"False Rescue":
I’d been on the road for twelve hours straight, hauling a full load of lumber from Minnesota toward the Canadian border. The sun was sinking low, the light flattening into that golden haze that makes everything look quiet and distant. The town I was passing through felt half-asleep—just a handful of cars rolling down Main Street, a few porch lights flickering on early. I was bone-tired, running mostly on caffeine and habit, when I noticed her.
A girl stood on the shoulder of the highway, thumb out, backpack slung over one shoulder. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. She wore denim shorts, a thin shirt, no jacket—completely unprepared for how quickly the air turned icy up here after sunset. I remembered what the old-timers always said: Never pick up strangers. Too many stories that started like this and ended ugly.
But something about her—small frame, nervous stance, the way she kept glancing down the empty road—made it hard to just keep driving. The nearest town was still miles off, and once the dark came down, she’d be alone out there. Against my better judgment, I slowed and pulled onto the shoulder.
She climbed up into the cab with a relieved smile. “Thanks so much,” she said, brushing her hair from her face. “I’m Katie. Got separated from my friends on a trip, and I just need to get to the next town over. My parents don’t even know I’m out here. I really don’t want to freak them out.”
“Tom,” I said, shifting back into gear. “You’re lucky I came by before dark. What happened?”
She gave a casual shrug, twisting a strand of her hair. “We were hiking. I wandered off the path, got turned around. By the time I found the road, they were gone. You’re the first one who stopped.”
She talked easily enough, and for a while, it felt normal—two strangers making small talk to fill the silence. She asked how long I’d been a trucker, if it ever got lonely.
“Sometimes,” I said. “But I’ve got the radio, my thoughts, the hum of the road. Beats sitting in an office all day.”
She laughed softly. “Still… doesn’t it ever scare you? Being out here alone?”
I chuckled. “Nah. The road’s the safest part. It’s people you gotta watch out for.”
When she smiled at that, it didn’t reach her eyes.
Twilight crept in fast. The sky bruised purple, the road a gray ribbon stretching endlessly through fields and forest. She shifted beside me. “Do you have any water?”
“Yeah,” I said, grabbing a bottle from the cooler behind the seat and passing it over. She took a slow sip, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Then suddenly, she straightened. “Wait—slow down.”
I eased off the gas. Up ahead, something was sprawled across both lanes. Three shapes. People. Lying motionless.
“What the hell…” I muttered. No wrecked car, no lights, no skid marks. Just bodies, pale and still under the dying light.
“Looks like an accident,” Katie said, voice tight. “We have to help them.”
Every instinct told me to stop—but something didn’t add up. It was too clean, too staged. I’d heard the stories: fake accidents, highway setups, traps for truckers.
I kept my foot hovering above the brake. “We’ll call it in,” I said finally, reaching for the radio mic. “Let the state patrol handle it.”
“No!” she snapped, sharper than I expected. “You don’t have time for that. They might be dying.”
Her tone wasn’t panicked—it was commanding. My stomach sank.
“I’ll just get help started,” I said, keying the mic. “This is Tom, northbound on Route 61—got possible injured parties on the road, sending coordinates now—”
Before I could finish, she lunged for the radio, yanking at the cord. “Stop! Don’t call anyone! We can handle this ourselves!”
“What the hell are you doing?” I shoved her back, fighting to keep control as the truck swerved slightly.
Her eyes had changed. No more friendly kid—just cold calculation. “Turn around,” she said, low and steady. “My friends are waiting.”
“Your friends?” I said, heart hammering. In the mirror, one of the “bodies” ahead suddenly sat up, looking right at us before scrambling to the side of the road. Not injured at all.
That’s when it hit me. The setup. The hitchhiker. The “accident.”
“You’re in on this,” I said quietly.
She smiled then—a sharp, unsettling grin. “Just pull over at the next spot, and no one gets hurt.”
Not a chance. I pressed the accelerator instead. The truck roared forward, and she realized I wasn’t stopping. She started shouting, pounding the dashboard. “Let me out! Right now!”
“Not happening,” I said. My pulse was a drum in my ears. “We’re heading to the checkpoint up ahead.”
Her expression flickered, panic flashing behind her defiance. “You can’t take me there,” she said. “Please. Don’t let them see me.”
But I kept going. And then I saw the flashing lights ahead—the border checkpoint. Relief hit like oxygen after drowning.
Two officers stepped forward as I rolled to a stop. Flashlights caught my face, then hers.
