The first time had been an accident, the speeding bullet of anger mixed with a deadly elixir of adrenaline. A sexual rush, only better, one he could only get when he took a life. The thrill of his first kill still sent shivers up his spine. He had made sure of that the night he had slaughtered his way to freedom. No one was going to tell him what he could or couldn’t do ever again. Not that he cared either way, melting cesspool or not. But hey, who the hell cared what a high school drop out thought, right? So, in the grand scheme of things, his crumbled pack of Lucky Strikes was about as insignificant as an anthill when you looked at it from that perspective. The human race was nothing more than cockroaches who were spreading their infestation faster than this ecosystem could adjust to, a certain death warrant if he ever saw one. As far as he was concerned, the world was one giant cesspit spewing its vile brew to pollute everything it touched. He drew out the last cigarette from his pack of Lucky Strikes, lighting up the darkness with a brief flash of blue-wrapped gold before stubbing out the flame with roughened fingers that were stained red.Ĭrumbling the empty pack, he tossed it to the side of the road, not one to give much thought to littering and all that tree-hugging bullshit. He had forgotten the desert could be like that one minute hotter than hell, and the next, well, cold enough to make you wish for hell.

Shrugging deeper into his denim jacket, he slung his backpack higher up on his shoulder.

It was nearly the witching hour and there wasn’t a single soul on this lonely stretch of road beside him – at least none that were living. Jeans dirty and torn, tiny specks of maroon marring the denim, Jason Montgomery headed down the empty stretch of road, his footsteps muffled against the sand-swept asphalt. It was a night for judgment to be passed quick, brutal, and bloody. It was a night for sinners to flee their crimes. It was a night for hunters to stalk their prey. The nighttime sky was a blanket of darkness that devoured the scant moonlight. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. Copyright © 2013 by Matthew and Tanya Acquaire

Highway to hell free