It was unbelievable. Un-freaking-believable. He was stuck out on a road in Colorado, trying to thumb a ride into Wyoming. Not because he had any real desire to go to Wyoming. It was getting late, and he was stuck in the middle of a Colorado highway.
 
Part of Richard Laymon's discomfort had to do with the fact that he wore his hair long, and a beard. He saw himself as a Sixties holdover, and he often got hassled at the truck stops.
 
He had heard a lot of talk about how much the country had changed in the last thirty years. He didn't see a lot of evidence of it, though. Maybe in the major urban areas. Rural areas tended to be bastions of conservatism. Bars playing country music were avoided on general principles.
 
Richard was outside of his San Francisco enclave because of a custody battle. It began a couple years ago. They decided that their marriage wasn't working, and it was time to separate. They set out to have an amicable divorce, but it soon turned acrimonious.
 
His wife cleaned out the accounts, maxed out the cards, and took off with the children. Armed with a court subpoena, he set out after her. He had tracked her to her parents' house, only to discover she remained two steps ahead of him.
 
Then the radiator hose had burst on his rental while he was out in the middle of the highway. That meant he had to move to the side of the road, or risk detonating the engine. No telling how much a short block would set him back.
 
Then he discovered that his cell phone battery was dead. That made for a perfect trifecta. He was stranded out in the middle of nowhere, with no way to contact anybody. That meant he would have to hitch a ride to some outpost of civilization, and get his car towed.
 
Once it was fixed, he could begin plotting his countermoves. For the moment, Susan held the field unopposed. He thought it wouldn't take long to get a ride. In the Sixties, he rode across the country on his thumb. However, he discovered to his sorrow that the county had changed since then.
 
Vehicles were few and far between on this stretch of roadway, and none of them stopped for him. 

After the third or fourth time, he began to plunge into despair. How was he ever going to get out of this mess? Adding to it was a feeling of guilt. How many times had he blown by hitchhikers on the side of the road because of their scruffy appearance? At the time, it seemed like the safe thing to do.
 
Twilight lit up the sky, before the blue velvet of evening dropped over it. Stars twinkled like spilled diamonds. Richard was not in the mood to admire the natural beauty. He had all but given up on getting out of here tonight. So he would try sleeping in the car, and setting out on foot in the morning.
 
While he had not given up on trying catching a ride, he was going to be more proactive than he had been. And who knew? He might start walking, and get a ride right away.
 
Richard was about to head back to his car, when he heard a mechanical growl in the distance. Lights winked at him as the vehicle grew closer. It resolved itself into the shape of a semi.
 
His mouth twisted up as his emotions were thrown into a tangle. He had heard semi drivers referred to as knights of the road. He'd also heard them called eighteen wheel cowboys. He thought it was likely to be some redneck yahoo who thought Merle Haggard was God.
 
Then he chided himself for indulging in such a caricatured stereotype. Whatever way he was, the driver hadn't offered a ride yet. What he had to decide was whether he should try flagging him down or not.
 
The truck loomed large in the roadway, both stacks bellowing black diesel smoke. Every light was on, giving it a shadowy, menacing air. It was an old slab-sided Kenworth, with a long snout. The moonlight obscured the windshield with its silvery glow, and glittered off the grille, making it look like a mouthful of fangs.
 
Something about the vehicle made him want to run and hide, but he was rooted to the spot. Its glowing eyes transfixed him in their glare. Without conscious thought, his thumb shot out in a hitchhiking gesture. He stared at it, as if it did not belong to him.
 
Then the dragon breath hiss of the air brakes engulfed him, as the massive juggernaut slowed down. The truck came to a stop so the door was in front of him, then it flew open. "Have a problem, buddy?"
 
The driver looked like the worst kind of stereotype. He was a huge mountain of a man, with big slab-like arms. He had a square blue chin, and dark, piggy eyes under a simianesque shelf of bone. He wore a T-shirt and vest, with a toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth.
 
Richard opened his mouth to say that he had just pulled to the side of the road to stretch his legs, and relieve himself. Instead, he heard himself saying, "My car's lost coolant, and its going to need to be towed."
 
The driver nodded. "That's just the shits and the pits, isn't it?" His eyes betrayed no emotions, though. Then he studied him, as if he were some kind of exotic insect. "Get in. I'll give you a ride into town."
 
Richard grabbed the door for leverage, and pushing with his legs, and pulling with his arms, swung into the cab. A voice in his head warned him not to let the door close, but get out while he had the chance. He chose to ignore it, slamming the door.
 
He rationalized it by telling himself that he was being paranoid. This was the first luck he'd had all day, and even if the driver was a yahoo, he was probably a nice man. Still, he was unable to shake the feeling that he'd just sealed his own doom.
 
On the radio, a man was singing about having to learn about truck driving, and it was taught in a special class. The driver turned to him, and grinned, revealing a snaggletooth, rotting smile. "Red Simpson. Doesn't get much better than that."
 
Richard nodded, not trusting himself to say a word. The name meant nothing to him. His tastes ran toward world music, but he decided not to share that bit of information.
 
