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Her hands move toward me again, going lower this time, and I nearly jump out of my skin at the brush of her touch. As she strokes me through my jeans, my ears start ringing. Panic tries to overtake my senses, and I force back the feeling by staring at that rapid flutter of her pulse in her neck.
“You’re fucking limp, dude,” she says, her voice rising to an annoyed pitch. “What? I don’t get you hard?”
She almost sounds offended, and I don’t blame her. Women like her measure their worth by how quickly they can get a man to come, and she can’t even get me hard. But it isn’t her fault. Not really.
She applies more pressure, desperate to prove she can do her job. I rip her hand away. She screams from the pressure I apply as I twist her wrist, but no one can hear anything outside this truck.
“Let go of me, you fucking freak!” she screams.
My fingers move to her neck, covering that beating pulse, and I squeeze until it feels as if it’s inside me. Her hands fly to my wrists, clawing as she tries to free herself, but she’s not strong enough. They never are.
I lift her onto the tips of her toes and squeeze harder. Her shoes scrabble beneath her, and she lands a weak kick against my shin. If she’d tried that when she still had enough oxygen in her brain, it might have stung a little, but she doesn’t have the power to do any harm now.
The drumbeat beneath my fingers grows fainter before turning erratic. Then it finally stops. I continue to hold her in place as her eyes fixate forward, looking directly into mine.
Taking her life makes my lifeless heart beat faster. It warms the cold spaces hidden away in the dark crevices of my fractured soul. It’s much more fulfilling to kill her than it would be to spend ten minutes fucking her, and best of all, it doesn’t cost me a thing—aside from the price of a ticket to hell, but I’ve had a seat on that black train for a while now.
I drop the whore to the floor and lean back against the galley wall with quick, pleasure-filled breaths. Pup hops down from her seat and ventures over to sniff the dead woman’s feet before sitting on her haunches and looking up at me as if she’s glad the intruder is dead. I reach down and pet her.
Pup is a fascinating creature because as much as I like to watch the life leave the eyes of living things, I couldn’t do that to her. When I found her on the side of the road a couple of years ago, broken and bleeding after being hit by a car, I went against every fiber of my being and saved her instead of ending her. I took her to the vet, and the rest is history. She’s a three-legged spitfire with a gnarly little attitude, but she’s mine, and she doesn’t judge me for all the terrible things I do.
“Come on, Pup,” I say as I head toward the front again. “Our night isn’t over yet.”
I can’t exactly keep a dead body in the truck, so we’ll need to find a good spot to dispose of the trash. And even though this one isn’t cold yet, I’m already thinking about the next time. The high only lasts a few days, and then I’ll need another fix. When I’m miles away, I’ll pull into another lot like this one so I can repeat the process.
Hopefully it lasts a little longer next time. I prefer to play with my victims before releasing them into the black void, but this whore pushed a button when she called me a freak.
Freak. Psycho. Weirdo.
I’ve heard it all my life. Anyone who’s around me long enough to form an opinion usually comes to the same conclusion. Something isn’t right with Kane Hargrave. And even though I don’t like when they point it out, they’re not wrong.
I start up the truck and pull out of the lot. No one will notice that she’s gone missing. New girls like her haven’t been around long enough to get dirty yet, but they also haven’t been around long enough to become accepted into the old hands’ inner circle. She might have a pimp to report to, but he’ll just assume she ran off with a trucker. It happens.
A few miles outside of town, I find a wooded area with a dirt service road. It’s perfect. I’m not hauling any freight at the moment, so it’s easy enough to find a lonely stretch of road with a space big enough to pull my rig to the side without jostling the contents. I can’t exactly hide the massive thing, but I’m careful about where I stop.
Pup hops down from the truck as I gather the shovel and the body. After walking into the woods and finding a spot that isn’t cluttered with tree roots—they’re too hard to punch through, even for a guy my size—I set to work.
“One, two, there’s been a few. Three, four, bury the whore,” I sing as I dig. The soft soil spreads around the shovel’s blade before I pull it up and toss the clump of earth to the side. Darkness shrouds me, hiding me beneath its protective cloak.
As I continue digging, I glance at the woman’s lifeless eyes staring into a starry sky. They were such pretty eyes. Too bad they belonged to someone stupid enough to get into my truck.
I take a moment to rest when I’m halfway finished with the digging. Burying these girls is a lot harder than it used to be. I have to go pretty deep to avoid getting caught, but at forty years old, I’m not as young as I used to be. By now I should be married with kids or something so I can pass on all my fucked-up genes. Instead, I’m a prolific serial killer working along the I-90.
Being a long-haul trucker makes it too easy for a guy like me to find and dispose of women, leaving bodies along the interstate like breadcrumbs. No one ever traces it back to me, though. I had a scare once. A pack of coyotes managed to dig up what I’d planted beneath the soil, and they dragged it close enough to the road to catch some attention. That’s why I bury them deeper now.
A headache buzzes behind my eyes as I drive the shovel into the ground again. I take a deep breath, trying to stay in control. Those fuckers aren’t like me. They aren’t damaged and deranged, even though the damage I’ve endured has forced them into being. They’ll try to “help,” but that’s like sending out a medical resident to perform fucking brain surgery. They aren’t cut out for this.
Worst of all, they always try to stop me, and I refuse to be stopped when I’m itching for a kill. Whether I get a chain around her neck or, like tonight, I use my bare hands, I need to feel the girl fight and buck for dear life beneath me. I need to feel her nails clawing at me with the desperation that is so typical of the dying. And like I said, no one ever misses them. They were lost and forgotten girls before I got my hands on them.
But it isn’t right to call them forgotten. I never forget them, and maybe that’s some consolation for their pathetic lives. The kills live in my mind forever. When I lie on my deathbed, my life won’t flash before my eyes, but their deaths will.
I toss her body into the hole and begin shoving the soil over her. I start at the feet, saving the face for last. It’s the eyes. I want to see them for as long as possible. When I finally cover them, it’s over. Finished.
Until next time.
Once I’ve patted down the earth and moved some leaf litter, twigs, and a rotting log on top of the grave, I turn and look at my truck. Such a beauty. I call her The Purple Wet Dream. She’s stacked. Chrome-plated everything, with a chameleon-painted tractor unit. Its color shifts with the light, oscillating between deeper and brighter shades of purple. I never thought someone like me could afford a machine like her, but I pulled some...side jobs...to afford her. She’s literally what wet dreams are made of for guys like us.
I spent a metric fuck ton of money so I would have a ride that looked better than the ramshackle house I used to own. This truck is my true home, where I eat, sleep, and kill. I want to do all those things in a beautiful place, and she’s beautiful. And automatic, which leaves my hands free for other activities. Eating...torturing...You know, the usual.
