Mile Marker X: The Nevada Thing
519 Words
******This is a true story******
Danny had been on the road for sixteen hours straight, hauling a refrigerated load out of Los Angeles and headed for Denver. He planned to make it past Las Vegas before calling it a night, but exhaustion had other ideas. His eyes stung, his hands ached, and somewhere near the middle of nowhere—right outside the barely-a-dot-on-the-map town of Xxyyzz, Nevada—he pulled off onto a narrow dirt path surrounded by desert and scrub.
The clouds overhead swallowed the moonlight, casting the world in a thick, impenetrable blackness. Danny idled for a minute, then shut his headlights off but kept the engine running for the AC. The cab's sleeper was his sanctuary, and he crawled into it without a second thought.
He wasn’t asleep long.
Click… clack…
The sound jolted him awake. It was the driver’s door handle, jiggling. Then, a pause—and the passenger handle started moving.
Danny froze.
His hand inched toward the curtain between the sleeper and cab, but he didn’t open it. His breath quickened. Who would be out here at this hour? There hadn’t been another vehicle on the road for miles.
Then came a soft scrape-scrape at the tiny sleeper window.
His blood ran cold. That window was nearly eight feet off the ground. No steps. No ladder.
He didn’t dare look.
Something moved above him. Sccrrrrrttch. Nails—claws—raking across the roof of the cab.
Danny fumbled for his phone, but the screen mocked him with No Service. His only company was the low hum of the engine and the sound of door handles rattling again—this time in unison.
Desperation buzzed through him. He stayed low, crawling to the front, never looking up. Whatever was up there, he didn’t want to see it. Couldn’t.
Hands trembling, he found the brake, pressed it, and slapped the gear into Drive. He pushed down on the accelerator with his palm.
The truck lurched forward, bouncing on the rough dirt road. Whatever was on the roof slid off with a thud. Only when he was sure he’d gained distance did Danny leap into the driver’s seat.
His heart thundered in his ears.
He looked.
Nothing on the doors.
But in his mirror, two shapes moved in the darkness—running after the truck on all fours. Their bodies were long, wrong, too lean and too fast. Glowing eyes caught a sliver of taillight reflection.
Danny floored it and didn’t ease up until the highway stretched smooth beneath his wheels again.
That was five years ago.
Danny still hauls that same route every week, and it still takes him past Xxyyzz, Nevada. But now, no matter how tired he is—no matter how heavy his eyelids get or how many hours he's logged behind the wheel—he never pulls over there.
Not even for a second.
Because some nights, when the clouds roll in thick and the moon disappears, he swears he can still see something moving along the side of the road, keeping pace just outside the reach of his headlights.
Waiting.
- Writer
