Dead Air

      Mick’s fingers tap against the steering wheel in a lazy rhythm, his gaze fixed on the stretch of empty road ahead. He’s driven this highway more times than he can count—knows every curve, every mile marker.

      The song on the radio fades, and a smooth voice cuts in:

"That was ‘Rocky Mountain High’ by John Denver, and now time fo—"

Silence.

Mick frowns. The radio goes dead.

He twists the dial—nothing. A sharp slap to the dashboard. Still nothing.

“Stupid piece of shit.” His voice is hoarse, worn from hours of cigarettes and cheap bourbon. He blindly gropes for the bottle beside him, fingers meeting cool glass. Half-empty. His cab stinks of sweat, old tobacco, and the lingering bite of alcohol.

His eyelids droop. The hum of the tires lulls him, dragging him toward sleep. He jerks upright, shaking his head. Not here. Not now.

His fingers twitch toward the rearview mirror. He adjusts it—even though the road behind him is empty. A habit. One he doesn’t remember when it started.

Just checking.

      His gaze flickers back to the road, and for a split second, something flashes in his headlights—a scrap of paper, tumbling end over end in the wind.

Too quick to read.

Still, Mick’s gut knots.

Once again, he checks the mirror, exhaling when he sees nothing. He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. Gettin’ jumpy, old man.

He pulls his eyes back to the road—

A shape stands in the headlights.

Mick sucks in a breath, slams the brakes.

The truck screeches, tires fighting for grip, the cab shuddering under the sudden force—

THUD.

The sound is wet. Thick. Like something heavy and soft giving way under impact.

Mick clenches his eyes shut. His pulse hammers in his skull.

He doesn’t want to look.

Doesn’t want to know.

Slowly, he forces himself to crack one eye open.

Nothing.

The road is empty.

His breath comes out in a shudder. He sticks his head out the window, scanning the dark highway. Empty lanes stretch endlessly into the void. Nobody. No movement.

"Shit—shit—shit," he mutters. His fingers tighten on the wheel.

He tilts his hat up, heart racing. “Nothing was there. No one was there… it’s fine.”

His pulse pounds in his ears. He slumps against the seat, exhaling, shaking his head—

The radio crackles.

      A low static hum seeps through the speakers. Soft at first.

Building.

Louder.

The sound burrows into his skull, twisting his nerves tight. Mick winces, gripping the wheel as a dull ache blooms in his temples.

And then—Silence.

A click.

A voice—low, smooth, a little too amused—seeps through the speaker.

"Welcome, midnight riders. Thanks for tuning in to KMIC 86.6. We got a story for you tonight..."

Mick freezes. He’s driven this stretch of highway a hundred times.

There’s no such station.

He turns the dial. Every other frequency is dead air.

Nothing.

His fingers hover over the knob. The voice continues, unfazed.

"Let’s be honest—not many of us like working nights. But I don’t think any of us had a night quite like Jess in our next story... or at least, not yet."

Mick swallows hard. A prickle of unease slides up his spine.

Reluctantly, he leans back, gripping the wheel tighter, and listens.