The road unfolded before him like a black ribbon in the darkness. Red Simpson gave way to C. W. McCall. He found himself being hypnotized as mile after mile disappeared under the truck's front wheels. Weird thoughts began creeping into his head.
 
There was nobody along this stretch of highway. They had slipped through a rip in the space-time continuum, and they were doomed to roam this empty road forever.
 
A set of lights woke him up from his fever dream. There was a town. Soon, he would have a hotel room, and could try calling a tow truck. Of course, he may have to wait until morning...
 
As they grew brighter, his hopes crashed like a desert mirage as the truck blew by without even slowing. "Hey! There was a town right there! Why didn't we stop?"
 
The driver's features twisted into an ugly expression. "Forget it. The place is nothing but a speed trap. The sheriff there is after my rig. Besides, I'm not going that way."
 
Richard gave a slow nod. What the driver said made a certain kind of sense, and he couldn't argue with it. Doubts continued to plague him though.
 
The problem was the truck was highballing down the road at fifty. If he leaped out of the cab, his skin would be abraded, and his skeleton shattered. If he was lucky. All he could do was pray he would live to see the end of this ride.
 
Was it just him, or was the truck driver staring at him? A quick check from his peripheral vision revealed the driver was focused on the road ahead. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling of hostile eyes upon him. He supposed it was just a case of paranoia from being outside his milieu.
 
Richard had to admit that he was sheltered in his own world view. He was cocooned in an enclave where everyone thought like him, and the group certainties were never questioned. He was now in an alien world, where his values and ideas were seen as suspect.
 
So it was natural that such a culture clash would create barriers between them. He wondered if the driver lived in the same universe of moral certitudes he had. The problem was he discouraged a dialogue that might have provided the answer. He grew more monosyllabic to questions with each passing mile.
 
At least he found out his name was Carl Longworth, and he was from Montana. C. W. McCall had long since given way to Hank Williams, Faron Young, Buck Owens, and Jan Howard. Right now, Tammy Wynette was singing — if it could be called that — "Stand by your man".
 
Richard was past the point of caring. They had been by three more turnoffs, and they blew by each one. Carl gave the same reason each time, in fewer words. The last time, Richard didn't even bother to ask. He was beginning to accept this fate, whatever it might bring.
 
There was no longer any point in denying this was a strange ride. The driver seemed to have some obscure agenda of his own, but what it was, he couldn't guess. He figured whatever it was, he'd find out soon enough.
 
The truck continued barreling through the night. Then he saw lights in the darkness. He rubbed his tired eyes, not sure they weren't playing tricks on him. Then he brought down his hands, to see the lights were closer than before.
 
There was indeed some kind of city ahead, and it looked like a fairly substantial one too. He would guess that it had a population of ten thousand, but it loomed in his mind like a major metropolis.
 
A renewed sense of purpose flowed through him. Soon, his ordeal would be over. The lights grew to be a town, and they were going down the main drag. Without a sign of slowing down, Richard could only watch in slack-jawed horror as the lights and the signs blurred by, then the darkness reclaimed its lost domain.
 
It took him a minute to find his voice. ”Hey, wait a minute! Why didn’t we stop? That town was right on the way!”
 
Carl looked at him as if he had just sprouted a second head. ”What are you talking about? I’m going nonstop to Laramie. That was the condition you agreed to when you accepted the ride.”
 
Richard frowned, and racked his brain for the conversation. Memories surfaced in his mind, but doubt began ricocheting around in his mind, making him not accept them.
 
Carl stared at him a moment, then applied the brakes. ”What you’re suffering from is white-line fever. What you need is some coffee, and time to stretch.”
 
All other thoughts deserted Richard’s mind. The thought of some hot coffee, and cold air sounded delightful. Carl produced a thermos, and unscrewed the top. The smell of the brew made his mouth water as the other man poured.
 
He offered the tin cup to Richard. A momentary pang of doubt struck him as he pressed the cup to his lips, making him hesitate. Carl waved his hand. "Well, drink up."
 
He took a long sip, and smacked his lips. It had a funny aftertaste, something he couldn't quite place. Then he became aware of a fog rolling into his mental process. Something was wrong, but his brain was slipping into neutral. His mental process was becoming sluggish.
 
In his peripheral vision, he saw Carl leaning forward, a predatory smile on his face. Alarm bells were ringing in his head, but his thoughts struggled through the cottony gauze that sought to entrap them.
 
What was it? The coffee had been drugged! Why? Carl wanted to do something to him... Maybe molest him... Didn't matter...
 
His hand clamped over Richard's, pushing the cup back toward his mouth. He locked his throat against it, taking as much into his mouth as he could. After what seemed like a couple eons, the pressure was relaxed.
 
He sprayed it into the other man's face. Carl roared, and tried to wipe lukewarm coffee out of his eyes. Richard stared off into space, trying to make his fuddled brain work. He was supposed to do something... What was it though...? Something about danger...
 
That brought the gravity of the situation home again, and he began fumbling for the door latch. The problem was his fingers had grown stupid, and his eyes were starting to shift in and out of focus. A voice said from far away, "There's no point in trying to escape. You might as well accept your fate."
 
