THE ROAD TO NOWHERE

By

G Garnet

The engine hummed like a beast ready to strike, and I drove through the night with only the lowlights of the road for company. Miles of blacktop stretched out ahead of me, the world slipping away in the rearview. That’s how I liked it. I was nothing but a shadow on the edge of every town, a ghost gliding through the small hours, the kind of man who left nothing behind but a trail of exhaust.

Up ahead, a neon sign flickered to life in the dark, bright and gaudy, casting an ugly glow against the night sky: *Fantasy Ranch*. I snorted. It was the kind of place that promised you all the thrills for the price of a stiff drink and a pocketful of regrets. The sign boasted of “Exotic Dancers! Cold Beer! Live Entertainment!” – as if all that could drown out the quiet dread you’d feel the second you walked inside.

I pulled my rig into the lot, killed the engine, and climbed down. The joint loomed in front of me, rundown and slouching under its neon lights, the air thick with stale cigarette smoke and the sour scent of too many spilled drinks. It was quiet inside, just a handful of rough types hunched over their glasses, the kind of men who didn’t want to be noticed.

I took a seat at the counter, ordered a coffee, black, and watched the room. The waitress barely glanced at me when she set it down, her eyes dull, weighed down with the look of someone who’d long since given up expecting good things from strangers.

That’s when I saw her.

She was moving through the room like a ghost, dressed in something too cheap for her, a thin slip that glittered in the dim light, her hair dark and tangled around her shoulders. She had eyes like a storm at sea—restless, hiding something dark underneath. She looked at me like she knew me already, like she’d been waiting for me to walk through the door.

She sidled up, her voice low, heavy with an accent that sounded Russian or maybe something else from that side of the world. “Buy a girl a drink?” she asked, but her voice was tense, urgent, not the playful flirtation you’d expect.

I nodded, motioned for the bartender. The whiskey slid over, but she didn’t touch it. Instead, she leaned closer, so close I could feel her breath on my cheek, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“Please…help me.” Her eyes flicked to the corner where a couple of meatheads were watching her like hawks, their thick necks bulging out of their shirts, eyes hard, predatory. She straightened up, her shoulders stiff, her fingers drumming nervously against the countertop. “I am…stuck here. Trapped. I need to get out.”

Her accent softened the words, gave them a tragic sort of rhythm, like they were spoken from somewhere deep, hidden. I didn’t answer right away, just sipped my coffee, letting the bitterness steady me.

“You expect me to just waltz you out of here?” I muttered, keeping my eyes on my cup. I was just a trucker, a guy who came and went, leaving no strings behind. Not a hero, not some white knight come to save the day.

She swallowed, the fear flashing in her eyes as she leaned in again, her hand trembling on my arm. “Please. They brought me here. They…own me.” The last words fell out like they’d choked her, and I felt a prickle of anger, a slow burn deep in my gut. She wasn’t playing me. This was real.

Before she could say another word, one of the goons shifted out of his corner, a mountain of muscle, his face ugly with a permanent sneer. He lumbered over, eyes cold and flat, like he’d seen a hundred of me already tonight and didn’t like any of them.

 “We don’t pay you to flirt with the customers,” he growled at her, his voice like gravel.

The look he gave me could’ve cracked concrete. I held his gaze, didn’t flinch. I’d been through enough brawls to know a bluff when I saw one. But he wasn’t bluffing. He looked at her like she was property, and I felt that slow anger coil tighter.

“Didn’t realize talking was a crime,” I said, my voice steady, cool. But I was ready, tense like a spring. I knew what was coming next.

He didn’t waste time with words. His fist shot out, catching me square in the jaw. Pain exploded in my skull, and the taste of blood hit my tongue. I staggered back, and before I could get my balance, he was on me, dragging me out of the joint and into the mud outside, his grip like iron.

I felt the cold mud against my face, then a sharp boot to my ribs. The pain was raw, real, each blow leaving a burning ache in its wake. I lay there, curled up, gritting my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a scream. He kicked me again, his breath heavy, a sneer etched into his voice.

“You don’t belong here, trucker. Keep your eyes on the road. Stay out of things that don’t concern you.”

With one last kick to my ribs, he walked off, leaving me lying there in the mud, gasping for air, my whole body pulsing with pain. I don’t know how long I lay there, listening to the night settle around me, the silence thick, pressing in. But her voice lingered in my mind, her plea echoing, haunting me.

Eventually, I rolled over, dragged myself to my feet, and stumbled back to the truck. Every step hurt like hell, my ribs aching with each breath, but I wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.

I climbed up, hands shaking as I gripped the wheel. The engine roared to life, the sound steadying me, filling me with a fire that drowned out the pain. I wasn’t walking away from this.

I swung the rig around, aiming it straight for the joint. The lights glared in my headlights, the whole place a bright, ugly target. My foot hit the gas, and the truck lurched forward, barreling toward the entrance. The windows exploded as the front of the rig crashed through, tables and chairs scattering like debris in a storm.

I hit the brakes, the truck screeching to a stop in the middle of the wreckage, and jumped out, my eyes scanning the chaos. She was there, her face pale, frozen in shock. The goons were scrambling, their arrogance replaced by fear. I found her gaze, and something broke in her expression—a flicker of hope, a spark of life.

“Come on!” I shouted, my voice rough, urgent.

She didn’t hesitate. She sprinted toward me, weaving through the broken glass, her bare feet skidding on the floor. One of the thugs lunged for her, but I was faster, stepping between them, my fist connecting with his jaw. Pain shot through my knuckles, but I didn’t care. He went down, clutching his face, blood seeping between his fingers.

I grabbed her hand, pulling her out into the night, and we scrambled back into the truck. I hauled myself into the driver’s seat, gunned the engine, and we tore out of there, leaving nothing but dust and shattered glass behind us.

The road stretched out ahead, dark and empty, swallowing us whole. She was breathing hard, her hands clenched in her lap, staring straight ahead. I kept my eyes on the road, feeling the adrenaline drain out, replaced by a dull ache in my ribs, a slow burn of pain where his boots had left their mark.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

I glanced over, saw the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands were trembling. She looked out of place in my truck, like some fragile bird perched on a steel trap, ready to take flight at the slightest sound.

We drove in silence until we hit a crossroads, the old signs creaking in the wind. I slowed to a stop, staring at the two roads stretching out into the dark. One way led back to the highway, to the life I knew. The other was a narrow dirt road disappearing into the wilderness, a road that didn’t promise anything familiar.

I looked over at her, saw the way her eyes followed that dirt road, full of hope and fear and desperation. She didn’t ask for more, didn’t beg. Just looked at it like it was some kind of salvation.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Alina,” she said, her voice soft, almost lost.

I nodded, feeling something shift inside me. I didn’t know what lay down that road, but for once, it didn’t seem to matter. I threw the rig into gear, turning onto the dirt path.

“Let’s see where this takes us, Alina,” I said, and we drove off into the unknown, the road swallowing us whole.

THE END