The Road That Swallowed Screams
There were roads that existed only to take people somewhere.
And then there were roads that seemed designed to make sure no one ever came back.
Route 9, winding through the Blackwater swamps of Louisiana, belonged to the second kind.
The asphalt cut through miles of cypress trees and black water, disappearing beneath curtains of Spanish moss and storm clouds. At night, the road felt less like part of civilization and more like a narrow strip of pavement between two worlds.
People in the nearby towns had stories about it.
Cars that broke down and were never found.
Travelers who vanished after stopping for gas.
Screams heard through the trees during storms, though nobody could ever agree where they came from.
Bear didn't believe in ghost stories.
He believed in bad roads, bad people, and bad luck.
And on that particular night, he had all three.
Rain hammered against his helmet as he rode through the darkness. Water ran down the leather of his vest and soaked through his clothes. His shoulders burned. His hands ached around the handlebars.
He had been riding for nearly ten hours.
Three towns behind him, one of the other Redeemers had suffered an engine failure. The rest of the club had stopped to deal with it while Bear, the road captain, continued ahead to scout the route and find somewhere safe to regroup.
Now he was alone.
At 11:45 p.m., a flickering red-and-blue neon sign appeared through the rain.
RICK'S ROADSIDE GRILL.
The sign buzzed weakly.
Bear pulled his motorcycle into the nearly empty gravel lot and shut off the engine.
For several seconds, the only sound was the ticking of hot metal and the rain pounding against the diner roof.
Bear removed his helmet.
He was six feet four inches tall, broad-shouldered and heavy with muscle. His beard was wet. His gray-streaked hair clung to his forehead. The black leather vest across his chest carried the patch of the Redeemers Motorcycle Club.
Most people saw the patch before they saw the man.
And most people made assumptions.
Bear had learned a long time ago not to care.
He walked toward the diner.
The bell above the door chimed when he entered.
The sound was strangely cheerful.
The room wasn't.
Stale grease lingered in the air. Old coffee sat in a stained pot behind the counter. Torn vinyl booths lined the windows.
And beneath everything else was another smell.
Sharp.
Metallic.
Wrong.
Bear stopped just inside the door.
His eyes moved across the room.
One exit at the rear.
Kitchen door to the left.
Windows too dirty to see clearly outside.
No customers.
One waitress.
The girl behind the counter couldn't have been more than nineteen.
She was thin enough that her uniform seemed too large for her. Her blond hair had been pulled into a messy bun, and she held a coffee pot so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
When she saw Bear, she froze.
Not startled.
Terrified.
Bear had seen fear before.
This was something worse.
This was the fear of someone who expected the next thing that happened to hurt.
He walked to the booth farthest from the entrance and sat with his back against the wall.
The tactical seat.
Always the tactical seat.
The waitress slowly approached.
"Coffee," Bear said. "Black. And whatever you've got for steak."
"Y-yes, sir."
As she poured his water, her hand suddenly jerked.
Water spilled across the table.
The girl gasped.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll clean that."
She immediately grabbed a rag and began scrubbing frantically.
Bear didn't look at the water.
He looked at her wrist.
Her sleeve slipped upward.
Four yellow bruises circled her skin.