Followed

© 2000 James Slone
All rights reserved.

Officer Marshall took another slice of cold pizza from the flattened cardboard box. He was sitting comfortably in his favorite chair with his legs propped up on the metal desk in front of him. Between his black shoes sat a 13-inch black and white television that had one of those ancient dials to change channels. On the small screen, a local female news anchor was briefly mentioning top stories to be covered in full later that night at eleven o'clock.

Officer Marshall was one of three deputies on duty that night in Shadowcreek County and its surrounding areas. He was reaching for his bottle of root beer when the news anchor's voice caught his attention.

"And in what seems to be a story ripped straight from the pages of a horror novel, Shadowcreek County Medical Examiner Harold Denton reports that seven corpses are confirmed missing from the Shadowcreek County Morgue at this hour. More on this bizarre story at eleven."

Only a few days before, and after much discussion, Officer Marshall and Medical Examiner Denton had come to the conclusion that it would be in the best interest of the county not to alert the news media of the situation at such an early point in the investigation. Officer Marshall cursed aloud as he reached for the phone.

On a deserted backroad somewhere between the Shadowcreek County Morgue and the Shadowcreek County Sheriff's Office, a woman in a silver Toyota looked once again into her rearview mirror at the car following her at a distance. Although she had noticed it some twenty minutes before, she wasn't exactly sure how long it had been behind her. Megan glanced down at her speedometer and thought about increasing her speed, but she was afraid the car behind her would do the same, and that would just confirm that she was actually being followed. She wasn't ready for that confirmation just yet, so she stayed at a constant 50 mph.

In the past half-hour, the scenery had changed to only a few scattered farmhouses and large tracts of barren farmland. The country was mostly flat, with straight stretches of highway that seemed to go on forever. Due to an abnormally warm temperature for the season, Megan had her windows down. She smelled the dead leaves that covered the ground and small sections of the road before her. The distinct scent of autumn and the coming winter filled the air. The sky swirled into a deep purple and soft pink, and the weary sun was just beginning to retire. Megan looked up at a few timid cirrus clouds hanging lonely in the sky, wishing that she had stayed on the interstate. It would be dark soon.

The car following Megan Fielder's Toyota was a black Chevrolet manufactured sometime in the early eighties. A crack ran down the windshield on the driver's side, and the V8 that rumbled under the hood could easily overtake the Toyota at any minute, if the driver should see fit. The man behind the wheel was blonde and intoxicated. The back seat of the car revealed a mess of discarded liquor bottles, fast food trash, and cigarette butts. A wrinkled copy of a men's magazine was lying rolled up in the back floor, along with a half-eaten bag of stale tortilla chips that had spilled out onto the carpet. There was a loaded pistol under the driver's seat.

Megan retrieved her cell phone from the passenger seat only to find that it was searching for service. This didn't surprise her, in such a rural location, but she kept checking it just to have something to do.

She would turn twenty-five in December and was taking some time off from school to stay with her mother, who was in the final stages of breast cancer. Megan had been crying off and on since she received the call from her dad only a few days before, telling her that the end was near and that she should come home. School had succeeded in keeping her mind off the subject for so long that it was almost a shock when she got the call, even though it had been coming for over a year now.

Megan activated the car's headlights as night began to surround the silver two-door like a silent assailant. She watched as the black car behind her suddenly did the same. Megan pushed her long brown hair out of her face and turned on the radio in an attempt to break the uncomfortable silence.

She was about to take another drink of water when she noticed that the black car behind her was gradually getting closer. Assuming that it was probably attempting to pass, she decreased her speed. The black car continued its advance until it was less than a car-length behind her. Then the black car's headlights went from dim to bright as it closed in on the Toyota's rear and bumped it slightly.

Shaken, Megan put both hands on the wheel and tightened her grip. She glanced into the rearview mirror in an attempt to see the face of her stalker, but was blinded by the headlights. She tried to curse the driver, but her fear overrode her anger, and she made no audible sound.

The black car jumped forward and jolted the Toyota a second time. Megan swallowed hard and raised her speed from 40 mph to 70 mph. She tried to keep her eyes off the rearview mirror and focus her attention on the road in front of her.

The two cars tore across the open country road for several minutes at a constant speed of 70 mph. Areas of leaf-covered roadway erupted in a temporary leaf ballet as the raging vehicles moved over them at high speeds.

