Comments: 0 (Go to Comments)
Categories: Uncategorized
Tags: fiction, horror
This originally ran in the pre-crisis publication, Evolved. –Terry
The Wrong Way
“Fear is knowing the heart you hear beating isn’t your own.”
Wendt noticed the road was straightening. He turned his head down to look at the map spread before him on the passenger seat. A faint map light cut through the gloom. Wendt’s right index figure traced Route 280. “Shit,” he muttered as his finger hit upon exit numbers and rest stops. Nothing to do about it, Wendt looked up and saw the boy.
Teeth clenched, he awaited the meaty thud, Wendt’s hands gripped the wheel as his foot stomped on the brake. The tires screamed along the road and with a gunshot explosion, the driver’s side tire flattened as Wendt fought the pull. At last the car skidded to a halt, implausibly, no- miraculously the car hadn’t wrapped around one of the inviting pines. Wendt autonomously switched off the ignition, sensible only of the feeling of his heart as it pounded in staccato rhythm, worse than that, it was audible. He could hear his heart’s frantic contractions, the wet thumping inside his chest.
Lifting his foot, Wendt cried out as pain shot through his leg. I must have broken my foot. He opened the door to survey the damage. The rain had died down to a mist. Wendt placed his hands against the headlights to warm them, there was little for them to illuminate. The Lincoln ended up along the left shoulder of the road, perhaps a threat to oncoming traffic, if this desolate area had traffic at all. The tire was shredded, but reassuringly the grill was undamaged. Did I really see a boy at all? Looking around the area, Wendt saw no homes from which a child could wander. He began to limp around the car, but as he stepped out of the cone of light, the car became lost in the veil of night. Little to do, he returned to the driver’s seat, wiped the beads of rain from his shirt, and dialed AAA from his cell phone.
“This is triple-A, what’s your account number?” came a tinny voice.
Wendt read out the string of numbers, what happened to names?
“Yes Mr. Wendt, how may we help you?” somewhere a computer had lowered a drawbridge.
“I had a blow out on my front tire, driver’s side.”
“Where are you located at?”
Wendt laughed, “That’s what I was trying to figure out. I thought I was on 280, but I haven’t seen any signs or mile markers.”
“Let me get the map up,” computer keys depressed themselves in the background, “Where were you starting from and where were you heading towards?”
Wendt told the voice and described the tortuous path his road took through the woods.
“It looks like you are on the old highway, when the interstate went through that one died off.”
“Well, it’s nice to know I’m not lost. This highway doesn’t even appear on my map.”
“Probably be too confusing, the database we have is pretty comprehensive. Had someone a few weeks ago find themselves on an old horse-trail near Portland. Do you see any gas stations, or other public buildings within walking distance?”
“Just trees.”
“The safest place to stay is in your car. Your location is a little tricky, but I’m going to put a priority out. Someone should be there within 180 minutes. Do you have a spare tire?”
“No, I kept putting that off.” Wendt described the make and model of his car, was reassured that he was a valuable customer and wished well. He turned the phone off.
Wendt switched the headlights off, then back on; unsure of what would be safer. Since he was facing oncoming traffic, theoretically, headlights on would increase his visibility, but on the other hand, he began giggling, the light would blind those same theoretical drivers, more giggling, and cause them to crash. He wiped hysterical tears from his eyes and looked down at the clock on the radio- 9:13. He turned the radio on, a rarity, and flipped through the factory presets: static, more static, he switched the radio off. He glanced up and saw the figure of the dark haired boy, staring at him. Wendt’s heart once again became audible, but he restrained himself.
Wendt rolled down the window and leaned out, “Are you okay?” The boy made no answer but began walking around the passenger side. Dammit, muttered Wendt. He swung open the car door and hobbled out. “Hey!”
Wendt looked around, now where the hell was that kid. He maneuvered around to the front of the car, his foot beginning to throb. “Kid!” Now this is getting weird. Wendt crouched down and looked under the car- nothing. Looked around the car- nothing. Down the road, into the woods, up in the air- nothing, nothing, nothing. “KID!”
Wendt hurried back to the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut. He spun around and looked at the back seat- nothing, he breathed with a sigh of relief. He turned forward and screamed, there, inches from his own face, was that of the dark haired, pale faced boy, almost pressed up against the driver’s side window. Wendt jumped sideways into the passenger seat, but felt compelled to stare into those twin pale blue eyes.
Years ago, ages ago, memories of himself at that age, being dragged through Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. Not bored, terrified, at these wax mannequins. Expecting each one to leap out at him like that episode of the Twilight Zone his parents thought he hadn’t watched. Now, standing before the Chamber of Horrors, fear. thatswherethemonsterslive. “No, Edward, these are all fake. Look at the eyes Eddie, they aren’t alive,” his mother comforted him as his father glared on. But it was too late, there were monsters down there. He began crying as a warm moistness seeped from his groin. Look at the eyes, Eddie. Fear in his mother’s, Rage in his father’s, and now, absolutely nothing in the boy’s eyes in front of him.
