by Z. Rider
He took a chance on a turn-off that looked like it headed back into the mountains, and as he climbed, the road brightened, the angle of what was left of the sun hitting when he was on the right side of the switchbacks.
Another lane came off that one, a dirt road climbing at a steeper grade. Two weather-beaten posts guarded the end of it like someone had once meant to put a gate across. He geared down and took the Cougar up slow and steady. It might have been a forest service road or a logging road. Whatever it was, it curved and kept climbing, wide enough for a car, with the side to his left dropping off sharp and quick, the tops of trees bumping past his window.
He was thinking—had been thinking most of the day—that this was like when he’d bought the Cougar. His aunt and uncle had tried to talk sense into him at the time: thirty good reasons why he should get something used, something dependable and well cared for but not too expensive. He had college to think about. His future. He’d regret spending all that money when all he had to show for it a couple years down the road was a used car.
He’d been dead set on the Cougar, though. Dead set on pissing money away on something he could shove into the hole inside of him, however poorly it fit. If he couldn’t have parents, he’d have this fucking car.
Now he was nothing but hole.
The only thing he had was this fucking car…and a vampire in his trunk.
Another road teed off the one he was on, this one in worse shape but not climbing as steeply. He took it about three hundred feet, circling around near the end of it, and found himself parked in a bare clearing, the Cougar’s nose pointing at the last vestiges of sunset.
When he stepped out, it was to the light rustle of leaves, the rat-a-tatting of a woodpecker, the soft drop of acorns to the ground.
He stepped to the edge of the slope and put his hands in his pockets as he looked over the shadowed valley. A white church steeple caught the last of the orange light.
Before it got too dark to see, he walked around, testing the ground.
Walked into the woods to find himself a stick.
Then he went back to the car and reached between the driver and passenger seats.
Hefting his purchase and stick in one arm, he continued around, fingering the car key from his ring.
It should be dark enough now.
He leaned down, putting an ear to the dusty metal.
Something shifted, like a sneaker against carpet. His heart quickened.
The anticipation was like a spring, and he felt it not just in himself but trapped in the trunk too. Waiting.
A spring so tight it might burst the lid open.
He turned the key.
The latched popped, and he back-pedaled out of immediate reach as the trunk flew open.
8.
* * *
Nick’s shoulder dug into his chest. Dean’s arm gripped his waist, over the blanket he’d covered him up with. All his tears had been rattled and bumped out over the endless hours of road.
His jaw ached from gritting his teeth.
Trapped with the smells of exhaust, spare tire, and Nick, he’d had no escape from his brain replaying what had gone down. The worst was the urge to change the outcome. If I’d just done this. If I hadn’t done that. If I’d headed out of the French Quarter in the other direction and never looked back. Would that even have saved them? If I’d told them to go back inside and gotten on the bus alone. Would they have listened? They’d have thought he was out of his head.
The car rocked to a stop. He had no idea who had him or why. If they’d wanted him dead, though, they wouldn’t have put Nick in with him. Unless they just didn’t know better.
The sun was still out—not by much, but he could feel its sizzle through the metal trunk lid. He listened to footsteps on soft earth, the rustle of grasses and weeds.
As the sizzle crept away, the footsteps came near.
A key scraped. The latch let go. The lid lifted, just an inch or so, and night air tumbled in.
He grasped the edge of the trunk and scrambled out, eager to get out of there. Get away from Nick and the pain of all of it. He stumbled backward, staring at the lump of blanket lying in there. Panting, he took another step back, his arms stretched to his sides. He didn’t know what to do.
The last glimpse he’d had of Shawn, the sound of Shawn’s neck snapping. The whoop when Janx was killed. The way they’d dove on Nick.
He had no fucking idea what to do.
A twig snapped behind him, and he spun, breathing hard.
The vampire hunter was there, a shovel in one hand, a stick laid across it, making some kind of cross. His posture was wary, his eyes showing a little too much white. He stepped one foot back abruptly, lifting the makeshift cross higher.
Dean glanced at his arm—his jacket torn, the skin underneath looking fine. Or, at least, fine enough for government work. The scars would fade, the gouges would fill in.
He had no fucking idea what to do.
By the guy’s shoulder stood a girl, a wisp of a thing with dark hair parted down the middle, a haze of light shifting at her edges. She watched him with dark eyes.
The guy with the shovel, his chest rose and fell fast. They stared each other down.
The blanketed bump in the trunk was calling to Dean though, beckoning like a ghost. He turned his head back toward it.
He’d spent the day with the emptiness that had been his band, his friends, his entire life, feeling his wounds heal—feeling the ones inside that never would.
He’d feasted on his dead friend, and when the blood he could get through his neck had run out, he’d split him open to get at more.
Behind him, the tip of the shovel thumped.
Dean looked over his shoulder.
The other guy had given up on the cross, letting the stick fall to the ground. He lifted the shovel, holding it out. “I thought you could bury him over there.”
Dean followed the pointing finger to a spot near the edge of the slope.
“It’s got a view,” the guy said.
“Where are we?” His throat was dry, his voice like torn paper.
“Kentucky.”
Jesus.
He lifted the shovel again. The girl beside him looked over her shoulder toward the plot of earth.
“Got a smoke?” Dean said.
The guy drew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tossed it over. Matches were shoved under the cellophane.
