Sixty-two miles per hour.
Mac's foot flew off the accelerator, hovering over the brake pedal. He didn't stomp it. He had a Class A commercial driver's license in the real world, and he knew that slamming the brakes on a fully loaded eighteen-wheeler at highway speeds was a death sentence. The trailer would jackknife, crushing the cab like a soda can.
He had to bleed the speed off. Carefully.
The digital speedometer ticked down. 60... 58...
Above him, the sky was changing. It wasn't the slow, beautiful transition of a sunset. It looked like a rotting bruise spreading across human flesh—a violent, swollen purple that blotted out the darkness and cast a sickly, ultraviolet hue across the dashboard.
The fog, which had been his constant companion since he left the apartment complex, vanished in an instant, sucked away into the void.
55... 53...
Mac stared at the road ahead. The GPS flashed in the corner of his eye. Mile 44.5.
Beneath the tires, the white dashed lines of the highway began to peel upward. They didn't just fade; they detached from the asphalt like strips of dead tape, flying up and over the windshield, vanishing into the purple sky. In seconds, the road became a featureless, pitch-black ribbon cutting through absolute nothingness.
50... 48...
He pressed the brake pedal firmly, feeling the immense, crushing momentum of the trailer pushing against the cab. The engine groaned, fighting the deceleration.
Mile 44.8.
47... 46...
Mac feathered the brake, his calf muscle burning. He glued his eyes to the harsh green digits of the speedometer. He let off the pedal, letting the natural drag of the heavy truck do the rest.
45.
He pressed his foot gently against the accelerator, holding the needle exactly on the forty-five mark. His leg trembled with the effort of keeping the pressure perfectly, entirely consistent.
The GPS flickered.
Mile 45.
Mac didn't breathe. He kept his eyes dead ahead.
For a span of five heartbeats, there was only the purple void and the featureless black road. Then, a splash of sickening, unnatural color broke the horizon. Neon yellow.
It was standing dead center in his path.
As the truck bore down at forty-five miles an hour, the headlights washed over the figure. It was small, maybe the size of a ten-year-old child, entirely swallowed by an oversized yellow raincoat. The hood was pulled up, obscuring whatever face lay beneath. It stood perfectly still, facing the grille of the massive rig.
Every deeply ingrained human instinct Mac possessed seized control of his nervous system. His brain screamed at him to drop his foot on the brake. His arms tensed, preparing to rip the steering wheel violently to the right to avoid crushing the kid.
Rule 4: If a figure in a yellow raincoat steps into the road, do not swerve. They are not physical.
"Not physical," Mac choked out through clenched teeth. "Not physical."
He locked his elbows. He squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second, unable to watch the impact, and forced his foot to stay planted on the gas pedal. Forty-five miles per hour.
The truck hit the figure.
There was no sickening thud. No crunch of bone or metal. Instead, there was a sound like a massive sheet of wet canvas tearing in half, followed by a violent burst of static electricity that made the hairs on Mac's arms stand at attention. The smell of ozone in the cab was instantly replaced by the stench of stagnant water, wet earth, and old copper.
Mac opened his eyes, letting out a ragged, shaking breath. The road ahead was empty. The truck was still rolling at exactly 45 MPH. He had done it.
Then, a heavy, wet squelch sounded from his right.
Water dripped onto the rubber floor mat of the passenger side. Drip. Drip. Squelch.
Mac's blood turned to ice water in his veins. He didn't turn his head. He didn't dare. But in his peripheral vision, he could see the vibrant, neon yellow of the raincoat.
The figure was sitting in the passenger seat.
If they appear in your passenger seat afterward, do not speak to them. They will exit at the next toll booth.
The silence in the cab was agonizing. The rhythmic breathing from the trailer behind him continued, but now it was joined by a new sound. The figure in the raincoat was shifting. The thick PVC material squeaked wetly against the leather of the passenger seat.
It was small, its boots barely reaching the floor mats, but the aura radiating from it was suffocating. The cold inside the cab plummeted, frosting the edges of the passenger window.
Mac stared straight ahead, a muscle in his jaw ticking frantically. Just drive. Wait for the toll booth. Do not speak.
The figure slowly turned its head toward him. Mac could feel the weight of its gaze, like a physical pressure against the side of his face. Underneath the deep yellow hood, there was only a void of impenetrable black shadow, yet Mac knew it was staring right at him.
Then, it spoke.
Its voice didn't sound like a child's. It sounded like multiple voices layered over one another, speaking through a mouth full of muddy water.
"You're going the wrong way, Maclin."
Mac bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted copper. He tasted his own blood, warm and sharp, anchoring him to his own body. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles stark white in the purple glow of the bruised sky.
"The brakes are failing," the watery voice gurgled, leaning an inch closer. A drop of putrid, foul-smelling water splashed onto the center console. "You should pull over. Tell me to get out. Tell me to leave."
Mac swallowed the blood in his mouth. He kept his foot steady. Forty-five miles per hour.
He wasn't going to say a damn word.