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The Hitchhiker

Lawrence Basher

    Walking down the dark desert highway, the cool wind rustles my hair and the lights of the Vegas strip shine miles behind me. My backpack weighs heavy on my shoulders and a shiver runs up my spine. Light illuminates my path and I stick out my thumb to hail a ride. A white Chevy truck pulls over.
    “Where ya headed, kid?” the man asks in a thick country accent.
    “Anywhere but here.”
    “Well then, hop in,” the man says reaching over and swinging the passenger side door open.
    I climb into the truck and close the door behind me. The cabin of the truck smells like stale beer and cool ranch Doritos. Not a good combination.
    “So, what’s your name, kid?” he asks.
    I stay silent.
    “No names then, got it.”
    As I sit here, I carefully study the man. He looks young. Mid to late twenties with a pale white completion, his hair is covered up by a Houston Texans hat. His chest isn’t expanding or contracting. If he was breathing I couldn’t tell.
    We ride in silence for a few miles until the man starts asking questions again.
    “So, what are you running away from kid?” the man asks.
    “What makes you think I’m running from something?” I say.
    “I’ve seen your sort before,” the man says, his tone shifts from questioning to sincere. “We’re all running away from something or other,” he flashes a weak smile.
    “What are you running away from,” I ask.
    “I asked you first, kid,” his tone changing from sincere to stern.
    “My mom passed a few days ago. She was the only family I had left.”
    “That’s rough, kid,” the man says, the expression on his face goes blank like he’s remembering something.
    “What happened to your pa?”
    “What?”
    “You said your Ma was the only family you had left. So, what happened to you Pa?”
    “He was murdered on his way home from work one night. They found him dead in an ally. He had been dragged from his car and his throat was slit open. By the time they got there, he didn’t have a single drop of blood left in his body. The strange thing was that he bled out in seconds and it usually takes about three to five minutes to bleed out from a wound like that.”
    “Wow, kid. That’s a crazy story you got there,” he says as sweat runs down his face.
    “I just want to know one thing. Did you know that he had a five-year-old son at home when you drank him dry?” I say reaching behind me and grabbing the flask of holy water from my back pocket.
    “Kid, that was a long time ago. I had just been turned, I wasn’t in control. I’m sorry.”
    “Apologies won’t bring my father back,” I say as I splash the holy water on his face.
    He screams as he holds his face in his hands.
    He slams on the brakes and my head smashes off the dashboard. He lunges at me and disoriented, I throw my arms up to protect myself. The man bites down on my arm, his teeth cut deep into my flesh.
    I scream.
    Punching the man in the face I feel his nose breaking with the force of my punch and he lets go of my arm. I grab the handhold on the ceiling of the truck and with both feet kick the man sending him out the driver’s side door and onto the pavement. I pull the handle on the door and fall out of the truck onto my back. Pain shoots through my spine as I hit the ground.
    Something grabs my ankle and I’m pulled to the other side of the truck. The man kneels over me, his hand strikes down like a spear aimed for my head. Rolling to my side I get up and run. His hand hits the pavement, the ground crumbles with his hand. He lets out a loud scream and I turn to face him.
    He leaps at me pining me to the ground. I kick him in the chest and he falls to his back. Just as he hits the ground an eighteen-wheeler Mac truck careens by running him over. Blood covers the ground where he now lays.
    I stand up and I walk over to his mangled body.
    “Fifteen years I’ve looked for you, fifteen years I’ve trained to kill you. “
    “Kid, please. Wait.”
    I pull a wooden stake from a holster located on the small of my back and grab the man by the shirt.
    “Beg all you want, but you’re just a monster and I kill monsters.”
    “You think I deserve this,” the man asks.
    “Yes, you do.”
    “I’m a victim here too. I had my whole life stolen from me.”
    “I don’t care.”
    I stake him in the heart and with one last scream he erupts into flames and dissolves into a pile of ash on the ground.
    Blood flows red from the wound on my arm. I sit on the ground and pull gauze out of my backpack. I wrap it around my forearm and get into the truck. I feel a headache coming on as I turn the key and shift the truck into drive. I pull away as the sun rises before me. I feel a sense of pride wash over me. I know it will soon turn into regret. It always does, but for now I feel pride and that is good enough.

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