locked the stall and sat down on the toilet. He rubbed his eyes, shuddering at the memory of the nightmare.

“What the fuck was that?” he muttered, so soft even he could barely hear it.

His head jerked up when he heard a long, low cry—droning and deep—like the one in his dream.

Ben ran from the bathroom, headed down the hall toward the sound. He had to know—absolutely had to be certain what was making that noise was not the metal beast in his dream.

Nearly kicking the door to the loading bay off its hinges, Ben froze in the doorframe, his eyes wide.

The Criterion’s engine was screeching like an enraged banshee. Its hood was up. Leaning across its fender with his back to Ben was a man in a short sleeve shirt, yanking the throttle cable to rev the engine.

William leaned against the wall, puffing on his cigarette. He spied Ben and waved him over. “You look terrible man,” William shouted above the din.

“What’s wrong with the ambulance?”

William shrugged. “Mechanic’s runnin’ some prelim checks, just ta make sure it’s safe. Shouldn’t take more’n a few minutes.”

The mechanic settled into the driver’s seat and pegged the accelerator.

William continued speaking, but Ben didn’t hear him. His voice was drowned out by the mounting fear of realizing that the beast in his dreams sat directly in front of him. His heart rate kicked into high gear when the headlights flashed on, forcing him to divert his eyes. In the glare of those powerful beams, he could have sworn he saw twin slits cutting across the glass of the bulbs, looking like reptilian pupils.

Ben nearly fainted when the engine noise cut to the screeching of metal on metal.

The mechanic killed the ignition, shutting the beast’s terrible eyes and silencing its roar. Once the car had fallen quiet, the grease jockey stepped out. An older man with a Mobius mustache the color of loose straw, he wore a ball cap that matched his shirt. He walked back around to the engine and leaned in close.

“It good?” William asked, crushing the butt of his cigarette.

“S’far as I can tell,” the mechanic replied, his thick accent made even more pronounced by the chaw of tobacco in his mouth. “It looks to be in working order.”

“It sounds messed up,” William replied. “You sure it ain’t gonna break down while we’re on a run?”

The mechanic put out his hands. “All I’m saying is that it seems to be in working order, especially for something with as many miles on it as it has.”

“What’d you mean?” Ben asked.

“This thing’s got over two hundred thousand miles on it,” the mechanic went on, rapping his knuckles against the fender. “Seeing as it’s only a few years old, someone musta went cross country a few dozen times to rack up that number.”

“Huh,” grunted William, scratching his chin. “Well, thanks, Leroy. Best be gettin’ so we can skip traffic.”

“You do that,” Leroy said, slapping William on the shoulder as he passed. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do,” William said, then turned to Ben. “Hop in, let’s get goin’.”

* * *

The day got away from them after that, the normally quick jaunt to the Ferriday Firehouse taking over half an hour. Despite his earlier misgivings, Ben had to admit the Criterion was a smooth ride. The roads of the parish were in poor condition—potholes and cracked asphalt everywhere—but the new ambulance handled it all with ease, William skirting the larger potholes while running over the smaller ones.

When their shift began, William took up the radio and checked in with dispatch. Jill, a circuit worker for the hospital as well as the police, greeted them with a yawn and a corny joke. They all had a short laugh over how sad her attempt at humor was, with William ending the call with his customary quip.

“All right, ‘nuf horsin’ around,” he said, a half-smile on his face. “We’ll see ya soon, Jill. You do yer best tonigh’.”

“Will do,” she replied.

William sped down US 84. On the outskirts of town were farmsteads, some of them homes for elderly residents. He had a soft spot in his heart for the old timers, folks who were too old and poor to make do for themselves. While it wasn’t completely above board, he would often help them when he could, even going so far as to deliver a few doses of insulin to those who needed it. Insulin being as expensive as it was lately, some old folks couldn’t stretch their retirement checks enough to afford their necessary medicines.

Settling back into the ambulance, Ben leaned his head back against the metal divider that split the cabin from the high-top. His hair stood on end when he felt an icy grip on his neck. He sprang forward, and, driven by morbid curiosity, planted his hand against the metal. It was cold as ice.

Huh… he thought. What in the world?

The radio crackled to life. Jill at the dispatch office reported an accident with injuries on Third and Broadway.

