Hounds of Hell

Christopher picked up the hitchhiker with hopes that karma existed and that helping this poor bastard with his thumb stuck out on the highway would earn him some good favor with the universe. It was, especially at the time, something he needed. The East-coast weather grayed as October retreated into November, and Christopher celebrated his twentieth birthday by secretly moving out of his dorm room, piling up all his junk in his car and leaving New York with the intention of never seeing any of it ever again. He’d driven a couple hours in absolute silence and had almost made it out of New Jersey when he noticed the guy standing on the side of the road, awkwardly loitering about in the cold and holding his thumb up high, probably in the hopes that someone would stop at any moment.

While initially planning on just driving past without a single thought to the hitchhiker, Christopher was instantly hit with a dreadful feeling of guilt after barely making it a half-mile. ‘Why not go back and pick the son of a bitch up,’ he mused to himself, drumming the steering wheel with his fingers and biting his lower lip in contemplation. ‘He’s probably hungry and tired and cold. Who knows how long he’s been out there.’

Hitchhiking was a dangerous business for both participants. Christopher thought of all those murder dramas his parents loved, of the badly scripted reenactments with terrible acting, the ones with the interviewed forensic experts and the inevitable “this tragedy could have been prevented” line at the end of every episode. Christopher himself wasn’t a fan of the shows, but had watched his fair share and knew, despite the corniness, that it existed to educate that there were legitimate risks. He wasn’t an idiot. At least, he thought as he exited and moved to turn around, he hoped he wasn’t.

He half expected the guy to be gone by the time he made it back, but, nope. There he was, standing in the exact same place with the same hand up in the air. He reminded Christopher of a statute, something somebody didn’t want and left for whoever had enough lack of taste to pick it up and take it home themselves. The closer Christopher got, the better he could see him. The hitchhiker was of average height, skinny and lanky, with ratty black hair, chalky, pale skin, with eyes hidden by a pair of sunglasses. He looked like he could easily be a serial killer, which is probably why no one else had stopped for him yet. Given the man’s appearance, Christopher considered rethinking his decision, but, by the time that bit of rational thinking even bothered to cross his mind, he’d already pulled over to the side.

What the hell, he thought. He was in no place to say no to someone who probably needed the help. And if the guy had any intention of killing him, chopping up his body and burying what was left of it in a ditch, well, Christopher had no real objection to that in his present state of mind.

Had he not been running away from home with cash that he’d stolen from his parents, he might have held his own preservation above charity, but, as it stood, he had nothing to lose. If his parents ever caught up to him, he’d be dead, anyway, so the potential murderer would probably be doing him a favor. He’d get away from his parents and his murderer would get a thrill from stabbing him in the gut. It would be a win-win situation for the both of them, really.

Once he’d stopped, the man made a smooth run to the car window. The sunglasses kept half his expression shrouded, but a smile made its way across his jaw line and he made a little wave towards the person kind enough to stop for him.

The guy looked like he was convinced it was still 1984. Dark jeans grayed by age and torn at the knees, unkempt black hair slicked back by either hair gel or sweat or both, green jacket sleeve dotted here and there with cigarette burns, a chain necklace that held a razor against his adam's apple; he was a walking stereotype.

Without smiling or waving back, Christopher unlocked the doors and the stranger gracefully made his way into the car, dropping the frankly disgusting looking knapsack he’d been keeping on his back down at his clunky, mismatched combat boots.

“Thanks, man,” he said, his voice a bizarre mixture of both rough and smooth. He took off his sunglasses and they made eye contact, Christopher immediately noticing that his eyes were dark brown. His face looked deceivingly young, considering he had the sideburns of a thirty-nine year old man. He didn’t smell like anything, but Christopher figured that it was preferable to the guy smelling like a dumpster. The punk cliche flashed a toothy grin, revealing a bit of a gap right in between the front incisors, and leaned back, making himself at home. “You’re the first person to stop in hours.”

“It’s no problem,” Christopher muttered, almost to himself, as he shifted gears and got back onto the road. “So where are you going?”

“Nowhere in particular. How about you?”

There was a quick hesitation, Christopher wondering if he should even bother lying. In reality, he had no idea where he was going, not really, but this guy didn’t know that. They were complete strangers; he could make himself up entirely and the guy would never be any wiser. And this guy, despite the screams of “I’m an individual and I want attention!” that practically radiated off of him and his weird clothes, struck Christopher as cool. And, for once in his life, Christopher felt like being cool, too. Even if it was to offhandedly impress the weird Sex Pistol’s reject he’d found on the side of the road.

Death Valley, Santa Monica, Austin; racking his brain for options, wondering which would garner him the most respect, Christopher realized how long he’d been silent and stupidly blurted out, “Chicago,” when he realized he needed to say something. His grandparents lived in Chicago, and even though he’d rather be murdered by some random hitchhiker he picked up on a whim than ever go to see them and risk getting caught, it was the first word that made it to his mouth.

The dark-haired man in the passenger seat shrugged, his legs stretching up so his feet could rest on the dashboard. Christopher frowned at this, feeling his temper getting stretched at the complete lack of consideration, but said nothing. “Sounds good. Mind dropping me off there, then?”

