The night air swept into the car, exchanging the odor of cigarettes and sweat with a deep scent of lilacs. Too many hours sitting in the driver’s seat, pushing myself to keep going, no desire to stop. Weights attached themselves to my eyelids, drawing them closed, scaring me half to death. Instead of pulling over and resting, I decided fresh air blowing in my face would keep my eyelids gravity free.
 
Fog flittered across the road, my headlights breaking through the mist, revealing just enough of the road to keep me alive. Not that it mattered. The last car I encountered flew by me over three hours ago. Seemed no one used these back highways after the major interstates opened. The passing landscape was littered with abandoned buildings, family-owned businesses long gone, decrepit and decayed like the families’ dreams. Now hovels for wild animals, their feral eyes glowing as I drove by them.
 
With a soft click I turned on the radio, only to hear a welcoming static seep out of the speakers. I thumbed the dial back and forth hoping for a bit of humanity to help keep me awake. Zilch on the radio, a perfect match for the road before me.
 
Two glowing eyes of light appeared in the rearview mirror, small dots getting bigger with each passing second. Within moments the two dots transformed into large orbs, like twin starbursts rushing toward me. I pulled my foot off the gas allowing the car to slow down, hoping the driver would go around. The inside of my car lit up as the headlights got closer, revealing the multitude of half-smoked cigarettes vying for room in my ashtray and the various soda bottles, empty except for that small amount of backwash I could never seem to swallow.
 
The reflection of the car’s headlights glared into my eyes, forcing me to squint, not wanting them to close in case I needed to make a quick decision in the next moment or two. I felt my body go into crisis mode, the muscles tensing, preparing for an impact, the heart pumping blood and adrenaline into the body. The car got close enough for me to realize an accident was going to happen; I braced myself with the steering wheel. Then, with the skill of a racecar driver, the person switched lanes. The sound of the small engine filled my ears as the tiny gray sports car rushed past me, throwing up leaves and dirt in its wake.
 
The passing bullet was an apparent attempt to recreate a street racer. This told me it was more than likely a teenager reenacting a scene they saw in a movie, one of those street racer films where the smallest cars in the world seem to have the fastest engines. Not like when I was growing up and bigger meant better, that nice large V-12 pushing out enough horsepower to pull a tank, the flaps on the engine shouting out spurts of exhaust, women swooning at the rev of the engine. That was the kind of car that meant speed, a nice solid muscle car.
 
Unfortunately times were rough and although I would love nothing more than to be sitting behind the wheel of a powerful car, I could not afford one. Instead I rode along the desolate highway in my economy car, five years old and rusting when I bought it. Nothing to be proud of, but at least it would get me to where I needed to be, and right now that was as far away from home as possible. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a cigarette, my heart needing a smoke after the near accident with the miniature sports car.
 
I lit the cigarette and wondered if things would be different across the country, better. Life had not worked out the way I planned so far: years of struggle, years of dedication all thrown away by a single act. Sadly, not an act of my own doing. Seems my boss frowned down upon the fact I had an issue with him sleeping with my wife. Fifteen loyal years as an employee, making sure the company’s needs always came first, ten years as a loving, trusting husband, making sure my wife was always taken care of. Gone in the blink of an eye. Never would I have imagined opening the wrong credit card statement could have such a devastating effect.
 
I could have lived with her infidelity, passed it off as my failing as a husband. She was my life, my every reason for being. When we met, she was so frail, her body lying on the side of the road, a victim of a hit and run, her bike a mangled mess of metal, her legs shattered in multiple places, blood coating her pallid skin. I could not have left her there even if I wanted to; the voice inside my head that felt compelled to help a woman in trouble forced me to stay and do what was needed. I did my best, got her medical attention, stayed by her side through the entire ordeal, holding her fragile hand, never knowing her name. Three months later we wed. My life was complete.
 
