Blood Alley th-1

by David Wisehart

  “Help, please! My boyfriend’s hurt.”

  “Your boyfriend’s dead.”

  “No, he’s alive, he’s here, but he’s—”

  “Let him go, Dakota.”

  “What? Who are you? How do you know my—”

  “He is ours.”

  She dropped the speaker box on the floor.

  Claire searched the dining area as the jukebox played:

  Bye-bye, Daddio

  We gotta go

  To the Last Stop Car Hop

  Last Stop Car Hop…

  Trevor followed her. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Nobody,” Claire lied. “The line was dead.”

  But someone’s here, she thought.

  Claire cased the room, walking around the deserted tables and chairs, looking for footsteps, broken cobwebs, anything that might reveal who was here before them.

  Outside, a pair of headlights flared on. She thought it was the Hummer, but then saw it was another car, the yellow one. There was something familiar about that car. Claire recognized it from somewhere. But where?

  That other diner, she realized.

  She had seen the same old car—hours ago—in a newspaper photo on the memorial wall. The car had been burned and mangled at the bottom of a cliff. It drove too fast, veered off the highway, and smashed through a guard rail.

  Now here it was, looking brand new. The same car. The car that had been drag racing against—

  Frankie Lamarque.

  Claire saw Trevor dart for the door. He opened it and shouted out, “Hey!”

  Trevor ran outside, trying to flag down the yellow car, but the driver ignored him. The car rolled out of the parking lot, onto Blood Alley, then stopped and waited. The second old car, a red Chevy, joined the yellow car on the highway. The two cars idled side by side, then revved their engines in bravado.

  A drag race.

  Trevor ran toward the cars. Before he could reach them, they burned rubber and roared off into the darkness.

  Claire stepped out of the diner. “They can’t help us.”

  “We can catch ’em,” Trevor said, crossing back to the Hummer.

  Claire saw Dakota in the driver’s seat.

  “We’re fifty years too late,” said Claire.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s Frankie Lamarque.”

  Dakota climbed into the back as Trevor opened the door. The window was rolled down, with a wire running into it from the speaker stand. Trevor didn’t seem to care. He jumped in and started the engine.

  “Get in!”

  She did, and saw a speaker box on the floor near Trevor’s feet.

  Trevor reversed out of the parking stall. The speaker box flew up and slammed against the window frame. The cord snapped. The speaker box fell into Trevor’s lap.

  The speaker emitted a mad death-rattle laugh. “Hahahahahaha—!”

  What the hell?

  Claire grabbed the box and threw it out her window. It bounced onto the highway, laughing madly. Trevor crushed the speaker box under his tires, then chased the ghost of Frankie Lamarque.

  33

  The car accelerated. The engine revved higher. Claire felt herself pressed hard against the seat. She double-checked that her seat belt was fastened, and watched the speedometer needle climb past 90 miles per hour as the rpm needle redlined.

  Her boyfriend’s hands were clenched, choking the life out of the steering wheel.

  “Easy, Trevor.”

  Far up the road, two drag racers jockeyed for position.

  This can’t end well.

  From the back seat Dakota said, “What’s going on? Who was that on the speaker? Who are we chasing?”

  “Nobody,” Claire answered.

  “Why won’t they stop?”

  “They’re already dead.”

  Claire looked back at Dakota. She saw the younger girl holding Ethan’s hand, and stroking his hair.

  Trevor grimaced. “You don’t know that.”

  Claire said, “They died on Blood Alley. Fifty, sixty years ago.”

  “Ghosts?” Dakota asked, sounding confused. “But they look real. The cars are real.”

  “Are they?”

  Dakota looked down at Ethan and said nothing. She was crying silently, but the shivering of her shoulders gave her away.

  Claire watched the road. She felt safer knowing what was coming, even if it was coming way too fast.

  “Trevor, slow down.”

  He didn’t. The speedometer needle crept past 100 miles per hour.