“Evening,” one said. “License and logs, please.”
I handed them over, nodding toward Katie. “Picked her up hitchhiking. Said she was lost. Then I ran into… something weird back there. People on the road.”
Before the officer could reply, Katie burst into tears. “He forced me in! He wouldn’t let me go!”
I froze. For a second, even I almost believed her—the performance was that good. But the cops didn’t flinch. They’d seen it before. One radioed in, while the other motioned us both out.
Within minutes, the truth came out. “Katie” wasn’t Katie at all. Her real name was Corey—seventeen, escaped from a nearby youth facility with five others. The three lying across the road were part of her crew, trying to ambush the first truck that stopped.
“You got lucky,” one officer told me later, as they loaded her into the back of a cruiser. She fought and screamed the whole time, kicking the door hard enough to make it rattle. “If you’d pulled over, they’d have had you. They were armed with knives.”
They questioned me for hours, checked the truck, made sure my story matched up. When they finally cleared me, the lot was empty except for my rig and the lingering echo of that girl’s voice, still shouting from inside the patrol car.
I drove through the night, hands tight on the wheel. The road looked the same, but it didn’t feel the same. Every shadow seemed to breathe, every flicker of headlights made my chest tighten.
I’ve hauled thousands of miles since then—but I never stopped for a hitchhiker again.
Because out here, you learn fast: the real danger doesn’t always hide in the dark. Sometimes, it smiles and thanks you for the ride.
"Road Pirate":
I was rolling west down Interstate 40, hauling a load of electronics from Tulsa to Phoenix. Midnight had come and gone, and the desert highway stretched ahead like a black ribbon under a washed-out moon. I’d been driving for hours — just me, the low hum of the engine, and the rhythmic thump of tires against asphalt. The world felt empty, stripped down to headlights, yellow lines, and shadows that seemed to move when I wasn’t looking.
The CB radio crackled every now and then — distant voices, truckers passing through other states, talking about weather, fuel prices, or some diner two hundred miles away. It was comforting noise, the kind that made you feel less alone out there in all that dark space.
Then, out of nowhere, a voice cut through clear as crystal:
“Breaker, breaker — red semi with the blue cab. You copy?”
I reached for the mic, surprised. My rig, Red Runner, was pretty distinctive, but it wasn’t common for someone to call me out specifically.
“Yeah, this is Red Runner,” I said. “What’s up?”
The reply came low and rough, like gravel in a throat that had smoked too many cigarettes.
“Saw you back at the last fuel stop. Nice rig you got. Bet that load’s worth a fortune.”
I frowned. The last stop had been nearly an hour ago — a lonely gas station near the state line with flickering lights and one sleepy attendant. I didn’t remember anyone hanging around.
“Appreciate it,” I said cautiously. “You need something?”
The voice chuckled — slow and deliberate, like he was savoring it. “Nah, just admiring. You alone tonight? No partner riding shotgun?”
Something about the question made my skin crawl. “Yeah,” I said. “Solo run. Why?”
“Good to know,” he murmured. “Desert gets lonely. Ever pick up riders?”
I hesitated. The CB static filled the silence between us. “Not my thing. Stay safe out there.”
I hung the mic back up and turned the volume down. My gut told me something wasn’t right. A few minutes passed. Then, the radio hissed again.
“Red Runner,” the voice drawled. “You got nice tires on that rig. Look brand new. Wouldn’t want one to go flat out here.”
My fingers tightened around the wheel. My tires were new — two days old, installed in Oklahoma City. No one could’ve known that unless they’d seen me up close. I checked my mirrors. The night behind me was a stretch of black nothing. No headlights. No movement.
“Who is this?” I said into the mic. “You following me?”
That same chuckle, lower now. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m ahead. Why don’t you pull off at the next exit, and we’ll chat face to face?”
“Not interested,” I snapped.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “I know you’re tired. Saw you yawn at the pump. Let’s share a cup of coffee. I got stories that’ll make your hair stand up.”
A cold sweat prickled down my neck. He had been there, watching. Maybe from the shadows, behind a pump, or sitting in a parked car. My heart thudded faster. I pushed the rig to seventy-five, the diesel roaring against the desert wind.
For twenty long minutes, silence. Just the highway again, stretching forever. I started to think maybe it was a prank — some bored driver with nothing better to do.
Then I saw them. Headlights in the rearview mirror — faint, then brighter, then too close. A dark sedan, no markings, high beams flickering in a strange rhythm.
The CB came alive again.