I don’t know when their affair started; according to her it was a one-time mistake, according to my accidental viewing of her credit card receipts it was three years. When I found out who the other man was, my image of the world shattered further, the frail remnants that clung on to reality slipping into the void of betrayal. I did the only thing that made sense, confront the man that destroyed my happiness. He laughed in my face when I accused him, never denying it, only smiling that corporate smile, his white hair slicked back, his false tan mocking my existence. I wanted to punch him, a vengeful fist, yet I knew the man I was dealing with, and I knew the outcome of such actions. Jail was not on my list of wanted experiences. With a head leaden with defeat I left his office and sullenly went home. The next morning I morosely went to work, not wanting to face the man who robbed me of my dignity, hoping to show some sense of victory by coming in, only to find my belongings neatly packed in a box waiting for me at the front desk.
 
That night, after my immoral wife fell asleep with dreams of her adulterated passion flitting through her head, I packed what possessions I felt I needed and left, resisting the urge to kiss her cheek good-bye. That was three tanks of gas and ten packs of cigarettes ago. My goal was not set, there was no destination planned; I just felt the need to drive until I found where I truly belonged. A small town with good, wholesome people, neighbors that knew your name, and your parent’s name. The type of town that was slowly becoming extinct, yet someone forgot to put them on the endangered species list.
 
A forceful wind shook the car, the steering wheel jumping from my hands, directing me toward the ditch on the side of the road. I grasped the wheel with both hands, quickly pulling it back to center. The cause of the wind was a red pick-up, the type in television commercials that say it can pull an entire house. A slight exaggeration. Still, large enough when racing by, the truck left a giant wind to knock small cars like mine around.
 
As the red streak disappeared into the night I realized their headlights were off, explaining why I never saw them coming. There was no moon to help illuminate the nothingness around, and if there was, the clouds painted across the canopy sky would block out any light it might provide. Seemed my desolate highway was not so empty.
 
I stubbed my cigarette out into the mass of butts overfilling my ashtray and immediately lit another. The stress of losing your wife and job in one day was bad enough, adding in two near-accidents was asking my nerves to handle too much. My hands shook as I pulled the cigarette out of my mouth, a puff of smoke following. Tired was no longer an issue; I was pushing myself past plain tired and into the realm of full exhaustion.
 
I doubted a hotel would magically appear in the distance, a red neon sign flashing vacancy, the letter c burnt out. No, that was not what my future held. I knew sleep would be in the confines of my economy car, scrunched up in the backseat using my jacket for a blanket. I needed to find a small dirt road or open field to pull into. The only thing running alongside me was a ditch, and in the darkness it was hard to tell if it was empty or filled with muck-covered water.
 
In the distance, beyond the view my headlights provided, a flicker of red flashed, barely noticeable, then darkness again. I ignored it and leaned my head back, feeling the night air sweep past my cheeks, the slight nip in the air keeping me awake. My eyes lazily watched the road ahead as I took another drag off my cigarette, its ember glowing red-hot as I inhaled. With the quickness of a bug, the cherry broke off the tip of my cigarette, thanks to the open window, and flew into the passenger seat, immediately burning into the seat cover.
        
I threw the remaining cigarette out the window, blatantly littering, and smashed the palm of my hand against the seat next to me. Small embers flittered around the front seat like a mini light show just for me. They burned my skin a bit as they landed. I ignored them; preventing a fire from starting in my car was my only concern.
        
The embers seemed to be out, my fingers searching for any signs of heat, finding none, just a small burn in the cloth seat cover. In my peripheral I saw something on the road ahead, grabbing my attention from the passenger seat back to highway where it should have been the entire time. A piece of metal lay in the middle of the road, a long thin piece about five feet in length. I abruptly slammed on the brakes, my tires squealing in protest beneath the car.
        
My reaction time was horrible, not swift enough, and I felt the obstruction go under my car, scraping along the underside. With a jerk the car came to a halt, my body thrown back into the seat by my ever protective seatbelt. My knuckles were white as my hands gripped the wheel. My heart wanted to leap from my chest, pounding rhythmically inside. I stared straight ahead, hating the road before me. What was once a quiet, empty road had quickly become a nerve-wracking, hair-whitening experience.
        