  You’re gonna get us all killed.

  But it was out of her control. No sense fighting it. Trevor had the wheel, he knew what he was doing, and Claire was the last one to tell him how to drive. She might not know much about controlling cars, but she knew that distracting Trevor now was a recipe for disaster.

  To take her mind off the road, Claire reached into her pocket for the pieces of paper she’d tucked away—the news clipping from manager’s office and the page from the phone book. She flattened the pages, then flicked on the overhead light.

  Trevor flicked it back off. “Not now!”

  Claire scrunched her face in frustration. She held the torn page under the passenger side window to catch the dim, reddish moonlight, and searched the list of names.

  She felt Dakota reading over her shoulder.

  “Put your seat belt on,” Claire said.

  Dakota leaned back. “What’s that?”

  “A clue.”

  “Phone numbers? For the hospital?”

  “Fowler.”

  “Who?”

  “That guy who used to live out here.” Claire skimmed down the list of names. There was only one person named Fowler. “Eldritch Fowler. There’s a phone number, but no address.”

  “We need to call a hospital!” Dakota screamed, her voice trembling.

  She’s starting to lose it.

  Claire said calmly, “Phones don’t work.”

  “Try again,” Trevor suggested.

  Dakota pulled her cell phone out her pocket and turned it back on. She wiped her eyes, and pressed numbers on the screen.

  “Save your battery,” Claire said.

  Dakota re-pocketed the phone. “Still no signal.”

  “Not on Blood Alley.”

  “Stop calling it that.” Trevor’s voice was as tense as his hands. “It’s just a highway.”

  Claire reached for his right hand, still clenched tight on steering wheel. She put her hand on top of his. It felt cold. “Then slow down.”

  Trevor pushed her hand away. “Claire, please—just let me do this.”

  She felt a hot rush of rage. “Don’t get mad at me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Fine.”

  Just trying to help.

  Claire crossed her arms.

  Dick.

  She sat in angry silence, staring ahead at the tail lights of the dragsters.

  We’re not getting any closer.

  Claire opened the clipping from the Palmdale Post. In the dim red light of the lunar eclipse she could only read the headline: “Fowler’s Last Stand.” She studied the news photo, which showed armed policemen surrounding an old farmhouse.

  That house looks familiar.

  The waitress at Dinah’s Diner told them the farmhouse was on this road.

  Can’t be too far now.

  She was able to puzzle out more of the words. “Fowler… ordered to sell… refusal… eminent domain… courthouse… seizure.”

  Someone was trying to take his home, she realized. But why?

  Claire had studied something about eminent domain, but forgot exactly what it meant. Mr. Steinitz had talked about it in history class. Something about how the government could just take away a person’s land if they needed to, as long as they paid the owner. The landowner didn’t have any choice, especially if the government needed to build a dam or an aqueduct or—

  A highway.

  Dakota
said, “What’s with the Fowlers?”

  “Nothing,” Claire lied.

  “Why are you so obsessed with this?”

  “I’m not obsessed. It’s just…”

  “What?”

  You won’t understand.

  Claire took a deep breath to calm herself, and lowered her voice. “I think maybe my mom was born around here.”

  Trevor let up on the gas and looked over at her. “You sure?”

  Claire knew little of her birth mother, who went by several names and never stayed in one place for long. Most people who her knew her mother had called her “Barbara Smith.” But Claire figured out that wasn’t her mother’s real name. Not her family name, at least. “Smith” was a name for hiding her past, and Barbara seemed to have something terrible to hide. She’d given Claire up for adoption at birth. Claire had been a premie, and nearly died a dozen times in her crib. Because of the long ordeal, a nurse at the hospital remembered baby Claire well, and the mother too. That had been the start of the trail, Claire’s first big break in unraveling the story of her past. The evidence was slim, the memories fuzzy, but all signs pointed here.

  California.

  The Mojave Desert.