“Um, I guess not.” At least now he had some sort of direction to follow. And Chicago was a big city.

They’d been driving in peace and quiet for maybe five minutes where the punk reached into the backseat and pulled out a medium sized gold trophy from atop a pile of Christopher’s possessions.

“What’s this thing for?” he casually inquired, reading the bottom plack and inspecting the little bat-wielding statue on top. “Oh, you’re a baseball man, huh?” Before he could get an answer, however, the keepsake was wrenched from his grasp and tossed back into the mass of unorganized junk behind them.

“That’s not yours,” Christopher almost hissed, intensely bothered by this guy’s total lack of boundaries. In that moment, his stomach dropped, because, shit, maybe this had been a bad idea. A really bad idea. Cool or not, the hitchhiker was proving himself to be more than capable of driving Christopher out of his goddamn mind, and it had only been a few minutes.

The punk frowned, turning in his seat to look directly at Christopher. “What’s got you so pissed, Princess Peach?”

Nicknaming him after the most useless Mario character was far from necessary, even if they did have a similar hair color. Christopher took a long breath, in and out, before responding. “Look, I picked you up,” he said, hoping he’d get through to him on some level. Looking cool be damned, this guy needed a miniature lecture. “The least you can do is stay out of my personal business.”

“Touch-ee.”  The hitchhiker faced forward and put his hands up in some kind of mock defense, but it quickly fell. “Hey, you’re right,” he said, sincerely. At least, Christopher wanted it to be sincere. “You’re a good man for picking me up, so I won’t fight you on this one.”

You shouldn’t be fighting me at all, Christopher thought, I let you into my car and am driving your ass all the way to Chicago, now, apparently, and there was that feeling again, curtling about in his guts and telling him something was off. But he decided to shake it off and try again.

“Sorry,” he sighed. “I’ve had a stressful day, and we got off to a bad start. What’s your name?”

“Adam.” Christopher was tempted to ask for a surname, but decided to drop it. If he wasn’t giving it outright, it’d probably be best not to pry.

“Well then, Adam, what are you doing hitchhiking?”

It was a genuine question, because Christopher couldn’t for the life of him dream about what living without a car of your own was like, especially if you wanted to travel. Again, those crime dramas came to mind, but he didn’t really want to think on those because they made him reflect on what he was actually doing with this absolute stranger in the front seat.

“Whatever I please, my friend,” Adam answered, appearing rather satisfied with himself. “I go wherever I want, whenever I want.”

Christopher wrinkled his nose. “You’re one of those ‘life’s too short’ kind of guys, aren’t you?”

“Nah, I’m just a selfish little shit.”  Christopher laughed at that, agreeing, if just a little bit. “So you got a name, too, then?”

“Christ-” The idea of recreating his image again crossing his thoughts and Christopher cut himself off, changing his mind last minute. “Chris. My name’s Chris.” Not that it was much better. He really needed to work on his foresight.

Adam let out an amused laugh, shifting in his seat. “Oh, I thought you said ‘Christ’ for a second. Thought you were convinced you were the second coming of Jesus or something.”

“That’d be ironic.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m not a Christian.”

“Okay.” Christopher thought it’d be left at that, but then Adam asked, “You, like, a Buddist or something?”

“No. I don’t know. I guess I just don’t believe in anything that has no physical proof.” A fit of laughter suddenly broke out from the passenger seat, and Christopher felt his face flush red in embarrassment. “What? It’s just my opinion, you don’t have to laugh.”

Adam stopped almost instantly, but his grin remained. “It’s just cute, is all.”

“Cute?” Christopher asked, confused and not really sure he was following the conversation anymore. What did ‘cute’ have to do with anything?

“‘Course I ended up with a freaking atheist.” Adam let out one more large HA  before breathed out his nose, so hard there was a slight whistle. “Figures.”

“What the hell does it matter?” It took a second for Christopher to realize he’d said that out loud, but a solution came to him fairly quickly. “Oh,” he reflected, “You’re religious. No, I get it, dude, your beliefs are yours and that’s cool. I’m not judging you.”

The laughter started up again, unwarranted and louder than before.

“Holy shit!” Adam roared, pounding his fist against his leg. “Me! Religious! That’s pure gold, kid.”

“Kid?” Christopher was glowering now. They looked like they were the same age, and he hated being belittled. He waited for Adam to shut up, but that much needed moment never came.

“Oh, Christ, that’s a riot! You’re adorable, Goldilocks.”

Christopher assumed ‘Goldilocks’ was a step below ‘kid’, and as the laughter continued, his teeth grated together and his fingers gripped the wheel hard. His face was burning now with a mixture of a fiery annoyance and utter embarrassment. What was so damn funny?

“What the hell’s your problem?” But Adam kept laughing, the son of a bitch, and Christopher had had it. The highway was pretty clear of cars, given it was barely a couple of hours into the afternoon, and he violently jerked the car over to the right so he could pull over. Now that, Adam noticed. He stopped his stupid laughing when Christopher slammed on the break, and with his lack of a seatbelt, he almost flew forward, saved only when he made a mad dash to grab hold of the sides of his seat.

