The Hitcher and His Ride

“When I find whatever damned satellite this is bouncing off, I’m gonna kick its ass into orbit.” Jason glared as yet another, ‘You have left the recommended route’ message flashed across the face of his Magellan. He swiped a strand of dark brown fringe out of his eyes. Of course he just had to get lost on a night when even Noah and his stupid ark would’ve stayed in dry dock.

“Sure, Rob,” he said aloud in a sing-song voice, mentally cursing his best friend. “I’ll waste an entire Saturday night and a tank of gas trying to find Podunk, Illinois for some lame Valentine’s shindig. Yup, a party with complete strangers is the best way to get over Scott.”
Jason turned his Tacoma onto another dark, abandoned street. If he could just find a section of road where he could get reception on his cell, or find a gas station, or—

“Shit!”

He slammed on his brakes. Inches away lay what must have been a motorcycle in its former life. Now it was just a pile of smoking chrome and silver trim with a spinning wheel pointing to the sky in the ultimate, “Up Yours.”

No way anyone could have survived that. It looked like the bike had run head-first into the giant tree on the side of the road.

Bang!

“Hey! You in there! Please, help!”

Jason whipped towards the passenger side window. Outside stood a guy maybe a few years younger than him, pale and drenched, with a long, bleeding cut crossing his forehead.

Jason leaned over and opened the door. “Shit, man. That your bike?”

The guy nodded as he climbed into the truck and slammed the door behind him. He shook his head like a labrador climbing out of a lake. “God, I’m in so much trouble. The bike’s creamed. I was supposed to be home ages and ages ago. My dad’s gonna kill me.”

“I think he’ll be glad you’ve still got your head attached to your body.” Jason sized up the green-eyed stranger. Eighteen, maybe nineteen, wearing a tight white T-shirt and jeans with short hair that was probably light brown when dry.

He ignored the thoughts leading him places he shouldn’t be going and pointed at the gash on the kid’s forehead. “Hey, you okay? That looks pretty bad. Do you need to go to a hospital or something?”

The kid shook his head. “No sweat. I think it’s closing up.”
Jason narrowed his eyes. The cut, pretty bad a few moments ago, had stopped bleeding and now looked days old. Must have been a trick of the light.

“My name’s Michael Newberry.” The kid reached over to shake Jason’s hand. “Thanks for picking me up. I’ve been out here forever, feels like.”

“No problem. I’m Jason.” There was a moment of awkward
silence. Michael stared at him with a really weird look on his face, like Jason’s little sister whenever she found a toy she’d lost.
Jason cleared his throat, mouth suddenly dry. “So, um, you live nearby? ‘Cause I could really use some directions. My GPS sucks.”

Michael tilted his head. “Would you mind driving me somewhere first? Someone’s waiting for me.”

Jason shifted in his seat, an unexpected chill creeping up his spine. He nodded.

“Coolsville. Go straight for three miles and turn right onto the main road.”

He raised an eyebrow. Coolsville? Where was this guy from, New Jersey?

Jason put the truck in gear and inched past the destroyed motorcycle. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. The wheel still spun, and the air smelled like burnt gasoline.

It was weird, but he had this strange feeling, like he’d lost something. For good.

Jason stomped on the gas pedal. He couldn’t get away from here fast enough.