  Blood Alley.

  “My mom was from California,” Claire said, “but ran away from home. She disappeared for years. Came back pregnant.”

  “With you?”

  Claire nodded. “I think so. Unless I had a brother or sister. I don’t know.”

  “Who was the father?” Dakota asked.

  “All I have is a name. My mother’s last name before she changed it.” Claire held up the news clipping: “Fowler.”

  Dakota said, “If your parents gave you up, what makes you think they want to be found?”

  “They don’t.”

  Claire felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Trevor, trying to get her attention.

  “Look,” he said.

  They were much closer now to the drag racers. The red Chevy was in the right lane, with the yellow Deuce Coupe trying to pass on the left. Side by side, the two cars bumped into each other, then veered apart.

  Headlights appeared on the road ahead.

  A truck coming their way.

  This is how Frankie died, Claire realized.

  The two drag racers held their lanes, claiming the width of the highway, offering no concession to the oncoming truck.

  Claire said, “They don’t know they’re about to die.”

  Trevor gained on the Chevy.

  Don’t get too close.

  “Samantha!” It was a young man’s voice, coming from the red Chevy.

  Frankie’s voice, or someone else?

  The window of the Chevy was rolled down now. The young man reached his hand out through the window, toward the coupe racing beside it. In his hand was a bright yellow scarf.

  Through the open window of the other car, a girl’s hand reached out and grabbed the scarf. The young man didn’t let go. Instead, he steered his car a little to the left, closer to the Deuce Coupe, and pulled on the scarf to draw the girl to his Chevy.

  She leaned out her window.

  He leaned out his.

  It’s him.

  “That’s Frankie Lamarque,” Claire said.

  The boy and girl kissed, silhouetted by the headlights of the onrushing truck.

  Claire heard the truck honk. Then a squeal of tires. The yellow coupe dropped back and cut quickly into the right lane, behind the Chevy and just ahead of the Hummer.

  The truck whooshed by.

  Sound without wind.

  Strange.

  Claire turned to watch the truck fade into nothingness.

  Ghost truck, she thought.

  “That was in…sane!” Trevor looked to Claire for confirmation.

  “Watch the road, Trevor.”

  “I am.”

  “There’s gonna be an accident.”

  The Deuce Coupe didn’t give up the race, but returned to the left lane and pulled even with the Chevy.

  Frankie shouted out the window, “What the hell, Darren?”

  The girl in the Deuce Coupe yelled, “Frankie! Help! Get me out! Get me out!”

  She’s terrified, Claire thought.

  The girl wasn’t afraid of the near collision, but of something inside her car—she was terrified of the driver, Darren.

  Frankie yelled, “Samantha, no!”

  Samantha opened the passenger door and leaned out, watching the road fly under her.

  She’s gonna jump.

  The coupe sideswiped the Chevy. The passenger door hit the Chevy hard. The door slammed shut, throwing Samantha back into her seat. The cars banged into each other again and again. The Chevy slowed and dropped back. The Deuce Coupe sideswiped it. The front end of the Chevy lifted up. It rose into the air as the other car went under it.

  The Chevy rolled, bounced, and tumbled.

  The driver’s door was torn off.

  A body flew out—

  Frankie.

  The body landed, rolled, and came to rest in the road.

  Beside the road, where the body fell, was some kind of marker.

  A statue.

  As the Hummer raced by, Claire saw the bronze bust of Frankie Lamarque.

  A roadside memorial. Wreaths, cards, fresh flowers.

  The Hummer drove right over Frankie’s body in the road, but Claire felt no bump of the tires because the corpse was a ghost.

  “Oh my God,” Dakota said. “What do we do?”

  “Drive,” Claire said.

  “But those people…”

  Trevor and Claire exchanged a look.

  Now he believes me.

  Trevor said, “They were dead already.”

  34

  The Hummer’s headlights glided over the road, giving the median line a steady pulse.

