us mentioned the Prowlers."
Silence descended upon the confines of the Jeep, save for the static on the radio and the roar of the engine. Jack had both hands on the wheel, but now he reached over to slip his fingers into Molly's yet again. A semi pulling a double trailer thundered by them with a squeal of metal that made Jack think of freight trains.
Molly leaned forward and used her free hand to switch off the radio. "I guess we've been postponing the inevitable."
"No more postponing."
Up ahead was another sign, this one for a rest area. They had passed a lot of them, on both sides of the road, but now that they were nearing Hollingsworth, they had entered the thirty mile stretch of highway that Courtney had identified as a kind of blacktop Bermuda Triangle, where people kept disappearing and far too many accidents seemed to happen.
The rest area ahead, just over the border into the town of Hollingsworth, was their first stop. The first of many. But it was already late in the day.
"We'll look around here, then figure out where the motel is. Tomorrow we can start hitting all the rest stops and roadhouses and whatever up and down this stretch."
Molly agreed and Jack put the directional on to indicate that he was going to turn into the rest area. As he slowed the Jeep, he glanced over at her again, and he was saddened to see the apprehension on her face.
"We'll be all right," he said quickly.
"Yeah," Molly replied softly. "I was just thinking that the reason we haven't talked about them? The reason we're feeling what we're feeling? It's that we both know that we're going to find something here. As much as I wish I could brush it off, Courtney found way too many stories about this area. I'm going to hope that it's just because this is some sort of migratory route for them. That's possible, by the way. We know some of the packs move frequently. Some are even nomadic.
"But I think we'll find them. And then we'll have to do something about it. Don't get me wrong, I want to destroy them. But I'm afraid, Jack. No matter how many times we fight one of these things and live through it, I think I'm always going to be afraid."
"That's good, Molly," he told her, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "That's how it should be."
"Afraid all the time? That's how it should be?" She sounded almost angry.
"When they're concerned, yes. Not every minute of every day, but when you know there might be Prowlers around? Absolutely. Stay afraid. They're monsters, Molly. When we stop being afraid of them, that's when they'll get us for sure."
Jack drove into the wide rest area, a football field's worth of parking lot with a short row of portable bathrooms on the far side. Trashcans and a pair of rusting iron grills rounded out the list of amenities available to the truckers who passed through, slept the night or day away in their rigs in that rest stop. There were three tractor-trailers there now, one whose engine was running. A card table and folding chairs were set up between two of the trucks and a fortyish woman with weathered features sat with a cold beer in her hand, one foot on a plastic cooler, talking to a trio of tired-looking men all of whom needed a shave.
"Anything?" Molly asked.
He parked alongside the nearest truck, as though the Jeep were just another metal dinosaur. Jack took a breath and focused, and his perception was instantly altered. He peered into the afterlife, the spirit world. The trucks and the parking lot and the trees beyond, even Molly there on the seat behind him, were drained of color and substance. It was as though he sat in the midst of a dense fog and everything around him was just shadow, a world of brittle grays like faded antique photographs. Where the world of flesh and blood seemed on fire with vivid life, this place was nothing but ash.
The Ghostlands.
"Nothing here," he told Molly, though it felt very much as though he were talking to himself. "If anyone was ever killed here, they've
Silence descended upon the confines of the Jeep, save for the static on the radio and the roar of the engine. Jack had both hands on the wheel, but now he reached over to slip his fingers into Molly's yet again. A semi pulling a double trailer thundered by them with a squeal of metal that made Jack think of freight trains.
Molly leaned forward and used her free hand to switch off the radio. "I guess we've been postponing the inevitable."
"No more postponing."
Up ahead was another sign, this one for a rest area. They had passed a lot of them, on both sides of the road, but now that they were nearing Hollingsworth, they had entered the thirty mile stretch of highway that Courtney had identified as a kind of blacktop Bermuda Triangle, where people kept disappearing and far too many accidents seemed to happen.
The rest area ahead, just over the border into the town of Hollingsworth, was their first stop. The first of many. But it was already late in the day.
"We'll look around here, then figure out where the motel is. Tomorrow we can start hitting all the rest stops and roadhouses and whatever up and down this stretch."
Molly agreed and Jack put the directional on to indicate that he was going to turn into the rest area. As he slowed the Jeep, he glanced over at her again, and he was saddened to see the apprehension on her face.
"We'll be all right," he said quickly.
"Yeah," Molly replied softly. "I was just thinking that the reason we haven't talked about them? The reason we're feeling what we're feeling? It's that we both know that we're going to find something here. As much as I wish I could brush it off, Courtney found way too many stories about this area. I'm going to hope that it's just because this is some sort of migratory route for them. That's possible, by the way. We know some of the packs move frequently. Some are even nomadic.
"But I think we'll find them. And then we'll have to do something about it. Don't get me wrong, I want to destroy them. But I'm afraid, Jack. No matter how many times we fight one of these things and live through it, I think I'm always going to be afraid."
"That's good, Molly," he told her, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "That's how it should be."
"Afraid all the time? That's how it should be?" She sounded almost angry.
"When they're concerned, yes. Not every minute of every day, but when you know there might be Prowlers around? Absolutely. Stay afraid. They're monsters, Molly. When we stop being afraid of them, that's when they'll get us for sure."
Jack drove into the wide rest area, a football field's worth of parking lot with a short row of portable bathrooms on the far side. Trashcans and a pair of rusting iron grills rounded out the list of amenities available to the truckers who passed through, slept the night or day away in their rigs in that rest stop. There were three tractor-trailers there now, one whose engine was running. A card table and folding chairs were set up between two of the trucks and a fortyish woman with weathered features sat with a cold beer in her hand, one foot on a plastic cooler, talking to a trio of tired-looking men all of whom needed a shave.
"Anything?" Molly asked.
He parked alongside the nearest truck, as though the Jeep were just another metal dinosaur. Jack took a breath and focused, and his perception was instantly altered. He peered into the afterlife, the spirit world. The trucks and the parking lot and the trees beyond, even Molly there on the seat behind him, were drained of color and substance. It was as though he sat in the midst of a dense fog and everything around him was just shadow, a world of brittle grays like faded antique photographs. Where the world of flesh and blood seemed on fire with vivid life, this place was nothing but ash.
The Ghostlands.
"Nothing here," he told Molly, though it felt very much as though he were talking to himself. "If anyone was ever killed here, they've
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