Road To Nowhere

Chapter 2

Dalton un-zipped his sweatshirt and slung it over my shoulders.  We had been underneath a tree for about 20 minutes, slowly being eaten by mosquitoes.

    "Damn it, there's another one," Dalton said slapping his knee and killing the vicious blood-sucking bug.  I tried my phone again; still no service.  I sighed and watched the moon as it came above the newly-budding trees.

    "Why don't you take a rest," he said.  "I'll be on watch for a little while."

I couldn't argue with that.  I moaned what I hope sounded like a normal "thank you" and rolled onto the dirt.  Within seconds I was fast asleep...



    ...But not for long.

    "Psst, Rory."  Dalton shook my shoulders like a 5 year old waking his parents up on Christmas morning.

    "Ugh.  What?" I moaned, gaining consciousness and rising from the ground.

    "This black car keeps driving around.  Maybe someone's looking for us."

I sat up, rubbing my eyes.  I could feel my eye makeup smudging but right about now, I didn't give a damn.

    "I saw them drive back and forth along that road..." He pointed in front of us, "...like three times in the past ten minutes.  They haven't come back yet, though."

    "Should we wave them down if they come back?" I asked.

    "Probably," he answered.

The crickets' chirping was getting louder, and the night air was getting cooler.

    "Any sign of Zeek?"

    "Nope."  He yawned and I kind of felt guilty for making him stay up and watch while I slept soundlessly.  He sucked in a quick breath. "Do you hear that?" He asked. 

I listened.  If he was referring to the annoying buzzing of mosquitoes by our ears, then yes. 

    "Hear what?"

He didn't answer.  He just stood up and brushed himself off.

    "It sounds like a car engine."

I stood up next to him.  The sound was getting louder and was slowly muting out the crickets' tune.

    "It does."

And sure enough, through the thinning fog, came headlights once again.

    "Is that the car?"

    "Yes."  He took a few steps forward until the car was just ahead.  "Hey!" he called waving his hands above his head.  The car lurched to a stop and the window rolled down. 

Déjà vu.

     "Can I help you?"  It was a female.  She had long dark hair and stunning blue eyes. She must've been blind by the way she ignored Dalton's bloody face.

    "We need help.  We're stranded and need to get out of here.  Please."  He turned and motioned to me to come out of the trees.  I did so and I could see the woman eyeing me as I stood next to him.  She hesitated a moment, probably wondering what on earth had happened to us.

    "Sure," she said quietly.  "Hop in."

Dalton obeyed and fiercely opened the back door.

    "Wait," said the dark-haired woman.  "What are your names?"

Dalton answered before climbing inside.  "Dalton and Rory."

There was a pause.

    "Get in."

We climbed in quickly and the driver accelerated on the gas pedal.  "What brings you two out here?"

    "His car broke down," I jumped in, giving Dalton a chance to relax and let me do the talking.  "We hitched a ride with some man, but he was a total creep so we managed to escape."

No response.

Dalton and I looked at each other and I shivered.

    "Anywhere near a pay phone is fine," Dalton said, referring to where we wanted to be dropped off.  All the woman did was look at us through the rearview mirror.

    "Okay?"  Dalton was getting very impatient and antsy. 

The woman cleared her throat and switched topics.  "Describe the man to me," she said, running one of her hands through her dark hair.

    "The one we thought was creepy?" Dalton asked.

    "Yes. Him."

I shifted in my seat and tugged on the seatbelt.  "He had short black hair, somewhat of a scruffy beard and these bright blue eyes."

The woman turned on the radio and settled on a news station.

The newscaster's voice echoed through the car.  "...fingerprints matching the serial killer, Zeek Mulberry, were found at the scene.  Mulberry was last seen in Wisconsin by a neighbor of the murdered college student, Clara Marie Junston..."

I froze on the spot after hearing the name Zeek.  I could see the muscles in the driver's hands tense as she gripped the steering wheel tighter.  She had slowed down her driving and was giving her full attention to the station.

    "...The neighbor, 56 year old Mark Van Watson, said he was awakened at approximately 2:30 A.M by the sound of a gunshot and saw a man fleeing from the house next door.  Van Watson said he contacted the police shortly after, and the EMT's arrived to find the body of Clara Marie Junston dead on her bedroom floor."  The reporter continued the story, but I was too caught up on the name Zeek to hear anything else.  The dark-haired woman made a hard left turn and punched the radio off angrily.  She coughed and said, "Did, um, the man mention his name?"

Dalton can take care of this one, I thought.

    "He told us to call him Chris."  Dalton's voice cracked. 

The woman's grip loosened.  "..Oh," she breathed.  Her response was a cross between being relieved and somewhat confused.  "We shall be arriving shortly then."