EVAN GRACE - GOOD SAMARITAN

Evan Grace reads books and tries to write scary things and if you're interested you can follow him on Instagram at @laurapringleswilder and if you don't check out my other blog:

GOOD SAMARITAN
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​Mikey Mills had to piss. He pulled hard into the right lane of Interstate 80, pumped his brakes, and slowly descended the exit ramp. His GPS told him it was 35 miles to the next oasis
                            
an apt sobriquet
 
but the flesh and blood metal sign said otherwise. He waited for the light to turn and absently fucked with the radio.
 
            “BIG NEWS OUT OF ALLENTOWN TONIGHT, A LOCAL TEEN HAS WO-”
 
Twist.
 
            “Carry on, my waywar-”
 
Twist.
 
            “...AS THIS STORY DEVELOPS. NEXT UP, SQUIRREL PIE? CELEBRITY CHEF JOHN MALAMUTE TELLS US HO-”
 
Twist.
 
            “...standin’ on her front lawn just twirlin’ her baton-”
 
“Fucking Springsteen.” Mikey heard himself talking and got nervous. “All the time with this guy out here.”
 
Twist.
 
            “AND HERE SHE IS...MIS-”
 
Mikey switched the radio off, jerked the wheel, and swung the long back end of his trailer around the empty Honda Civic stalled in the turn lane with its flashers blinking. His engine growled, coughed, and began to purr as he eased the beast into the empty lot of the Citgo/Blimpie. The place was twenty-four hours, the lights were on, and Mikey felt pretty good. Except for the pissing. He left his engine running, elbowed the door open and
 
Christ, my back is sore
 
let himself down to the step and gingerly hopped to the ground.
 
The Citgo sign cast an orange glow. It made all the vehicles in the parking lot hulk and menace like shadow demons. When the sign flickered it looked like they were dancing in a parade of the dead.
 
A bell tinkled as he walked into the station.
 
The kid behind the counter was staring at his phone and didn’t look up. The smoke from the kid’s cigarette curled indifferently toward the ceiling, past the NO SMOKING plaque on the wall.
Mikey spotted the sign for the restroom. All the way in the back, beyond the cooler full of Cokes and Vitamin Water. He took another glance at the kid, who was still buried in his phone, and headed toward the sign.
 
sweet relief.
 
Back on the road, gnawing on a Jack Link and choking down an energy drink
 
because of course the Blimpie was closed
 
but set on fuel, Mikey glanced at the GPS. Only 400 miles and he’d be home. In the kitchen with Jenna, making bacon and eggs. If he sped up, it’d be sooner. Maybe much sooner. Maybe waffles and coffee. Maybe in bed with her. He’d always loved early morning sex. Just seemed more intimate and primal. When he was dating it was all about blowjobs and TV. Then he got engaged and it was just nonstop people.
 
those fucking people
 
Mikey snapped to and stepped on the gas, watching the trees fly by and the horizon flip until it was rising behind him. The colors in Pennsylvania are something to behold and her mountain highways are not to be fucked with. Another long trailer zipped by at speed and he braked for only a second at the curve, keeping his lane. He flicked the radio on.
 
            “Pink triangle on her sleeve let me know the truth, let me know-ow-w the truth…”
 
He let the radio roll.
 
Mikey was speeding down the interstate lost in thought, when he noticed a flickering yellow light about a quarter mile ahead. As he drew closer, he saw it was a car. A car turned on its back like a beetle, twisting and struggling. It was smoking near the treeline. There were still tiny spider-licks of flame nibbling and nipping at the tires.
 
“Just keep truckin’, kemosabe.”
 
He emphasized the last word and suddenly felt faint, stifling a bitter laugh. Like the boys he grew up with would say.
 
“Faggot”.
 
 “Raghead.”
 
Those assholes.
 
Mikey shook his head and slapped his face. He opened the window. He knew he could still make home by six. He should just call the highway patrol and be done with it. Yet he braked and slowly pulled off to the shoulder.
 