“See me now, Red Runner? Nice and close.”
“Back off,” I barked. “I don’t know what you want, but I’m not stopping.”
“Oh, but you are,” the voice said. “Pull over. Let’s see what you’re hauling.”
A pulse of fear shot through me. I’d heard stories about road pirates — guys who scouted truck stops, targeted lone drivers with valuable cargo. Some were thieves. Some just… weren’t right in the head.
The sedan crept alongside my trailer, pacing me perfectly. Its windows were pitch black. It edged closer until the wheels scraped the lane divider, trying to nudge me toward the shoulder.
“Hey!” I yelled into the mic. “Back off before someone gets hurt!”
The laughter that followed was hollow, distorted through the speaker. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
My adrenaline spiked. Up ahead, a sign flashed: Rest Area — 5 Miles. If I could make it there, maybe there’d be lights, cameras, other drivers. I pressed the pedal down, engine screaming.
The sedan dropped back — then slammed into my rear bumper. The impact jolted the cab so hard my teeth clacked together. I gripped the wheel, wrestling the rig straight.
“Stop that!” I shouted.
“That’s the idea,” he said coolly. “Pull over, or I’ll make you.”
I could smell burning rubber. Three miles. My mirrors showed his headlights steady, relentless. Two miles. I prayed another trucker might be ahead. One mile. I spotted the faint glow of streetlights — salvation.
I took the exit hard, tires screeching, the trailer swaying dangerously. The sedan followed.
The rest area was small — a few parking spots, a bathroom building, one vending machine humming in the corner. But there was another semi parked at the far end, engine idling.
I pulled up fast, slammed on the brakes, locked my doors. My hands shook as I grabbed the tire iron from under the seat. The phone barely had service, but I punched in 911 anyway.
“Come on, come on,” I muttered.
Behind me, the sedan stopped. The door opened. A man stepped out — tall, lean, dressed in dark clothes. His hat brim cast his face in shadow. He walked toward my cab like he had all the time in the world.
“Get out,” he called, his voice the same one from the CB. “We need to talk.”
“No way,” I shouted. “Stay back!”
He smiled faintly. “You think that iron’s gonna save you? I’ve done this before. Easy pickings on lonely nights.”
My call connected. “911, what’s your emergency?”
“There’s a guy harassing me — I-40 rest area, mile marker 212. He’s been following me and trying to ram my truck. Send help, please!”
He heard me. His grin widened. “Cops? Out here? You’ll be bones before they show.” He pulled a knife — long, gleaming under the rest area lights.
Before I could react, headlights flared behind him. The other semi’s engine revved, its horn blaring like a thunderclap. A big man climbed out, shouting, “Hey! What’s going on over there?”
The stranger froze, turning toward him.
“Nothing,” he said smoothly. “Just a chat.”
“Doesn’t look like it,” the other driver said, shining a flashlight on him. “You okay, buddy?”
“Yeah!” I called, heart pounding. “He’s been stalking me for miles!”
The man hesitated — then slipped the knife into his jacket pocket, his smile gone. “Fine,” he muttered. “Your loss.” He got back into his car, slammed the door, and sped off into the dark, gravel spitting from his tires.
The other trucker came closer, eyes wide. “You all right? That guy looked like trouble.”
I nodded shakily. “Thanks for stepping in. He was trying to force me off the road.”
“Seen types like that before,” he said grimly. “Road pirates. They pick their marks — solo runs, late nights, easy cargo. You call it in?”
“Yeah. They’re sending a trooper.”
We waited together, both of us keeping an eye on the road. Fifteen minutes later, a patrol car pulled up. I gave my statement, described the car — black sedan, dented front bumper. The trooper nodded. “We’ve had reports on him. Targets truckers, sometimes gets violent. You’re lucky you didn’t pull over.”
That night, I checked into a cheap motel nearby. Couldn’t sleep. Every headlight outside made me tense.
By morning, I heard over the CB that they’d caught the guy at a checkpoint. Knife, duct tape, stolen electronics, even a gun. He’d done it three times that month. One of his victims hadn’t walked away.
I still haul freight, but I take different routes now. I keep the CB off at night. And when my gut tells me something’s wrong, I listen.
Because out there, in the black miles between towns, there are worse things than loneliness waiting on the road.