I opened the door, stepping into the brisk night and looked around. Something was in the ditch beside the road, something metallic, its frame attempting to reflect whatever light it could. I leaned down, pressing my cheek against the road, and looked under my car. The obstacle was there, resting firmly between my car and asphalt below. Shaking my head, I stood up and decided checking on what appeared to be a car in the ditch was more critical at the moment than retrieving the piece of metal. I flicked on my hazards and walked toward the ditch.
        
As I approached the huddled mess I recognized the color, the same gray as the street racer that flew past me earlier. The front end was obliterated, scrunched up into the windshield. The back window was shattered, the glass strewn about the road and grass. In the darkness I could see the back of someone’s head still inside the scrap metal.
       
“Hello,” I called, the sound of my voice eerie considering the setting. No response. Again, “Hello?”
        
What sounded like a soft groan came from inside. The car rested in two feet of water; no telling what floated around down there. Still, I felt compelled to help. I sunk my feet into the muck, the smell of rotten eggs overpowering me. Shuffling my feet under the water, I made my way toward the driver side door.
        
“Hello,” I shouted as I got closer. “Are you okay in there?”
        
A weak voice, female: “Help.”
        
As if someone injected me with a shot of adrenaline, my body filled with a surge of energy upon hearing a female voice. I pulled on the door handle, pulling with all my might, the muscles in my arms straining, but it would not budge.
        
“Ma’am, hang on,” I shouted, a sense of urgency flowing into me. “I need to try the other door, okay? Can you hear me?”
        
Again, that meek cry, “Help.”
        
Wading through the knee-deep water, I made my way around the back of the wrecked vehicle, peering into the shattered back window. Black hair was all I saw in the driver’s seat. When I reached the passenger side door I got the same result as the driver's, nothing. It was as if the door was welded to the frame. If I was going to save her, I needed to break the window and pull her out. The back window was shattered, but was too small for my body to fit in. That left the passenger window. I needed something to break it with, a rock or solid object would work.
        
I looked around, cursing the night sky for depriving me of needed light that could make my search easier. Then a thought came to me, in my trunk, buried beneath my homeless luggage was a lug wrench. That would work.
        
“Ma’am, I will be right back. I need to find something to smash the window.” No response. I had to take a chance she heard me. I sluggishly made my way back through the ditch and ran toward the car, its hazards blinking in the darkness, my legs sloshing as my wet jeans flapped back and forth. I popped the trunk and unabashedly threw my luggage into the street, coming to the small cardboard covering that hid the spare tire. I pulled it up and found the lug wrench bolted to the frame of my car. With trembling hands I unscrewed the screws, my sweaty fingers slipping on the bolt. I dried the tips on my jeans, finished undoing the bolts, then raced back to the mangled car, wrench in hand.
        
Care and hygiene went out the window as I leapt feet first into the putrid water, the cold filth splashing onto my face. A goal was set, to free this woman from her metal tomb. I trudged through the water to the passenger window and looked inside. She looked at me, her face ashen, fearful, the same look my wife had that day I found her on the side of the road.
        
“Lean away from this window,” I yelled. “I have to break the glass to free you.” I peered inside again and saw her nod, then slide as far as she could toward the opposite window, her small hands raised up to protect her face.
        
With a forceful swing, I hit the glass with the wrench, expecting this amazing shattering of glass, getting a small hole three inches in size instead. Determined to free her, I swung again, and again, each time opening the hole further. Finally, I took the end of the wrench and slid it along the edge of the window, clearing the glass, some falling into the car, the rest plopping into the water toward my feet.
        
I poked my head into the recently created opening. “Hey, I’m Steve,” I said breathlessly. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
        
Her eyes were still wide with fear. “You have to help me,” she begged.
 
