I Picked Up a Hitchhiker on a Highway That Never Ends

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My eyes snap open and I twist the wheel, just barely keeping the car on the road. And when I say barely, I mean that two of my tires touch gravel, nearly sending me into a sideways skid. Good thing I pulled it together, or I'd be in that ditch right now. I slap my face a couple of times, give my head a hard shake, then blink hard and focus on keeping the tires off the shoulder. My car straightens out, and the engine purrs along as the desert wind blows outside. The night and the highway are relentless. I swear that the sun set way longer than 12 hours ago. Shouldn't it be coming up behind me by now? Blinding me briefly in my rearview mirror? Yeah. But it's not. All I see is a stretch of highway that goes on for miles and miles, while bright stars and a moonless sky loom over everything. I try the radio again. But all I can get is some jazz station. And it's not even playing music. I don't mean it's playing some weird kind of jazz I don't understand. I mean there's literally no song, just a faint hiss of static and long stretches of dead air where the music should be. Maybe that is the music, and I'm just not sophisticated enough to get it. I'm no jazz aficionado, but I know the difference between Miles Davis and Louis Armstrong. The sound coming out of my speakers from miles and miles across the bleak landscape is neither Miles Davis nor Louis Armstrong. It's basically silence. Not that it matters much. What's coming out of my radio is the least of my worries. I go to switch it off when the announcer says "Here's a little big me up." His voice is old, gravely, and not just because of the ever-present static. He sounds like he's been in front of that microphone for decades, centuries, eons. Even with the interference, I can hear the sound of his lighter flicking and the long drag he takes as he sparks up a cigarette. Man, I could go for a smoke. It's been years, but there's something about driving alone at night, nothing but open road, open skies, and open possibilities to make you want a cigarette. Maybe open possibilities is stretching the truth a bit. I've got one possibility, but as much distance between me and the city as possible, and as fast as possible, I've got demons on my tail. Not real ones. That'd be crazy. Nah, just a couple of loan sharks looking to collect. One wants my cash, the other wants my head. I hope neither of them catches up to me, assuming they can even figure out which direction I went. Lot of roads lead out of the city, lot of roads. The jazz music the gravely voiced announcer promised still hasn't started, of course, and I turn the volume knob. All I get is a dangerous hiss, one that will blow out my eardrums if the music does start up suddenly. I turn the volume back to a safe level and wait. Rolling the window down, I shiver at the cold desert air that fills my car. That's incredible how it can be in the 90s during the day, then be in the 40s at night. The sting of the chill is definitely helping me keep my eyes open. Checking my rear view mirror, I think for a moment that I see headlights back there. But I'm wrong. A trick of the starlight is all. There's nothing back there, but cacti, cacti, and more cacti. Just like to the signs of me, just like in front of me. Which is where my attention is focused as I slam on the brakes, my hands gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles pop. The brakes squeal and tire skid, sending me a few degrees to the side. When my car stops, I'm idling at an angle across the highway, my heart pounding in my chest, my eyes wide with fear. I almost ran some chick down, and she doesn't seem to care at all. Standing there in only a white t-shirt and cut-offs, she leans down and looks at me through the side window. My finger hits the button, and the glass automatically rolls down. I'm at a loss for words for a couple of seconds, until she nods and pats the side of my car. Never mind. No, no, sure, yeah, hop in. She narrows her eyes, the nods, opens the door and gets in. Before I can say anything, or even do anything, she says, "Don't tell me your name." That should be a strange thing to say, except I get it. I've been there, man. Just trying to get from point A to point B without hassle, trouble, or drama. I look her up and down, and now that she's closer, I can see that hassle, trouble, and drama have already paid her a visit. Her t-shirt is torn. Her cut-offs are stained with what I can only assume is blood. I've seen a lot of blood on denim, and that's what it looks like. She has a bruise around her left eye, and