“Si’ down back there,” William called out to Ben, “we gotta job it sounds like.”

William peeled off the highway and took the turnaround, speeding down the access road until he was in Ferriday proper.

Traffic on the streets was sparse. It was early in the day, and what cars there were on the road comprised the tail-end of the morning rush. William flipped on his siren as he blew past a stop light—which always made Ben’s skin crawl. How they’d not been T-boned in all they time they’d been partners was anyone’s guess.

The wreck came into view as they turned onto Broadway. While they’d seen many accidents over the years, each was different, and they were all terrible.

Ben winced at the sudden jerk of the brakes. The ambulance skidded across the asphalt to a grinding halt. Once they had stopped, he was out of his seat, throwing the door of the high-top open.

“Get the stretcher, Ben,” William called out. “Already I can tell this’n needs to be brought somewhere soon!”

Ben jumped out of the ambulance and hauled the stretcher behind him, headed to the wreck.

The road was covered in twisted shards of iron and plastic. Up ahead, two vehicles were sandwiched together, a large pickup truck having caved in the side of a cherry-red Oldsmobile. A pair of firefighters, both heavyset Creoles, wrestled with a jaws-of-life tool to cut into the wreck.

William raced past Ben, his medic bag in tow. He stopped by the Oldsmobile just as the firefighters pried the door off the car. Ben arrived a moment later and readied the stretcher.

The driver of the Oldsmobile was delirious with pain. His hip was shattered, his right arm split open with cracked bones showing.

William and the firefighters lifted the man out of the car, depositing him on the stretcher. “This the only injured?”

“The truck driver has a headache,” a firefighter replied.

William shook his head. “Look ‘im over and send ‘im home.”

Ben turned his attention away from the conversation, busying himself instead with securing the patient in the stretcher. Once he was strapped in, Ben wheeled him into the high-top. He climbed in behind it, and, after locking it into the slot against the wall, set up an IV drip.

William climbed into the driver’s seat. “Got ‘im strapped down?”

“Yeah,” Ben said, closing the rear doors. “Gun it!”

The ambulance pulled away, lights flashing and siren wailing. Meanwhile, Ben monitored the patient’s vitals.

“H… help…”

Ben’s head jerked up when he heard the man whisper. He studied the patient. White male; young, maybe twenty-five. Blue eyes. His hair was cut short in the military style.

“I’ve got you, sir,” Ben said, opening the refrigerated cabinet across from him. “We’re on the way to the hospital now, it’ll be just a few minutes.”

“No…” the man hissed, pain cutting into his voice. “H-help me…” His eyes shifted to one side, then locked onto Ben once more. “He… he came out of n-n-nowhere.”

“Who, the other driver?” he asked as he tore into a packet of sterile gauze. Ben thought back to his training. You always wanted to keep the patient talking if you could. A talking patient was a living patient.

“T-the Ram,” the man whispered.

Just then there was a burst of noise and a sudden jolt, and the ambulance was sent careening out of control. The vehicle caved in from something massive hitting it. Medical supplies flew about the high-top. The impact hurled Ben about the interior of the ambulance. He rolled off the refrigerated cabinet and was flung out the rear door. For an instant, he was airborne, then hit ground and rolled in the turf, upturning grass in clods.

When finally he had gathered the strength to do a push-up from the ground, Ben looked straight ahead into the ambulance’s open rear hatch.

The patient was gone.

A chill came over him, and he knew this feeling—it was a familiar feeling, one that made his stomach turn. He swept his gaze one way, then the other.

The grass was gone.

The ambulance was gone.

No longer was he outside. Now, he found himself in a shadowy purgatory.

In the distance, a long and low growl rumbled in the darkness.

Twin eyes split the veil that had fallen over the world, vermillion slits serving as pupils in the golden orbs. They flexed and swiveled, their white-hot beams of light roving over the misty landscape to land on Ben, who was cowering on the ground.

Ben’s fight-or-flight instinct kicked in hard, drowning out all conscious thought. He clawed at the ground until he was on his feet and ran, screaming, for someplace to hide.

Off in the distance he heard William’s screams—incoherent cries of anger and terror. His was soon joined by other voices, each wailing into the night in terrible agony. Underpinning all this was the boom of a big bass drum that sounded ominously from places unseen.

