David Wisehart - Blood Alley

Frankie felt another jolt as Darren’s car slammed into him.

And again. And again.

Darren pulled his car onto the left shoulder, away from Frankie, then came back to sideswipe the Chevy.

Frankie tapped his brakes.

Darren’s car swerved to the right.

Frankie’s Chevy dropped back, but not fast enough.

The rear of the coupe knocked the front of the Chevy.

Hard.

Frankie felt the left front end of his Chevy lift up. His tire must have caught on the coupe’s running board. Now it was riding up the wheel well. His Chevy rose into the air as the other car got under him.

Frankie tried to correct.

Too late.

The Chevy rolled. Frankie rolled with it. The metal case around him jarred and spun and flipped him over and over again. He felt the car bouncing, turning, flying, landing. A crash and scream of metal. His seat jostled. The door caved in, then flew off, disappeared, and Frankie could see only the black night sky where his door had been.

A thousand stars swept by him in a blur.

The sky vanished and became the ground, then the sky, then the ground.

Frankie’s seat belt tore loose, and he was out of the car, in the air, alone, his stomach reeling, the fierce wind all around him. He saw the red crescent moon and felt the sharp bite of the cold desert air on his burning skin. His body tumbled, then came to earth in a slow dream from which he feared to awake. In the dream he heard a shriek of steel, a roar of flame, and a sound like his own voice crying.

The ground came up to catch his fall.

But it wasn’t the desert floor. It was a long black scar with a dotted yellow line. The road rose up to meet him.

Blood Alley.

Frankie gritted his teeth. He was going to hit. He was going to die. Somewhere on the wind he heard a song. His song. The one that had given him a fast and famous life, and would make him immortal.

In the moment of impact, Frankie fell into nothing.

The Highwayman glanced in the rearview mirror.

He saw the Chevy tumble and roll. It flipped high in the air, the driver side door tore off, and a body flew out over the highway. The body landed hard, bounced, rolled, came to a stop.

The master of the road had claimed another soul.

As the Deuce Coupe raced up the winding mountain road, the Highwayman gripped the steering wheel hard.

He felt stronger now. Taking a life infused him with a sense of justice. It was justice he craved, and justice he deserved. There had been no justice in the living world, not for the Highwayman. But that was another life. Long ago. Now, here on Blood Alley, he was the final judge and executioner, passing sentence on the living and the dead.

The coupe approached a sharp turn. The Highwayman maintained top speed. He knew this road, every turn and dip and crack. Just up ahead was a cliff and a drop. Hundreds of mortals had died there—and two more were about to be added to the tally.

Approaching the turn, he raced past a sign that read: “35 mph.”

“Slow down! Slow down!” the girl screamed.

He ignored her.

The girl lunged at him and grabbed the steering wheel.

She tried to wrest it from the Highwayman’s grip, but he was too strong, even in this borrowed body.

He backhanded her, catapulting the girl across the seat. The back of her head crashed against the door handle. The door flew open but she caught herself on the frame, the upper half of her body leaning out, her hair whipping in the wind. Her head was injured. Blood flowed from the wound, streaking the air.

She was alive and conscious. She looked up at him, and he saw that the fear had left her. The Highwayman could read the resignation in her face. He recognized that look.

She’s made her decision.

The mortal was ready to end it now, ready to throw herself from the car. She kicked her legs against the floor and against the seat to push herself out. Her upper body fell toward the road.

With one hand the Highwayman grabbed her leg.

He felt her body shudder as her head hit the pavement. He held onto her. He couldn’t see her head now, but knew her bloody skull must be sliding on the road, skin and bones worn down by the merciless blacktop. Her arms spasmed. A tortured scream pierced the roar of the wind. She was alive, but not for long.

This ride’s not over yet.

The Highwayman saw the guard rail coming up fast. Thirty feet—twenty feet—ten feet—

In the moment before collision, the Highwayman stepped out of Darren’s body. The car continued on without the ghost driver.

He heard the girl’s dying scream as the Deuce Coupe punched though the railing.

The car launched off the cliff and sailed through the air in a long, slow, downward arc before striking a tree and bursting into flame.

The Highwayman stood alone on the edge of the cliff. Wind whipped along the steep ridge but hardly disturbed the brim of his slouch hat or the black duster that cloaked him from shoulders to knees. He cast no shadow on the mountain.

As the lunar eclipse ended, the ghost became translucent, faded, and disappeared.

Mojave Desert, California

Friday, May 24, 2013

Claire felt powerless. She was exhausted. It had only been ten or fifteen minutes since they’d started pushing her boyfriend’s red Hummer H3 down the road, but it seemed like days and felt like years. She was getting dizzy, and losing track of time.

Even with Claire, Trevor, Dakota, and Ethan all pushing together, the Hummer was unbearably heavy. Fat tires rolled on the hot asphalt, making a sticking sound in the heat.

The road looked level, but there were lots of little dips and rises. Claire felt each one of them in her arms and legs and back. She considered herself to be in pretty good shape, but not for this.

Not for this.

The day was hot and getting hotter. The air was dry, but that was small consolation. Claire was used to the swelter, living in the sun-blasted Mojave desert, in crappy old Palmdale, but they were well beyond the city now, and she was beginning to miss that oasis of civilization, such as it was.

Through the shimmering desert air, she could see what looked like a gas station up ahead. She couldn’t yet read the sign, but from the shape of the building she knew it was a station. Maybe it had a garage. Claire half convinced herself she saw two buildings, maybe even three. They didn’t seem to be getting any closer.

The desert’s playing tricks on us.

The sun was hot and the road was hard and Claire could feel blisters forming in her flats. She wasn’t dressed for this. She should be wearing a comfy pair of sneakers and those old denim shorts, not this yellow summer dress that billowed in the breeze and gave Ethan a good long look under the hood. She could feel the wind on her thighs and the weight of Ethan’s glances. He tried to hide it, awkwardly.

Whatever.

That weirdo was harmless enough. And besides, he was dating Dakota. If he tried anything strange, Claire’s boyfriend Trevor could beat him up. But Ethan was just being Ethan, and Claire didn’t feel like confronting him, so she let it pass.

This was going to be a long road trip. Best to be civil.

Claire wished she hadn’t come along, though of course she had no one to blame but herself. It was her idea, after all. Last week when Trevor learned of his uncle’s death in a car accident, Claire suggested they both go to the funeral. Trevor’s whole family would be there, and it would give Claire a chance to meet his relations.