Lonnie R. West

This started from an actual event, a hitchhiker I picked up one rainy morning. His story stuck in my mind, and I have finally started to write it out. This is only the beginning of a chapter.... far from complete.

"You're freaking me out, man. Just stop the car here and let me out," he said, staring evenly at the driver. Abruptly, the car pulled off into the emergency lane and stopped. The driver sat staring straight ahead and said nothing.

Matt dragged his pack out of the passenger side door into the rain. He started to slam the door, and then paused to peer back in at the driver with a bewildered look of annoyance. "Do yourself a favor; don't pick up any more hitchhikers, huh? You just might..." He took a breath, shook his head, "Ah, the hell with it. Just go, man." The pack settled on his back with a weary comfort as he watched the car accelerate back onto the highway. The taillights dissipated into a dull red haze through the rain and blinked out.

"Great," he said, looking around, "just fuckin' great." The highway disappeared into the night in either direction, and both sides of the roadway were flanked by a solid curtain of trees and underbrush. There was no sign of civilization to be seen.

He stood motionless for a moment, listening to the dull sound of raindrops falling in the brush, then wiped a lock of dark hair from his eyes and turned his face to the sky. The rain was a pleasant cold sting on his face, and brought him the gift of an old memory:

"Matthew James Archer, you get your butt down here this minute!" his mother yelled, but young Matt just crouched on the limb of the oak tree quietly. His eyes were closed, head back, catching raindrops on his tongue. "Don't make me get your father!" came the warning voice below, and Matt opened his eyes.

"Why can't I stay out here? I ain't gonna get sick..." he protested.

"That's just what your friend Anthony said, and what happened to him?" his mother asked, trying hard to keep her voice stern.

"Yeah, yeah, I know..." he said, resignedly jumping down, "He spent three weeks in the hospital, and two more inside because he got pneumonia," he said in a tone that mocked his mother's familiar lecture.

He walked slowly to the back porch, and his mother threw a towel over his head. "Honestly, Matt. I really don't understand what you like so much about sitting up in that old tree," she said, "In the rain even."

He paused for a moment, as if listening to a distant whisper, "It's just quiet there, mom. And I like the rain, it makes everything smell brand new..."

In spite of circumstances, Matt broke into a devilish grin, and started walking toward the distant overpass. As he walked, pebbles crunching underfoot, he scanned the sides of the roadway for a possible place to camp for the night. It was late, and the chances of getting another ride at this time of night were pretty slim. In another hour he was going to be sleepwalking. The ground was thoroughly soaked and mushy from a few days of continual rain, so he decided to stay under the overpass until morning.

Sitting against the abutment, he pulled the backpack between his knees and opened it, pulling out an old worn Army jacket. Crouching forward, he slipped it on, and then sat back down and looked through the pack once more.

Wild glaring light warned him moments before he heard a sound, and he leaped back from the roadway just as a black car came to a skidding halt only inches from where he was sitting. Breathing hard, he scuttled backward in the sudden resounding silence until he hit the wall.

"Hey! You almost killed me, you piece of shit!" He jumped up, hefting a rock in a clenched fist, and took a couple steps toward the car.

The car stood motionless. Matt thought he could see a large man slumped over the wheel. Anger dissipating, he slowly walked to the driver's door, dropped the rock, and peered in from a few feet away.

"Hey! You alright?"

The driver slowly lifted his head and shook it, then turned to gaze unsteadily at Matt. "Hoo boyo... Maybe shoulda took the cab, eh?" he said in a voice that spoke of long nights drinking and too many cigarettes. He groaned and fumbled with the door. "Not feeling so hot. Gotta get out. Get up, get air..." A large hand gripped the door frame and the man hauled himself upright, holding on to the car.

"Maybe you should just sit there for a bit before you move around." Matt said. Alarm bells were ringing all over inside his head, but he wasn't sure why. New car, neat clothing concealing what could be a muscular physique: could be a businessman on a bender, but somehow something seemed off.

"Nah, nah. 's OK. Gotta get some air is all." He took a couple halting steps in Matt's direction, and suddenly collapsed onto his knees with a grunt. "Ugh, maybe I should sit for a little while. Gimme a hand over to the ledge there, boyo?"

Matt stepped over after a long moment's consideration, expertly slung the larger man's arm over his shoulder, and with wiry agility lifted him upright.

"You're alright! You know that Matt? You're a good guy. Gonna help me get home."

Matt stiffened. He never told him his name. Too late he noticed the utter lack of alcohol odor about the man. He turned to face him, but only caught a glimpse of the pistol before it connected solidly with his temple.

Then black.