Man Made Murder (Blood Road Trilogy Book 1) by Rider Z

Author:Rider, Z. [Rider, Z.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781942234036
Publisher: Dark Ride Publishing
Published: 2015-10-12T16:00:00+00:00

2.

* * *

The black road rushed beneath Carl’s tires, hypnotizing. Leaving him with nothing but space between his ears to replay the thuds and grunts from that dark back lounge, the wet squish of wood forcing its way through organs.

He pulled off the exit and up to a McDonald’s drive-through, tapping the steering wheel while he waited for his food to be bagged. He looked from the shadows of the parking lot to the gaping drive-through window, empty while the guy working it walked off to get his fries.

His imagination brought a vampire to the window, grinning around a mouth full of fangs. He pictured it launching itself over the ledge, reaching into Carl’s car to grab him by the throat.

Trees crowded the edge of the parking lot, their dark leaves drooping like sleeping bats.

The pimply kid handed the paper bag through, and Carl got back on the interstate without touching his food, needing to put miles between himself and his imagination. Needing to get road moving under him again.

The realization was sinking in hard: vampires existed. And they were mean motherfuckers.

He clamped his soda cup between his thighs, a chill seeping through his jeans.

His car filled with the smell of French fries and Quarter Pounder.

By the time he’d settled enough to eat them, they were cold, and eating was just a masticating of jaws, a contraction and release of throat muscles. He washed the food down with watered-down Coke.

The road fed under his tires, endless and black.

After an hour and a half, the Coke wanted back out.

He hit his turn signal and banked down an exit toward a truck stop, turning on his wipers as fat drops of rain splattered his windshield. He’d take a piss and refill his soda cup, then jump right back on the road. He pulled around the pumps—all of them self-service, and there was no way was he standing outside long enough to put gas in his car, not until he had to.

A rig with a cab and trailer as black as night chugged around the side of his building. He hit the brakes, heart thudding all over again.

If you were a vampire, wouldn’t trucking be a good occupation? Drive all night, go from shithole gas station to shithole diner to shithole rest stop—plenty of victims, plenty of anonymity. With a sleeper cab in the back, you could hide all day. Made a whole lot more fucking sense than riding a motorcycle.

The longer he watched the lumbering truck, the easier it was to imagine the driver, with his grizzled, sunken-in cheeks, hunting down food at lonely rest areas and three-a.m. truck stops. Feeding on throats. Grinning as he wiped blood from his chin.

As soon as the way was clear, Carl zipped around the pumps and right back onto the interstate. His bladder could wait.

A stretch farther down the road, the asphalt—slick with a light rain—wavered. He leaned his elbow on the door. Opened the vents to let cool air in.

Drove and drove, until he came awake with a jerk behind the wheel.

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