Blake Crouch: Serial Uncut

She made it five miles (no one had ever lasted five miles and she credited those well-made snowboarding helmets) before the skeletons finally went quiet.

Lucy ditched what was left of the boys and drove all night like she'd done six blasts of coke, arriving in Salt Lake as the sun edged up over the mountains. She checked into a Red Roof Inn and ran a hot bath and cleaned the new blood and the old blood out of the ropes and let the carabiners and the chains and the handcuffs soak in the soapy water.

In the evening she awoke, that dark weight perched on her chest again. The guitar case items had dried, and she packed them away and dressed and headed out. The motel stood along the interstate, and it came down to Applebee's or Chili's.

She went with the latter, because she loved their Awesome Blossom.

After dinner, she walked outside and stared at the Subaru in the parking lot, the black rot flooding back inside of her, that restless, awful energy that could never be fully sated, those seconds of release never fully quenching, like water tinged with salt. She turned away from the Subaru and walked along the frontage road until she came to a hole in the fence. Ducked through. Scrambled down to the shoulder of the interstate.

Traffic was moderate, the night cold and starry. A line of cars approached, bottled up behind a Winnebago.

She walked under the bridge, set down her guitar case, and stuck out her thumb.

Donaldson pulled over onto the shoulder and lowered the passenger window. The girl was young and tiny, wearing a wool cap despite the relative warmth.

"Where you headed?" He winked before he said it, his smile genuine.

" Missoula," Lucy answered.

"Got a gig up there?" He pointed his chin at her guitar case.

She shrugged.

"Well, I'm going north. If you chip in for gas, and promise not to sing any show tunes, you can hop in."

The girl seemed to consider it, then nodded. She opened the rear door and awkwardly fit the guitar case onto the backseat. Before getting in, she stared at the upholstery on the front seats.

"What's with the plastic?" she asked, indicating Donaldson's clear seat covers.

"Sometimes I travel with my dog."

Lucy squinted at the picture taped to the dashboard-the portly driver holding a long-haired dachshund.

"What's its name?"

"Scamp. Loveable little guy. Hates it when I'm away. But I'm away a lot. I'm a courier. Right now, I'm headed up to Idaho Falls to pick up a donor kidney."

Her eyes flitted to the backseat, to a cooler with a biohazard sign on the lid.

"Don't worry," he said, taking off his hat and rubbing a hand through his thinning gray hair. "It's empty for the time being."

The girl nodded, started to get in, then stopped. "Would you mind if I sat in the back? I don't want to make you feel like a chauffeur, but I get nauseated riding up front unless I'm driving."

Donaldson paused. "Normally I wouldn't mind, Miss, but I don't have any seat belts back there, and I insist my passengers wear one. Safety first, I always say."

"Of course. Can't be too careful. Cars can be dangerous."

"Indeed they can. Indeed."

The front passenger door squeaked open, and the girl hopped in. Donaldson watched her buckle up, and then he accelerated back onto the highway.

Grinning at her, he rubbed his chin and asked, "So what's your name, little lady?"

"I'm Lucy." She looked down at the center console. A Big Gulp sweated in the drink holder. She reached into her pocket and looked at the man and smiled. "I really appreciate you picking me up. I don't think I caught your name."

"Donaldson. Pleased to meet you."

"Is that really your last name, or are you one of those guys who have a last name for a first name?"

"No, that's my first."

They drove in silence for a mile, Donaldson glancing between the girl and the road.

"Highway's packed this time of day. I bet we'd make better time on the county roads. Less traffic. If that's okay with you, of course."

"I was actually just going to suggest that," Lucy said. "Weird."

"Well, I wouldn't want to do anything to make you feel uncomfortable." Donaldson glanced down at Lucy's pocket. "Pretty young thing like yourself might get nervous driving off the main drag. In fact, you don't see many young lady hitchers these days. I think horror movies scared them all away. Everyone's worried about climbing into the car with a maniac."

Donaldson chuckled.

"I love county roads," Lucy said. "Much prettier scenery, don't you think?"

He nodded, taking the next exit, and Lucy leaned over, almost into his lap, and glanced at the gas gauge.

"You're running pretty low there. Your reserve light's on. Why don't we stop at this gas station up ahead. I'll put twenty in the tank. I also need something to drink. This mountain air is making my throat dry."

Donaldson shifted in his seat. "Oh, that light just came on, and I can get fifty miles on reserve. This is a Honda, you know."

"But why push our luck? And I'm really thirsty, Donaldson."

"Here." He lifted his Big Gulp. "It's still half full."

"No offense, but I don't drink after strangers, and I um…this is embarrassing…I have a cold sore in my mouth."

The gas station was coming up fast, and by all accounts it appeared to be the last stop before the county road started its climb into the mountains, into darkness.

"Who am I to say no to a lady?" Donaldson said.

He tapped the brakes and coasted into the station. It had probably been there for forty years, and hadn't updated since then. Donaldson sidled up to an old-school pump-one with a meter where the numbers actually scrolled up, built way back when closed-circuit cameras were something out of a science fiction magazine.

Donaldson peered over Lucy, into the small store. A bored female clerk sat behind the counter, apparently asleep. White trash punching the minimum wage clock, not one to pay much attention.

"The tank's on your side," Donaldson said. "I don't think these old ones take credit cards."

"I can pay cash inside. I buy, you fly."

Donaldson nodded. "Okay. I'm fine with doin' the pumpin'. Twenty, you said?"

"Yeah. You want anything?"

"If they have any gum that isn't older than I am, pick me up a pack. I've got an odd taste in my mouth for some reason."

Lucy got out of the car. Donaldson opened the glove compartment and quickly shoved something into his coat pocket. Then he set the parking brake, pocketed the keys, and followed her out.

While Donaldson stood pumping gas into the Honda, Lucy walked across the oil-stained pavement and into the store. The clerk didn't acknowledge her entrance, just sat staring at a small black-and-white television airing Jeopardy, her chin propped up in her hand and a Marlboro Red with a one-inch ash trailing smoke toward the ceiling.

Lucy walked down the aisle to the back of the store and picked a Red Bull out of the refrigerated case. At the drink fountain, she went with the smallest size-sixteen ounces-and filled the cup with ice to the brim, followed by a little Dr. Pepper, Mountain Dew, Pepsi, and Orange Fanta.

She glanced back toward the entrance and through the windows. Donaldson was still fussing with the pump. She reached into her pocket and withdrew the syringe. Uncapped the needle, shot a super-size squirt of liquid Oxycontin into the bubbling soda.

At the counter, she chose a pack of Juicy Fruit and pushed the items forward.

The clerk tore herself away from a video Daily Double and rang up the purchase.

"$24.52."

Lucy looked up from her wallet. "How much of that is gas?"

"Twenty."

"Shit, I told him just do fifteen. Here." She put a Jefferson on the filthy counter. "I'll send him in with the balance, 'cause this is all I've got."