The Hitcher

Word count: 1,000
Notes/Warnings: None.
Summary: Written for the Week 6 - May 11, 2014 through May 17, 2014 prompt(s): It looks good, but it’s not, and purple tulips.

“I never pick up hitchhikers.”

The girl who’d been standing by the road shoulder with her thumb out and a sullen expression on her face glances at me and frowns.

“All evidence to the contrary,” she murmurs, slamming the door then looking out the passenger side window as I pull the car back onto the road.

“It’s illegal, I think. Hitching.”

She shrugs, still gazing out into the night. I can see her pale reflection on the glass of the passenger side window.

“So’s jaywalking,” she notes. I smile and meet her gaze in the window for a moment. She looks away.

“With good reason. Jaywalking can be dangerous. So can hitchhiking.”

“Hmm.”

“But you’re safe with me.”

“Good to know.” Her voice is inflection-free, but I sense just a soupcon of sarcasm and disdain.

I like this one.

As we cruise along the deserted, moonlight-drenched highway, I sneak glances at her in the rearview mirror. Neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, she’s wearing dirty jeans and a sweater that’s seen better, cleaner days. Between her denim-clad legs sits a dusty duffel bag, and in her lap is a small plastic bag with a smiley-face on it, and something vibrantly purple inside. But I can’t make out what it is.

Her wide-set eyes are a pretty shade of hazel, her complexion pale, but not unattractively so. Curling slightly around her face and ears, in a pixie cut, is hair so perfect a golden-brown I immediately want to touch it . . . grab whole hanks of it and yank. . . .

And her mouth . . . is a perfect cupid’s bow. Or would be, if she weren’t sneering at me.

Oh, I really like this one .

“So . . . where’m I taking you?” I ask cheerfully.

“As far down the road as you’re goin’, I guess.”

“Right, right. And what’s in as far as I’m going down the road for you? Family? Friends? Work?”

“None of the above,” she says tersely then doesn’t elaborate.

“Well, I’m heading to Lenape Landing, Pennsylvania.”

A grunt is her response to that, and I laugh, delighted.

“Not much of a talker, huh?” To that conversational gambit I get no reply at first, not even a disdainful look.

“I believe it’s best to keep my own counsel,” she says finally, almost wearily, when some minutes have passed in expectant silence. I’m startled into a laugh, one hand leaving the wheel to slap my thigh. The sound makes her jump and glare at me.

“What’re you, nineteen? Twenty?” I snort, my hand leaving my thigh to rest pointedly on hers. “Your own counsel?”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she says softly, staring straight ahead. I pay her no mind. They all say some variation of that at first. At first. But pretty soon, everyone’s on the same page. So I pull the car over to the road shoulder and leave the engine running. She and I look at each other, and I put on my most charming smile.

“Be extra nice to me and maybe you make it out of this car in one piece instead of one hundred,” I tell her as I slide my hand further up her thigh. Muscles jump under my hand, which soon encounters the plastic bag with the smiley-face.

She puts out a hand to stop me, but I smack hers away and stick my hand in the bag. . . .

“Tulips? Really?” I laugh again, dropping the purple flower back in the bag, and Little Miss Attitude frowns, her perfect lips quivering.

“They’re for my father.”

“Oh, really? And where’s he at, hmm? Is he down-the-road-as-far-as-I’m-going, too?”

“He’s dead.”

“Sucks to be him, then.” I slide my hand under the bag of tulips and between her thighs. I can feel the heat of her through the jeans, and oh, yes . . . I like her very much.

“No,” she says—commands and I instantly see red. I snatch the plastic bag of tulips from her lap and toss it out the window.

No one tells me no.

When I look back at her . . . her face is enraged . . . and changing. Her features are running like melting wax and reforming into something . . . terrifying.

There’s a sudden sound like cloth being ripped. Somethings huge, pale, and wet are sprouting from her back, tearing her ratty sweater. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they’re wings. . . .

“W-what are you?” I stammer numbly, feeling behind me for the door handle. No dice. “Dear God, what are you?!”

“I am Talia, daughter of Caliban, granddaughter of Sycorax, and you,” the thing in the passenger seat seethes through teeth that are technically fangs, now. Its formerly hazel eyes are now a baleful, glowing red. “You’ve just fucked with the wrong hitchhiker on the wrong night.”

It reaches for me with hands that have become talons and its touch—its touch is ice and fire, and my skin begins to blister . . . then crisp.

And I start to scream—

*

Alfie Lonnergan slows his ancient Buick down just as he sees a hitchhiker with her thumb out, dead-ahead.

She’s young, and alone, and Alfie’s got daughters, by God. Daughters he’d not see get passed by when they’re so obviously in need.

And yet. . . .

Alfie passes her by and keeps going . . . even speeding up a little, glancing in the rearview as he does. She turns to watch him go, thumb still out. Alfie drags his eyes back to the road and tries not to feel guilty.

Because the thing is, Alfie Lonnergan has daughters. Daughters he loves and has to take care of. Something he can’t do if he’s been rolled and left for dead in a ditch. And it’s that very reason—or so he tells himself—that he passes the young female hitchhiker by.

Hopefully she gets a ride with the next guy, Alfie thinks, turning up the oldies station on his radio.

A few minutes later the DJ spins a song Alfie loves, and the girl passes out of his mind forever.

END

Caliban: In W. Shakespeare’s The Tempest, Caliban was the half-human offspring of a devil and the witch, Sycorax.