“Why’d you stop the car?” Adam asked, sounding winded, the pitch in his voice rising just a bit.

“Get out!” Christopher snapped, pointing angrily at the doorhandle.

“What’d I do?” Adam sounding actually bewildered, but that didn’t make the situation any better.

“You’re a psychopath!” Christopher was almost shouting now, something he hadn’t done for years, but with the combined stress of the day and his runaway plans going amuck and this asshole laughing in his face over nothing, he lost it. “Just get out!”

He’d hoped Adam would take the hint and leave, or at least attempt to apologize or something, because Christopher would have probably accepted it, too, but that’s not what he did.

“I need to get to Chicago, kid,” Adam said, also getting mad. His brows furrowed as he stared Christopher down, his hands forming into tight fists.

“Then find someone else!”

“You promised me you would drive me.” He might be angry, but Adam was so strangely collected. The way he was speaking spoke volumes about him, but Christopher didn’t care. He’d chosen to step in to help, and now he was choosing to step out.

“I didn’t promise you anything. And even if I did, now I’ve changed my mind. Get out.”

“No.”

“If you don’t get out right now, I’ll-”

“What, call the cops?” Adam interrupted.The sides of his lips twitched as a smile formed, small and dangerous. “They’ll send you home for sure, Christopher, and then you’ll never make it out.”

Christopher. How’d he know? The blond’s stance visibly shifted, going from aggressive to concerned. “What?”

“You heard me. If you’re trying to run away, the last thing you want to do is give anyone your information. In fact, you should think about ditching this car, too.”

Oh, god, what was happening? How’d this guy know all this? Christopher shifted himself in his seat, moving himself a few inches away from Adam. He might not be scared, per say, but he was definitely getting a bit freaked out.

“How the hell did you know that? Have you been stalking me?”

“No.” Adam shook his head, stoic outside of that tiny grin. Christopher dared himself to look up at Adam’s eyes, and they were impossible to read but something about them screamed ‘dangerous’ and Christopher believed it. Situation what it was, he jumped to the most logical conclusion.

“Oh my god, are you going to kill me?”

Adam’s emotionless stare fell a bit, annoyance creeping into his expression. “We’re on a fairly busy interstate, genius. It’s two in the afternoon. I’m not that stupid.”

“Then how do you know I’m running away?”

“I’m the Antichrist. I know a lot of things.”

Silence, for at least a full minute, and Christopher sat frozen for the whole of it, brain desperately attempting to grab hold of what was being said. Maybe, he figured, he’d just been obvious. Some kid with a car packed full of his crap, nothing in boxes or packed properly, saying he’s going to Chicago with no further explanation and no other family members. Maybe Adam was just a superhuman, a Sherlock Holmes type that can see details in everything.

But here was this new information. The Antichrist. Wasn’t that the Devil’s kid born to destroy the world or whatever? Since it was never covered in Sunday School, Christopher really wasn’t all that sure. Would that mean Adam could see his past? He looked human, but was he able to do stuff like that? Was Christopher even taking this seriously?

He should have laughed, because it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. However, he just turned his head to glance over at, apparently, the spawn of Satan, who was chilling out in his car.

“You,” he stated flatly. “You’re the Antichrist.”

Adam seemed almost proud, like he’d wanted to say it the entire time they were together and was expecting to get the celebrity treatment. He fluffed his jacket, grinning even wider. “Guilty.” Christopher blinked once, twice, completely at a loss of words. And then he started chuckling under his breath.

“What, am I being punked?” he asked between giggles.

This seemed to knock Adam’s ego down a bit. His smile dwindled slightly. “What, don’t believe me?”

“Got any proof of that, Damien?”

“My name’s not Damien!” Adam exclaimed, exasperated. “God, I am so damn sick of hearing that shit.”

Christopher was shaking his head now, wondering what in the world he was even doing. “I picked up a serial killer,” he said aloud to himself. “A deranged serial killer who thinks he’s the Antichrist. I knew it. I knew this was a bad idea, and now I’m gonna die.”

“You’re not gonna die, dipshit,” Adam snorted. “I’m not here to kill you. Just the entire human race.”

“Oh,” Christopher sighed, crossing his arms against the steering wheel and laying his face down in between his elbows. “Of course.”

He stayed like that for a few solid seconds before Adam asked,

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting for the hallucinations brought on by stress to end so I can drive myself to the nearest psyche ward.”

Adam sighed; he’d obviously had enough. Maybe Christopher was the first person he was trying this Antichrist bullshit on, or maybe he’d managed to convince many other gullible people before.

“Fine, I’ll prove it. Might want your eyes open, though.”

Suddenly concerned, Christopher sat up and threw a worried glance over at the dark haired man only two feet away from him, wondering what in god’s name he meant by that. Adam grin widened and, without either of them moving, the engine roared to life in an instant, the steering wheel jerked violently to the left and the car veered into path of an oncoming car.