Thum-thum…

Thum-thum…

The steady beat started slow, almost unnoticeable amid the screams, but it grew in intensity with each strike.

Thum-thum-thum…

Ben crawled through the haze of shadows, searching for an exit, or at the very least, a safe place to catch his breath.

Thum-thum-thum-thum…

Something tackled him, pulled him at the wrists until his arms were folded behind him. He screamed and cried out for help.

The eyes were upon him just as quickly.

He blinked, and the world before him changed. He was strapped to the rusted-out hulk of an old Ford truck. The eyes, narrowed with fiendish glory, were those of the ambulance. Its engine rumbled, letting up a horrid noise that was equal parts grinding metal and animalistic growl. Its hood was up, exposing the engine.

Not far off, lying on the tailgate of a Dodge, was William, a defiant glare in his eyes. Standing over him was an emaciated figure in tattered robes and a with ram skull mask over his face. He had a long, wicked knife, something Ben would expect to see in a Hollywood picture about the knights of old Europe.

“Ah,” the figure said, in a mild accent Ben could not place. “So, you awaken.”

“What in the fuck is going on here?” Ben demanded, tugging at his restraints.

“This fucker hit us, rolled the ambulance!” William answered. “I woke up to him cuttin’ up the guy we were savin’!”

The figure gave a lazy wave to the bed of the truck. “The eleventh soul scorned by life yet stolen from death. He marked the final entry for the innocent.”

“He keeps sayin’ flowery shit like that!” William yelled.

Ben realized he was going to die if he didn’t get out of here. He tugged at his arms, his breath catching in his throat when he felt his wrist slice into something sharp. Biting back the pain, he sawed his restraints against the unseen piece of jagged metal, and could feel the rope around his hands begin to fray.

“I say flowery shit to intone Samp!” the figure cried, raising his hands into the air. “With the final two souls, I can bargain with the ferryman of the damned and fulfill my true calling!”

Ben, his brow furrowed, glanced in the hooded figure’s direction. “Gerard? Is that you?”

The figure chuckled, then removed the skull mask.

“I thought so,” Ben spat.

Gerard was grinning ear to ear. He turned to face the ambulance and said, “Ah, it was only a matter of time before one of them figured it out.”

The ambulance revved its engine in reply.

“Wait, it can understand you?” Ben stammered. Suddenly, he had a flash of insight. He wasn’t yet done cutting through his restraints; he would need to buy time. And to do so, he had to do what all EMS personnel were trained to do.

Keep them talking.

Gerard turned and laid a hand on the engine, which seemed to thrum at his touch. “He can. Samp’s lifeblood, harvested from Prudhoe Bay before the oil fields were set up. I heard Him, y’know? Deep beneath the ice, trapped and forgotten.”

“Who did?”

“Samp, the Black Engine,” Gerard intoned, reverence undergirding his tone. “With the first drill I drew up his blood, what the engineers mistook for oil. I brought it south, here. And ever since, I’ve been feeding it the bodies of those who life has given up on.”

“Life has given…” Ben said, trailing off. Then it clicked. “You mean you’ve been feeding people to it? As a paramedic?”

“How?” William growled.

Gerard smiled. “I found one of the newest models, something suitable for a newborn god. I used Samp’s blood in lieu of oil, giving spark to the new life. Then, I just needed to feed it.”

“You’re sick!” Ben spat.

“Yes,” Gerard said, ignoring Ben. “I thought I was in trouble when the orders came down that my Lord was to be transferred. I’d fed him ten souls across Louisiana. But then, I found you!”

“Me?” Ben said.

“Yes! I knew it as soon as you had the dream! You’ve been touched by the Black Engine!”

“You’re nuts!”

“You’re like me,” Gerard whispered, stepping around the tailgate, trailing a hand over William’s bound body. “You can hear Him.”

Ben nodded, jerking forward as he sawed at the restraints.

“You can sense Him,” Gerard continued, lifting the knife high, its blade slick with blood.

Ben hardly had time to scream in protest when Gerard plunged the dagger into William’s chest.

