David Wisehart - Blood Alley

Someone else is here. They’ll help us.

A voice from the speaker box said: “ May I help you? ”

It was a male voice. Old and raspy, like the voice of her uncle before he died.

“Hello?” she called out, but the man on the speaker couldn’t hear her. All the windows were rolled up. The sunroof was open, and the back window was broken— How did that happen?

She needed to roll down the driver’s window, but Dakota couldn’t get there with Ethan in her lap. She lifted him gently and maneuvered out from under him.

Ethan groaned.

“Sorry, Baby.” Dakota eased him back down onto the seat. “I’m getting help. I promise. I’m not going to let you die.”

She climbed into the driver’s seat, then hit the button for the window.

The glass didn’t lower.

Power windows.

She saw the key in the ignition. She turned it and powered down the window.

“Hello?”

No one answered.

“Hello! Someone! Anyone! Who’s there? Can you hear me?”

The voice from the speaker box said again, “ May I help you? ” The static was loud and thick. It was hard to make out the words.

Dakota reached out and grabbed the speaker box from the stand. There was a cable attached, but the box was free to move. She pulled it through the window and raised her voice, speaking directly into it.

“Help, please! My boyfriend’s hurt.”

“ Your boyfriend’s dead. ”

“No, he’s alive, he’s here, but he’s—”

“ Let him go, Dakota. ”

“What? Who are you? How do you know my—”

“ He is ours. ”

She dropped the speaker box on the floor.

Claire searched the dining area as the jukebox played:

Trevor followed her. “Who were you talking to?”

“Nobody,” Claire lied. “The line was dead.”

But someone’s here, she thought.

Claire cased the room, walking around the deserted tables and chairs, looking for footsteps, broken cobwebs, anything that might reveal who was here before them.

Outside, a pair of headlights flared on. She thought it was the Hummer, but then saw it was another car, the yellow one. There was something familiar about that car. Claire recognized it from somewhere. But where?

That other diner , she realized.

She had seen the same old car—hours ago—in a newspaper photo on the memorial wall. The car had been burned and mangled at the bottom of a cliff. It drove too fast, veered off the highway, and smashed through a guard rail.

Now here it was, looking brand new. The same car. The car that had been drag racing against—

Frankie Lamarque.

Claire saw Trevor dart for the door. He opened it and shouted out, “Hey!”

Trevor ran outside, trying to flag down the yellow car, but the driver ignored him. The car rolled out of the parking lot, onto Blood Alley, then stopped and waited. The second old car, a red Chevy, joined the yellow car on the highway. The two cars idled side by side, then revved their engines in bravado.

A drag race.

Trevor ran toward the cars. Before he could reach them, they burned rubber and roared off into the darkness.

Claire stepped out of the diner. “They can’t help us.”

“We can catch ’em,” Trevor said, crossing back to the Hummer.

Claire saw Dakota in the driver’s seat.

“We’re fifty years too late,” said Claire.

“What are you talking about?”

“That’s Frankie Lamarque.”

Dakota climbed into the back as Trevor opened the door. The window was rolled down, with a wire running into it from the speaker stand. Trevor didn’t seem to care. He jumped in and started the engine.

“Get in!”

She did, and saw a speaker box on the floor near Trevor’s feet.

Trevor reversed out of the parking stall. The speaker box flew up and slammed against the window frame. The cord snapped. The speaker box fell into Trevor’s lap.

The speaker emitted a mad death-rattle laugh. “ Hahahahahaha—! ”

What the hell?

Claire grabbed the box and threw it out her window. It bounced onto the highway, laughing madly. Trevor crushed the speaker box under his tires, then chased the ghost of Frankie Lamarque.

The car accelerated. The engine revved higher. Claire felt herself pressed hard against the seat. She double-checked that her seat belt was fastened, and watched the speedometer needle climb past 90 miles per hour as the rpm needle redlined.

Her boyfriend’s hands were clenched, choking the life out of the steering wheel.

“Easy, Trevor.”

Far up the road, two drag racers jockeyed for position.

This can’t end well.

From the back seat Dakota said, “What’s going on? Who was that on the speaker? Who are we chasing?”

“Nobody,” Claire answered.

“Why won’t they stop?”

“They’re already dead.”

Claire looked back at Dakota. She saw the younger girl holding Ethan’s hand, and stroking his hair.

Trevor grimaced. “You don’t know that.”

Claire said, “They died on Blood Alley. Fifty, sixty years ago.”

“Ghosts?” Dakota asked, sounding confused. “But they look real. The cars are real.”

“Are they?”

Dakota looked down at Ethan and said nothing. She was crying silently, but the shivering of her shoulders gave her away.

Claire watched the road. She felt safer knowing what was coming, even if it was coming way too fast.

“Trevor, slow down.”

He didn’t. The speedometer needle crept past 100 miles per hour.

You’re gonna get us all killed.

But it was out of her control. No sense fighting it. Trevor had the wheel, he knew what he was doing, and Claire was the last one to tell him how to drive. She might not know much about controlling cars, but she knew that distracting Trevor now was a recipe for disaster.

To take her mind off the road, Claire reached into her pocket for the pieces of paper she’d tucked away—the news clipping from manager’s office and the page from the phone book. She flattened the pages, then flicked on the overhead light.

Trevor flicked it back off. “Not now!”

Claire scrunched her face in frustration. She held the torn page under the passenger side window to catch the dim, reddish moonlight, and searched the list of names.

She felt Dakota reading over her shoulder.

“Put your seat belt on,” Claire said.

Dakota leaned back. “What’s that?”

“A clue.”

“Phone numbers? For the hospital?”

“Fowler.”

“Who?”

“That guy who used to live out here.” Claire skimmed down the list of names. There was only one person named Fowler. “ Eldritch Fowler . There’s a phone number, but no address.”

“We need to call a hospital!” Dakota screamed, her voice trembling.

She’s starting to lose it.

Claire said calmly, “Phones don’t work.”

“Try again,” Trevor suggested.

Dakota pulled her cell phone out her pocket and turned it back on. She wiped her eyes, and pressed numbers on the screen.

“Save your battery,” Claire said.

Dakota re-pocketed the phone. “Still no signal.”

“Not on Blood Alley.”

“Stop calling it that.” Trevor’s voice was as tense as his hands. “It’s just a highway.”

Claire reached for his right hand, still clenched tight on steering wheel. She put her hand on top of his. It felt cold. “Then slow down.”

Trevor pushed her hand away. “Claire, please—just let me do this.”