Megan floored the gas pedal and watched as her speedometer climbed to 80 mph. Slowly, the distance between the black car and the silver car began to grow. She kept her speed at 80 mph until she felt the black car was at a safe distance behind her again.

She was trembling now, and her small sweaty hands were wrapped around the steering wheel so tightly that they had begun to ache. After nearly leaving the road in a curve, Megan brought her speed down to an acceptable 55 mph and started up a gradual incline that led into an S-curve. As she entered the S-curve, Megan glanced into the rearview mirror and let out a sigh of relief. The black car's headlights were, at least momentarily, out of sight. She knew that this was more than likely the choice of the driver, rather than the result of her high-speed flight. Nonetheless, she felt better than she had a few moments before.

A dirt road turned off to the left and led to a dimly lit farmhouse in the distance, but she wasn't about to give up her lead to go ask for help at some dark two-story that she could barely see.

As she left the S-curve, she watched for the black car to emerge from around the last bend behind her. Nothing happened. A long straight stretch of road lay in front of her once again, and Megan took advantage of it, increasing her speed once again to 80 mph. Even though in the back of her mind she felt her attempt was futile, she took comfort in the amount of distance she was placing between herself and the black car.

Megan brought a bottle of water up to her dry lips and let the cool liquid flow into her parched mouth. Leaning her head back into the seat, she raised her eyes once again to the rearview mirror for any sign of headlights in the distance. The empty highway stretched behind her in an almost ominous silence. She wondered if the black car had turned off on the dirt road before the S-curve. It probably had. Why else would it not be behind her?

Convincing herself that the black car had simply turned off, Megan let out a muffled, frightened giggle. She would be able to get back on the interstate in less than 20 minutes. This was a more than tangible goal, given the distance she had put between herself and her follower. She raised her speed to 60 mph and turned up the radio. Creed was on. She liked them. Megan took another drink of bottled water and began to sing along.

She thought again of her mother and the situation that awaited her at home. She checked the cell phone again for a viable signal, but she was still outside the service area. Megan guessed that she would regain cellular service a few minutes prior to her arrival at the interstate onramp turnoff. It shouldn't be much farther away now. Maintaining a speed of 60 to 65 mph, her thoughts began to drift to food. She wondered which fast food joint to stop at after being on the interstate for at least an hour.

She opened a fresh bottle of spring water and turned it up. Then she thought that if she continued drinking, she would have to pee soon. She twisted the lid back on the bottle and placed it on the passenger seat.

Megan was singing the chorus of Madonna's American Pie remake when a pair of unwelcome headlights flashed into the rearview mirror. They were so far off that she decided not to panic. She increased her speed to 70 mph just to be safe and checked the rearview mirror frequently as she sang along.

As Megan entered a tight curve, she was greeted by an instant flood of yellow light, followed by a minivan that had to swerve suddenly to get out of her lane. She swerved slightly herself to avoid it, nearly losing control, cursing out loud at the driver of the minivan, as well as the driver of the car behind her. The minivan rolled on by, its taillights disappearing quickly into the dark distance. The headlights behind her were getting closer. She wondered if it was the same car. She couldn't be sure, from the headlights alone.

Megan's Toyota was approaching 75 mph when the headlights behind her simply vanished from view. She stared in disbelief. She couldn't remember whether she had passed any turnoffs recently, but it was obvious that the car had either stopped or turned off. She looked once again in the rearview mirror. There was nothing but pitch black.

She kept her speed at 45 mph in the following brief straightaway that led up and down a steep hill, followed by a long, gradual curve on the other side. When her car reached the base of the hill, Megan powered off the blaring radio, finding nothing there to sing along to.

The source of the noise that she heard next wasn't apparent to her at first. Then, as the black car slammed into the rear of the Toyota, Megan recognized the angry sound of the V8 roaring up behind her like a banshee, its headlights as dark as the mind of the person in the driver's seat.

Megan gasped as her body was thrown forward into the steering wheel. The seatbelt stopped short what might have otherwise been a fatal blow to her midsection. A warm, red spray erupted from her nose as her face collided with her right arm. She closed her eyes as the restraint jerked her body back into the seat. As her eyes flew open, she realized that her car was now positioned in the oncoming lane and was about to leave the road completely. Megan jerked the bloody steering wheel to the right and pushed the brake to the floor, sending the car skidding sideways up the hill.

