David Wisehart - Blood Alley

Weird, she thought, but quickly suppressed it. No time for riddles .

Without help, the woman in the car would die.

The bleeding victim reached her hand out the broken window.

Claire tried to assure the woman. “I’ll get you out.” A tremble in her voice betrayed her.

She reached for the woman’s hand, but—

Her hand passed right through the bleeding woman’s hand.

Like it wasn’t there at all.

What the hell?

Then she realized:

A ghost.

The ghost woman screamed, “ I’m burning! I’m burning! ”

For a moment Claire stared at her. The car, the victim, the flames, the smoke. It all looked real in the red moonlight.

Crawling closer, Claire made a grab for the handle of the car door, but her hand passed through it, too.

She glanced back at her boyfriend.

“Uh, Trevor…”

The car exploded in a tempest of flame. She heard it, saw it, but did not feel it. The explosion had no impact. The light had no heat. An illusion of flames swirled around her.

Claire stood up slowly, engulfed in a phantom fire.

Trevor screamed, “ Claire! Claire! ”

He backed away and shielded his face, as if the fire had force.

He doesn’t understand.

The fire receded.

“I’m okay,” she said. “It’s not—”

“ What? ” Trevor looked stunned. “Claire…how can that…”

She stepped through and into the car—into the space where the car appeared to be.

“Some kind of trick.” Trevor’s voiced wavered.

“A ghost.”

“But it looks so…”

He didn’t need to finish the thought.

The ghost woman had looked as lifelike as Trevor or Dakota or Ethan.

Or that hitchhiker.

Claire saw a marker by the highway, a roadside memorial. It was too far away to read, but she knew what it said.

“Trevor, look. This is where she died.”

Trevor squinted at the marker. “Who?”

“I saw this on the wall. One of those old photos. Her name was Cassie—Cassie Klein. She was hit by a semi truck, and burned to death. Ten years ago.”

Trevor glanced nervously around, searching for answers.

“What’s happening, Claire?”

“Blood Alley,” she said. “It’s real.”

With his leather jacket zipped against the chill, Ethan jogged toward the oncoming truck. It was still a half-mile down the road, coming on at a fast clip. The truck driver probably couldn’t see Ethan yet, but he must have seen the Hummer’s lights.

The truck wasn’t slowing.

Of course, the driver had no way of knowing about the accident ahead. There were no emergency flares in the road. Trevor might have some in the car, but it was too late now.

Ethan needed to slow the truck down, get the driver to stop and help.

Dude must have a CB radio , Ethan thought.

They could use the radio to call for help, to bring an ambulance or policeman or someone to the scene of the accident. The woman in the car was trapped and injured, maybe even dying. Cell phones didn’t work out here. Unless they could find a land line, a trucker’s CB was their only chance.

Ethan stopped running and planted himself directly in the truck’s path.

He waved his arms wide for the truck driver to stop.

How long will an ambulance take? he wondered. He calculating the distance, speed, and time in his head like an SAT math problem. The nearest hospital was in Palmdale. That meant…half an hour? Not good.

But I have to try.

Ethan could see the approaching vehicle better now. It was a big rig with a rounded cargo container, some kind of tanker truck maybe—like the petroleum truck driven by that old geezer back at the diner, the crazy dude who tried to scare them with stories of “the Highwayman.”

But that old windbag had left hours before Ethan and his friends. The guy claimed he didn’t drive this road at night.

He must be past Cedarview already.

Which meant this tanker truck was someone else. There were probably a lot of long haulers running up and down this road.

But whoever this guy was, he wasn’t slowing down. If anything, the truck seemed to be accelerating.

He’s going too fast.

Ethan jumped up and down, and waved his arms wide to attract attention.

“Pull over! Pull over!”

Of course, the driver couldn’t hear him.

Ethan listened for sounds of the truck braking, but heard only the roar of the engine growing louder.

Doesn’t he see me?

Ethan stopped jumping.

He felt sweat on his scalp and a chill up his spine.

This guy’s a fucking maniac.

Ethan needed to get off the road, out of the way.

His muscles locked. His legs froze. Time slowed and his breathing stopped. His field of vision narrowed to headlights racing toward him. Any second now, the truck would brake, or swerve, or—

Move, damnit, move!

His muscles answered the call. His legs bent and sprang. He jumped to his right, across the median line. His body arched and fell and hit pavement. As he rolled, he saw the giant tires coming on fast.

Finally, the truck did swerve.

In his direction.

Like a missile on target lock, it kept on coming.

He’s trying to kill me!

Ethan rolled off the road, onto the dirt shoulder, and into the sagebrush.

Spikes and needles clawed at his hands and face.

For an instant the truck’s massive tires loomed over him, spinning forward, eager to crush, to kill.

Ethan rolled back toward the road, into the path of the truck.

The truck tires blew past him on either side.

He stared up at the underbelly of the beast. Something hot rained down on him. Drops of oil or transmission fluid.

The rush of steel gave way to the night sky overhead. The truck raced on. Dust roiled all around him.

Ethan was still alive.

That was close!

Something hit him on the head. It was hard as ice and cold as death. It scraped across his cheek, carving flesh from the bone.

Blood filled his eyes.

He heard the clank of a heavy metal chain, then felt something like an iron fist coil tight around his right leg.

It grabbed his ankle.

The metal chain yanked him hard—nearly tore his right leg from his hip—but the bone and socket held.

His body spun until his feet pointed to the back of the speeding truck.

To protect his other leg, he crossed his feet at the ankles. Dirt and gravel slid under his jeans and the back of his leather jacket, scraping hard at this clothes.

Ethan was dragged—chained and helpless—back onto Blood Alley.

In the back seat of the car, Dakota saw the truck coming straight for her.

Where’s Ethan?

Ethan had gone to flag down the truck. But the truck didn’t stop.

Bright lights grew brighter.

Her only thought was, Get out, get out .

She tried to unbuckle her seat belt, but the damn thing was stuck.

Oh, shit.

On the third try she got the buckle open and threw off the strap.

Dakota grabbed the door handle. Pulled on it.

Nothing happened.

Locked.

No time left.

The massive truck sped forward. It didn’t swerve, didn’t veer, didn’t care.

“Trevor—”

Her brother was outside. Trevor couldn’t help her now. He was too far away. The truck was too close. And getting closer.

Ten feet—five feet—three feet—

There was nothing to do but scream.

She screamed.

The tanker truck clipped the rear corner of the Hummer.

Dakota felt a sharp jolt throw her against the seat and over it. Her shoulder hit the rear window. She landed in the back, her fall cushioned by bags and suitcases. Her elbow smashed against the ice cooler.