"Locked in the Cab":
I was on my way home after spending the weekend with family, driving down Interstate 24 near the Kentucky–Tennessee line. The sky was bruised with the color of early dusk, and the road stretched endlessly ahead—just me, the hum of the tires, and the low hiss of wind through the cracked window. My old sedan had been giving me trouble for weeks, but I convinced myself it would make it just one more trip.
Then the sputtering started. A weak cough from the engine, a flicker in the gauges, and a sinking realization—I had pushed the fuel tank too far. The car shuddered once, twice, then went silent. I coasted to the shoulder, the hazard lights weakly blinking against the blur of speeding headlights.
My phone was dead. No charger, no signal of help. I sat there for a long minute, gripping the steering wheel, hoping maybe someone might pull over. But every car roared past, their taillights smearing red lines through the dusk.
Then, in my rearview mirror, I saw a semi-truck slowing down. It did a wide, deliberate U-turn across the median and rumbled up behind me, brakes hissing. A heavy-set man climbed down from the cab. He looked to be in his fifties, his face rough but smiling, a hint of warmth in his eyes.
“You alright, ma’am?” he asked, his voice booming over the wind. “Looks like you ran out of gas.”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “My phone’s dead too.”
He nodded. “Well, there’s a station about ten miles ahead. I can take you there, help you get a can of fuel. Name’s Ray.”
He seemed kind, maybe a bit rough around the edges, but genuine. I hesitated, my instincts prickling, but with no other cars stopping and the night coming fast, I decided to trust him. I locked my car, climbed up into the passenger seat of his truck, and we started down the interstate.
At first, everything felt fine. Ray talked a lot—about the long hours on the road, how he had two grown kids about my age, and how he’d been driving for over twenty years. I nodded along, half-listening, grateful just to be moving again.
But when the sign for the gas station appeared—our supposed stop—he didn’t slow down. He just kept driving.
“Hey,” I said, pointing to the exit. “That was it.”
He didn’t answer. His face had gone flat, the friendliness gone from his voice. I tried again, louder this time. “Ray, that was the gas station.”
That’s when he reached under his seat and pulled out a small pistol.
“Don’t scream,” he said calmly, almost too calmly. “This is a kidnapping. You’re gonna do what I say.”
The words froze me. My chest tightened. I couldn’t process them at first, as if he’d spoken another language.
He pointed the gun at me and motioned toward the back of the cab. “Get in the sleeper. Now.”
My body moved before my mind could catch up. I climbed into the cramped space behind the seats—the small, dim area where truckers rest on long hauls. It smelled of sweat, diesel, and stale coffee.
He followed, closing the curtain behind him. From a drawer, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them onto my wrists, the cold metal biting into my skin. He yanked a blanket over me and went back to the driver’s seat, starting the truck again.
I lay there trembling, every breath shallow and fast, the hum of the road vibrating through the mattress. I thought of my two little girls waiting at home, of how they’d ask where I was when I didn’t show up. I thought of the army—of the training, the strength I used to believe I had—and wondered if it would matter now.
After what felt like hours, I found my voice. “Are you going to kill me?” I asked.
His reply came quiet but cold. “No. Just rape you.”
I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. “How long are you keeping me?”
“A few days,” he said. “Till I’m done.”
The truck stopped once on a desolate stretch of road. He came into the back again, lifted the blanket, and stared at me. I kicked out instinctively, my heel connecting with his arm. He cursed, swung the butt of the gun, and struck me in the side of the head. Stars burst behind my eyes. Warm blood trickled down my temple.
He grabbed a paper towel and wiped it roughly, muttering, “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” Then he tossed the blanket back over me and kept driving.
The pain pulsed, but under it, something else rose—anger. I flexed my hands, twisting them against the cuffs. The metal cut into my skin, but I kept pulling, again and again, until finally one wrist slipped free, skin torn and raw.
I waited. The truck rolled on in a slow rhythm, his attention on the road. Then I moved.
I lunged forward, throwing the blanket over his head, wrapping my arm around his neck from behind. He shouted and jerked the wheel, the truck swerving across lanes, horns blaring from passing cars.
