David Wisehart - Blood Alley

The Highwayman took control.

The Revenant raced toward the distant lights of the tanker truck. The Highwayman accelerated, chasing his prey.

Behind the wheel of the tanker truck, cruising along at a cool fifty-five, Stanley took a few deep breaths and felt himself relax. Not all the way, not back to normal, but it was a start.

This breathing trick was something his second ex-wife had taught him. Whenever she’d call to bitch about money, Stanley would finish the conversation as politely as possible, say goodbye with a smile in his voice, hang up the treacherous phone, and take a few deep, relaxing breaths.

Breathing is life , he reminded himself. Control your breathing, and you control your life. It was something he’d heard once on talk radio, and to Stanley it made a helluva lot of sense.

He’d been thrown off course by that crazy old bum standing in the road, but he managed to avoid hitting the man, and now he wasn’t about to let some wandering homeless fleabag ruin his lovely ride.

Charger, however, was still growling at the passenger side mirror.

Stanley turned down the volume on the country music station.

“What’s the matter, Charger?”

He reached across the seat to scratch his German shepherd behind the ears.

“What you need to do is take a few deep, relaxing breaths. No, I mean it. I’m telling you, buddy, that shit flat-out works .”

The dog kept his gaze fixed on the reflective silver.

Stanley considered him a good guard dog, but his talents were wasted. Out here on the highway there was nothing much to guard against. Sometimes, in a fit of excitement, Charger would bark at a jackrabbit or coyote or hawk, momentary diversions that made Stanley bust out laughing.

But now Charger growled at the mirror for minutes on end. There seemed no point to it. Usually his dog loved these long drives. They’d crossed a million miles of blacktop together, he and Charger. This growling was different.

Something’s up.

Bright light bounced in from the mirrors and filled the cab of Stanley’s tanker truck. Checking his own side mirror, Stanley saw behind him a pair of demon-eyed headlights and an old-fashioned front grille. It was some kind of classic car, ancient Americana, black as night, with a coffin-nosed hood.

And it was coming toward him fast.

Too fast.

Charger barked and barked, with rising intensity.

Stanley checked his speedometer. He was still going 55 miles per hour. The other guy must have been going 90.

What’s your damn hurry?

The black car hurtled straight for the tanker truck. It wasn’t passing.

They were going to hit.

“Jesus.”

Stanley accelerated, but the black car was nearly on him.

The headlights disappeared from view.

Stanley gripped the steering wheel tight with both hands, bracing for impact, but—

Nothing.

The dog turned in frantic circles on the seat, barking and growling.

Stanley checked both mirrors. He couldn’t see the car, and Charger’s mad antics weren’t helping.

“What the hell?”

Charger barked louder, toward the sleeper berth behind the seat.

“Hush now, buddy. What are you—”

The black car honked as it emerged from the back wall of the sleeper berth.

A ghost car, Stanley realized, too late. It didn’t look like a ghost. It looked real, but could pass through metal.

Headlights bathed the cab in blinding light. The grille of the ghost car powered through the back seat.

Charger yelped and dropped to the floorboards for safety.

At the shivering touch of the phantom metal, Stanley screamed.

The steering wheel of the ghost car passed into his back and out through his chest.

The dog barked and growled as the ghost driver entered Stanley’s body. Stanley’s chest heaved. His neck tensed. His head snapped to attention. In the mirror, his eyes glowed green.

A voice that was not his own echoed in Stanley’s tortured mind:

I am the Highwayman. This is my road.

Stanley’s very human scream became the Highwayman’s death-rattle laugh.

The possessed driver straightened in his seat. He adjusted his hands, gripping the steering wheel at ten and two.

Stanley tried to fight off the intruder, but his body would not respond to his commands.

The Highwayman had complete control.

Stanley’s head turned to the right. His eyes stared at the growling dog shivering on the floor of the cab.

They locked gazes. A test of wills.

It’s me, Charger. Don’t you know who I am?

The Highwayman answered, You are not who you are.

To prove it, the Highwayman made Stanley power down the passenger window. An angry gust roared through the cab as the truck sped forward. Against his own will, Stanley’s lip curled.

His voice growled.

He snarled at his dog.

Charger whimpered, turned, jumped back onto the seat, then leapt out the window.

In the mirror Stanley saw his dog land, roll, and regain his feet.

A mournful barking receded in the distance.

Stanley stared at the radio.

Country music.

He had always loved country, but now felt a wave of revulsion from somewhere else inside of him. His hand moved to the dial and changed the station to hard rock. A smile came unbidden to his lips. He cranked the volume.

The petroleum tanker truck barreled down the road to the raging howl of “Highway to Hell.”

Trevor saw a white shape in the road ahead, and slowed down as the thing came into view. It was a Honda Civic, stranded upside down like a storm-tossed turtle.

“Accident,” he said.

Smoke billowed from the engine.

“Call nine-one-one.”

In the back seat Dakota answered, “Can’t, no signal.”

Trevor pulled over to the shoulder. He stopped the Hummer ten yards from the accident, and parked with his headlights aimed at the wreck.

Someone was inside.

Oh, no.

Trevor switched to high beams and saw a red-haired woman suspended by her seat belt, her legs above her chest, her neck bent, her head pressed against the caved-in roof. She turned her head slowly to face the glare. Blood flowed from a gash in her cheek. More blood dripped down from the seat overhead.

She had a desperate look in her eyes.

“Help me!”

Claire unbuckled her seat belt and opened her front passenger door.

Trevor saw gasoline leaking from the busted tank.

He extended his arm to stop Claire from leaving.

“No, wait—”

Too late. She was already outside.

Trevor turned to Ethan and Dakota. “Stay in the car.”

“Hell no.” Ethan stuffed his flash cards in his back pocket, then grabbed his leather jacket.

The guys got out, leaving Dakota alone in the Hummer.

Trevor slammed the door as Claire rushed to the overturned wreck. He ran after her. Grabbed her. “Gas leak.”

Claire saw it, too. “We have to get her out.”

Whoosh! The engine caught fire.

The flames spread quickly, feeding on the front tires.

Behind them Ethan yelled, “Truck!”

Trevor turned to see headlights behind them in the distance. A truck fled the horizon, speeding toward them. Some kind of big rig.

“He’ll have a CB,” Ethan said. “We can call for help.”

Ethan zipped up his leather jacket, jogged back to meet the oncoming rig, and waved his arms to flag it down.

The woman in the burning car cried out, “ Oh God, help me! ”

I have to get her out, Claire thought.

She broke free of Trevor’s grip and rushed to help the accident victim before the lady burned to death.

Crouching low and drawing near the wreck, Claire sensed that something was wrong. The flames leaned into the wind—and gave no heat.