her bottom lip is split. When I open my mouth to ask, she cuts me off with a sharp shake of her head. Again, I get it. I give her an understanding smile and throw the car in drive, straighten it out, and get my journey back on track. The music on the radio still hasn't started, so I go to switch it off. But she places her hand on mine and again shakes her head. I tell her there's nothing to listen to. She frowns, but doesn't reply. So I leave the radio on, letting the faint hiss of static fill the silence between us. We're maybe five miles down the highway when I think I see that flash of headlights again in my rear view. My shoulders scrunch, and my back tightens. The woman looks at me, then she glances back over her shoulder. She stays that way for a long while before looking back at me. And man, is she looking? She sits there, twisted in her seat, her eyes on me. She barely moves, barely breathes. It's creepy, yeah. But it's been a long time since a pretty chick, even if she is all beat up, as even glanced in my direction. After what feels like an eternity, she settles back into her seat, kicks her feet up onto the dash, and that's out a long sigh, finally seeming at ease. That's one I notice that she isn't wearing shoes. Her toes are dirty nubs, the heels and sides of her feet are cracked in bleeding. The tops of her feet are criss-crossed with scratches and cuts. I don't even want to know what the bottoms of those feet look like. How long has she been walking on this highway? I'd ask her, but she's made it clear that this is a no-conversation ride. No problem. I don't have to know her story. And I'm sure as hell not gonna tell her mine, I'd also ask her to put her nasty feet down. And I don't think that's the right move with this chick, so I keep my thoughts to myself. And I drive. An hour passes, and the announcer's voice slices through the silence like a chain saw through vanilla cake. I jump in my seat and the car swerves. I laugh as I get us back under control. Ain't worth troubling yourself over. Keep on the straight and narrow. Here's one for the lovers. I laugh again and make a comment about what a weirdo the guy is, but I do dig his voice face. My passenger says nothing in response. There might be a slight shrug, but it's hard to tell since I'm trying to focus on the road. At least I'm awake now. The announcer nearly scared me off the road, but the jolt of adrenaline did the trick. When I come down from the rush, the crash won't be pretty, but at least now I have a passenger to help keep me awake. The dead air continues on the radio despite the announcer's assurance that there'd be a song for the lovers. I don't know what audience he's planning to. It's the middle of the night. Lovers and anyone else are going to be asleep. He should play something for the late night loners, for the folks like me. Not that he seems to be playing anything anyway. I don't know much about radio technology, but I'm guessing the dude needs to flip a switch or something. Not much point to a jazz station when you can't hear the jazz. Something moves in the shadows on the side of the road, but we speed by too fast for me to make out what it was. Probably a coyote or whatever critters live out here in the desert. I heard someone say there are porcupines out here, but I don't believe it. Coyotes? Sure. Rattlers? Definitely. Armadillos, Jack rabbits, raccoons. You bet. Porcupines? Nah. You think there are porcupines in this desert? I ask the chick. She sighs and stays quiet. Yeah. I didn't think that would crack her. Not that I need her cracked. I'm just bored, and my eyes are beginning to droop again. The bracing air for my open window isn't helping anymore. I decide to roll it up and get a little warmth back into my body. The second I do, the smell starts to fill the car. It's like the odor. from a crawl space under a desert ranch house. Earthy, feral, ancient. Meet new grippy setting mist from Mavily New York. Gel to mist technology locks in your look for up to 24 hours, with flexible all-day comfy grip. Try new grippy setting mist from Mavily New York. Maybe it's Mabelane. If you're into horror with a heavy dose of sci-fi, classified experiments, and things humanity was never meant to understand, check out my other podcast, The SCP Experience. Each episode pulls you into the hidden world of the SCP Foundation, where dangerous anomalies are studied, contained, and sometimes unleashed. These aren't just scary stories. They're classified nightmares. Click here to listen now, or search for the SCP Experience, wherever you get your podcasts. I can't help but glance at the chick. It's gotta be her. Damn. A