“Stop it!” he yelled, gasping. “I’ll let you go! Just stop!”
I didn’t believe him, not for a second. I held on until he pulled over, the truck screeching to a halt on the shoulder.
He was shaking when he turned to me. “I never expected you to fight like that,” he said. “No one ever has.”
That one line chilled me more than anything else—because it meant I wasn’t the first.
The moment he unlocked the other cuff, I bolted. I hit the ground running, barefoot, bleeding, half my dress torn away, and sprinted down the shoulder waving my arms at oncoming cars.
A small silver sedan stopped. A woman jumped out and rushed to me. “Oh my God—are you okay?” she asked.
I could barely speak. “Call the police,” I whispered. “He has a gun.”
They caught him an hour later at a rest stop. His truck was filled with restraints, knives, and things I’ll never forget seeing listed in the police report.
Ray died in prison before the trial began. Maybe justice never fully came—but I lived. I went home. I held my girls. And that’s more than he could ever take from me.
"Nowhere to Run":
Peter and I had been on the road for weeks, carving our way through the endless red heart of Australia in our beat-up orange Kombi van. The outback stretched out in every direction—vast, sunburnt, and shimmering under a sky so wide it felt like it might swallow us whole. We’d left Alice Springs that afternoon, heading north for Darwin, the van humming lazily along the Stuart Highway. The air inside smelled faintly of dust, petrol, and the cheap coffee we’d brewed that morning.
Peter was at the wheel, as always, his sunglasses reflecting the sinking sun. I sat beside him, boots on the dash, a map spread across my knees even though we both knew there was only one road for hundreds of kilometers. We talked about what we’d do when we reached the Top End—camp on the beach maybe, buy a case of beer, and finally rest.
By dusk, the highway was deserted. The last hint of light bled out over the desert scrub, painting everything in bruised purples and orange. The radio had long since lost signal, and the silence settled in, thick and strange. I remember feeling small—like the whole world had pulled back and left us adrift in its center.
Then, just after seven-thirty, I noticed headlights behind us. A white truck, four-wheel drive, with a green canopy over the back—the kind locals used for everything from hauling gear to hunting. At first, I thought nothing of it. But it stayed behind us for a long while, then crept closer. Too close.
Peter checked the mirror. “What’s this bloke doing?” he muttered.
The truck’s driver suddenly waved his arm out the window, motioning for us to pull over.
“Maybe something’s wrong with the van,” I said, a flutter of unease starting in my chest. “Like a flat or something sparking.”
Peter hesitated, then eased onto the shoulder near Barrow Creek. The truck slowed and stopped ahead of us. The driver stepped out.
He was tall—towering, really—with a solid, broad frame. Long dark hair tied back, a thick moustache, a checkered shirt half untucked, and dusty boots that crunched on the gravel. Something about him made the hairs on my arms rise, though I couldn’t say why.
Peter got out to meet him while I stayed inside, watching. The man’s voice carried faintly over the hum of the idling van. “Hey mate, saw sparks from your exhaust. Could catch fire if you’re not careful.”
Peter nodded, easygoing as ever. “Thanks for that. Better check it out.”
They went to the rear of the van. “Jo, jump in and rev the engine when I say,” Peter called.
I slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and waited. The engine coughed to life. Then, a sound cut through the quiet—sharp, explosive, metallic. A single crack that seemed to echo forever.
My heart lurched. “Peter?” I called. No answer.
Footsteps crunched toward the driver’s side. The man appeared at the window, face blank, eyes cold. A silver handgun gleamed in his hand.
“Get out,” he said softly, almost politely.
My throat went dry. “Where’s Peter?”
“Out.” His tone didn’t change.
He yanked the door open and dragged me out by the arm, the smell of oil and dust thick in the air. He spun me around, pinning me against the van. Plastic ties cinched tight around my wrists until my fingers went numb.
“Don’t fight,” he muttered. “You’ll only make it worse.”
“Please,” I gasped. “Just tell me where he is.”
He didn’t answer. The world blurred through tears and adrenaline. The gun pressed into my ribs as he pushed me toward his truck. I caught sight of a dog in the cab—a dalmatian mix with its ears perked and tail still, watching silently.