The deputy sheriff, who had just exited a curve and was now simultaneously racing up the opposite side of the hill, might have noticed the Toyota's headlights dancing across the darkness had he not been trying to brush off a stowaway spider crawling across his knee. He did, however, snap his head up instinctively at the sound of squealing tires just moments before the front of his speeding cruiser collided with the driver's side of the silver Toyota. The deputy's eyes met the horrified eyes of the woman briefly before impact.

The blue Chevrolet Caprice, which had been heading toward the Shadowcreek County Morgue, entered Megan's car via the driver's-side door at roughly 70 mph. The large blue invader severed the smaller vehicle without a second thought.

The blonde man in the black car, Martin Farris, smashed the brake pedal firmly against the floor as he observed the scene unfolding before him. He felt a warm wetness between his legs as his eyes focused in on the mangled wreckage roaring down the hill toward him in a cyclonic storm of sparks and metallic debris. A sudden feeling of intense pressure engulfed him as the charging steel behemoth made contact with his skidding muscle car. The screeching of tires and smashing of metal dissipated as the mangled metal coffins called modern transportation found their final resting places on the stretch of highway at the bottom of the hill. The burning stench of charred rubber and gasoline momentarily filled the air. A gentle night breeze began to take form, persuading a hint of black smoke upward from a section of the wreckage, as a dead autumn leaf did a brief little dance in the moonlight across the scarred asphalt.

Martin suddenly awoke, not sure what had happened or how long he had been unconscious. His face was warm with droplets of blood, and he spat out a few pieces of glass that had somehow found their way into his mouth.

His car was upside down in the field off the left side of the road. He pulled himself out of the car through the driver's-side window. He lay on his back in the cold dirt for a few minutes, looking up into the night sky, unsure whether he would be able to walk or not. He tried to move his legs, but there was no response. Realizing that he had no feeling from the waist down, he used his hands to pull his body up against the side of the overturned car to see what had happened.

In the moonlight, Martin could see what was left of the Toyota, lying on its side in the middle of the road at the bottom of the hill. The blonde man squinted as the site came into view. His initial thought that his eyes might be playing tricks on him was instantly replaced by a feeling of shocked confusion, followed by utter disbelief.

People crouched around the wreckage of the Toyota ... four of them ... and although he wanted to believe that they were surely rushing to the aid of the accident victims, it actually looked more like they were....

Martin closed his eyes momentarily and ran his fingers through his greasy hair, dismissing the thought for a second. When he opened his eyes he saw the destroyed police cruiser laying upside down a little farther down the road. Three more people were squatting near the driver's side.

He looked around but saw no other cars; nor could he spot a farmhouse in any direction. As he looked, he tried to convince himself that he might be suffering from a concussion made worse by his earlier alcohol consumption, but he knew better.

As the scene developed before him in glorious wide-screen format and digital surround sound, Martin's desire to plunge himself into the calming, familiar depths of Lake Jim Beam quickly began to grow to unspeakable proportions. The two small groups had removed what was left of Deputy Marshall and Megan Fielder from their twisted vehicles and were proceeding to eat their remains. One terribly pale woman, dressed in what appeared to be some type of hospital gown, was on her knees, hands planted on the asphalt, feverishly lapping at a small pool of blood that had formed by the deputy's head.

Martin let out a minimal gasp that echoed like an explosion across the silent landscape. He pushed himself down off the side of the car and crawled back through the driver's side window in an urgent attempt to locate his pistol. The seven walking corpses raised their pale, plasma-spattered faces from the steaming red mess on the asphalt to locate the source of the sound.

Martin, who had quickly retrieved his pistol, was looking over the car at them again, shaking, trying to take aim with his outstretched arm supported by the car's undercarriage. His spine had begun to throb with a cold sharpness that he could barely endure. A feeling of dread washed over him as he realized that all glowing eyes were focused upon him. Then he saw the teeth of the old, white-haired man nearest him.

He sat and listened silently for a few moments to their abnormal breathing, an asthmatic bronchial hiss. Just as the crew began its surreal dash toward him, the blonde man pulled the trigger. The shiny semiautomatic erupted into a brief, thundering symphony against the barren stillness. Muzzle flashes lit up the night sky as Farris emptied his gun into the advancing mob. Even as the rounds passed through their lifeless bodies, they descended on the blonde man, giggling like schoolchildren.

A few minutes later, the small band of hungry predators looked up only briefly toward the area at the top of the hill as Megan Fielder's cell phone rang. The battered cell phone had come to rest in the middle of the road just over the hill ... in the service area.

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