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Description
Two round headlights pierced the darkness as the solitary car made its way along a lonely stretch of highway, the asphalt artery of a sleeping countryside. Cold, blue moonlight sporadically peeked from behind the rolling onyx clouds, illuminating temporarily the encroaching, shadowed rows of gnarled trees that loomed on either side of the road. Powdered snow slithered away before the oncoming car like rivulets of mist in a sturdy wind; white, ethereal snakes writhing before the pallid parallel lights that heralded the approaching vehicle. The road was alive and pulsing with its own frigid heartbeat. Snow began to fall again, heavier and harder. It blew in on a slant, pummeling the car as if to alter it from its course, but to no avail. Into the ice and snow the little vehicle drove, continuing its flight through the flurry, refusing to be consumed by winter's icy breath.

Inside the car, Mark took comfort in the knowledge that he had just gotten the heater fixed and the engine tuned up. Safely tucked inside his mobile pocket of warmth he could concentrate on driving; a task made difficult by the harrying gusts of snow assaulting his windshield. Dual wipers raced rhythmically over the front glass, allowing brief glimpses of the road between each trek from left to right. Manmade markings were nearly invisible; painted lines disappearing below the ice. All that remained was the gray path encompassed on both sides by white.

"Stay on the gray," thought Mark to himself, "stay on the gray."

Whenever reception allowed, the occasional, scratchy voice of the radio broke the rhythm of the blades and the hum of the heater. It made Mark feel more comfortable, like he was not really alone on this desolate highway. Phone service was sporadic as well. Mark's cell phone danced in and out of service. To break down here would be particularly precarious. He had not passed another car for two hours and the last town he had driven through was ninety miles behind him.

"Stay on the gray".

Another hour passed and Mark had yet to see a road sign. He hoped he was going the right direction yet slowly but surely, the first few shreds of fear were starting to weave their way into his nervous thoughts. He tried to suppress the feelings of panic that kept arising with thoughts of running out of gas, or breaking down, or driving off the road. His stress was palpable inside the car, pulsating through his consciousness. With temperatures in the negatives and no signs of civilization for miles, an immobile vehicle might as well be a casket on wheels, complete with custom leather interior and power locks and windows.

"A funeral fit for a NASCAR driver," chuckled Mark to himself, finding the humor in the macabre thought.

He was desperate for some sign of humanity to confirm his continued existence in the realm of the living; anything at all besides the endless snow. Hope was fading fast for Mark. Then up ahead, out of the darkness, his headlights gleamed off of something metallic.

"Please be a road sign," he prayed.

As he got closer, he realized that it was too large to be a road sign. And the nearer he got the more visible it became until the specter of a black car off in the ditch slowly began to materialize. As he drew nearer he became aware of the man standing next to it. Tall, the man walked into the middle of the road waiving his lanky arms above his head desperately. The dusty coat that clung to his frame was plastered with frost as was his washed out denim jeans. Twin headlights cast a ghostly glow over the man and etched his hard features in shadow. Mark stopped next to him and rolled down his window, allowing the snow to invade the asylum of his car and instantly rip away the warmth therein.

"Well don't just stand there," yelled Mark over the howling wind, "get in!"

The man opened the door and sat down on the passenger side seat. Mark quickly rolled up the window, shivering from the sudden plummet in temperature. Now that the wind and snow were once again banished from the confines of the vehicle, the heater groaned and strained in its attempt to reheat the space. Hot air poured out of the vents like water from the gills of a fish. Slowly the car began to warm again and Mark turned towards the stranger.

"Good thing I came by." said Mark. "Wouldn't want to be stuck out there too long."

The stranger nodded in agreement.

"I have a phone if you need to— " Mark started to offer, but in pulling out his cell he saw that he had no service. "Sorry. No go. I'll give you a ride to the next town, though. Maybe you can get a place for the night and get a ride back here tomorrow to fix your car. Do you have any money?"

The man simply nodded.

"Not very talkative," thought Mark to himself, a little perturbed by the apparent rudeness of his passenger.