shower wouldn't be a bad idea when she gets to wherever she's going. She could also use some alcohol on those bloody feet, change of clothes, a brush through that rat's nest of hair she has piled on her head. Is she blonde? Like Brunette? Hard to tell in the dark. She must catch me looking because she turns her head to face me and raises an eyebrow. I smile and roll my eyes and focus on the highway. We drive. Time for a little rest. We'll over. Joy the air. Okay, weird announcer guy. Thanks for the suggestion. You ever thought of maybe? I don't know, playing music? I say none of this. I doubt the chick cares a lick about what the radio guy says. Yet, not a minute later, I'm proven wrong. Pull over. I glance at her in frown. Here? Now? She nods. You gotta pee or something? She doesn't respond. I'd argue with her because pulling over on this highway is the last thing I want to do. But whether she has two or not, I do actually have to take a leak. It's been a bit since my last pit stop. Slowing down, I eye the side of the road, looking for a spot that isn't overgrown with cacti and sagebrush. I'm seeing nothing when the chick points. There's a road. Well, road might be stretching the truth a bit. It's definitely a track or trail of some sort. I hit the brakes and spin the wheel, almost, passing the turn. But I make it without throwing us off the road. I drive a few yards more before stomping. The chick doesn't wait for me, doesn't say anything. Just opens her door, gets out, and starts walking into the dark desert. She probably wants a little privacy. No problem. I stay close to the car, and only go a few feet before unzipping my fly and letting loose on a cactus that doesn't deserve to get pissed on. But hey, life's rough, right? Done with my business, I zip up and walk back to my car. I lean against the trunk and cross my arms over my chest, waiting for the chick to return so I can get back on the road. I can't help but look back the way I just came. No headlights that I can see. Doesn't mean they aren't back there. And I know they are. Maybe not on this exact highway, but they are coming for me. You don't walk away from deaths like mine. You run away, which is exactly what I am doing. But running or not, the helms are tracking me. I bet Tommy has his best goons sniffing my trail. He probably sent that one guy who looks like he got slammed in the face a few times by a cast iron skillet. Nielsen has that guy Beaufort after me. I would lay good money on that. Of course, laying good money on pointless bets is how I got into this mess in the first place. But, for now at least, the coast is clear. All I need to do is get back on the road and keep putting some distance between me and the city. With that thought in mind, I stand up and walk a little ways in the direction the chick went. With no moon, it's impossible to see much of anything. There are hints and outlines of shapes. I'm guessing more cacti. Then I see something move out there, just a shift of a shadow. Probably half a football field away. No, no. It can't be that far away. Too dark. Gotta be closer. I'm about to shout to see if she's alright. I really want to yell for her to get her ass back here so I can get back on the road. My hands are cupping my mouth and the shout is just rising in my throat when a blood-curdling screen pierces the night. I stumble backwards, my ass bumping the fender of my car. Racing around to the driver's side, I throw open the door, reach in and flip on the headlights. There, standing maybe 20 yards from me, is the chick. And she's coated in blood. Like from head to toe, she's nothing but dripping dark red. And she's holding something against her mouth. And large enough that I can see it hanging from her hands. But not clearly enough to tell what it is. Her jaw moves and quick jerking motions as she tears at it. And the entire time, her eyes stay fixed in my direction. I tell myself she can't actually see me through the glare of the headlights. But it sure feels like she can. Yeah, I think I'm done with this chick. I hop into the driver's seat and slam the door closed. My hand finds the keys in the ignition and I turn them hard. Grind, grind, grind, sputter. Die. The engine doesn't turn over. Meanwhile, the chick has dropped whatever unfortunate animal she was, doing whatever she was doing to it, and is slowly walking in my direction. I turn the keys again, grind, grind, rumble, growl, sputter, sputter, die. Damn it. I smash my fist against the steering wheel. The chick is still walking toward me, taking a deep breath through my nose, then out through my mouth as my therapist taught me. Not that I can afford