He threw open the back canopy, reaching for tape. I twisted, kicked, bit at the air, desperate. He swore, trying to get control. The tape grazed my mouth—I bit it, ripped free, screaming his name, Peter’s name, anything.
“Stop it!” he barked, shoving me hard against the side of the truck. I stumbled, the ties cutting deeper into my skin. In the chaos, one of my ankles came loose.
He turned for just a second—just one—and I ran.
The world tilted, adrenaline flooding every nerve. I bolted into the scrub, the dry grass clawing at my legs. Behind me, his shout tore through the night. “You little—!” Then came the flashlight beam, cutting through branches, searching.
I threw myself under a bush, curling into the dirt. The light swept past, paused, then moved on. My chest heaved silently, breath shaking in and out.
He prowled nearby, his boots crunching slow and methodical. “I know you’re here,” he called. “Don’t make this harder.”
The dog barked again, distant now. I pressed my face into the earth, tasting sand and blood. He came so close I could smell him—sweat, oil, gunpowder. I didn’t move.
Finally, his footsteps faded. Then came a heavy dragging sound from where the van was parked… and a sickening thud. My stomach turned.
Moments later, the Kombi’s engine sputtered to life. I dared to lift my head. The headlights moved, weaving off the road into the scrub until they vanished. Silence returned, wide and empty.
Hours passed before I moved. My wrists burned raw. The night was alive with strange sounds—distant cries, the rustle of something unseen. Every snap of a twig sent panic crawling up my spine.
I worked the ties against a jagged rock until they gave way. My hands shook as I rubbed circulation back into my fingers.
Then, far off down the highway, a faint light. Headlights. A road train, its engines roaring like salvation.
I stumbled from the bush, barefoot, waving frantically. The truck slowed, brakes hissing, and two men inside stared wide-eyed.
“Help!” I cried, voice cracking. “He shot my boyfriend—please!”
They didn’t ask questions. They pulled me into the cab, wrapped me in a blanket, and turned the truck toward Barrow Creek.
At the roadhouse, they called the police. I sat trembling, covered in dirt and blood, trying to explain through chattering teeth.
When the officers arrived hours later, we drove back to the scene. There was blood—Peter’s blood—and our van hidden among the scrub, doors open. But no Peter. No man.
Days turned to weeks. The media swarmed, the questions relentless. Some doubted me. Said it didn’t make sense. Why didn’t I scream sooner? Why wasn’t there more evidence?
But I knew what I saw.
Months later, a break came. DNA from my shirt, from the cable ties, from the van’s gearstick—all matched one man: Bradley John Murdoch. He’d been in Alice Springs that very day, driving a white Toyota four-wheel drive with a green canopy. CCTV caught him at a service station just hours after the attack.
The trial in Darwin dragged for months. When I took the stand, I could feel every eye in that room on me. Murdoch sat there, expressionless, his stare like stone.
“That’s him,” I said. My voice didn’t shake this time. “That’s the man.”
The jury found him guilty—murder, abduction, assault. Life sentence. No parole for twenty-eight years.
But Peter’s body was never found.
Even now, years later, I still see that endless stretch of desert when I close my eyes. I still hear the echo of that single gunshot, still feel the dry wind whip across my face.
The outback doesn’t forget, but it doesn’t explain either. It just keeps its secrets—buried deep in the red earth.
And somewhere out there, under all that silence, Peter is still waiting.
"Ten Minutes Away":
I had just finished a long, punishing shift at the warehouse—hauling boxes until my arms burned and my back felt like it might snap. The clock had slipped past midnight by the time I climbed into my old pickup truck and started the drive home. The air outside was cold and still, the kind of quiet that hangs heavy after a long day.
I took the backroad, like I always did—a narrow ribbon of asphalt that cut through thick woods and empty fields. It was faster than the highway, though far lonelier. Most nights, it felt peaceful. That night, it felt endless.
At first, the engine hummed along just fine. Then, without warning, it coughed, sputtered, and shuddered. I pressed the gas, but the truck jerked and slowed, choking on itself. A thin line of smoke curled up from under the hood. Seconds later, the engine died completely. I coasted to the shoulder and stopped, the silence swallowing the last rumble of the motor.