  Claire looked back at Ethan. His eyes were closed. His face showed no expression. But his chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm.

  He’s still alive, she thought.

  She reached back to hold Dakota’s hand, which was slick with Ethan’s blood.

  Trevor said, “Everyone okay?”

  “No, Trevor. We’re not okay.” Dakota’s tears had left her, but her eyes were red and her voice still trembled. “Ethan’s not okay. I’m not okay. None of us are okay. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Claire saw a light far off in the distance. “There’s a house up ahead.”

  Trevor eased up on the gas. “Something in the road.”

  It was a large tire. He swerved around it.

  “What was that?” Dakota asked.

  “Tire,” said Trevor.

  But is it real? Claire wondered. She thought back to the wall at Dinah’s Diner. The tire might be a phantom relic from some long-ago crash. The school bus?

  “There’s an accident up ahead,” she said.

  Trevor replied, “I don’t see it.”

  “You will.”

  Paper money swirled above the road.

  The bank truck. She’d read about a bank truck accident.

  A hundred dollar bill flew into the windshield.

  And through it.

  It fluttered a moment between Trevor and Claire, then sailed out the back as Trevor drove slowly ahead. More money followed. A flock of currency floated through the Hummer. Claire reached out to grab one of the hundred dollar bills, but her hand passed right through it.

  Trevor laughed. “If I were a ghost, I’d be rich.”

  Claire saw a vehicle in the road. “Trevor!”

  It was the bank truck, laying upside down across the highway. Trevor hit the brakes. The Hummer skidded. He regained control and steered slowly around the truck.

  Beyond the bank truck lay a smoldering school bus, torn in two.

  And corpses.

  Too many corpses.

  They were teenagers, girls wearing softball uniforms or cheerleading uniforms, though some of clothes had burned beyond recognition. Some were still burning. Most of th
e young victims lay silent in the road. A few crawled, bleeding, crying.

  Trevor’s eyes were anguished.

  Claire put a hand on his knee to comfort him. “They’re not real, Trevor.”

  “They were.”

  Cool air breezed in through the sunroof. Despite the horrific scene, the air did not smell of burning flesh or gasoline, but of mesquite and creosote, the natural smells of the desert.

  “It happened years ago,” Claire reminded him. “We can’t help them now. We can only help Ethan.”

  Trevor nodded, and eased the car forward through the carnage. The Hummer weaved in and out of twisted metal, broken bus seats, and mangle corpses.

  Claire studied the victims as they passed. “Nineteen people died.”

  Dakota said, “Claire, what’s happening?”

  “We’re seeing the old accidents on Blood Alley.”

  “Why?”

  “He wants us to see this. He wants us to know. Maybe because—”

  “No, I mean, if they all died…why are we still alive?”

  Because of me.

  The thought came suddenly, but she knew it was true. She felt it. There was some connection between herself and the Highwayman. He could have killed them already. But he was leading them on. Towards something. Towards—

  The farmhouse.

  A bleeding cheerleader stepped out of the darkness and onto the road. Her clothes were torn, her face gashed and dripping blood. A shard of window glass protruded from her forehead. Below the cut, a fold of skin drooped and covered one eye.

  Trevor slammed the brakes. Too late. The Hummer plowed straight into her.

  And passed right through.

  When the Hummer came to a stop, the wounded girl stood where the car was. Her legs were hidden beneath the floor, but her torso appeared between the seats.

  Horrified, Dakota raised a hand to cover her mouth. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

  The dead girl turned to face Claire.

  Can she see me?

  The fold of skin on the cheerleader’s forehead began to peel off. She touched her head. Felt the loose skin. Curious, the girl pulled on the skin to see what it was.

  Her entire face peeled off, exposing muscle, bone, blood—

  Trevor hit the accelerator. Tires burned rubber as the Hummer picked up speed, leaving the cheerleader behind. He drove over the corpses in the road, but the tires never felt them.