Who said that? What did the words mean? No matter. He had a job to accomplish, whatever it was. It felt as if he was running his hands along warm skin. That made him think of his wife, and thoughts of escape began to slip away.
 
Another thought was struggling to the surface. As the thought about his wife, and how good it was to touch her, the surface under his fingers grew even softer. It took on the consistency of saltwater taffy.
 
That triggered the buried memory. His wife had stolen his children! He had to go after her! The surface hardened again to its original plastic. A terrible shriek drilled into his head, threatening to scatter his thoughts.
 
The voice that spoke did so in a guttural growl, with little humanity in it. "No! You won't get away from me! I won't let you!"
 
The entire cab shook as the big diesel snorted to life. Then the gears ground, as the Carl-thing tried milking it for all the speed he could. The big truck started lumbering down the road, picking up momentum with each passing moment.
 
Richard pawed at the side of the door, trying to find the handle. He had a sense that time was slipping away. Then, an awful laughter filled his head. He felt the pedestal of his sanity begin to crack, and shift. He wanted to scream at whoever was laughing to stop it, but he remained focused on his task.
 
He squinted his eyes, finding his target. Then he lunged at it, grabbing it with both hands. The door swung open, and he found himself balanced between the seat and the roadway.
 
For a moment, his heart quailed at the idea. The truck was now going twenty-five, and sill accelerating. Then the door took matters out of his hands. It kept swinging open, dragging him out of his seat, until he lost his grip. The door slammed behind him.
 
Richard somersaulted, end over end on the concrete roadway, tearing his clothes, and abrading his skin. He flopped around like a rag doll, waiting for the end. His momentum carried him off the roadway, and into the grass. With a final flop, he did a back-flip, landing on his nose.
 
Obeying an impulse only half-understood, he forced himself up onto all fours. His skin felt like there were hot pebbles imbedded in it. The back of his head throbbed with a dull ache. His nose also throbbed and swelled as it filled up with blood.
 
Ignoring those maladies, he stuck his finger down his throat. Nausea gripped his guts in a cold fist. With a violent sound, vomit gushed up his throat and out his mouth. He shook like a wet dog before the next bout of barfing wracked him.
 
First, he brought up the coffee he drank. Next, he forced out mucus. Once he exhausted that, he had dry heaves. After a couple minutes, the reflex subsided.
 
Richard was wringing wet with sweat, and felt as if he'd brought up his entire stomach lining. Of course, his head now felt clearer. His head still felt cobwebby, but he was now capable of following a train of thought.
 
He tried standing up, but a case of vertigo deposited him back on his posterior. After a couple of attempts, he managed to get up, but he couldn't shake the feeling of dizziness.
 
Once he was certain he could move, he set out walking. An hour or two later, he found himself approaching a truck stop called The Roadhouse. In a past life, Richard would have kept on walking. This was a place of such redneck values that he despised. After all he'd been through tonight though, he was no longer inclined to be picky.
 
Inside, a jukebox was pounding out a Charlie Daniels tune. Everyone turned toward Richard, and he began to feel self-conscious. A delegation of three men approached. They all wore flannels and jeans, and the spokesman had a cowboy hat perched on the top of his head.
 
"Howdy, stranger. Reckon you aren't from around these parts."
 
A wry grin crossed Richard's face. "You reckon right, pardner."
 
That seemed to set the man back on his heels a moment. He pushed his hat back further on his head. "Mayhap you ought to explain what you're dong in these parts of Wyoming."
 
So Richard began to relate his tale, beginning with the radiator hose, up to his escape from Carl. When he finished the story, the three men looked at each other. The thought occurred to him that this all seemed familiar. He covered his brow with his right hand, and made a warding-off gesture with his left.
 
"No, wait! Don't tell me! This sounds like a bad country-western cliché. Carl Longman was a salt-of-the earth type who drove his truck off a mountain road, to avoid a baby duck. Now he gives rides to stranded motorists."
 
The man in a cowboy hat gave him a strange look. "Not even close, mister." That made Richard lower his arms, and look at him.
 
"Old Killer Carl is what I guess you would call a psychopath. He would pick up transients and hitchhikers, murder them, and throw their bodies off along the highways of this area. By the time the scavengers got done, there wasn't much evidence left.
 
"His end came when he tried abducting a waitress at a truck stop. There were a couple of state bears that caught him in the act, and the woman got away. He took off in that rig of his, with the police in hot pursuit.
 
"He ran a couple of roadblocks, but he couldn't outrun Mother Nature. Took a turn on a mountain road too fast, and went over the cliff. Since then, his ghost is said to prowl the local highways, looking for new victims." He gave Richard a significant look. "You're the first one to have escaped him, after climbing into his truck."
 
The news struck him like a sledgehammer blow. "Nobody escaped him before?"
 
The man in the cowboy hat shook his head. "The State Patrol finds bodies by the side of the road, but they haven't found a survivor yet."
 
There was a meaty thump, as Richard went out cold.