The Hitchhiker (Short Story #2)

"I'm David," Sam said.

The black crate thundered along the deserted road. Signs were zipped by, and their letters were a blur that could have revealed the next town's name. The speedometer soared like a thermometer thrown into boiling water, and his heart raced. This was his inspiration; it was the only way he could genuinely feel something—anything at all.

An orange sign sped by, delivering a clear message: the road ahead was closed. Further along, construction work was in progress.

“Dammit,” he shouted, his foot easing off the accelerator as the crate continued to coast, finally coming to a halt. The headlights revealed a series of orange warning signs urging drivers to take a detour.

His fingers clenched tightly around the steering wheel, and his knuckles turned ghostly white as tension coursed through him. With his eyes shut and teeth clenched, he fought against the storm of emotions.

A pang of regret set in for slowing down the car. Letting it plow through the debris ahead would have heightened the thrill of the ride. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the vehicle just as wisps of smoke began curling under the hood. The crate had reached its end.

Under the expansive cloak of night, he stood as the warm breeze whispered secrets in his ear. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he felt the weight of his decision pressing heavily on him. Clarity began to settle in the stillness—there was only one path ahead. It was time to leave the scene behind.

He took the backpack and duffel bag out of the trunk and set them beside the car. Then, he rummaged through the duffel bag and pulled out a screwdriver.

He used the tool to remove the license plates from the car and stashed them in the duffel bag. Next, he pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped down the steering wheel and other areas where we might have touched. Once he was done, he slipped the rag back into his pocket.

He began walking, embracing the moment. Anyone else might have been irate at the situation—a car broke down at night—but the warm air relaxed his muscles and unclenched his jaw. He knew it would be alright. After all, Sam Miles thrived on movement and change.

As he walked, his footsteps echoed down the long stretch of road, and his mind wandered. Woods surrounded him, and at night, he could hear owls, most likely hunting for their next meal. At last, Sam approached a green sign signaling an exit.

Turning off the highway took him into a more residential area. A few houses lined the nearby street, and he noticed another road further down illuminated by a fast-food restaurant, where cars were pulling in. He considered heading that way but ultimately decided against it.

He feared losing his subtlety and felt unprepared for exposure, especially in front of a large crowd. As a result, he chose a more subdued approach.

His stomach began to rumble. Reaching into his backpack, he fished out a granola bar he had grabbed from the gas station. For the past few days, he had been getting by on hardly anything more.

Tossing the wrapper carelessly to the ground, he suddenly caught sight of something ahead—two bright headlights cutting through the darkness.

A pickup truck was approaching him, its lights flickering as it navigated the undulating hills of the road. Sam stretched out his arm, palm up as if he were trying to hail a cab. He quickly realized, however, that this wasn't the right gesture for hitchhiking. Instead, he needed to close his hand with his thumb extended outward in his desired direction. Correcting his signal, he watched as the truck began to slow down. It was clear that the vehicle had seen better days, with rust patches dotting its exterior. The driver rolled down the window.

“Hey, man. Are you alright?” The Driver asked.

“Yeah—I’m good. My car broke down a few miles back, and my phone’s dead.”

The driver glanced at the road ahead before turning to Sam with a playful grin. "You’re not from around here, are you?" he asked, his tone hinting at mischief.

Sam threw up his arms grandly as if he were surrendering.

“Guilty.”

The two men shared a laugh, but soon, a brief silence settled between them.

“Here’s the situation: the mechanic is just down the street, but unfortunately, they won't open until tomorrow morning. There's a motel a few miles away if you need a place to stay away. I could drop you off there.”

Sam stood there, a practiced smile lingering on his face even after the laughter had faded. It was a smile he had rehearsed, a facade he had learned to perfect because authenticity was out of reach. He needed to give the impression that there was something profound to contemplate. Rubbing his stubbled chin with one hand, he let his gaze drop to the ground.

“Sure, that’d be great. I would appreciate that.”

The driver took out a cigarette and lit it up.

“Alright, let’s get going, brother. It’s been a long day for me.”

Sam tossed his bags into the back of the truck and slid into the passenger seat. He rubbed his arms for warmth to fend off the icy blast of air conditioning. Looking around the cab, he noticed trash and empty beer bottles. The lingering scent of cheap cologne blended with the smoke from Marlboros, creating a fitting atmosphere. After a few minutes spent driving and stopping at red lights, the driver finally broke the silence.

