David Wisehart - Blood Alley

The first name meant nothing to him.

But the second name— Claire —stirred something.

Not a feeling, but a memory.

He could not quite grasp the meaning of it, but this girl was different.

We are connected, you and I.

It thrilled and disturbed him.

The four teenagers had survived their first test.

So be it.

He had let them live, toyed with them on the bridge.

But the night was young, and his grievance old.

Now the kids were trapped on his road, with a broken bridge behind them and no exit ahead.

Only the grave.

They would not live to see the Devil’s Tunnel.

To ensure his conquest, the Highwayman summoned the fog.

Claire held Trevor tight. Her boyfriend was cold and trembling. She had never felt him shudder like this, had never known him to be afraid of anything.

He was afraid now. They all were.

She wiped her wet cheek on his shoulder, and looked up at the gap in the road behind them, where the bridge used to be.

Someone was standing on the other side. It looked like a man, but stood still as a statue.

Not a man, she thought. A ghost.

It was the same figure she’d seen out the window of the diner. The same man they had seen hitchhiking on the road. It wasn’t a ride he wanted. He was following them.

But why?

She knew his name.

The Highwayman .

A legend come to life.

No, not life.

The Highwayman was dead, long dead, and he wanted them dead as well.

That much was clear.

Somehow, he had caused all this. The truck, the chain, the chase, the collision. Because of him, the bridge was gone. Because of him, Ethan bled. The Highwayman had powers she could not begin to comprehend. He was less than a man, but more than a ghost.

He doesn’t want to haunt us.

He wants to kill us.

The Devil’s Tunnel was the end of Blood Alley, the farthest reach of the Highwayman’s domain. Here the road was quiet and empty.

Something stirred within.

From the black, hellish mouth of the mountain tunnel came a wisp of white fog.

The fog snaked along the desert road, gathering strength as it went.

A bank of fog rolled down the mountains and across the plain.

There were no living witnesses, but as the fog moved, shapes appeared like faces pressing through a bed sheet. Visible in the roiling white mist were the dead souls of a mother and child. A withered hag. Teenage twins. And hundreds more.

All were victims of Blood Alley.

They each released a silent scream before being swallowed up by eddies of whiteness, to be replaced by other tortured souls.

Dakota sat in the back seat with Ethan cradled in her arms.

His jacket and jeans were torn and soaked with blood. His skin felt cool to the touch. Dakota put a hand to Ethan’s chin and gently turned his face to hers. His eyes were open, but unfocused.

He didn’t seem to recognize her.

Wiping sweat from her boyfriend’s cheek, she said, “Ethan?”

His eyes found hers.

Recognition returned.

She ignored her own tears. “I’m here, Baby.”

“How bad?”

His voice was thin and raspy. The frail words seemed to sap all his energy.

“We’ll get you to a hospital.”

“Can’t… feel.”

Panic surged through her.

Oh God.

“That’s a good sign,” she lied. “Endorphins.” She had learned that word in her AP Bio class. “It means your body is—”

“Bad?”

“You’re bleeding a little, but—”

“Show me.”

“No, Baby, you need to rest now. We’ll get you to a—”

“Show. Me.”

He tried to look down at his legs. He craned his neck, winced, and lay back.

“Don’t move, Ethan. Stay still. We’ll get going again soon, and find you a—”

“Mirror.”

“I don’t have a—”

“Show me!”

He withered her with a look.

She nodded, and pushed away her tears.

Dakota’s purse was on the floor near her feet. She bent over, reached in, and felt for a compact. Opening the case, she angled the magnifying mirror to show Ethan his wounds.

The flesh of his back was red and raw and wet.

So much blood.

Ethan’s face went white. “Oh, man…”

“We’ll get help.”

Dakota pulled the phone from her pocket and checked for a signal.

No bars.

But she couldn’t tell him that.

Instead, she dialed 911 and hit send.

Nothing.

There would be a doctor in Cedarview, she knew, but how long would it take to get there?

Too long.

We have to go back.

Claire held Trevor close, feeling his strong heartbeat against her chest.

She looked over his shoulder at the Highwayman standing on the other side of ravine. He wore a black duster. His slouch hat obscured his face. From this distance she could not read his expression, if there was one, but his face was pale and Claire saw a green glow where his eyes would be. He seemed to be staring directly back at her.

The ghost became translucent, faded, and disappeared.

He’ll be back, she knew.

As long as they were still alive, and on his road, the menace would return.

We have to move on.

She let go of Trevor.

“Well, that was lucky,” he joked.

Trevor gave her a quick smile, but Claire saw through it, to the false optimism beneath.

“It wasn’t luck,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s toying with us.”

Trevor walked to the edge of the ravine. He looked left and right. “No other bridges across.”

Claire joined him at the edge, and looked down. From somewhere in the mountains, a thickening fog slinked into the ravine and crept over the dry riverbed, through the narrow channel, toward the broken bridge. It swirled around the wreckage below, where one support post had been blown apart and two trucks were nothing but twisted metal.

So familiar.

“I saw this,” she said. “Back at the diner.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those pictures on the memorial wall. There was a newspaper article about it. A bridge collapsed. A suspension bridge. Two trucks collided. A petroleum truck exploded, and the bridge went down.”

Trevor gave her a look of disbelief. “You’re saying this happened twice?”

“No, that doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re remembering it wrong, Claire, what you read.”

“I know what I read.”

Trevor backed away from the edge. “There has to be another explanation. Maybe you’re…psychic or something.”

She quoted the man in the diner, Joshua, the man with the burned face. “ The road is thirsty. It drinks blood. ”

“That’s just a story,” Trevor said.

Fog filled the ravine, moving in like a tide.

Claire said, “I read it on the wall. There was more— will be more. Frankie Lamarque dies five miles past the bridge. Nine miles, a school bus is torn apart—”

“Frankie Lamarque is already dead.”

“And this bridge collapsed years ago, long before we got here.”

“Claire, you’re not making sense.”

“It’s happening again.”

“What?”

“Everything. I don’t know why. Blood Alley, the Highwayman—”

“It’s just an accident, Claire. An accident on a bridge, an old bridge that should have been condemned or repaired years ago. It could have happened on any night. Bad luck it happened tonight. Good luck we survived.”

“Then how do you explain the white car? The woman who was trapped? The ghost flames? How do you explain that?”

“I don’t have to,” he said. “All I have to do is drive.”