The boy slowly sunk out of site, like an elevator being lowered. Wendt’s heart threatened to explode and when something in the engine clunked he thought it had. The headlights dimmed and the digital displays inside began to fade, within seconds the car was at one with the darkness it had been fighting to hold off. As the clock died, Wendt made a quick calculation; 150 minutes left.
Wendt shifted in his seat, anxious to see the moon’s luminescence and terrified at what it might reveal. He gripped his cell phone like a crucifix, but took no comfort. What would I say? He yelped as the back end of the car jiggled with the weight of someone getting on the bumper. A glance in the rear view mirror revealed the outline of jeans in the rear windshield from a body that was pulling itself onto the roof of the car. There it was now, someone/thing, on top of his car. Waiting. Wendt moved to the center of the car, slowly, were he to move the car at all, he knew he’d be destroyed. A faint scratching, like old tree branches, came from the roof of his car. Wendt looked at the upholstery, imagining that the shadows concealed the claw marks. Then, with a thunderclap, the car came back to life. Headlights tore into the darkness and the interior displays cast the shadows away. Wendt’s spirit was recharged with the observation that the scratching had stopped, the car felt lighter too, and he doubted that anyone had crawled on top. He sat up in his seat, turned the mirror so he judge his appearance, and saw the pale faced boy, staring at him, from the back seat.
Wendt ran. His lungs raged as he punished his foot and flew down the highway, open mouthed and glassy eyed. He tottered along the faded yellow lines of the highway, looking down for balance, never looking behind. After an eternity he collapsed and panted, his chest clicking as he gulped each breath. His painfully dry eyes attempted to tear as he made out the headlights of an approaching tow truck in front of him. The rig stopped, and a silhouette from the cab called out to him, “You okay?”
“Okay,” croaked Wendt, “water.”
The driver, Gus, looked over at his passenger. “Well you ran at least two miles. What the hell were you running from?”
“You wouldn’t believe me,” said Edward Wendt.
“Oh, I’d believe you. In fact I could probably guess.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, probably a boy, age ten or twelve, dark hair, pale face. Either tried hitchhiking or playing hide and go seek with you.”
“Dammit, it was some local JD. Does he pull that shit a lot?”
“Oh yeah, Billy Edwards has been doing that for the last fifteen years.”
Wendt felt his nerve endings tingle from his skull to his aching feet, “fifteen years?”
“Billy Edwards was a good boy, but came from a hell of a family. Drunks, both of them. Heard later, after it happened, that they used to beat the poor kid around. Well one day, Billy got tired of it. Took some money, some extra clothes and decided to hitchhike to freedom, or at least away from his folks. Kid might have made it but he was struck by a car, hit and run. No one knows who did it, but Sheriff Owens always felt it was Billy’s dad, s.o.b. killed himself not long after. Damn shame. You can remember some names like Adam Walsh or Polly Klass, but some slip by, like the ones Dahlmer or Gacy got. I guess Billy doesn’t want to be forgotten. Anyway, folks passing along sometimes mention seeing a boy, about Billy’s age hitchhiking or walking across the road, in front of their car, mile after mile…Kind of a local legend. Well here’s your car, three and a half miles, pretty good for a man your age.”
The moon sat overhead, looking down as Gus and Wendt approached the Lincoln. Gus knelt down and appraised the situation. “Not too bad.” He walked back to his truck and set out his equipment. “Could you grab the spare,” he gestured towards a tire propped up in the back of the truck. Wendt lifted the tire out and rolled it towards Gus. “Just let it drop for now.” Gus began loosening the lug nuts, “So what brings you through here anyway?”
“On business.”
“Hope your schedule isn’t too far off.”
“It shouldn’t be,” Wendt toyed with a crowbar.
“So what happened to your spare?”
“Rode too long on it and never replaced it.”
“That happens. Well I’m almost done here. Just pop the trunk open and I’ll put the tire away.”
“Can’t you take the tire?”
“Well, you’ll be wanting it when you get into town.”
“There’s no room in the trunk.”
“Be a shame to get all this grease and gunk on your interior. You can arrange things if you like, I’m in no hurry.”
Wendt stood behind Gus and brought the crowbar down on his head, “I said there was no room, dammit, why can’t you listen, you small town shit!” Crimson arcs flew against the night. Gus’s ruined head streaked against the headlight of the Lincoln. Wendt shook with rage as he opened the trunk and threw in the crowbar. It rattled against some spray cans before sliding next to the body of a child. Wendt slammed the trunk shut and entered the Lincoln. He rode off, edging around the pool of Gus’s blood, past the tow truck, and headed off down the highway. Billy Edwards followed behind.