“I will, don’t worry. Okay, can you unbuckle your seatbelt?”
        
“Help me please, he is going to kill me.” Her voice was small and frightened.
        
I was taken aback by this statement. “Excuse me?”
 
“Please, help me, he’s trying to kill me.”
 
“Who is?” As if on cue, a set of headlights appeared in the distance heading directly towards us.
        
Looking over her shoulder toward the oncoming lights she said, “He’s coming back, he’s trying to kill me.” Her voice was frantic, on the verge of hysterics.
        
“Ma’am, who is he? Your ex-boyfriend, or something?” I leaned further into the car as I spoke, my hand trying to grasp her seatbelt. She violently slapped my hand away.
        
“Stop him,” she screamed, her eyes welling with tears. “I don’t want to die.” Her voice was shaking as if each word was a chore.
        
The vehicle came to a halt a few feet in front of my car, its headlights illuminating my luggage strewn all over. I saw the red paint on the vehicle and knew it was the truck that flew past me without any headlights. Not knowing what else to do, I ducked out of the window and slid beside the car, the water now touching my waist.
        
From my angle I saw the man step out of the truck, his booted feet touching the asphalt. He was nothing more than a shadow standing behind the lights, but he held something in his hands, something large and pointed. Thoughts of who he was ran through my head. An ex-boyfriend, ex-husband, jaded lover. Then I remembered him passing me in that red truck, no lights on, flying by like a demon on a mission. All the movies I saw over the years had one similar theme, psychotic killers running down women in their cars.
        
His voice scared me when he spoke, breaking the silence all around.
        
“I’m going to enjoy killing you,” he said, a small southern drawl accenting his speech. He actually intended to kill her. I had to do something.
        
His boots clicked across the asphalt as he made his way toward the wreckage. Inside the car the girl was screaming for help, her voice filled with fear. I heard her tears. Before I knew what I was doing, it happened.
        
All those years of being a good man would never go away. Even with what my wife and boss did to me, they could not jade me; helping others was part of my nature. If that meant killing some psycho to help a stranded woman, then that is what I had to do.
        
The man got to the edge of the ditch, his right hand on his hip, his left still holding the weapon he had. I smelled him over the funk coming off the water. I jumped up with a loud splash, my momentum taking me onto the top of the car. I dashed across the car and leapt toward the psycho, his shocked surprise telling me everything, my lug wrench crashing down onto his skull with a loud thwack. He flew backwards and I pursued, swinging again, connecting with his side. The sound of cracking ribs echoed into the night.
        
The force of my onslaught brought the man to his knees, blood rushing down his face from the open wound in his head, his breathing heavy and labored. I stood over him, my pants drenched in foul water, my heart hammering away, my breath rushing out of me. No thoughts filtered through my mind, only instinct. I had to prevent this sicko from hurting the girl.
        
With both hands I held the wrench high above my head. As I swung down the killing blow I heard him say, “You fool, I’m a priest,” then nothing as I connected.
        
His body lay twitching in front of me, his blood spattered across the front of my shirt. I expected to feel differently after killing someone, more remorse and self-loathing. I felt none of that. Instead, I felt vindicated, triumphant, victorious.
        
I tried to understand what he meant. Was he hoping his religion would save him, or did he try to make me understand his faith was the reason behind his psychotic motives? No matter what, I stopped him from harming the girl and that was the important thing.
        
Suddenly, she stood before me, her frail form luminescent in the canvas of darkness. The fear that hung so heavily from her face earlier was gone, replaced with a look of sorrow. Her skin was wan, her hair camouflaged against the night. She tilted her head sideways, gazing into my eyes. At that moment I longed for her touch more than anything. With a flash, I felt her fangs dig into my neck, her arms grasping me tightly not letting go, holding my like a lover. She moaned close to my ear as she drank my lifeblood. As it flowed into her and the world slowly became dim, I wondered why my need to help women always ended badly.