"The Other Driver":
I pulled my big rig off the interstate just past midnight, the hum of the engine fading as I coasted into a lonely rest area somewhere in western Nebraska. The highway behind me was a black ribbon stretching into forever, not a single pair of headlights for miles. I’d been driving twelve hours straight, and fatigue was starting to gnaw at the edges of my focus. I figured I’d stretch my legs, sip some coffee from my thermos, and give the straps on my load a quick check before pushing on through the night.
The rest stop was small—two cracked parking spots, a couple of battered picnic tables, and a flickering sodium lamp that threw everything into a sickly orange glow. The place felt wrong the moment I stopped. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that swallows sound.
Another truck sat at the far end of the lot—a weathered blue Kenworth, paint faded to chalk, no company name or DOT numbers on the side. The cab was dark, no sign of movement. I figured the driver was inside catching sleep.
When I stepped out of my cab, the night air hit me sharp and cold. I stretched, joints popping, and started my usual routine—walking the length of the trailer, tugging on the straps. That’s when I saw it.
Near the edge of the lot, just beyond the halo of the lights, something dark smeared across the concrete, glistening faintly. Oil, I thought. Probably leaked from some junker that parked here earlier. But when I crouched closer and hit it with my flashlight, my stomach dropped. It wasn’t oil. The color was wrong—thicker, darker, red with that wet sheen that only one thing has.
Blood. Fresh.
I followed the trail with my light until it disappeared beneath a low bush near the picnic area. That’s when I saw it—the outline of a shoe sticking out from the shadows. A small sneaker, white with a pink stripe, smeared with dirt. Still attached to a foot.
My breath caught. “Oh, Jesus…”
I brushed the branches aside, my hand shaking. A young woman lay half on her side, half face-down, eyes wide open, staring at nothing. Her clothes were torn, her neck bruised dark and ugly. She couldn’t have been more than twenty.
My brain tried to make sense of it. Maybe an accident. Maybe she’d fallen. But deep down, I knew. There was nothing accidental about this.
I stumbled back, fumbling for my phone. No bars. Of course not—middle of nowhere. My pulse pounded so loud I could barely think.
“Hello?” I shouted, my voice cracking. “Anyone here?”
Silence. Just the wind against the trees.
I bolted for my cab, locked the doors, and grabbed the CB mic. “Breaker, breaker, this is Big Red, eastbound on I-80, near mile marker 250. I got a situation—found a body at the rest area. Need help ASAP. Over.”
Static filled the cab for a long moment. Then a low voice came through, rough and unhurried. “Say again, Big Red? You found a what?”
“A body. A woman. She’s dead.”
The man chuckled faintly, a dry sound that made my skin crawl. “You sure she’s not just drunk, sleeping it off?”
“Listen, I know what I saw. She’s dead. Call it in if you can hear me.”
Another pause. Then: “Alright, buddy. I’ll handle it. Stay put.”
I sat there, staring at the dark Kenworth across the lot. Its engine coughed to life, headlights flashing briefly before going dark again. A door creaked open.
A man climbed down—tall, broad-shouldered, flannel shirt hanging loose, jeans dusty from the road. He moved with a slow, deliberate confidence. The kind that doesn’t come from fear.
“You the one on the CB?” he asked, stopping a few feet from my window. The glow from the light caught his face—scruff, a baseball cap pulled low, and a long scar running down his cheek.
“Yeah,” I said, keeping my doors locked tight. “Did you call the cops?”
He nodded, looking toward the bushes. “Sure did. They’ll be here soon.” He turned back to me. “What’d you see exactly?”
My mouth went dry. “A woman. Looked like she was strangled. Clothes torn. You didn’t hear anything?”
He shrugged. “Been sleeping. Long haul from Texas. Name’s Tom.”
“Bill,” I lied automatically.
Tom lit a cigarette, the flame flickering in his eyes. “These highways get rough after dark. Lotta folks pick up hitchhikers. Sometimes it goes bad.”
I forced a nod, trying to sound casual. “You see any tonight?”
“Yeah,” he said, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Blonde girl, red jacket. Pretty thing. Offered her a ride. She said no. Guess she had other plans.”
My stomach twisted. The girl by the bush had blonde hair. Red jacket.
He must’ve seen the change in my face, because he smiled—a slow, humorless stretch of his lips. “You alright, Bill? You look like you seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” I said, though my voice trembled. “Just waiting for the cops.”
Tom’s grin widened. “You sure they’re coming? Out here, it can take hours.”
He turned and walked back toward his truck, flicking the cigarette into the dirt. The ember hissed out. He climbed in but didn’t shut the door. Just sat there, engine rumbling, lights off. Watching.