I got out and popped the hood, half-hoping it would magically fix itself. The battery looked fine, the belts still in place—but when I turned the key again, all I got was that weak, hopeless click. I tried three more times. Same thing.
My phone was almost dead, but I figured I had just enough battery to call for help. The signal flickered in and out, though, like it was teasing me. I stepped away from the truck, pacing on the gravel shoulder. The woods loomed on both sides, black and still, branches bending low over the road like arms ready to grab.
Then, finally, headlights appeared in the distance. I waved both arms, relief flooding through me.
A dark sedan slowed and pulled up behind me. Two men stepped out. Both were tall, broad-shouldered. The driver wore a dark jacket, the passenger a cap pulled low over his face.
“You okay?” the driver asked, his voice flat, unreadable.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Truck died. You guys have jumper cables?”
They exchanged a look. “No,” the driver said. “But let me see if I can call someone.”
He walked back to his car, phone in hand, while his friend stayed outside—arms crossed, leaning against their door, eyes fixed on me.
Something in my gut twisted. Maybe it was the way they didn’t look worried, or how the second man hadn’t said a word. I nodded and walked back to my truck, locking the doors as quietly as I could.
I called my brother. He lived maybe fifteen minutes away. It rang several times before he picked up.
“Hey—it’s me,” I said, voice low. “Truck broke down on the backroad. Battery’s dead. Can you bring jumper cables? Please, hurry.”
He groaned about the late hour but said he’d come. “Ten minutes. Don’t get out of the truck.”
I waited, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds. The two men were still there. The driver got out again.
“Help on the way?” he called out.
“I think so,” I said through the window.
“Good,” he replied, smiling faintly. But he didn’t leave.
A few minutes later, more headlights appeared. Another car slowed to a stop behind theirs. Two more men got out, greeting the first pair like old friends. They talked quietly, too quietly, but I could see them glancing at my truck between sentences. None of them carried tools.
My pulse quickened. Something was wrong. I gripped the steering wheel, forcing myself to breathe slow, steady.
I called my brother again. “Where are you? There are four guys here now. I don’t like this.”
“I’m almost there,” he said, his voice tense. “Two minutes. Stay put. Keep the doors locked.”
Through the mirror, I saw one of the new arrivals step closer to my truck, stopping just beside the window. He bent down, his face almost touching the glass.
“Need a hand?” he asked softly.
“No,” I said. “My brother’s almost here.”
He lingered, eyes studying me like he was memorizing my face. Then he turned and walked back to the others. They huddled together, whispering, one of them pointing toward my truck.
That was the longest two minutes of my life.
Then—finally—another set of headlights appeared, moving fast. My brother’s car screeched to a stop beside me. He jumped out, tall, solid, with a baseball bat in his hand. He tossed another one to me through the cracked window.
“You okay?” he said loudly, making sure they heard him.
“Yeah,” I said, gripping the bat.
He stepped forward, standing between my truck and them. “We’ve got it handled,” he said. “You can go.”
The driver of the first car stepped forward, jaw tight. “We were just trying to help.”
“No need,” my brother shot back. “Move along.”
The standoff stretched for what felt like forever. Then, slowly, they started backing toward their cars, eyes never leaving us.
As my brother lifted the hood to hook up the cables, I scanned the dark around us. Something felt off.
“Where’s the fourth guy?” I whispered.
My brother froze, eyes narrowing. “What?”
I pointed toward the treeline. “There—someone’s moving.”
A figure crouched in the brush, inching closer.
My brother kept his voice calm. “Start the truck once I connect.”
He worked fast, hands steady despite the tension. “Try it now,” he said.
I turned the key. The engine roared to life. Relief hit me like a wave—just before a brick smashed through the back window.
Glass exploded across the seat. Then—gunshots. Sharp, deafening cracks. Metal pinged, glass shattered. I ducked, slamming the gas pedal. My brother dove into his car, reversing hard, tires screaming.
We tore down that road, hearts hammering, every shadow feeling alive. They didn’t follow.
