David Wisehart: Blood Alley

“Darren—”

“I see it.”

“Do something.”

Samantha stared into the headlights behind them as Darren veered left, driving into the oncoming lane.

The demon-looking car stayed right on the tail of the Deuce Coupe.

Closer, closer.

Darren returned to the right-hand lane.

The demon car kept after him.

Samantha had heard terrible stories about this road, about teenagers who died here, about a ghost car that came out of the darkness to punish kids who did bad things. But Samantha was a good girl. She’d done nothing wrong. And besides, those were just crazy, made-up stories, stories to frighten gullible teenagers into not driving drunk late at night or racing each other on the highway.

Just stories, that’s all.

What was the name they gave him? Something weird and creepy and—

“The Highwayman,” she said.

Darren answered, “No such thing,” but she heard the doubt in his voice.

The demon car was only a few feet behind. Gaining. Close enough that she could see the driver’s face in the glow coming up off the dash.

Samantha couldn’t take her eyes off him. The driver wore a dark slouch hat and a black canvas duster. His face was gaunt. His eyes were pools of shadow.

The driver grinned at Samantha. He had one gold tooth. The other teeth were decayed, like the grimace of a corpse.

“The Revenant,” she said.

That was the name of the Highwayman’s car. That’s what the stories said.

The Revenant, a death car from the mouth of Hell. A sleek, black monster with demon eyes and a coffin-nosed hood.

The Revenant.

It came and it killed and you never had a chance. No one in those stories ever survived. Not one. Once the Highwayman had you in his headlights, you were his, and there was nothing you could do.

What was it he did to those kids? After he killed them? Samantha couldn’t remember. She wished now that she had paid more attention to those stories.

Darren tried to shake the Revenant, but it was no use. They were nearly bumper to bumper now. In a few more seconds, the two cars would hit. Samantha gripped the back of her seat, bracing for impact.

The gap narrowed between the Highwayman’s car and Darren’s coupe.

Two feet…

One foot…

Six inches…

Three inches…

They were going to hit…

But—

Nothing. No impact.

The Revenant kept coming closer and closer…

What the hell?

Then she understood.

And screamed.

Darren looked at her. “What? What happened?”

Samantha kept screaming as the front bumper of the Revenant penetrated the back bumper of the coupe and—

Passed right through it!

She recovered her voice. “Darren, faster!”

“I am, I am.” His voice was tense.

The ghost car entered the Deuce Coupe.

Samantha watched in horror as the Revenant’s front grille emerged from the back of her seat. The bright glow from the demon-eyed headlights filled the inside of Darren’s car. Samantha backed away from ghostly headlamp, but there was nowhere for her to escape. She was trapped inside the coupe with the Revenant only inches away.

“No!” she screamed, “ No! ”

The ghost car was inside the real car.

And it was still coming.

Coming to get them.

The hood ornament was a death’s head. It penetrated Darren’s back and emerged from his chest. The coffin-nosed hood of the ghost car glided through his torso.

Darren cried out in agony.

“Darren!” she screamed, helpless.

The Revenant touched and entered Samantha’s body. She felt an icy chill as the coffin-nosed hood of the ghost car passed through her.

Samantha saw the Highwayman behind the wheel of the Revenant. The ghost driver powered his death machine forward, faster, faster, and—

The Highwayman entered Darren’s body.

The ghost driver disappeared completely into Darren. Then the ghost car shimmered and faded away.

Something else happened. Samantha didn’t understand it, but knew her boyfriend was being…changed… transformed .

It looked like torture. Darren’s chest heaved. His neck tensed. His head snapped to attention. Darren turned to face Samantha, his eyes wide. His once-blue eyes now glowed a ghostly green.

Darren was… what?

Possessed.

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

Frankie Lamarque gripped the steering wheel. His fingers were sore and stiff. He shook them to get the blood flowing again, then wiped sweat from his forehead. He’d been clenching the steering wheel much too hard. The near-miss with that oncoming truck left his pulse pounding.

Relax, calm down. The race isn’t over yet.

Poor Darren had nearly bought the farm back there. Frankie couldn’t afford to lose his drummer. Darren was one of the best. Good thing the kid had enough sense to stop fighting for the lead. Instead, the little drummer boy had dropped back to safety, in second place, right where he belonged, backing up Frankie. Darren had always been the sensible one. Frankie was the leader, the risk-taker.

Sometimes he had to remind Darren of his proper place.

Frankie snuck another glance in the rearview mirror. He had seen a pair of headlights behind Darren’s coupe, but now that other car was gone.

Where’d it go?

There were no exits on this stretch of the highway. Had the car pulled over to the dirt shoulder? Dropped back out of sight? Turned off its lights?

A crazy thought entered Frankie’s head. For a moment he wondered if the stories were true. Stories about a ghost car. About the Highwayman, the Revenant, and teenagers dying on the highway, on a murderous desert highway known as—

Blood Alley.

The Highwayman felt his new hands on the wheel, his new foot on the accelerator. The passenger window was rolled down—a cold wind buffeted his cheeks and stung a little in his eyes. It was thrilling to see the world once more through human eyes. That sharpness. That clarity. It felt good to be flesh and blood again. A new body, a new life—if only for a brief moment.

The Highwayman knew his purpose, and kept to his goal. These three mortals had trespassed, and they must be punished.

There were two cars racing on Blood Alley.

He was now in control of one.

The body he possessed was young, strong, full of life. The Highwayman liked young mortals best. They gave him a thrill when he entered their bodies, claiming their lives. But he could not stay long in this living cage. The rigors of life demanded his absolute focus. The act of possession drained him, and soon he would have to retreat into the shadows.

But not yet.

Not yet.

He was driving a Deuce Coupe. The engine was well-tuned. It hummed brilliantly. The night was dark beyond his headlights. There was a girl in the car beside him. She wore a red sweater and a frightened expression. She was screaming and crying. It made him feel stronger. He fed on her screams, like an actor on applause.

Let her scream, the Highwayman thought. Let her cry.

He wanted a witness to his mayhem.

The other car was a Chevy, in the lead position. The driver was good, but no one could match the Highwayman. Not on this road. Not on Blood Alley.

That’s what the mortals called it now. Blood Alley. He had heard that name whispered on the wind. It made him proud to know that his righteous revenge sent ripples of fear into the living world.

Yet still the mortals came.

The Highwayman was being taunted, tested. He was up to the test. These mortals would not survive to the tunnel. They would not get off Blood Alley alive.