I tried the phone again. Still nothing. My chest felt tight, the kind of fear that gets inside your ribs and won’t let go.
I started the rig. The engine’s roar felt like the only solid thing in the world. I threw it in gear and rolled out of the lot. In the mirror, the blue Kenworth came alive, headlights snapping on, high beams flooding my cab.
Over the CB, his voice returned, colder now. “Where you going, Bill? Thought we were waiting together.”
“I need signal,” I said, keeping my tone even.
“Signal, huh? You didn’t touch anything back there, did you?”
My heart pounded. “No.”
“Good,” he said. “Wouldn’t want prints on something that isn’t yours.”
The words hit me like ice water. I floored it. The highway stretched out, black and endless. His rig stayed on me, lights burning in my mirrors.
“Tell me,” he said softly over the radio, “you ever pick up strays, Bill? Girls who need a ride?”
“No,” I lied.
“Good. You never know what you’ll find in your truck when the sun comes up.”
I saw lights ahead—a gas station, maybe two miles off. I swerved into the exit lane, tires howling. Tom followed, but slower this time.
I parked by the pumps where a couple of cars sat, people moving inside under bright fluorescent light. My phone buzzed to life—two bars.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
I didn’t look away from the road. “This is Bill Turner, I found a murdered woman at the rest stop off I-80, mile marker 250. There’s a man following me—blue Kenworth, driver named Tom, scar on his face. I think he’s the one.”
Tom’s truck idled at the edge of the lot, his silhouette barely visible. After a long moment, he revved the engine once and pulled away, vanishing into the dark Nebraska night.
When the police arrived twenty minutes later, they confirmed what I already knew. The girl was dead—strangled, matching the description of a missing hitchhiker from two states over. They ran the name, the truck, the scar. Turned out “Tom” wasn’t Tom at all. He’d been using fake credentials for years, bouncing from state to state. A drifter. A ghost.
They caught him three days later in Kansas. His cab was a nightmare—bloodstains under the mattress, hair caught in the vent, duct tape and rope hidden in the sleeper. He’d done it before.
Now, whenever I’m parked on a dark stretch of interstate and see headlights pull in behind me, I can’t help but think of that night. The hum of a diesel engine. The flicker of a lighter.
And a voice on the CB, low and calm, asking, “You sure she’s not just sleeping it off?”
"The Red Rig":
I’ve been a long-haul trucker for twelve years now. Crossed most of the country—north, south, coast to coast—hauling everything from furniture to steel, machine parts, and produce. It’s a good life if you can stand the solitude. The road becomes your home, the hum of the tires your heartbeat. But those long nights—those stretches of blacktop where it’s just you and the endless dark—sometimes they start to feel like something’s watching from out there.
There’s one trip I’ll never forget. The kind that changed how I look at every rest area and unmarked rig I pass. It was a routine haul from Chicago to Denver, trailer full of auto parts. I left just after sunset, planning to push through the night to make good time.
By the time I crossed into Iowa, the world had gone flat and empty. The moon hung low, dull and pale over the fields, and the highway stretched out like a ribbon with no end. My eyes burned from staring into the dark, the yellow lines blurring together. I decided to pull off for a few minutes, just to stretch, pour another cup of coffee, and clear my head.
The rest area I found was small—one of those lonely little pull-offs that feel forgotten by time. A flickering sign. A cracked sidewalk leading to a squat restroom building. The air smelled like dust and diesel. There were only two rigs parked there: mine and another—an older red semi with no markings, sitting under the only working sodium light. The glow made the paint look wet, like fresh blood.
I figured the other driver was sleeping. Most of us do when we can. I shut off my engine, grabbed my thermos, and stepped out. The night was silent except for the far-off moan of traffic and the ticking of my cooling engine. The kind of quiet that feels too big, too hollow.
That’s when I heard footsteps.
I turned and saw a man walking toward me from the direction of the red rig. Tall—had to be six-four, easy—and built heavy, like someone who’d spent his life hauling chains and tires. His jeans were dark with grease stains, and a faded flannel hung loose over a barrel chest. He wore a cap pulled low, shadowing his face, but his grin caught the light when he lifted a hand in greeting.
“Hey, buddy,” he called out, voice rough like gravel. “You got a minute? My rig’s acting up—battery, I think. Won’t turn over.”
I nodded automatically. Out here, we help each other. It’s a kind of unspoken code. “Yeah, sure. Let’s take a look.”