At home, under the harsh garage light, we saw the damage—bullet holes in the door, shattered glass everywhere. My dad listened to what happened, his face pale and tight.
“Sounds like those guys who’ve been hitting cars out that way,” he said quietly. “You’re lucky you got out.”
I never took that backroad again.
But the story didn’t end there.
A week later, someone at work mentioned a string of robberies on rural roads—people pretending to help stranded drivers before attacking them. Some never made it home. The thought made my skin crawl.
Months passed, but I couldn’t shake it. Every time I drove at night, I kept one hand near my phone, the other near something heavy.
Then one evening, after visiting family, I cut through a different backroad—wider, safer, I thought. Halfway through, the truck sputtered again. I pulled over, cursing.
A van stopped behind me. An older man stepped out, smiling warmly. “Trouble?” he asked.
“Just a wire,” I said, hesitant.
“Let me take a look,” he offered.
My instincts screamed no—but he seemed harmless. We fixed the wire, and the truck started. “Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile.
He waved as I pulled away. Maybe he was just kind. Maybe not. I’ll never know.
Months later, another night. Another shortcut. Another stall.
Only this time, I didn’t wait. I locked the doors, killed the lights, and called for help immediately. When two men pulled up minutes later, asking if I needed a hand, I didn’t answer. I just waited.
When a real driver stopped behind them—one with cables and a concerned tone—the first two men left without a word.
That’s when I understood.
The backroads have their own rules—quiet, lonely, and filled with people who don’t always mean well. You learn to trust your gut out there. To keep your doors locked. To never let your guard down.
And every time I pass a stranded car now, I wonder which side of the story I’m looking at.
"Red Dirt and Silence":
I was behind the wheel that night, the endless stretch of red dirt and dry scrub blurring past beneath our headlights. The outback has a way of swallowing sound, and even the engine’s hum felt small out there. My boyfriend sat next to me, twisting the radio dial, trying to catch something—anything—to break the silence. Static, a flicker of distant voices, then nothing.
We’d been driving for hours since the last fuel stop—a faded roadhouse where we’d grabbed meat pies and lukewarm Cokes. The old Kombi rattled the way it always did, doors shaking, dashboard creaking like bones. I loved that van, but that night, every sound started to feel wrong.
Then I saw them—headlights in the rearview mirror, far back but steady. Not fading. Keeping pace.
“Probably just another traveler,” he said when I mentioned it, voice easy but his eyes flicked to the mirror too.
The sun had dropped hours ago, leaving behind that copper haze before the dark swallowed everything whole. Now the world outside was ink-black—no towns, no lights, just an endless road cutting through nothing. The air inside the van felt thick.
He suggested we pull over soon, maybe camp off the side. I nodded but kept driving. Those headlights were closer now, almost too close. The glare filled the mirror.
Then, without warning, the vehicle behind us pulled out and came alongside. A big four-wheel-drive with a canopy. The driver waved his arm out the window, pointing toward the back of our van, motioning urgently. I could barely see his face—shadowed beneath a hat—but he looked insistent.
“Pull over!” he mouthed, gesturing wildly.
“What’s he want?” I asked, slowing down a little.
“Looks like he’s saying there’s something wrong,” my boyfriend said, leaning closer. “Maybe sparks or smoke.”
He wasn’t wrong—out here, people helped each other. That was the rule.
I eased the van onto the shoulder, gravel popping under the tires. The four-wheel-drive stopped behind us, engine still rumbling. My boyfriend got out first, casual as ever, hands in his pockets. I stayed behind the wheel, engine idling, eyes fixed on the mirror.
The man climbed down from his truck—a tall figure, rough around the edges, with a mustache and long hair tucked under a sun-beaten hat. A dog shifted in the cab behind him, its shape moving in the shadows.
I cracked the window, listening.
He called out, “Saw sparks under your van! Could be your muffler. Want me to take a look?”
My boyfriend nodded. “Yeah, sure, mate. Appreciate it. Been driving all day—don’t need a fire starting.”
They went to the back of the van, their voices muffled. I leaned to see better, but the angle was bad. The man said something about needing tools. My boyfriend laughed lightly. “Nah, we’re good, just backpacking around.”
