Breakdown on Route 49

 

        The old 1990 minivan was bound to get a flat tire eventually, but why did it have to be at night? And why did it have to be raining?

        Herman Middleman eased on the brake pedal and the van came to a bumpy stop on the shoulder of Route 49. It must have been the front driver's side tire because Herman was leaning down and sideways. He began to reach for the glove box to get his cell phone, when he remembered that he had given it to his daughter earlier that night. She was going to a party, and he wanted her to be safe. And besides, the minivan never gave him any trouble—yeah right.

        "Aw Cripes!" Herman yelled to no one.

        Well, he would just have to change the tire himself, rain or no rain. And he was just about to when he remembered that his daughter had that, too. Well, she didn't have it now, but she had used it. They had used the donut for practice in the garage. After all, he didn't want his daughter stranded on the side of the highway, especially at night. And she had done pretty well with it too. And when they were finished, they left it on Herman's workbench. I'll get that later, he had thought at the time. But he never did.

        "Double Cripes!" he cursed.

        What did they tell you to do in this situation? Wasn't it to turn on the interior light and wait for a cop? That sounded right. And that would be all fine and dandy if he hadn't been asked to be the main speaker at the meeting tonight. The one for his company, Huxley Computers. The very important meeting.

        Well, I'll just have to hitch a ride then, he thought resolutely, because I'm not missing that damn meeting.

        He gathered up his portfolio and wrapped it the best he could in an old sweatshirt. At least it would keep most of the rain off of it. He hoped.

        He put the hood up on his windbreaker and tied it tightly beneath his chin. It would have to do. So long, you piece of junk, he thought at his van, and stepped out into the rain.

        He took a quick gander at the flat tire. It was so bereft of air that the weight of the vehicle was resting on the rim. He shook his head in disgust.

        Now came the hard part—getting someone to pull over and pick his sorry-butt up. He knew, since he was a man, that it would be all the more difficult. Because men were usually the ones that ended up sticking a gun in the driver's ear, relieving the poor sucker of his wallet, and usually his wheels to boot. Most sane people knew this and avoided male hitchhikers like the bubonic fricking plague. Oh well, someone would come along eventually. Some lonely old man, or some nice Christian family. He would even take a carload full of drunk teenagers if they could get him to his meeting on time.

        The rain pelted his hood with amplified plops. It wasn't really a cold rain though, and that was good. He could at least be thankful for that.

        Herman looked at the steady stream of headlights and began to walk backwards. He stuck his thumb out.

        Even with his pessimistic attitude, he didn't think it would take as long as it did for someone to pull over. By his Rolex, it took precisely forty-seven minutes—he would be late to the meeting, but if the guy/girl drove fast, he could probably salvage most of his speech. He could picture them all looking at their watches right now, and it made his stomach feel sick. But, alas, here was a car, and it was pulling to a stop.

        The red Dodge—gracious, was that a Dodge Viper? He thought it was—passed him at about ten miles per hour, stopped, and shifted into reverse. The reverse lights cut two white paths through the rain.

        Thank heavens—finally!

        Herman ran up to meet the car. And, yes, he saw now that it was indeed a Viper. This would be a treat. A little silver lining on his cloud of bad luck—riding in a dream car like that. The darn thing was nothing less than a racing machine cloaked in a mere sportscar's clothing.

        He stopped by the driver's window, which was now rolling down. A man with heavily oiled hair motioned with his thumb.

        "Get in the opposite side, buddy," he said in an accent that Herman couldn't put his finger on. It almost sounded German but with a touch of something… else. The way he said "buddy" sounded forced.

        "Right. Thanks," Herman said, and ran around to the passenger door. He took a moment to admire the sleek design of the door before getting in.

        "Nice car," he said, sitting down in the bucket seat and untying the strings of his hood. "What year is she?"

        "Oh, she's 2 millennium, aught 6," the man said in that weird accent.

        "2006?" Herman whistled in appreciation. "You're a lucky man. Wow."

        "Yes. Now I am in the luck," the man said.

        Herman squirmed in his seat a little bit at the odd phraseology. The guy almost seemed… robotic. And 2 millennium aught 6? Who the hell said that? But it was unfair to judge him because of his nationality. He was obviously from a different country. Probably over the "pond." And the guy had been nice enough to stop for him. He couldn't be all bad.

        "Hey, thanks a million for stopping to pick me up. I really appreciate it," Herman said jovially.

        "A million what?" the man asked, clearly perplexed, shifting the car into drive.

        "Just an American expression. I'm Herman, by the way," he said and gave an awkward little wave.

        "You are Herman," the man repeated. Herman waited for more, but nothing came.

        "What's your name?" he said finally.

        The man put on his turn signal and merged back onto the highway. Herman could feel the raw power of the car as it sped up.

        "I am called Greg."

        Greg, Herman thought. Was that a foreign name? He didn't know. He thought maybe they called people Gregor in Germany.

        "Oh, well, I don't need to go far, Greg. Just about ten miles up to exit 104. Just gotta get to a meeting." He patted his portfolio for emphasis. "Then I'll be outta your hair."

        The man, Greg, ran his hand through his oiled hair thoughtfully. Herman noted his confusion.