“Name’s Bill. Yourself?”

“David,” Sam said. He figured the chances of this guy telling his coworkers about giving some strange out-of-towner a late-night ride were high. So he picked a different name just to be safe. David—his grandfather’s name. Bill glanced at him and then back at the road.

“Far from home, David?”

“What gave you that impression?” Sam asked. It was hard not to say it sarcastically, knowing the answer. A guy hitchhiking, carrying bags, and giving off the impression that he was trying to get away from something; if you’re living on the road, that something is usually the law. Assuming Bill would think this, he would be half right.

Sam was finished with the small talk; he loathed it. For him, conversations were merely a means to an end, and his presence in the car was just that. There was no need to continue the five-minute pseudo-friendship they were about to share. Sam chose to draw his gun to obtain the truck. It was his new crate, similar to an early settler claiming land.

He had never found himself in a situation that required pulling a gun. Luckily, he was adept at convincing others to part with their possessions. Doris, the elderly woman outside the gas station in New Jersey, fell for Sam’s act about needing cash for his son’s birth. She trusted him enough to let him use her ATM card. He promised to withdraw only forty dollars, but he ended up taking six hundred instead. By the time Doris realized she had been deceived, it was already too late. True to form, Sam used a false name and wore a hat that obscured his hair. The ATM's camera would hardly have provided any help anyway.

Sam pulled the gun and held it to Bill’s head.

“I don’t want to kill you, Bill, but I need your truck. Why don’t you pull over?” Sam said, trying to keep his hand from trembling. He couldn’t show weakness; he had to make Bill believe he had done this before and wouldn’t hesitate to splatter the inside of the cab with his brains if it came to that. Sam knew it. He had to play the part of a cornered rabid animal.

Bill kept his hands on the steering wheel and turned his head to look at the gun. At first, he seemed worried for his life. He didn’t have to say anything—his face said it all. It wasn’t until he did a double take at the gun that his expression changed. For a brief moment, his eyes fixed on the firearm; he would only look away to keep the truck from veering off the road. A relaxed smirk spread across Bill’s face, as if he had just learned a secret.

“Hey, David or whatever your name is, I need to ask—do you know what state you’re in?" Bill asked, turning his gaze back to the road. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, yet his expression stayed calm. Sam burst into laughter.

“You can stay with David, and yes, I saw your license plate, so I figured it out. How about I check your wallet to be sure?” Sam said with a smirk.

“Yeah, I don’t think you’ll be doing that. I don’t think you’ll be getting this truck either.” Bill casually reached for his pack of cigarettes in the center console. Making any sudden moves didn’t faze him with a firearm in his face.

“Not a smart thing to say, Bill,” said Sam.

“Do you know why I asked you what state you’re in? I asked because here in Florida, we believe a person has the right to stand their ground and defend themselves, usually with a firearm as the preferred protection method. Now, this brings me to where you fucked up, David.”

Sam started to sweat. Oh no. He knows, Sam thought. Bill kept talking.

“Another thing we are very fond of is our right to use those firearms. I own quite a few myself, and for you to not think us simple folk down here wouldn’t know the difference between a replica and a real one makes me beg the question—who’s simple?”

Bill unhooked Sam’s seat belt and slammed on the brakes, causing Sam’s head to hit the dashboard.

In an instant, Bill yanked the gun from Sam’s hand, seized Sam by the hair, and slammed his head into the dashboard again. Sam then shot back up into his seat, but not before Bill landed a punch to his face. At this point, Sam was disoriented. Bill was powerful, and his bulkier, older appearance threw Sam off balance. He had been outmatched. Sam kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Whenever Sam would sit up, Bill would punch him again or bang his head against the side of the door. Eventually, Sam was too confused to fight back any longer.

He then could hear Bill make a call on his cell phone.

“Bobby? It’s Bill. You won’t believe what just happened. Some hitchhiking loser tried to rob me with a fake gun and steal my truck. The idiot picked the wrong redneck, ha-ha!” Bill fell silent for a moment. Sam could hear a man's muffled voice coming from the speaker pressed against Bill’s ear. Bill then replied, “I knocked his ass out; he’s in the passenger seat—the old lady’s at home. I’ll tell her I got held up at work and then come to you. No one’s gonna come looking for this guy. Oh, can you grab a six-pack for me?"