In comfortless silence the two men rode on, Mark concentrating on the road and his new acquaintance gazing out the side window, inches from the glass, his hot breath an effluvium ebbing and flowing against the window in steady repetition. In the soft red glow from the instrument panel Mark could make out a little more of his passenger. He was tall, well over six feet by the way he sat, and of average build. By the slight graying of his hair and his worn face with the faint beginnings of wrinkles, Mark judged the man to be in his mid fifty's. His face was unshaven and he wore thick, black-rimmed glasses. Something about the man's demeanor made him uncomfortable. He had the look of a man that had lived a long, hard life. The word haunted came to mind. And the fact that he hadn't spoken one word upset Mark. He sped up a little; eager to get to the next town and still ignorant as to how far that actually was.

"Where am I?" thought Mark.

Every minute that passed he became more anxious, more worried, and more uncomfortable. He did not remember the drive being this long. The same fear that had threatened to grip him earlier was beginning to swell up again in the back of his mind like a vast lake trapped just beyond the barrier of a dam; a torrent held in check for now but roiling and ready to escape. Every minute that passed without Mark seeing a road sign, or a town, or any trace of humankind weighed heavily on him. And this recent addition to his four-wheeled haven did little to alleviate these apprehensions.

They were traveling through hilly terrain. The radio, while loud and clear from atop the crests, was overcome with static in the valleys between. Mark could make out pieces of songs, and reports, and commercials but seldom heard more than a few minutes at a time. Still he left it on for the company. Even periodic bursts of noise where more than he got from his reticent companion. He turned it into a game; guessing the name of the song or the product being advertised from the few audible minutes, or often seconds he had available.

"—the candles blew then disappeared, the curtains flew then he appearedsaying don't be afraid. Come on baby— and she had no fear—" pierced the constant static with its eerie melody and just as quickly was consumed by the white noise.

"The Reaper by the Blue Oyster Cult," said Mark to himself. His companion didn't move; didn't speak.

Next hill—

"—and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, the dreams in which I'm dyin' are the best I've ever had—"

"'Mad World'. That one was easy"

Still nothing from his motionless companion.

Next song—

"In restless dreams I walked alone, narrow streets of cobblestone. Neath the halo of a street lamp, I turned my collar to the cold and damp."

"The Sound of Silence," Mark thought, "but who sings that one. Oh yeah— Simon and Garfunkel."

The car dipped into another valley changing the slow, haunting tone of the song into crackling and hissing noise. When the car again climbed to an elevation allowing reception the song was over and the announcer was talking about local news.

"The mayor's proposal will be resubmitted on Tuesday for further delegation. In other news, are our roads really as safe as we thought they were? The sheriff's department announced that the missing inmate from our earlier report might be in the area. Mr. Rude is a violent sociopath accused of killing three people already. He is fifty years old, six foot three inches tall, and was last seen driving a black Nissan. He is armed and dangerous. If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Mr. Rude you can call our emergency hotline at—"

Static!

Mark turned and looked at his tall, middle-aged passenger; wide eyes stared directly back at him from beneath thick black glasses from the man that had previously ignored him altogether. The dam was broken and the torrent was released as cold realization rushed over the two men like a flood. Their eyes were locked and both men understood what was going to happen next. The knife appeared as if from nowhere and lingered in the air, the warm, ruddy light glinting off its ominous metal surface before it plunged down into flesh. Hot blood sprayed against the windshield, smeared by flailing hands. The grotesque geyser painted the windows red. Again, the knife flew into the air and again it pierced its dying victim. Over and over the unfeeling, unmerciful knife cut and stabbed, ripped and hacked, dancing through the air in spasms of rage and a paroxysm of fury! The car swerved out of control, colliding with an embankment of snow on the side of the road. The radio report still echoed through Mark's head.

"—missing inmate—"

The struggling slows.

"—killing three people—"

Lights grow dim.

"—violent sociopath—"

Labored breathing creeps to a stop.

