"Shit." Adam's fingers tightened around the wheel. The fuel gauge needle trembled just above the red line. He hadn't been paying attention just kept driving, mile after mile, the road stretching endlessly ahead. With the last exit sign, a shrinking rectangle in his rearview mirror.
he began felling uneasy.
Across the cracked asphalt, an old Chevy sat slumped on its rims, weeds curling around its flat tires. Adam exhaled through his teeth. Worth a try. He popped the trunk for the rubber hose he kept coiled under the spare tire—never thought he'd actually need it. The sun pressed down like a hot palm as he knelt by the Chevy's gas cap. Rust flaked under his fingernails.
The hose came back dry. No surprise. He chucked it into the ditch where it landed with a wet slap in the mud. His phone had died hours ago, back when he still had bars on the signal. The map was folded in his glovebox, but he already knew: seventy miles to the next town. No roadside call boxes. No farmhouses. Just the road and himself, "fuck" he whispered to himself.
"this ain't good" he said quietly, spoiler alert it wasn't.
In the pitch black. No moon. The kind of black where you hold your hand in front of your face and see nothing. Adam kept his dead phone in his pocket thinking to himself, maybe I might find a charger, listening to the scuff of his soles on asphalt. Every few minutes, he'd stop, turn around, stare at the empty road behind him. Could've sworn he heard footsteps keeping pace. Just the wind, probably. Just the blood pounding in his ears.
A medium sized dog appeared suddenly from the shadows a scruffy golden retriever with one ear half-torn, its ribs visible under matted fur. It didn't bark. Just stared at him with eyes too knowing, too human. Adam crouched, hand stretched out. The dog licked his palm once, its tongue warm and rough. Then it turned and walked toward the road, glancing back as if to say, "follow" He shouldn't.
They walked side by side, the dog's tail brushing his leg whenever he slowed. The highway had narrowed to a cracked ribbon, weeds pushing through the asphalt. A mile marker lay on its side, the number 13 scratched out. The dog veered suddenly, nosing at a pile of shredded cloth. It was a jacket, his jacket, the one he'd left in the car. The dog whined, pawing at it. Underneath, the asphalt was sticky, glistening in the weak light. Adam felt uneasy. Not oil. Too dark. Too thick. The dog growled low in its throat.
The radio static followed them. Even out here, with no power lines in sight, Once, he heard his name buried in the noise. The dog's ears twitched. Adam's hands shook. He needed water. Needed answers. Needed to wake up. The dog stopped abruptly, and stares into the horizon. A figure stood ahead, silhouetted against the rising sun—too tall, too still. The air smelled like burnt rubber. Adam's mouth went dry. The dog bared its teeth, but the figure didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just watched.
Then it was gone. Not like it walked away. Like it had never been there. The dog whined, pressing against Adam's leg. He touched its head absently, fingers sinking into matted fur. Warm. Real. The highway shuddered underfoot not an earthquake, but a pulse, like something big beneath the asphalt. The dog lunged forward, dragging him toward the shoulder where the earth had split, a jagged crevice, stale air. Inside, something glinted. Adam crouched, reaching then jolted. Car keys. His car keys, crusted with something dark and flaking. The dog growled, nudging them with its nose. They clinked, impossibly loud.
"weird" he said, trying to keep calm.