Beyond Here Lies Nothin’

This way lies madness.

BEYOND HERE LIES NOTHIN’

Jack stopped his old black Ford pickup, leaned out the window to read the weathered sign, then laughed. The landscape before him looked the same as the one in his rearview. All he’d seen for hours along the dusty blacktop was good-for-zilch scrubland trying to hold out on the suck-you-dry desert. He reached for the key, killed the engine. It wheezed for several seconds before rattling to a halt. He hoped it would start again.

A hundred miles back at a battered station, the desiccated proprietor’s sharp bones poked leathery skin. Slitted eyes above a thin knowing smile, he’d watched the extended-cab Ford dually pull itself over a mound of dirt back onto the road.

Jack got out, stretched his arms above his head and stared at the worthless sight before him. The sun was beginning to set, but the air remained hot.

It was quiet. No gusting wind. No sailing birds. Only the stillness. He stepped toward the front of his truck. The chalky sand scrunched beneath his boot heels.

Something about the sign was curious. As he drew even with then walked past it, he saw that the sign was double-sided. Another board, the approximate size as the first, had been nailed onto the back side. He read its message.

THIS WAY LIES MADNESS

Jack grinned. Someone had gotten it right about that one. He returned to his pickup, twisted the key and gunned the engine. He waved at the sign as he pulled past.

A few miles later, he pressed down hard on the brake pedal.

Something was in the road ahead. A dead animal? A mangled part from some ready to break down vehicle? Jack braked as he neared, got out to look.

No, it was a human figure, supine crossways to the road.

He reached inside for his handgun. You never knew, maybe it was someone pretending to be either unconscious or dead. More than ever, caution was advised.

Jack walked within forty feet of the shape and halted. A woman. She looked to be young, maybe in her twenties. He lowered his gun.

“Ma’am,” Jack called. The woman didn’t respond. He walked closer.

Her arms and face were blistered. She had obviously been lying many hours in the harsh sunlight before evening brought some relief. Jack shoved the pistol into his waistband then knelt beside her.

As he felt her throat for a pulse, she swallowed. Her lips were parched and cracked. Water.

He had several cases on the rear floorboard. He hurried back to his truck for a bottle.

Who was she? And how did she get here? Perhaps used and abused, then tossed out to die? The fact that she was still clothed did speak of a better fate, but here she was, alone and damaged goods. She had arrived in this poor situation somehow.

He poured a small amount of water over her face, then held it to her mouth. She opened her lips and he let a few drops dribble inside.

He needed to get her out of the direct sunlight, off the still-hot blacktop into his pickup. He knelt, scooped her into his arms and lifted. As he stood, he was surprised that she was so light in his grasp.

She was probably starving, also. He would share some of his food stock with her, but he intended only to get her to a safe place. He preferred his own company.

Still, he was curious about her, to say the least. She had a pretty face and should never have been out here on her own. She felt so delicate.

As he opened the cab door to place her in the passenger seat, she lifted her head to his neck.

He felt the fangs sink in.