"—Mr. Rude—"

Heart stops and soul departs—

A week later Mark's freshly cleaned car rolled into an old gas station in a small rural town. All but the largest piles of snow had melted away and turned the parking lot into a quagmire of mud and standing water. The sun, peering through the morning mist, shined on an ancient sign out front, covered with decades of rust. The car stopped in front of an out of service, red and white gas pump; an heirloom of a time past. Its counter, beneath busted glass, read thirty-five cents a gallon. A man in his mid-fifties stepped out and sloshed over to the building, which despite the test of time was still open. Quiet music seeped from a dust-covered radio and blended into the background of the building; calming music like the nostalgic melodies of an elevator. The man nonchalantly set a drink, a bag of chips, and a weekend paper onto the countertop. The elderly woman behind the register began ringing it up, humming to herself as she did. Her quiet, crackling tones blending seamlessly with the song on the radio. Behind her, a small black and white television was bolted to the wall. Behind the cobwebs and dust, the morning news was on.

"—the body was found this morning. The cause of death was a series of brutal stab wounds. He is believed to be the fourth victim of Mr. Rude, the escaped convict that is still missing—"

"What a cryin' shame," said the woman from behind the counter, "I knew that there man, ya' know. Use a come by 'ere e'ery now n'again when he was in the area."

The customer stared back at her in silence.

"Nice guy, that'n."

The man nodded then turned his attention back to the news report.

"—the family of the victim are mourning the loss. Authorities say that the killer may still be in the area and locals should be very careful when—"

"That'll be $3.86, Sugar." interrupted the lady.

The man dug through his pockets and slapped a crumpled up five onto the counter.

"He was a mute," she added.

The man looked at her curiously.

"That there man what got killed. He couldn't talk none."

She opened the register and placed the 5 into the slot, pulling out a dollar and fishing for change. By the time she had it the man was at the door on his way out.

"Your change, mista'!" hollered the woman.

"Keep it," shouted back Mark Rude as he rushed back to his black Nissan. "I'm in a hurry."

He chuckled to himself, "So that's why he was so rude to me, not saying anything or thanking me for the ride. Well, he'll never be rude to anyone anymore!"

Description
Two round headlights pierced the darkness as the solitary car made its way along a lonely stretch of highway, the asphalt artery of a sleeping countryside. Cold, blue moonlight sporadically peeked from behind the rolling onyx clouds, illuminating temporarily the encroaching, shadowed rows of gnarled trees that loomed on either side of the road. Powdered snow slithered away before the oncoming car like rivulets of mist in a sturdy wind; white, ethereal snakes writhing before the pallid parallel lights that heralded the approaching vehicle. The road was alive and pulsing with its own frigid heartbeat. Snow began to fall again, heavier and harder. It blew in on a slant, pummeling the car as if to alter it from its course, but to no avail. Into the ice and snow the little vehicle drove, continuing its flight through the flurry, refusing to be consumed by winter's icy breath.

Inside the car, Mark took comfort in the knowledge that he had just gotten the heater fixed and the engine tuned up. Safely tucked inside his mobile pocket of warmth he could concentrate on driving; a task made difficult by the harrying gusts of snow assaulting his windshield. Dual wipers raced rhythmically over the front glass, allowing brief glimpses of the road between each trek from left to right. Manmade markings were nearly invisible; painted lines disappearing below the ice. All that remained was the gray path encompassed on both sides by white.

"Stay on the gray," thought Mark to himself, "stay on the gray."

Whenever reception allowed, the occasional, scratchy voice of the radio broke the rhythm of the blades and the hum of the heater. It made Mark feel more comfortable, like he was not really alone on this desolate highway. Phone service was sporadic as well. Mark's cell phone danced in and out of service. To break down here would be particularly precarious. He had not passed another car for two hours and the last town he had driven through was ninety miles behind him.

"Stay on the gray".

Another hour passed and Mark had yet to see a road sign. He hoped he was going the right direction yet slowly but surely, the first few shreds of fear were starting to weave their way into his nervous thoughts. He tried to suppress the feelings of panic that kept arising with thoughts of running out of gas, or breaking down, or driving off the road. His stress was palpable inside the car, pulsating through his consciousness. With temperatures in the negatives and no signs of civilization for miles, an immobile vehicle might as well be a casket on wheels, complete with custom leather interior and power locks and windows.