“You will feed Him,” Gerard intoned, his bloody blade flickering with a burst of white light. William’s body went slack as Gerard pulled the knife from his chest. He turned and held the knife over the engine. “Rise, Master, rise and lay waste to the unbelievers.”

The Criterion’s motor roared louder as the blood dribbled onto the hot engine block.

Gerard turned back to face Ben, raising the knife over his head again. “You will be the final offering. You will be the key that will start the Black Engine.”

Ben frowned as he cut through the last of his restraints. He waited until Gerard drew close, then lashed out with a kick to his knee. Gerard howled in pain, dropping to the grass in agony.

Ben wasted no time, pushing himself up to his feet. He rushed forward, hesitating only when Gerard brandished the sacrificial knife at him.

“Yes!” Gerard screamed, standing on wobbly legs. “A fight between us! Let us see who will start the Black Engine! Who among us will usher in the new age!”

“Jesus Christ!” Ben shouted back at him. “Just shut the fuck up, you lunatic!”

Gerard lunged forward, slashing the knife across Ben’s chest. Shirt torn with a clean slice across his pectorals, Ben fought down the scream and punched Gerard. He caught him square in the nose, sending him stumbling back into the rusted truck Ben had been tied to.

Ben pressed his advantage and grabbed at Gerard’s arms, fighting to get the knife from him. Gerard grabbed at Ben’s face, fish-hooking his mouth with his fingers to try and pull him back, but he was too thin, too weak. Ben used his weight, leaning into Gerard until the man’s forearm snapped. Gerard screamed in pain, a scream that cut to a groan when Ben kneed him into the stomach. Gerard spilled to the ground. He looked up at Ben with wide eyes.

“Now stay down! Don’t make me hurt you!” Ben ordered, pointing the blade at Gerard.

“No,” Gerard said, low and quiet. “No, one of us has to die! Kill me!”

“What?” Ben cried, stepping back as Gerard grabbed at his legs. “No! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“In that case,” Gerard said, looking around the dimly lit junkyard. His eyes widened in glee. “What freed you will free our lord!”

“What? No!” Ben said, waving a hand as Gerard grasped the piece of metal he’d used to saw through his restraints. Grunting with effort, Gerard yanked a short piece of construction rebar out from under the junked truck. Its end had been snapped off, leaving a pointed end that resembled the tip of a primitive spear.

Gerard stood before the Criterion’s engine compartment. Its lights formed a halo of warmth around him. Then he turned, smiling madly at Ben.

“Let him be free!” he crowed, raising the sharpened iron rod high above his chest. “I am the key! I will start the last engine this world will ever know!”

And then he speared himself, the jagged metal piercing his robes with a wet sound. Gerard teetering in place as red welled up from beneath his vomit-green robes. He grinned, spitting up blood and bile, before dropping backward onto the engine.

Ben stared in horror as the hood slammed down over the body, crushing Gerard into the running engine. Blood spattered out from beneath the hood while the growling of the engine rose in tenor. Gerard’s severed limbs fell from the jaws of the ambulance, blood raining down over the headlights in a crimson wash.

“Holy shit…” Ben whispered, watching as the Criterion creaked and groaned.

The bumper peeled down from the body into a freakish maw. The wheels swelled, the thick tires growing massive as the high-top stretched and flexed. Thick tubes snaked out from under the hood, slithering along the length of the red and white body. They stopped and drilled into the frame, black veins throbbing from the entry points as the metal began to pulse.

The vehicle was transforming before his eyes, and Ben felt powerless in the face of the creature it was becoming.

Wait! The thought pierced the terror overcoming his senses. It’s still just a car!

Before Ben even realized it, he was running towards the ambulance. He jumped up to reach the driver’s side door, climbing inside as quickly as he could.

Thick, black veins spread like spider’s webs on the seats, vile oil pumping through the arteries to the beat of a monstrous heart. Ben grabbed the gearshift and popped it into drive. He was surprised, elated even, when the ambulance lurched forward. The tires spun in place, screeching against the gravel.

Driving out of the junkyard, Ben smiled when he saw what road he was on. “I’m close to Lake Concordia… that’ll have to work.”

Barreling down the road, Ben fought against the steering wheel as it threatened to turn in his hands. The Black Engine seemed to be gaining strength with each passing second. The radio crackled to life, buzzing for a few seconds before a screech echoed out from it.