It was three in the morning.
 
It had begun to rain and his headlights scattered the drops and they gleamed, jumping, trying to focus on the overturned car. Mikey opened the door and got out, cursing his back. He stood there, one hand on his cab and watched the thing until the smoke dissipated and its engine shouted once and began to click, click...click. “Anybody in there?” he yelled, shading his eyes with his hand. The headlights seemed to flicker now, and the hum of his engine grew very faint. No reply. Mikey moved closer to the wreckage. At first he could barely make out any shapes, but his pupils grew wide and he began to see.
 
The wood was very thick here.
 
Thicker than it looked from the road.
           
He carefully made his way to the driver’s side window of the car and squinted, looking in. He couldn’t see anyone but he yelled anyway.
 
“Anybody in there?”
 
There was no response, but his neck itched and his eyes began to water from the heat. He backed away and began to circle the area, calling.
 
“Hello? Anybody out there? Hello?”
 
He scuffed his shoe on something and tripped but threw his body against a tree. Flakes of bark fell off the tree; crumbling. The pieces swirled in the wind until they gradually found their way back to his shirt. Mikey brushed it off and steadied himself. His back was killing him, and he clawed at his collar, itching.
 
hello? Can you help me?
 
The voice seemed to echo, coming from nowhere and everywhere. Mikey lost his balance and spun, falling heavily to the ground. He found his feet and got up, panting. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a white thing fleeing
 
floating?
 
into the trees.
 
“No, wait!”,
 
he screamed but the words died in his throat, watching the forest open and close like a mouth. He stumbled around for awhile and then sat on the ground, stupidly. “This isn’t how it goes,” he said out loud, surprising himself. “There’s something else.”
 
Mi. Mik. Mike. EEee.
 
“What?”
 
My name
 
It finally felt right and Mikey, grasping the earth with one hand and a branch with the other, rose unsteadily. He could still see the road from here, the headlights gleaming in the dark.
 
“Night, night. Oh dear,”
 
Mikey slurred, and considered the road. The light. But he felt no connection so he turned his back, and staggered deeper into the wood.
 
The wind had picked up and the branches were swinging and the trees were singing in ancient languages, but Mikey could not understand them, so he began to weep. He stumbled again, but managed to pull himself across the earth to a place that was good for standing and looking; so he stood, and looked.
 
Here, the air was smiling. When he gazed at the sky he saw no familiar constellations. The stars were all scattered into alien patterns, the cosmos silent. Mikey felt strangely happy and he decided to sit again,
 
to drink it all in
 
when he saw the white thing flit past.
 
It was grinning, hiding, running, and its eyes weren’t eyes at all they were just holes like drains and its hair was flowing out of nothing. The next thing he knew he was gasping for air, naked and limping barefoot through the wood. Shards of glass and flayed branches pierced his skin and he screamed as nettles raked his back, as she ran beyond him.
 
She was still close. He could smell her.
 
Mikey Mills chased the white thing down and murdered it with his hands. He squeezed until it felt like a doll. But it was still jerking around, and Mikey was afraid of ghosts. But
 
there are no ghosts
 
his insane mind chirped,
 
only people who go harder
 
so he went harder.
 
And while he spread the limp form across the earth and began working on her skin, he felt that awful swirling dark thing that spreads all over begin to creep into his veins. That purple-ish blue--thing--that makes a man feel bad, like God is watching you. So he removed her eyes and took care of that.
 
A bus blew through the intersection; windows wide with people hooting and hanging out, yelling.
 
And Mikey woke up in a cold sweat, grabbing at his collar.
 
He was at the truck stop again; his engine alive, his tail lights blinking gold.
 
click, flash.
 
click, flash.
 
click.
 
And the Citgo sign was painting the road in flickering orange, the shadows still dancing.
 
Mikey looked at his hands.
 
They were shaking and slick with wet, black soil.