his ass anymore. I try to relax and center myself. My hand grips my keys. The third time is the charm. I turn the keys, grind, grind, sputter, die. Nothing. I shout every curse I know at my car and turn the keys once more. Rumble, rumble, roar. Fourth time is the charm. The engine stays alive as I throw the car into reverse and slam my foot on the gas pedal. The chick is still walking toward me. Oh, no. I'm wrong. She's now running toward me. Hooking an arm over the back seat, I turn myself around and drive my car in reverse all the way back to the highway. Once I reach the road, I whip the wheel and spin backwards onto the asphalt. I barely glance at the chick, but what I see is terrifying. She's running so fast that she doesn't have time to stop and slams into the side of my car. I throw it in drive, hit the gas again, and I'm speeding off before she can pick herself up. In the rear view mirror, I see her walk out to the center line and just stand there, coated in blood, watching me drive away without her. She doesn't move an inch the entire time. I only lose sight of her because the highway takes a little rise than a dip blocking her from my view. As soon as she is out of sight, I relax a little, only a little. Whatever that was back there, whoever that chick is, it doesn't matter anymore. What does matter is that I still have some bad dudes in my ass and I need to keep putting distance between them and me. Gel to mist technology locks in your look for up to 24 hours, with flexible all day comfy grip. Maybe it's Mavily. The radio crackles and the announcer says, "A long drive ahead, that's not be alone. Here's something to keep your company." Whatever dude, I'm not surprised that absolutely zero music follows his little announcement. The highway stretches on and I keep my car aimed straight, which proves harder to do as time wears on. My eyes want to close and my chin wants to dip to my chest. I have the window open again, taking deep breaths of the cold air, hoping it will shock me into staying awake. But as my eyes snap open, I realize that I'm fighting a losing battle. Then I slam on the brakes, the chick is standing in the middle of the highway again. What the hell? I swerve around her and stop, my chest heaving with panic. Christ. I almost ran her over. Christ. How is she even here? How'd she get ahead of me? In the passenger's side mirror, I can see her walking toward my car. I hit the gas and speed away. I don't really care how she did what she did, so I'm not sticking around to ask. After a few seconds, she's nothing but a silhouette in my rear view. A shiver runs down my spine. I do not need this crap. I got my own crap to deal with. The highway starts to rise again, just a little hill, barely a bump really. But it's something to cut the monotony of this straight stretch. When I crest the hill, a dark silhouette appears in the middle of the road. I jerk the wheel uninstinct, slam on the brakes, and skid off onto the shoulder. Desert dust billows through my open window, and I cough as I wave it away. By the time I look back, the road behind me is empty. I check myself, then the car, and nearly jump out of my skin when the passenger's side door suddenly opens. The chick eases herself into the seat and shuts the door. Coded in blood. She turns to me and says, "You left me." All I can do is nod. Yeah, I left her. A lot of good that did. We should go. She ain't wrong. Although I'm not happy about the Wii aspect of all this. this. I'd fight and argue and try to kick her out of my car, but I don't think this chick is normal, and I definitely don't want to end up like whatever it was that she was snacking on back there. So I throw the car into drive, crank the wheel, and get us onto the highway and aimed the right way. She kicks her feet up onto the dash again and gets settled. Then she reaches out and takes my hand from the steering wheel and holds it to her bloody chest. "It's okay," she says. "It's all okay." Not wanting to anger the strange woman covered in blood, I just nod. Then, maybe a mile later, I see the tail end of a car sticking up out of a ditch. Strange. It looks just like my car. It even has a few of the same bumper stickers. No, no. It has all the same bumper stickers. As we pass by, I whip my neck around and stare at the car. It looks like it's been there a while. The chick is still holding my hand, and when I look at her, she's smiling. "It's good to have friends, especially in the unknown." The announcer laughs. The chick laughs, and I laugh, because I can finally hear the music. Just plump, dewy, hydrated skin. That still feels like your skin. Maybe it's Maybelline!