Ben could feel blood welling in his ears. He struggled to keep the wheel straight as he reached for the radio in a vain effort to turn the handset off.

He let out a pained cry when the radio uncoiled from the stand, bobbing like a cobra. He swatted at it to keep it back, the heavy plastic serving as a cudgel that battered at his hand. The screeching barely drowned out his own scream when the radio broke two of his fingers. Even with a mangled hand, he managed to grab the device’s cord and yank it out of the console.

This was a short-lived victory, as the cord snaked around his arm. It constricted his limb and the flesh turned blue, but Ben continued fighting. All the while the ambulance kept trying to drive off the road, to plunge into the woods.

He wouldn’t let it.

Charging down Lake Drive, Ben allowed the ambulance to veer into the woods that ringed the lake. Concordia glimmered beneath the half-moon, the night’s peace destroyed by the heavy bass howl of the revving engine. Ben grappled with the wheel, turning it inch by inch to wrestle the monster toward the lake. The ambulance ground to a halt, the gear selector shifting into park.

“No,” Ben said, his voice lost in the maddened cries of the Black Engine’s revving. “Fuck you!”

He forced the vehicle into drive, foot slamming down on the accelerator. The ambulance lanced forward, whipping side to side as it fought against his control. Ben winced as the driver’s side door opened. Wind whipped at him, the smell of gasoline pouring in from the vents. The Criterion raged as it sped toward the lake, but Ben held strong.

He slammed the ambulance into the water with a boom of searing metal against a cool wave. Steam rose from the water as the Criterion sank. Ben, arm limp from the radio cord’s attack, pushed out of the side of the ambulance and paddled up toward open air.

Just as he broke the surface, something lashed around his ankle and dragged him back down. A scream escaped his mouth in a torrent of bubbles. Looking back into the shadowy depths, Ben saw the Black Engine in all its profane glory. Its blinding headlights seared into his soul. Now more than ever he saw those headlights for what they were—the eyes of a long-forgotten god.

Beholding the face of such an ancient entity stirred up within him a maddening despair. Instantly, he lost his sense of place. All conscious thought was beaten from his skull, replaced by cosmic awe and horrified wonder. The incongruous mix of sensations manifested within him as uncontrollable hopeless laughter.

Water flooded his lungs as he laughed upon peering into the fatalistic wisdom within those ancient eyes. Then his body went slack, sinking further into the crushing depths.

The low growls of the engine lulled him to his eternal sleep, at peace with his god.

Forever.

About The Author
Nicholas Paschall

Born and raised in Texas, Nicholas Paschall started his career in writing at an early age, jotting down stories on scraps of paper when he could and saving them to read aloud at lunch to all his friends. The teachers, upon learning this, asked him to stop as the stories weren’t exactly school-friendly, but this only spurred him on to continue his career as a writer.

After a stint as a journalist and editor, he started his career as a horror author. He’s been published in nineteen different printed anthologies and magazines, served two years as a recurring columnist for Dark Eclipse Magazine, and is a current columnist for The London Horror Society. His work can be found across the web, where he spins new yarns for all to enjoy on a daily basis.

Discover Other Books Available
Through Darkwater Media Group

Postcards From The Void

By: Guy N. Smith, R. Perez de Pereda, Antonio Simon, Jr., et. al.

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Tarot Of Hate, Volume Two

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By: Antonio Simon, Jr.

“A masterful collection of fright, mystery and suspense by a six-gun slinger of words…”

—David O. Hughes, author of South By Southwest Wales

Deal yourself in for another eight stories of the macabre, but beware: this isn’t your grandmother’s penny-ante game. In the cards this time are madness, terror and death. Each story is accompanied by an illustration from the classic Rider-Waite tarot, first issued in 1910. So cut the deck and deal, if you dare, for no matter which cards you draw, you can be assured there will be blood.

Shadows And Teeth

Ten Terrifying Tales Of Horror And Suspense

By: Guy N. Smith, R. Perez de Pereda, Antonio Simon, Jr., et. al.