He led me around to the front of his truck. The hood was already open. I leaned in with my flashlight, expecting to see corrosion or loose cables—but the engine was spotless. Cleaner than mine by far. That was the first thing that felt off. The second was the smell. Faint, metallic, sharp—like copper or rust.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the cab door hanging slightly open. Inside, on the passenger seat, sat a duffel bag, half unzipped. Coils of rope spilled out, tangled with rolls of duct tape. At first, I told myself it made sense—cargo securement gear, maybe—but there was too much of it. Too neat. Too deliberate.
He must’ve seen me looking, because his tone shifted like a knife sliding out of a sheath. “You see something you like?”
I straightened up slowly. “Just checking connections. Might be a bad wire.”
His grin vanished. “You don’t need to go nowhere. We can figure it out together.”
Something in the way he said it—soft, but final—made my skin crawl. My gut told me to move, to get away, but I forced a calm smile. “Tell you what,” I said, “I got better tools in my rig. Give me a sec.”
He stepped forward, blocking my path. “You’re not listening, friend. Stay here.”
His eyes were dead flat in the dim light—like something cold was staring out from behind them.
He kept talking as he moved closer, his words spilling faster, his tone turning almost casual again. “You know, I pick up hitchhikers sometimes. Keeps the nights from feeling so damn long. Last one was a young woman, outta Omaha. Talked a lot. Pretty thing.”
My chest tightened. “That right?”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling again. “People go missing all the time on these highways. Most folks don’t even notice.”
He laughed—a dry, low sound that made my blood run cold.
That’s when I saw it. On the floor of the cab, half in shadow, a dark stain. Thick. Dried. And beside it, a small shoe. Women’s. Torn strap.
Everything in me locked up for half a second. Then instinct kicked in. I stepped back. “I think your alternator’s bad,” I said evenly. “Best call it in.”
Before I could turn, his hand shot out, grabbing my arm. His grip was vice-strong. “You’re not going anywhere yet,” he rasped. “We just started talking.”
“Let go,” I said, voice rising.
He didn’t.
I wrenched free and bolted. My boots pounded the asphalt as he shouted behind me. I dove into my cab, slammed the door, locked it, and hit the ignition. The diesel roared to life as his fist smashed against the glass. His face pressed to the window, twisted and furious.
“Open up!” he yelled. “We ain’t done!”
I threw it in gear and peeled out, tires screaming. My trailer fishtailed before catching traction. In the mirror, I saw him sprinting back to his rig. Headlights flared on behind me.
He was following.
The next hour was a nightmare of flashing lights and roaring engines. The red semi stayed right on me, closing the distance, his headlights flaring in my mirrors like the eyes of something feral. I pushed the rig harder than I ever had, hitting ninety, maybe more.
I grabbed my CB, switched to Channel 19. My voice shook as I called out:
“Breaker one-nine, this is Big Blue westbound on I-80 near marker 250. Got a red semi tailing me hard—possible assault, maybe worse. Anyone copy?”
A moment’s static. Then a woman’s voice crackled through: “Copy, Big Blue. You safe?”
“He tried to grab me. Think he’s wanted. Saw blood in his cab.”
Another voice joined—deep, calm. “Silver Pete here, ten miles ahead. I’ll slow down, box him in.”
Truckers started chiming in one after another, coordinating like a convoy. They kept me talking, kept me grounded as my hands shook on the wheel. The red rig rammed my trailer once—hard enough to make my teeth slam together.
“He’s hitting me!” I shouted.
“We got you, Blue,” the woman said. “Cops are rolling your way.”
Up ahead, I saw headlights—two rigs side by side. The Peterbilt with logs, and another flatbed behind him. I pulled alongside, and together, they boxed the red truck in. He swerved, tried to push through, but they held the line. Then the sirens came. Blue and red lights flashing across the fields.
I kept driving until I saw troopers swarm him, guns drawn. Then I pulled over at the next exit and just sat there, hands trembling, heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted out.
Later, the cops told me the truth. The man was wanted in three states—kidnapping, murder, the whole list. They found photos, jewelry, IDs, and human remains hidden in a compartment behind his cab. That shoe I saw? It belonged to a missing hitchhiker from Nebraska.
I still drive those same roads. Still haul freight through the night. But I don’t stop at the small rest areas anymore. I stick to truck stops with people, cameras, and light.
Out there, on those long stretches of empty highway, it’s not the loneliness that’ll get you. It’s the things hiding in the dark beside it.
And sometimes… they wear a trucker’s smile.