A Black Mass Over Highway Ninety Novels & Stories

​The text broke into the paper with a brutal, deep-set violence, the heavy steel hammers engraving our survival straight into the spine of the capital's own transit corridor. ​THE EIGHTH PLOT — THE HIGHWAY BREACH, I typed, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the flashing blue lights of the interceptors began to stain the wooden sideboards of the truck in a violent, rhythmic violet. They built their roads to drain the provinces, but the asphalt is now carrying the flood. The seventh press is on the market stalls, and the eighth is writing itself at sixty miles an hour. You cannot check the cargo when the road itself has gone rogue.

The van smelled of ozone and damp earth. June drove through the night, pushing the vehicle toward the jagged coastline of the Northern Territories. The high-speed chase through the High District was a blur of neon and screaming sirens, but out here, there was only the sound of the wind. Case sat in the passenger seat, his laptop open on his knees, watching the global news feeds. The world was in chaos. The total blackout of the High District had sent ripples through every stock market on the planet.

Too thick. Whatever he left behind in me isn’t done. I climb into my truck and whisper a quick prayer to whatever god might be listening that my engine doesn’t treat me the same way the rest of today has, then turn the key. Thankfully, it starts, and I’m peeling out of the parking lot before Vanessa can guilt-trip me into working another double. As I merge onto the highway, a large black blur cuts through my peripheral vision. I jerk my head toward it, pulse spiking, but there’s nothing there.

he says, his finger tracing the digital map overlay. “Terminal 5. International departures. They must have a flight booked already.” “Hold on tight,” I tell him, my foot pressing the accelerator harder. The car hits 0 to 60 in a blink, the force pressing us back into the seats with a surge of adrenaline. Traffic parts even wider on the I-190, the stretch clear ahead under the afternoon sun. Wind howls through the cracked windows, whipping our hair and carrying the faint scent of exhaust and hot asphalt.

"Time to be the hunter. No more crates? No problem. I'll hunt monsters instead." He floored it. The massive black RV roared back onto the highway. This time, he didn't swerve around the zombies. Fifty kilometers later, he spotted a cluster of them—seven or eight shambling figures blocking the road. A savage grin spread across his face. "Hunting time." CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! Dull, heavy impacts echoed across the empty highway, punctuated by the crack of snapping bones. The black steel beast plowed into the horde at 80 km/h—like a bowling ball through a rack of pins.

(Kane) The heavy rumble of my dual-axle pickup truck was a grounding, comforting vibration against the soles of my boots. We hit the state highway just as the clock cleared 1:00 AM, the massive black chassis cutting cleanly through the thick coastal fog that had haunted the campus all weekend. The heavy mist clung to the trees lining the asphalt, but the truck”s high-beams tore through the darkness, carving out a private path just for the two of us.

Jordan roared over the screaming engine. Leaning hard to the left, the motorcycle scraped the wet asphalt. Sparks showered from the metal footpegs. Peeking over his broad shoulder, I saw it. A massive, boxy medical transport ambulance rumbled down the center of the desolate mountain highway just fifty yards ahead. The back windows were entirely blacked out. No emergency lights flashed. It looked like a mobile tomb navigating the dark gorge. "That's it!" I shouted, the wind instantly snatching the words from my mouth.

Martha said. She slammed her foot down on the gas. The truck lunged forward, hitting a massive deep rut in the dirt. My head snapped against the ceiling, and Dominic let out a sharp, choking gasp from the back. The high beams behind us grew larger, the sound of a heavy V8 engine roaring over our own sputtering tailpipe. "They aren't trying to capture us," I said, watching the lead vehicle pull up right against our rear bumper. It was a black SUV with heavy steel brush guards on the front grill. "They're going to pit-road us."

"You're all useless doctors! What do you mean by 'minor injury'? He's bleeding this badly. What if he gets tetanus? Get every doctor out here right now!" Someone tried to object, saying, "No, we can't. The doctors inside are performing a rescue. They can't be interrupted." My heart felt like it had been pierced by a blade. I only hoped that Lilian would allow Wesley to receive proper treatment. If nothing else, I hoped it would be for the eight years we had both longed for this child. Just then, I heard a gunshot echo throughout the entire hospital. Immediately after, Lilian roared, "Get every doctor out here right now!"

Nick~ Our black SUVs pull out of the hospital parking lot. More media vans waited on the street, and they pulled in behind us as we passed. Now, a caravan of five heads east through downtown LA. We take the US 395 exit and catch another gear. Harley has remained quiet with her head resting on my shoulder. Once her hand returned to its human form, I laced our fingers together. It's hotter than the Fourth of July on a tin roof in the back of the SUV.