        "That is to say, I won't need a ride any further than exit 104," he cleared up.

        "Exit 104," the man parroted.

        "Right," Herman said, squirming in his seat again. The guy sure was odd, even for a foreigner. Maybe it was the way that he didn't really laugh or even smile. He didn't seem to connect.

        "I work for a computer company, and I'm supposed to give this speech, and…"

        "So, your brain is above average intelligence?" Greg said, seeming interested now.

        Herman let out a nervous laugh. "Yeah, I guess so. Listen, if you want to drop me off right here, that would be—"

        "Exit 104," the man said, cutting him off.

        Herman felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. The guy was going beyond odd and into scary territory. He briefly wondered if he was sharing company with a bonafide psycho. He even had the fleeting image of himself bailing out the car door and rolling onto the pavement—but that was crazy. The guy was probably just new to the English language.

        "OK, just a few more miles then," he conceded, clutching his portfolio with a nervous tension.

        "Yes," Greg said, and floored the accelerator.

        Herman felt his head snap back into the headrest from the G-force of the sudden acceleration. His right hand gripped the handrest of the door, as if that would help.

        They rode in silence, and Herman's mind delved helplessly in the worst possible scenario: the guy was a nutcase from some foreign country. Somewhere where terrorism co-mingled with honor. He was taking Herman to a secret hideaway, a sleeper cell perhaps, where there would be many men in strange uniforms with large guns.

        Then another scenario creeped into his mind: the man was an insane murderer who liked to pick up hitchhikers and take them back to his lair, where he would first torture them, and then slowly kill them, or leave them to starve to death in some pit.

        Herman tried to shake these thoughts away, but they skittered into his mind from some deep abyss where he stored memories of all the horror movies, police shows, and mystery books he had ever seen or read. It seemed in times like these that all the comedies, and love stories that he had seen, took a hike. And speaking of hikes, why in the hell had he had to hitchhike anyway? To make that stupid meeting? To make sure that Huxley Computers would make an extra buck? Screw Huxley Computers. He should have just waited in the car for the police to come by. They drove on the highways all the time just looking for guys like him.

        Of course, he knew that all of his theories were surely just the result of one too many Clive Barker movies, and this guy, Greg, though strange and getting stranger, was probably going to drop him off in a few minutes, and then go home to his wife and kids, and eat KFC.

        Herman relaxed. A little.

        The Dodge Viper passed cars like they were standing still. The rain pelted the windshield. Herman peeked at the speedometer: 92 mph. Maybe they would get pulled over! That would be nice.

        "What is your intelligence quotient?" Greg said, keeping his eyes on the road.

        "Oh, gosh, Greg. It's been a while since—"

        "Over 132?" Greg persisted.

        "I think so, yes. Are you… a teacher?" Herman asked hopefully, but not expecting an affirmative. Unless he taught Iraqis how to construct car bombs.

        "No. I am an emissary."

        "That right?" Herman said, trying to sound calm, but his voice sounded small and high pitched.

        "Yes."

        Herman saw the small green mile marker on the side of the highway. It said 102 in glowing white print. Two more miles. He could stand this guy for two more miles. Then he could tell his wife about it as they laid in bed together tonight. They would laugh about Greg and his accent and weird questions. Then they might make love and fall asleep contentedly in the convoluted sheets and covers.

        Greg looked at Herman for the first time.

        "Put your safety harness on, please."

        OK, so he was a safety nut. Herman buckled his seatbelt. Mile marker 103 flew by at 95 miles per hour.

        "You will be an adequate specimen," Greg said. "Hamlok will be pleased." He was still looking at Herman. Sizing him up. Suddenly his lips parted and he smiled. Herman saw with repulsion that he had only three teeth. And two were fangs.

        Oh shit, Herman thought, and actually did reach for the door handle. Bailing out seemed like a good idea now. A damn good idea.

        The lock clicked.

        Greg pressed a button, and a whole new instrument panel dropped from the car ceiling, lit up in bright green light. It looked to Herman like something out of a jumbo jet cockpit.

        "We will make our ascent now. Hold on," Greg said.

        What?

        He wouldn't have believed it if he wasn't sitting there watching it happen. The Dodge Viper actually began to lift off of the highway like a helicopter. Herman looked down in time to see a small girl of about four pointing to them from the backseat of a station wagon. Then she was just a dot. Moments later, the station wagon was a dot too.

        Herman looked over at Greg with wide, unbelieving eyes. The guy—what was a guy—no longer looked human. His face had literally split wide open, and a green bubbly mass was trying to poke through. It had hundreds of tiny lid-less eyes that seemed to be probing and searching. The thing's perfectly oiled hair was sizzling, and tiny tendrils of smoke rose from his pate. The hands were now not hands at all, but thick ropy tentacles that wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. They slithered like snakes. Suddenly his business suit ripped open, and great globs of gelatinous greenish-yellow flab bounded outward.

        Herman screamed, pulling at the door handle madly, but that was futile. He looked out the window at the Earth that was pulling away at a rapid, dizzying speed.

        Herman Middleman had millions of miles to contemplate just where it was that he was going.