A Black Mass Over Highway Ninety Novels & Stories

I stepped outside, feeling the river breeze sweep across my face, when my phone buzzed. It was a text from an unfamiliar number. It said, “I’m sorry.” I didn’t reply. Instead, I deleted the message, flagged down a taxi, and got in. Outside the window, neon lights streamed by in a blur. The city that never sleeps glowed bright and alive. Just like life, it never stopped moving forward.

She pulled a magenta crayon with slow precision from its box. “Dead skunk laying in the highway, hon,” he lied. “Smells bad, huh?” “A little.” Richard followed US Route 20 along with the other traffic going west. He noticed it had begun to rain, so he clicked on the wipers. In the overcast distance he saw an exit sign coming up fast: IRENE EXIT 1C BLACKWATER VAL ¼ MILE ROCKFORD ¾ MILE

I couldn’t see the shadows in the rearview, but I still felt them like a weight on my chest. The radio squawked to life. James and I both flinched. The noise shocked me back to reality like a splash of cold water. I’d put at least a mile between us and the cemetery. We were in my car, we were safe, and I was back in control. “Code 99. Reported 905B possible 905V at the high school. 901K.” “What the fuck does that mean?” asked James. I turned to look at him and realized that he was in the front seat like a regular passenger instead of cuffed and secured in back like a suspect. He looked like I felt. Bloodless. Panting. Eyes wide and unbelieving.

He ordered and she did. “Chloe.” Damien called. “Yeah.” “Turn the car towards the Duke Street and head towards the bridge.” “What? Are you crazy? We will be crashing right into the water, that road is under construction.” “And that is why you are heading there.”

THE MISSION: THE SCORCHED HIGHWAY The simulation loaded, and immediately, the sound was deafening. They were hurtling down a massive, six-lane highway at 100 miles per hour. The sky was a scorched orange, filled with swirling dust storms and lightning. The road was cracked asphalt floating over a canyon of magma. It was a heavy metal album cover come to life. They were inside a massive, armored vehicle—a War-Rig. It was covered in spikes and armor plating. Jinx was in the driver’s seat, her hands flying across a holographic dashboard, wrestling with the steering yoke.

The night on Fifth Avenue was shattered by the deafening roar of engines. Exhaust pipes spat out visible heat waves. Twelve armored black Scavenger vehicles took over all the main lanes. The anti - collision beams reflected the cold light of street lamps. The convoy was tight, with less than half a meter between each vehicle, and no brake lights were on.

The door to my room was suddenly pushed open without warning. My brother, Adrian Hoffman, walked in and scoffed when he saw me staring blankly at my diary. "Aren't you a little too old to be writing a diary?" Normally, I would have argued back. But this time, I didn't even lift my head or respond. Seeing my lack of reaction, he grew irritated and ran his hand through his hair before snatching my diary to take a look. On it was a single number—99.

The remote fell from my hands, cluttering to the floor as I looked at the horrible scene before me. “Oh my God,” I hear someone from behind me. “At around three in the afternoon, there’s been a terrible accident on the northern highway, twenty seven kilometres ahead of the Hluhluwe Gas Station. Police reports a possible high-jacking and attempted murder from three black SUVs. The live footage shows the number plate of-“ my blood ran cold, watching Miles’ car being chased by three cars. They couldn’t have mistaken the number plate. It was as clear as the day.

Henry*** The night air was electric as the growl of engines shattered the silence. A fleet of sleek, armored vehicles snaked through the dense forest, their headlights cutting through the shadows like blades. At the center of it all was a black Rolls-Royce, its polished exterior gleaming ominously under the pale moonlight. The vehicle was a statement—a declaration of power, wealth, and unshakable authority.

Graham's Point Of View The black SUV didn't just bounce down the private mountain road leading to the Sinclair Estate… it slammed, rattled, and groaned over the gravel like a tank tearing through a war zone. Every pothole felt like a hammer striking my ribs. Wedged onto the floorboards of the back seat, I struggled against the thick plastic zip-ties binding my hands behind my back. My fingers had gone completely numb about ten miles ago, the circulation cut off so thoroughly I couldn't feel whether they still moved when I flexed them.