Out of the shadows and meaner than ever, volume three of this award-winning horror series packs international star power. Featuring ten brand-new stories by the legendary Guy N. Smith, the prolific Adam Millard, master of horror Nicholas Paschall, and others, this collection is certain to keep you up at night. Take care as you reach into these dark places, for the things here bite, and you may withdraw a hand short of a few fingers.

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By: Antonio Simon, Jr.

“The Gullwing Odyssey rests solidly on the shaking shoulders of a good laugh—and that’s what sets it apart from ninety percent of fantasies on the market.”

—Midwest Book Review

A four-time award winning fantasy/comedy adventure. When an unusual assignment sends Marco overseas, he finds himself dodging pirates and a hummingbird with an appetite for human brains. Little does he know the fate of a civilization may rest upon his shoulders. In spite of himself, Marco becomes the hero he strives not to be.

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By: Antonio Simon, Jr.

Written in second-person perspective, this book makes you the star of your own blood-soaked horror adventure.

Baron Hidalgo’s country villa has sat abandoned ever since he went missing years ago. His heirs have hired you to go there and make an accounting of any valuables you find. The last group that went in has vanished without a trace. Thankfully for you, along with your notebook and ledger, you’re packing several guns.

Just getting to the old house will prove a challenge. The local villagers are mistrusting of strangers. Murderous bandits prowl the roads at night. A daunting forest lies between you and your goal, and just what are those lights coming from the lake at night? All this, to say nothing of what you might encounter once you step through the door to Hidalgo’s House of Horrors.

Enter if you dare!

The Many Deaths Of Cyan Wraithwate

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The bad part about being immortal is that you cannot die. Cyan learns that not dying is worse than not living—the magic that made him immortal turns more of his body to lifeless iron with each passing day. Knowing time is short before he becomes just another statue in a town square, he sets off on a quest to rid himself of his cursed immortality.

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Discover a side of Miami so hidden even the natives don’t know it exists. A space rocket abandoned in the swamp, a futuristic expo that never was, a city wiped off the map, a national monument at the bottom of the ocean. Photographs, addresses, and coordinates are provided to take a candid glimpse into the Magic City’s hidden history.

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The greater part of creation is invisible, alive, and at war all around you. How do you expect to fight an enemy you cannot see? Learn the tactics of the enemy, and the effective weapons anyone can use in the conduct of spiritual warfare.

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By: R. Perez de Pereda

As a youth, Ramiro and his two older brothers get into trouble, discover girls, and inadvertently burn down the family farm. Upon arriving in Miami, he is recruited into a counterrevolutionary movement formed to oppose Castro. In a blink, Ramiro goes from penniless immigrant to soldier of fortune. I Was A Teenage Cuban Arsonist is a powerful memoir of Ramiro Perez’s adventures in pre-revolutionary Cuba, and later, as an exile in Miami.

About Darkwater Media Group

Founded in 2020, Darkwater Media Group takes up the legacy of its predecessor, Darkwater Syndicate, “the publishing company with a defense contractor’s name.” We publish unique and exceptional literary experiences in fantasy, science fiction, horror, comedy, thrillers and specialty non-fiction. We are headquartered in Miami, Florida.

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Table of Contents

- It Came From The Garage!
- Story Copyrights
- Table Of Contents
- Foreword
- Trucks
- About The Author Stephen King
- Wheels Of Evil
- About The Author Guy N. Smith
- M.A.D. Mobile
- About The Author Antonio Simon, Jr.
- Faster Than Anything
- About The Author Apara Moreiya
- The Horseman Comes Riding
- About The Author Stephanie Kelley
- Special Delivery
- About The Author David Owain Hughes
- Sprites And Violets
- About The Author Paige Reiring
- Ugly Joyride
- About The Author R. Perez de Pereda
- Out On Arrowhead Road
- About The Author Sarah Cannavo
- The Driver
- About The Author Alana Turner
- Prodded, Hot-Rodded And Garroted
- About The Author Douglas Fairbanks
- The Cavalier Cavalier
- About The Author Jonathan Edward Ondrashek
- A Moment In Time With Black Shadow Tess
- About The Author Richard Ayre
- The Highway Phantom
- About The Author Michael Warriner
- The Black Engine
- About The Author Nicholas Paschall

- Discover Other Books Available Through Darkwater Media Group

- About Darkwater Media Group