Highways to Hell Read Free

Doors.”
    Danny shrugged. “No Doors on the Zune.” The musical portion of the evening’s entertainment was courtesy of Danny’s Zune. The MP3 player was connected to an adapter in the Chevelle’s tape deck, and contained nearly 80 GB of Danny Spillane’s favorite tunage. Everything worth hearing was on the goddamn thing. Motorhead, the Ramones, AC/DC. The Who, the Stones, Led Zeppelin. The Sex Pistols, Deep Purple, and Frank Sinatra. Bob Marley and Frank Zappa. The Pixies and Big Black. A shitload of Johnny Cash. Danny’s taste was pretty damn eclectic.
    So...
    “I can’t believe you don’t have any Doors on the fucking Zune.”
    “Well, I don’t have any Doors on the fucking Zune.”
    Rick shook his head. “Fuck.”
    A moment passed. The only sounds were the hiss of tires on asphalt and the clamor of conflicting weird impulses and theories in his head. Decidedly non-mainstream notions about the first moon landing and the assassinations of Marilyn Monroe and Paul Wellstone. Except that these didn’t produce actual audible sounds. Or did they? Hold on now. Wait. Nope. That was all in his head. Jesus, that was freaky. He thought maybe he should snort some more coke. No. He wanted to get mellow again.
    “Are we out of beer?”
    Danny shrugged. “Might still be some in the back.” He frowned. “Any idea where we are?”
    “Nope.”
    “Huh. Guess I’ll just keep going this way then.”
    “Whatever.”
    Rick twisted in his seat and peered into the back, looking for beer.
    And that’s when he saw her.
    The dead bitch.
    Rick’s second scream that night was louder than the one that woke Danny.

    PART TWO: THE DEAD BITCH

    The revelation that they were riding with a non-breathing extra passenger caused Rick to fall backward and crack his back against the dashboard. He pointed at the back seat and gibbered unintelligibly for several moments.
    Danny looked at him, his expression remarkably similar to the look you sometimes saw on the faces of tourists upon being accosted by deranged street people. Wary and with a hint of pity. “Um...could you maybe stop whining like a bitch for a minute and tell me what the fuck your damage is?”
    One last squeal caught in Rick’s throat, died there. He cleared phlegm from his throat and turned his pale face toward Danny. “You’re going to want to pull over. Right now would be a good time.”
    Danny frowned. “Yeah? Why?”
    “Because you’re probably gonna want to get rid of the fucking gorgeous but also very fucking dead woman in the back of your car.”
    Danny didn’t reply immediately.
    He locked eyes with Rick, took a moment to appraise the subterfuge-free look of somber sobriety, saw that his friend wasn’t pulling his leg, and promptly freaked the fuck out, unleashing an impressive scream of his own as he wrenched the Chevelle’s steering wheel hard to the right and slammed on the brakes. They came to a skidding stop on the road’s shoulder. Danny shifted in his seat and peered into the back.
    He screamed again.
    Rick and Danny locked gazes again.
    They screamed some more.
    “Oh, shit!”
    “Oh, fuck!”
    “What are we gonna do? What’re we fucking gonna do?”
    Rick stared at the dead woman. It was real obvious she was totally fucking dead. No pulse check was necessary. Nor was the administration of CPR, or a desperate search for the nearest emergency room. The giant, ragged gash in her throat made that abundantly clear. She was dead. Lights out, sayonara, see ya fuckin’ later. But that left a bigger mystery to consider. Several of them, actually.
    Including.
    Who the fuck was this dead fucking bitch?
    Who the fuck killed her?
    And why was she in Danny’s fucking car?
    For starters.
    Rick looked at his friend. “Danny, man...you didn’t kill this chick, did you?”
    Danny managed to sneer and look hurt at the same time. “What the fuck kind of monster do you think I am?”
    Rick nodded. “Yeah.” He heaved a big breath and reluctantly looked at