He tugged a cigarette out as he walked toward the spot that had been pointed out—he took the shovel as he passed, exchanging it for the pack. He put the cigarette between his teeth, leaned the shovel against his hip, and cracked a match to life.
When he had the smoke going, he started digging, the girl standing at the edge, watching while the other guy walked away to stare over the dark valley.
Moving dirt—working his muscles—was better than lying in a box with his thoughts. He was raw inside. Empty. The mound of dirt grew, and the guy offered him another cigarette. Dean smoked it as he dug, dirt sifting onto his jeans, streaking his hands.
Eventually the guy said, “Help me with this,” from over by the car.
He leaned the shovel against the dirt and went to help pull Nick’s body from the trunk, the other guy tugging the blanket to keep Nick covered, saving Dean from having to see it again. The girl drifted alongside them, her hand resting on Nick as they carried him. She stepped back as they lowered him into the ground.
The guy picked up the shovel while Dean still stood in the grave, his sneakers on either side of the blanket. He waited with a load of dirt for Dean to climb out.
And Dean walked away, raking his hair back. Leaving the girl watching the dirt get filled in.
He wondered what the fuck came next. What the fuck came after this.
He was unmoored.
For the first time, he had no one.
In the emptiness between his ears, he heard Teddy’s voice cry out and cut to silence.
The other guy tamped the
dirt with the shovel. Dean watched from the side of the car, fingers pushed into his back pockets. Thinking the pair of them strange, the guy never looking at the girl, never acknowledging her.
“Do you want to say anything?” the guy said.
Dean shook his head. He’d already said enough to Nick in the car. Already said he was sorry a hundred times over.
“Do you have any money?” the guy asked.
Dean shook his head again.
The guy leaned on the shovel. “Can you take over driving while I catch some sleep?”
“Where are we going?”
His body seemed to sag, the shovel taking his weight. “I don’t know.” Lifting the shovel to his shoulder, he said, “I don’t suggest going back there, and I don’t suggest going home. I don’t suggest getting pulled over by the cops either. Just drive. Stick to the speed limit. Maybe stick to the back roads.”
“I thought you were some kind of vampire killer,” Dean said.
The guy laughed, the sound soft and sour. He tossed the shovel to Dean. “Keys are in the ignition.” He started toward the passenger door.
Dean looked at the girl, and she looked back at him. The haze of light was so soft, he was pretty sure it was his eyes playing tricks, the new way he saw things.
He put the shovel in the trunk. When he let himself in the driver’s side, the other guy was curled on the backseat, using his arm for a pillow. The girl sat in the passenger seat, her eyes tracking him as he settled behind the wheel.
He started the engine. “Mind if I turn on the radio?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“They’ve been talking about it?”
“Every half hour, it feels like.” The springs creaked in the backseat as he shifted.
Dean thought about how Travers would be all over this tonight. Almost wished he could listen in, but WHAK didn’t make it as far as Kentucky.
It would probably hurt a whole lot more hearing Travers turn their deaths into gossip. He asked the guy instead what they were saying.
“That there was a wreck. That they can’t find two of you. That they’re not sure what happened but they hope that when Jessie wakes up, he can shed some light on it.”
“Jessie’s alive?” Dean’s fingers felt cold.
With another shift in the backseat, the guy said, “Don’t go back there. They’ll expect you to go back there.”
Dean sat, breathing heavy, his chest tight with energy he didn’t know what to do with. Nick hadn’t been enough blood to bring him to light and jangles, but it had brought him back to life. The energy was from helplessness. From being all the way out here, and not being able to go back there.
The guy in the back seat said, “Don’t go back there.”
Dean moved the gearshift. He threw an arm across the seats so he could look out the rear window as he backed up. He said, “Nope.”
“Lights,” the guy said.
Dean had forgotten he’d need them—if he were a normal person, driving at night. He pulled the knob.
As they bumped back down the mountain road, the guy in the back seat said, “Wake me up before it gets light.”
Dean glanced in the rearview, nothing but moon behind them.
“Yeah.”
The girl settled back, closing her eyes, her small lips parting. In the dark of the car’s interior, a white line showed across her throat. She turned her face away, the haze of light shifting with her.
When he hit the main road and saw the sign, he turned in the direction that would keep them heading away from the sun. And with the soft, shallow breaths of the guy who’d saved his ass not once but twice hitting against the back of his seat—he drove.
* * *
THE STORY CONTINUES
Dead to the World:
Book 2 of the Blood Road Trilogy
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Out now from Dark Ride Publishing…
SUCKERS by Z. Rider
With just a few dates left on the band's way-too-long tour, musician Dan Ferry takes a shortcut back to the hotel—and picks the wrong dark alley to go down. www.suckersahorrornovel.com
More from Z. Rider
INSYLUM by Z. Rider
Nate and A.J. are the last two in line on the last night of extreme funhouse Insylum’s run in their town. They are the last two to go inside. And they may never come back out…
About the Author
Z. Rider grew up in New Hampshire, where she spent her Saturday afternoons watching Creature Double Feature on Channel 56. She now lives in the mountains of Tennessee with her husband, two dogs, and a skeleton named Knuckles.
Connect with Z…
@zriderhorror
zoexriderfiction
www.zriderwriter.com
[email protected]
Thank You!
Thank you for reading. We invite you to share your thoughts and reactions on Goodreads or the site you purchased the book from—or contact Z. directly at [email protected].
