The silence that followed felt deliberate, as if the system had said everything it intended to for now.
Ethan focused on the road ahead, forcing himself to breathe evenly as the truck picked up speed. The highway stretched forward in a long, unbroken line, swallowed by darkness so deep it seemed to absorb the headlights instead of reflecting them. The beam of light carved a narrow tunnel through the night, and everything outside that tunnel ceased to exist.
He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, flexing his fingers to keep them from stiffening. "All right," he said quietly, more to himself than to the system. "If survival depends on the rules, then the first step is staying calm and not doing anything stupid."
The dashboard clock ticked forward, its red numbers glowing softly. The engine's steady rumble settled into the background, becoming a constant presence that grounded him. For a brief moment, the situation almost felt manageable, like a strange but straightforward night shift that would end if he just followed instructions and kept moving.
That illusion did not last.
The darkness ahead began to feel wrong.
It was difficult to explain, even to himself. The road remained straight, the asphalt smooth and uninterrupted, yet something about the space beyond the headlights felt compressed, as if the night were leaning inward. Ethan squinted, leaning forward slightly in his seat, but the sensation did not fade.
"Do not overthink it," he muttered. "It is just a road in the desert."
The GPS showed steady progress, mile markers ticking upward without sound. Five miles. Seven. Nine.
At exactly ten miles, a reflective sign appeared in the distance.
Ethan's stomach tightened before he could stop it.
The sign grew clearer as he approached, the reflective paint catching the headlights in an almost aggressive glare. The words DEAD END loomed large and unmistakable, bolted to a metal post planted directly beside the road.
"That makes no sense," Ethan said, his voice low. "Highways do not just end in the middle of nowhere."
The road ahead, however, showed no sign of stopping. It continued straight past the sign, disappearing into the same darkness as before.
Ethan glanced instinctively at the interface, but it remained silent, as if daring him to remember what he had already been told. His pulse quickened, and he forced himself not to slow down.
"All right," he said, swallowing hard. "I see you, and I am ignoring you."
He drove past the sign without touching the brakes.
The moment it slipped out of view behind him, the pressure in the air seemed to ease, just slightly. Ethan let out a breath he had not realized he was holding and shook his head. "Great. The road is lying to me now."
The truck continued forward, steady and unbothered, as if nothing unusual had occurred.
For several minutes, nothing else happened.
The desert stretched on endlessly, the headlights revealing only cracked asphalt and pale sand at the road's edges. There were no stars overhead, no moon, and no distant lights. It felt as though the world beyond the road had been erased entirely.
Then the headlights flickered.
Once. Twice.
Ethan's heart jumped. He tightened his grip on the wheel and glanced down at the dashboard, half expecting warning lights to flare, but everything appeared normal.
"Do not do this," he said, his voice tense. "I need you to keep working."
The headlights flickered again, longer this time, dimming enough to make the darkness surge forward.
Ethan did not hesitate. He pressed down on the accelerator.
The engine responded instantly, roaring louder as the truck surged ahead. The speedometer climbed, and the flickering stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The headlights steadied, cutting cleanly through the darkness once more.
Ethan exhaled shakily. "Okay. Speed up when things go wrong. I can handle that."
The road curved gently, and the desert remained silent.
At mile twelve, a figure appeared at the edge of the headlights.
Ethan stiffened.
An old man stood by the roadside, his frame thin and slightly hunched, one hand resting on a battered walking stick. He wore a long coat that fluttered faintly in a wind Ethan could not feel, and his face was mostly shadowed beneath a wide-brimmed hat.
The man raised one hand, thumb extended in a familiar gesture.
Ethan's mouth went dry. "Of course," he said quietly. "Because why would this be easy."
The truck slowed almost instinctively, his foot easing off the accelerator before he consciously realized what he was doing. He forced himself to stop, the brakes hissing softly as the vehicle came to a halt beside the old man.
The desert fell into a heavy silence.
Ethan lowered the passenger-side window halfway. "Where are you headed," he asked, keeping his voice neutral even as his nerves screamed.
The old man leaned closer, and Ethan caught a glimpse of his face. His skin was pale and drawn tight over sharp bones, and his eyes reflected the headlights with an unsettling clarity.
"To the nearest town," the man said, his voice calm and measured.
Ethan felt a jolt of relief so strong it nearly made him dizzy. "All right," he said, nodding. "Get in."
The passenger door opened, and the old man climbed inside with surprising ease, settling into the seat as if he belonged there. The door closed with a solid click.
Ethan put the truck back into gear and pulled onto the road. "Seatbelt," he said automatically.
The old man smiled faintly but did not respond.
They drove in silence for several minutes. Ethan resisted the urge to glance sideways, keeping his eyes fixed on the road as instructed. The presence beside him felt heavy, like a pressure that did not touch his skin but still made his shoulders tense.
"You are doing well," the old man said eventually.
Ethan frowned. "That sounds less reassuring than you probably intended."
The old man chuckled softly. "Most people panic much earlier."
Ethan did not reply.
After another mile, the old man spoke again. "You will see lights soon. When you do, I will leave."
Ethan nodded. "All right."
The lights appeared suddenly, a cluster of dim yellow glows off the side of the road, suggesting buildings just beyond the darkness. As the truck approached, the old man reached for the door handle.
"Good luck, driver," he said.
The door opened and closed, and when Ethan glanced in the mirror, the passenger seat was empty.
The lights vanished as well, leaving only darkness behind.
Ethan swallowed hard. "I am not going to think about that too much."
The miles continued to tick by.
At mile twenty-five, a dull thud echoed from behind him.
Ethan's spine stiffened. The sound came from the trailer.
Another thud followed, heavier this time, accompanied by a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the cab.
Ethan's hands tightened on the wheel. Every instinct screamed at him to check the mirrors, to slow down, to do something. Instead, he stared straight ahead and kept his speed steady, his pulse pounding in his ears.
"It is dried meat," he said through clenched teeth. "Dried meat does not growl."
The sound continued for several agonizing minutes, then faded as abruptly as it had begun.
Ethan did not relax until the road ahead straightened again and the silence returned.
By the time the dashboard clock approached three in the morning, his nerves were frayed and his muscles ached from tension. The radio, which had been playing low static since he started, suddenly cut out entirely, replaced by a louder, harsher hiss.
Ethan's breath caught. "No. Not yet."
The static grew louder, filling the cab with a grating noise that made his teeth ache. At mile thirty-five, the engine sputtered, and the truck rolled to a stop without his input.
Ethan did not argue.
He unbuckled his seatbelt, lay down on the cab floor, and closed his eyes.
The static stopped.
The door opened.
Footsteps approached, slow and deliberate.
Ethan kept his eyes shut, his body rigid as fear coiled in his chest. He focused on breathing, on counting heartbeats, on not moving no matter what happened.
After an eternity, the door closed.
The engine restarted.
When Ethan finally opened his eyes and climbed back into the seat, the road was clear, and the truck rolled forward as if nothing had occurred.
At mile fifty, something ran alongside the truck.
Ethan saw it only in the corner of his vision, a blur of motion keeping pace with the vehicle, its shape low and wrong. He stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched, trusting the road to curve when it needed to.
The curve came sharply, and the presence fell away.
At exactly three in the morning, Ethan's phone rang.
He ignored it.
At mile one hundred thirty-one, a woman stood by the road, waving frantically.