"A funeral fit for a NASCAR driver," chuckled Mark to himself, finding the humor in the macabre thought.

He was desperate for some sign of humanity to confirm his continued existence in the realm of the living; anything at all besides the endless snow. Hope was fading fast for Mark. Then up ahead, out of the darkness, his headlights gleamed off of something metallic.

"Please be a road sign," he prayed.

As he got closer, he realized that it was too large to be a road sign. And the nearer he got the more visible it became until the specter of a black car off in the ditch slowly began to materialize. As he drew nearer he became aware of the man standing next to it. Tall, the man walked into the middle of the road waiving his lanky arms above his head desperately. The dusty coat that clung to his frame was plastered with frost as was his washed out denim jeans. Twin headlights cast a ghostly glow over the man and etched his hard features in shadow. Mark stopped next to him and rolled down his window, allowing the snow to invade the asylum of his car and instantly rip away the warmth therein.

"Well don't just stand there," yelled Mark over the howling wind, "get in!"

The man opened the door and sat down on the passenger side seat. Mark quickly rolled up the window, shivering from the sudden plummet in temperature. Now that the wind and snow were once again banished from the confines of the vehicle, the heater groaned and strained in its attempt to reheat the space. Hot air poured out of the vents like water from the gills of a fish. Slowly the car began to warm again and Mark turned towards the stranger.

"Good thing I came by." said Mark. "Wouldn't want to be stuck out there too long."

The stranger nodded in agreement.

"I have a phone if you need to— " Mark started to offer, but in pulling out his cell he saw that he had no service. "Sorry. No go. I'll give you a ride to the next town, though. Maybe you can get a place for the night and get a ride back here tomorrow to fix your car. Do you have any money?"

The man simply nodded.

"Not very talkative," thought Mark to himself, a little perturbed by the apparent rudeness of his passenger.

In comfortless silence the two men rode on, Mark concentrating on the road and his new acquaintance gazing out the side window, inches from the glass, his hot breath an effluvium ebbing and flowing against the window in steady repetition. In the soft red glow from the instrument panel Mark could make out a little more of his passenger. He was tall, well over six feet by the way he sat, and of average build. By the slight graying of his hair and his worn face with the faint beginnings of wrinkles, Mark judged the man to be in his mid fifty's. His face was unshaven and he wore thick, black-rimmed glasses. Something about the man's demeanor made him uncomfortable. He had the look of a man that had lived a long, hard life. The word haunted came to mind. And the fact that he hadn't spoken one word upset Mark. He sped up a little; eager to get to the next town and still ignorant as to how far that actually was.

"Where am I?" thought Mark.

Every minute that passed he became more anxious, more worried, and more uncomfortable. He did not remember the drive being this long. The same fear that had threatened to grip him earlier was beginning to swell up again in the back of his mind like a vast lake trapped just beyond the barrier of a dam; a torrent held in check for now but roiling and ready to escape. Every minute that passed without Mark seeing a road sign, or a town, or any trace of humankind weighed heavily on him. And this recent addition to his four-wheeled haven did little to alleviate these apprehensions.

They were traveling through hilly terrain. The radio, while loud and clear from atop the crests, was overcome with static in the valleys between. Mark could make out pieces of songs, and reports, and commercials but seldom heard more than a few minutes at a time. Still he left it on for the company. Even periodic bursts of noise where more than he got from his reticent companion. He turned it into a game; guessing the name of the song or the product being advertised from the few audible minutes, or often seconds he had available.

"—the candles blew then disappeared, the curtains flew then he appearedsaying don't be afraid. Come on baby— and she had no fear—" pierced the constant static with its eerie melody and just as quickly was consumed by the white noise.

"The Reaper by the Blue Oyster Cult," said Mark to himself. His companion didn't move; didn't speak.

Next hill—

"—and I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, the dreams in which I'm dyin' are the best I've ever had—"

"'Mad World'. That one was easy"

Still nothing from his motionless companion.

