"Maclin."
The voice was closer now. It sounded like it was right beside his ear, a wet, gurgling whisper that smelled of pond scum and rot. Out of the corner of his eye, Mac could see the bright yellow PVC of the raincoat leaning across the center console.
"There's a cliff ahead," the voice lied smoothly. "The road ends. If you don't hit the brakes right now, we're both going over. Tell me to hit the brakes, Maclin. Give me permission."
Mac's eyes burned. He hadn't blinked in what felt like minutes. The bruised purple sky stretched endlessly ahead, casting a sickening light over the featureless black road. His right foot ached with the strain of holding the heavy pedal exactly at forty-five miles per hour. Not forty-four. Not forty-six.
He locked his jaw. Do not speak to them. A cold, dripping hand, pale and bloated like a drowned corpse, reached out from the yellow sleeve. It hovered inches from the steering wheel. Mac's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. If the thing grabbed the wheel, they would crash. If he yelled at it to stop, he broke the rule.
"Just one word," it begged, the multiple layered voices suddenly sounding like crying children. "Please. I don't want to fall again."
Mac stared at the unyielding red line on the GPS screen.
Then, a shape materialized on the horizon.
It cut through the purple void like a jagged black tooth—a massive, brutalist concrete structure spanning the width of the invisible road. As the truck closed the distance, the details resolved. It was a toll booth. But there were no lights, no boom gates, and no glass windows. It looked ancient, the concrete weeping with dark, oily stains.
Mac didn't alter his speed. Forty-five.
The truck slid beneath the heavy concrete canopy. For a fraction of a second, absolute darkness swallowed the cab. The air pressure dropped so fast Mac's ears popped painfully.
When the truck emerged out the other side, the bruised purple sky was gone.
The suffocating, swirling grey fog had returned, pressing thickly against the windshield. The yellow glow of the headlights finally illuminated the faint, dashed white lines of a normal highway returning to the asphalt.
Mac chanced a glance to his right.
The passenger seat was empty. A small puddle of foul-smelling, muddy water pooled on the rubber floor mat, the only proof the raincoat had ever been there.
Mac let out a massive, shuddering breath, his chest heaving as if he'd just run a marathon. He wiped the cold sweat from his eyes with the back of his trembling hand and let his right foot ease off the agonizing forty-five-mile-per-hour hold. The truck naturally accelerated, pushing back up to sixty.
"Okay," he rasped, his throat raw. "Okay, we're good. Next toll booth. It exited at the toll booth."
The deep, rhythmic breathing from the trailer continued its steady in-out, in-out. It was a horrific sound, but right now, Mac welcomed it. It was consistent. It meant he hadn't failed.
He glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard to check how much time had passed under that purple sky.
The glowing green numbers were glitching.
12:48 AM... 1:15 AM... 1:52 AM...
The digits spun like a slot machine, moving entirely independent of real-world time. Highway 81 didn't care about physics. It was skipping time like a scratched CD.
The numbers finally snapped to a halt.
2:13 AM.
Mac's stomach dropped into his shoes. His eyes immediately darted to the laminated manifest taped to the wheel.
Rule 5: The radio will turn itself on at 2:14 AM.
If it plays static, ignore it.
If it plays classical music, you are ahead of schedule.
If it plays a recording of your own voice begging for help, hold your breath until the broadcast ends.
He looked back at the clock. 2:13 AM. He took a deep, dragging breath, filling his lungs as much as he could, and exhaled completely, hyperventilating slightly to flood his system with oxygen. He didn't know how long a radio broadcast lasted. A commercial? Thirty seconds. A song? Three minutes. Could he hold his breath for three minutes while wrestling an eighteen-wheeler through a supernatural fog?
The clock ticked.
2:14 AM.
CLICK.
The physical dial on the archaic radio console violently snapped to the right all by itself.
A sharp burst of static hissed through the cab's speakers. Mac felt a brief, desperate surge of hope. Static. Just ignore it.
But the static lasted only two seconds before it cleared.
"...please!" The voice that blasted through the speakers was ragged, high-pitched with pure, unadulterated terror, and wet with tears.
"Please, God, let me out of here! The door won't open! It's burning, it's burning my arm—!"
Mac's hands clamped onto the steering wheel with a grip like iron.
It was his own voice.
It didn't just sound like him; it was him. He recognized the specific cadence of his panic, the way his voice broke on the word "burning." It was a recording of him from the future, or from a parallel timeline where he had failed.
Instantly, Mac clamped his mouth shut and sealed his lips tight. He pinched his throat closed, locking the oxygen in his lungs.
"Somebody help me! I didn't break the rules! I didn't look! Please, the key won't work"
The recording of his own desperate screaming filled the tiny cab, deafeningly loud. Mac stared dead ahead at the red line on the GPS.
Ten seconds. His chest felt full, but fine. He kept the truck steady.
"...it's getting closer! I can hear it breathing"
Twenty seconds. A primal fear began to claw at the back of Mac's mind. Hearing himself die was tearing at his focus. The truck drifted slightly toward the edge of the fog. He violently jerked it back to center.
Thirty seconds.
The carbon dioxide was beginning to build up. His lungs gave a small, involuntary twitch, demanding to exhale. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, forcing his body to obey.
"I ACCEPTED! I DID THE SHIFT! LET ME GO!" the radio-Mac shrieked, the sound accompanied by the sickening thud of fists pounding on heavy metal.
Forty-five seconds. Mac's vision began to blur around the edges. A sharp, burning ache spread across his chest. His throat convulsed automatically, trying to drag in air. He swallowed hard, fighting his own diaphragm. The steering wheel was slippery with his sweat.
The voice on the radio devolved from screaming into wet, agonizing choking sounds.
One minute.
Dark spots danced in Mac's peripheral vision. The green glow of the dashboard gauges smeared together. His lungs were on fire, screaming for release. He couldn't hold it much longer. If he passed out, the truck would crash. If he inhaled, he broke the rule.
The radio hissed with sudden static.
Mac held on, his face purple, his eyes bulging. Was it over?
Through the static, a completely different voice spoke. It was calm, corporate, and perfectly clear.
"Crimson Cross appreciates your dedication. Proceed to drop-off."
CLICK.
The radio snapped off.
Mac's mouth flew open. He gasped, dragging massive, greedy lungfuls of the freezing cab air into his burning chest. He coughed violently, his eyes watering so badly he could barely see the road, his entire body shaking with tremors.
He was alive. He had held it.
As he wheezed, trying to blink the dark spots out of his vision, the GPS screen chimed.
The red line abruptly ended. A small, checkered flag icon appeared a half-mile ahead.
Destination Reached.