David Wisehart - Blood Alley

A trash bag exploded. The air swirled with crushed cans and crumpled wrappers. The car spun circles around her like clay on a potter’s wheel.

Her neck twisted.

Her head collided with the back seat, the side wall, the back door.

The bright lights moved on.

And everything fell into darkness.

Claire saw the truck hit the Hummer. A scream of twisted metal pierced the air. The car spun off the shoulder, into the desert. Buried in the cry of the collision was a faint, desperate wail.

In a flash of horror Claire remembered, Dakota’s in the car!

The tanker truck had knocked the Hummer from the highway. It didn’t stop. It didn’t swerve, didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, but kept on coming—

Straight for Claire and Trevor.

They stood together in the road beside the overturned white Honda, which was engulfed in flames. But the white car was just a phantom, a ghost, some kind of illusion.

That truck is no illusion.

The twin beams of the headlights blinded Claire. The world went white around her. She knew the Hummer wasn’t the real target.

It wants me.

Trevor stood between Claire and oncoming rig, but he paid no attention to the pressing danger, staring instead at his damaged car—“ Dakota! ”

“Trevor, move! ”

He wasn’t moving.

Claire grabbed his arm and pulled him off the road.

They tripped.

Tumbled.

A sharp pain shot up Claire’s right arm—elbow to shoulder—a shock of cold fire that pierced her neck and lit up her vision with white sparks.

She rolled from the asphalt to the dirt.

Truck tires spun past her, inches away.

Flying gravel pelted her.

Claire squinted and shielded her face with one hand, but could still see dimly under the truck as it passed right through the ghost car, into the darkness beyond.

The ghost car shimmered and faded away.

Something snaked past Claire. A heavy metal chain. It moved like a living thing. One end of the chain was caught in the truck’s undercarriage.

The chain was taut—dragging something—a human body—

Ethan!

The chain held Ethan by his ankles.

He was on his back, sliding feet-first down the road behind the speeding tanker truck, screaming, “ Aaaaaahhhhh! ”

Trevor cried out, “ Ethan! ”

Ethan swept by Claire. He reached out for her and caught her hand in his. But Ethan’s hand was wet and slipped away as he raced on down the road.

Claire looked at her hand. It was wet with Ethan’s blood.

She scrambled to her feet. “We have to help him!”

Trevor was up too. He ran past her. “The car!”

They both ran for the Hummer.

It had settled not far from the road, but was pointed in the wrong direction. Trevor was the faster runner. He reached the Hummer first. He jumped in, started the engine, and swung the car around before Claire could get to it.

“Wait!”

Trevor threw open the passenger door. “Get in!”

She did. “Where’s Dakota?”

“Back here,” came a weak voice behind her. Dakota sounded like she was in pain.

“ Buckle up! ” Trevor warned.

He powered the Hummer back onto the road and chased down the tanker truck.

Ethan slid on his back, his right ankle in chains. The chain was still caught on the undercarriage of the tanker truck, which roared on ahead, going way too fast. Ethan’s leather jacket scraped the road. His body vibrated, his teeth chattered, his back was hot from the friction.

Head up!

His neck tensed as he struggled to keep the back of his head off the road. He could feel his short hair brush the hard surface beneath him. His head was no more than an inch from the pavement, which rushed under him at a frightening speed.

Head up, damnit!

If he relaxed his neck, the back of his head would meet the blacktop and he’d be dead in seconds. The only thing that kept him alive was his tough leather jacket and the fact that he was facing up.

He needed to get free of the truck.

With his left foot he kicked at the chain. The damn thing wouldn’t let go.

Moving his unchained leg was risky, and several times he nearly flipped over, but he found that he could twist his torso and press his shoulders down to keep himself oriented.

Don’t flip—don’t flip—don’t flip—!

If he flipped over onto his stomach, that was it, the end, finito , and goodbye. He’d grind his face on the highway.

But if he could just keep his back to the road— a little longer, a little longer —he might survive. He might get free.

Head up—don’t flip—head up—head up!

Ethan summoned every muscle, every nerve.

A few more minutes. A few more seconds. Hold on!

Head up—head up—head up—!

Moments ago, after the chain grabbed him, Ethan had brushed past Claire. She was lying on the shoulder of the road, but he was sure Claire saw him. They had made contact, his hand in hers. It felt like hope.

Now that hope was gone.

Don’t give up, you fucking bastard.

There was still hope. He was alive. As long as he was alive, there was still a chance.

Ethan wasn’t alone. He had friends on this road. Claire would tell the others. They were going to help him, somehow, Trevor and Claire and Dakota—

Where are they?

The road raced under him, tearing at his jacket and jeans.

Oh, god! Oh, god! Oh, god!

The back pocket of his denim jeans ripped open. Something fluttered past him.

Flash cards.

The SAT flash cards he’d put in his back pocket.

Gone now.

Doesn’t matter.

He didn’t care about the damn SAT test. He didn’t care about college. He didn’t care about anything but—

Head up—damnit—don’t flip—!

But the flash cards did matter. They had been in his back pocket. Between him and road. One small measure of protection.

Gone.

The darkness grew bright around him.

A light approached from behind. Ethan didn’t dare look back— head up! —but he knew the approaching glare could mean only one thing.

Headlights.

Trevor, the hero of their high school, was coming to save him.

Hurryhurryhurryhurry…

Trevor gripped the wheel in his sweaty palms. His muscles were tense, his senses keen. He was alive with the pulse of adrenaline’s fire.

He saw Ethan in the road ahead of him, not more than fifty yards now, but he couldn’t tell if the boy was still alive. The poor kid was still being dragged by the tanker truck.

Ethan didn’t struggle, but screamed.

Headlights from the Hummer lit up the top of Ethan’s head. His back was to the road, his legs pointed at the truck and caught in a chain that dragged him forward at a frightening speed.

Trevor checked the speedometer: 109 miles per hour.

Jesus.

He was gaining on Ethan and the tanker truck, but the truck was going 80 miles per hour at least. It was crazy—commercial trucks never drove that fast. A driver caught speeding could lose his license.

This driver didn’t care.

Sadistic maniac.

The driver had crashed his rig into the Hummer, and didn’t even stop.

Did it on purpose .

Then he’d tried to run over Trevor and Claire, but missed.

And somehow Ethan had gotten caught by that chain and dragged, though the truck driver probably didn’t even know it.

Or does he?

Something white bloomed from Ethan’s back, then scattered and swirled through the headlights like feathers from a busted pillow.