By Curtis McIntyre

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My car is a discarded husk in my rearview. The sun plays tricks on the horizon, making the vehicle look like a beetle carapace.

I had driven all night, desperate to make good time getting to my dream destination. Only now, in my final hour, my once-loyal ride betrayed me, breaking down and leaving me stranded on this desolate stretch of highway just as a purple sunrise began to peek over the jagged mountain landscape.

Down the blacktop I go, praying a car will come along and take pity on an early morning hitchhiker.

After what feels like an hour of walking, I pass a roadside memorial to a driver who died along this turnpike. “In memory of John Lebraun, loving husband, beloved father,” blah blah blah. I bet his death wasn’t an accident. This looks like a good stretch of road to kill yourself on. He probably hated the wife and kids who left this monument for him.

I realize I can’t have been walking as long as it seems because the sun is still rising, the sky swirling pink and violet hues. Seems like I’ve been here hours now.

My legs have grown weak, the bones now toothpicks on the verge of snapping. My throat has gone sandpaper dry. I try licking moisture into my chapped lips and taste blood. Wish I packed water. Dehydration leaves the surreal sunset resembling an aurora borealis. I rub my eyes, bursting the blood vessels beneath the thin, membranous surface that holds my ocular goo in place, sending white dots darting across my vision like fireflies. The soles of my feet are pulped grapes.

Why aren’t there any cars on this road? Is this highway closed and I was so tired that I missed the warning signs? Maybe I should turn around and walk the other way. No, forget that. This way lies my dream destination. I can still make it.

Only now, I’m so disoriented that I can’t even recall where I was going. It was supposed to be the trip I was always waiting for. But to…

If only I had some water, I could remember. Or maybe a little nap would refresh my memory. Only I can’t nap here. The sun will be up soon and would bake me against the desert sands. I’d wake up some sort of freaky radiation monster like that spooky video game.

I see something ahead of me. Another roadside memorial? Jeepers, how many people die out here? No wonder they closed the road. Once I reach it, I find it’s made out to the same guy as the last one, this John Lebraun fellow. Why give him two memorials, though? Which one marks the site of his actual death? In fact, this memorial looks exactly the same as the first one I saw. The family could have shown some originality if they were going to bother with multiple tributes to the guy who probably killed himself just to get them out of his hair.

I stomp on down the asphalt. My foot has become one large blister. If I popped it, it would explode puss like a water balloon.

The sun bakes the back of my neck, flesh curling up in ribbons as it sizzles. But has the sun even finished rising? No, it’s still hiding behind the mountains, its sinister gaze leering over the rim like a Peeping Tom’s eyes exposed at the bottom of a window.

So why am I burning? Maybe the ghost of John Lebraun is haunting me, the flames of his Hell licking the nape of my neck as I make my futile attempt to flee him.

What’s that old saying? “Get behind me, Satan.” I don’t get it; I’d rather keep him in front of me where I can see him coming. This thing lurking over my shoulder is making me feel like I’m losing my mind. As long as I keep my wits, this highway can’t defeat me.

Is it just the ghost of John Lebraun I’m dealing with, or an army of ghosts? Can a whole highway be haunted? Maybe this has moved past individual hauntings, and now the whole blacktop is one massive supernatural entity.

Not only have I forgotten where I was going, but now I can’t recall where I come from. Who am I? Why did I take this trip alone? Do I have a pain in the balls wife and kids at home like poor John Lebraun?

My eyes are so dry, I fear my retinas are boiling. My teeth feel wiggly, and I fear that if I spit out the wad of blood collecting in my mouth, the teeth would all go flying into the wind like dandelion puffs.

What’s that ahead? Another damned memorial for another dead driver? I swear, if this one is also made out to that jerk John Lebraun, I’ll…

It is! Damn it all, another John Lebraun tribute, completely identical to the first two. If I ever get out of this, I’ll track down his family and give them a piece of my mind.

I kick at the dead man’s eulogic monument. I throw his flowers to the ground and stomp them. Big mistake: my swollen foot explodes. Blood floods my shoe and begins pouring up over the rim, its appearance technicolor with all the puss mixed in.

I collapse, issuing an inhuman wail. I can’t keep walking after this. I stare up at the psychedelic skies, wishing I was dead like John Lebraun. As I lie there, something in his name rings familiar in a deep alcove of my mind. Did I know him somehow before all this happened?

I finally sit up. Behind me, I see my car lurking in the distance, watching like a predatory insect, waiting for my guard to drop before striking.

John Lebraun walks on.