Then—silence.
Too much silence.
“Everything okay back there?” I called, trying to sound casual.
No answer.
A hollow dread crawled through me. I turned the key, killed the engine, and stepped out. The night hit me—cool, dry, endless. Stars hung so close they looked like pinholes in the sky. I rounded the van just in time to hear a sound that didn’t belong—a sharp, flat crack that tore through the dark.
My boyfriend dropped instantly. No sound, just a wet collapse. Blood bloomed black across his shirt.
The man stood over him, gun raised, smoke curling from the barrel.
I screamed.
He was on me before the echo died. “Shut up,” he hissed, pressing the gun to my ribs. His voice was low, gravelly—too calm. “Get in the van.”
I froze, heart slamming. “Please,” I whispered. “We don’t have money—”
“Move.”
He shoved me toward the driver’s seat, wrenching my arms behind me. The bite of plastic zip ties cut into my wrists. I twisted, gasping. “Why are you doing this?”
He didn’t answer. His breath stank of cigarettes and sweat as he knelt, binding my ankles too. I kicked out, caught his arm. He grunted, cursed under his breath. “Stop that.”
Then came the slap—hard, ringing, stars bursting behind my eyes.
He dragged me out by the hair, toward his truck. The dog barked wildly now, claws scraping at the window. I caught one last glimpse of my boyfriend—his body still, eyes open toward the stars.
“Why?” I choked. “He didn’t do anything.”
“Quiet,” the man snapped, and yanked a sack over my head. The rough fabric scratched my face, the smell of dust and oil filling my nose. Panic closed in with the darkness.
I heard him grunt, dragging something heavy—a thud into the truck bed. My stomach twisted.
He shoved me into the cab’s back, face down on the floor. “Stay there.”
The door slammed. Footsteps circled. Then the engine turned over.
That was my moment.
I twisted, wrists burning, ankles straining. One tie slipped loose—barely. I pulled my leg free, pushed against the door handle with everything I had.
The door swung open. I tumbled into the dirt, the sack still on, scraping my knees. Behind me, he shouted, “Hey!”
I ran.
Blind through the dark, through the scrub, branches tearing at my arms. I ripped the sack off mid-stride, lungs burning, heart breaking open in my chest. The flashlight beam cut through the dark behind me.
“Come out!” he called, voice echoing off nothing. “I won’t hurt you!”
Liar.
I dropped low, scrambling under a thick shrub, every sound in my body screaming to stay still. The light swept past, so close I saw his boots crunching dry twigs inches from my face.
The dog barked again, farther off now. He moved away.
I waited. Minutes stretched, melted into hours. My body shook with cold and shock, but I didn’t move. Not until the night swallowed him completely.
Then—distant—headlights.
A big rig rolling slow along the highway. I stumbled out, waving wildly. The driver braked hard, air hissing, eyes wide as he saw me.
“Help,” I croaked. “He shot my boyfriend. He’s still out there.”
They pulled me in, wrapped a jacket around me. One of them grabbed the radio, voice trembling. “We’ve got a girl here—looks like she’s been attacked.”
I told them everything in broken pieces. The man, the gun, the escape. They drove me to a pub near the next roadhouse, where the cops met us.
By dawn, police were scouring the highway. They found blood, the van hidden off the track, but not him. Not the body.
Days blurred into interviews, headlines, judgment. The questions came sharp: Why did you pull over? Why didn’t you fight harder?
Because you can’t think like that when you’re staring down a gun.
It took a year before they caught him—a drifter with a record, a ghost moving through truck stops and campsites. The face in court was the same one from my nightmares: long hair, mustache, cold eyes that never blinked.
I told the jury everything. My voice didn’t shake.
Guilty. Life in prison.
But my boyfriend’s body was never found. The outback keeps its secrets.
Now, I drive differently. Full tank. Daylight only. No stops for strangers. I still see that flash sometimes—the moment the gun went off, the look in his eyes.
I escaped that night, but not all of me did. Some part of me is still out there in the scrub, crouched in the dark, waiting for the light to pass.