Next song—

"In restless dreams I walked alone, narrow streets of cobblestone. Neath the halo of a street lamp, I turned my collar to the cold and damp."

"The Sound of Silence," Mark thought, "but who sings that one. Oh yeah— Simon and Garfunkel."

The car dipped into another valley changing the slow, haunting tone of the song into crackling and hissing noise. When the car again climbed to an elevation allowing reception the song was over and the announcer was talking about local news.

"The mayor's proposal will be resubmitted on Tuesday for further delegation. In other news, are our roads really as safe as we thought they were? The sheriff's department announced that the missing inmate from our earlier report might be in the area. Mr. Rude is a violent sociopath accused of killing three people already. He is fifty years old, six foot three inches tall, and was last seen driving a black Nissan. He is armed and dangerous. If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Mr. Rude you can call our emergency hotline at—"

Static!

Mark turned and looked at his tall, middle-aged passenger; wide eyes stared directly back at him from beneath thick black glasses from the man that had previously ignored him altogether. The dam was broken and the torrent was released as cold realization rushed over the two men like a flood. Their eyes were locked and both men understood what was going to happen next. The knife appeared as if from nowhere and lingered in the air, the warm, ruddy light glinting off its ominous metal surface before it plunged down into flesh. Hot blood sprayed against the windshield, smeared by flailing hands. The grotesque geyser painted the windows red. Again, the knife flew into the air and again it pierced its dying victim. Over and over the unfeeling, unmerciful knife cut and stabbed, ripped and hacked, dancing through the air in spasms of rage and a paroxysm of fury! The car swerved out of control, colliding with an embankment of snow on the side of the road. The radio report still echoed through Mark's head.

"—missing inmate—"

The struggling slows.

"—killing three people—"

Lights grow dim.

"—violent sociopath—"

Labored breathing creeps to a stop.

"—Mr. Rude—"

Heart stops and soul departs—

A week later Mark's freshly cleaned car rolled into an old gas station in a small rural town. All but the largest piles of snow had melted away and turned the parking lot into a quagmire of mud and standing water. The sun, peering through the morning mist, shined on an ancient sign out front, covered with decades of rust. The car stopped in front of an out of service, red and white gas pump; an heirloom of a time past. Its counter, beneath busted glass, read thirty-five cents a gallon. A man in his mid-fifties stepped out and sloshed over to the building, which despite the test of time was still open. Quiet music seeped from a dust-covered radio and blended into the background of the building; calming music like the nostalgic melodies of an elevator. The man nonchalantly set a drink, a bag of chips, and a weekend paper onto the countertop. The elderly woman behind the register began ringing it up, humming to herself as she did. Her quiet, crackling tones blending seamlessly with the song on the radio. Behind her, a small black and white television was bolted to the wall. Behind the cobwebs and dust, the morning news was on.

"—the body was found this morning. The cause of death was a series of brutal stab wounds. He is believed to be the fourth victim of Mr. Rude, the escaped convict that is still missing—"

"What a cryin' shame," said the woman from behind the counter, "I knew that there man, ya' know. Use a come by 'ere e'ery now n'again when he was in the area."

The customer stared back at her in silence.

"Nice guy, that'n."

The man nodded then turned his attention back to the news report.

"—the family of the victim are mourning the loss. Authorities say that the killer may still be in the area and locals should be very careful when—"

"That'll be $3.86, Sugar." interrupted the lady.

The man dug through his pockets and slapped a crumpled up five onto the counter.

"He was a mute," she added.

The man looked at her curiously.

"That there man what got killed. He couldn't talk none."

She opened the register and placed the 5 into the slot, pulling out a dollar and fishing for change. By the time she had it the man was at the door on his way out.

"Your change, mista'!" hollered the woman.

"Keep it," shouted back Mark Rude as he rushed back to his black Nissan. "I'm in a hurry."

He chuckled to himself, "So that's why he was so rude to me, not saying anything or thanking me for the ride. Well, he'll never be rude to anyone anymore!"