Panic

Bill was pulled over at the side of a country road in the dead of night. He'd just come from a wild party and sought to sleep off his intoxication after a couple miles of questionable driving. Crickets chirped in the adjacent woods, the only sound besides the radio. A gentle breeze entered through the half-open window. The moon was out, full and beautifully bright. Samantha would love it, he thought.

Samantha? Bill silently pronounced the name and wondered if the woman behind it, his wife, might be home early. He checked his watch. Just a few more hours till sunrise. He should move quickly. If she'd gotten home early, he placed her at either tomorrow or much sooner. She couldn't know; long ago he'd appointed her as a meal ticket.

He started up the car and accelerated quietly and steadily. His eyes darted back and forth between the road and his rear view mirror. He switched on the radio. After a few classic rock songs were played, an announcement cut in.

"This is a warning from Iron Mountain Asylum for the Criminally Insane. A patient has escaped. Repeat, a patient has escaped. His name is Charles Ross. Height 6'2'', eyes blue, hair brown, 32 years old. He may still be in uniform. Repeat, patient Charles Ross has escaped from Iron Mountain Asylum. The man is dangerous and may have a knife. Please contact your local authorities if he is spotted in your area."

Bill felt a chill creep down his spine. His neighborhood was less than five miles away from the asylum. Thinking of his wife and kids, he floored it. He flipped on his brights, casting twin beacons into the surrounding veil of night. Out here, the traffic was nonexistent. His loneliness became a factor in his terror, as did his still inebriated condition. Luckily, he thought, he'd been down these roads before and knew where they turned. His hands quaked on the wheel, the air now feeling quite frigid.

He noticed it too late--a tall, shadowy figure standing on the road, facing him as though trying to stare him down. Bill slammed on the brakes, the car screeching and careening into the figure, clipping him with a few thuds. When the car came to a stop, Bill froze, his movement stymied by his racing thoughts. Why hadn't the person moved? Where should he put the body? What would be the police's reaction, the stricken man's family's reaction?

Eventually, Bill steeled himself enough to step out of his car (parked but running) and check on the body. He made a horrific discovery: At his feet lay a man in otherwise white clothes, now bloodied, who matched exactly the description he'd heard on the radio. This was Charles Ross, his blue eyes petrified open below a deep gash in his brow. Bill's stomach churned, and he turned to vomit. He stood there for several minutes, staring at the corpse and realizing more and more profoundly that he was in deep trouble. His fear had a somewhat sobering effect on his mental state, but he was still drunk and still culpable.

Bill heaved the heavy corpse by the arms, dragging him off the road and into the woods. It took him every amount of strength to do so, but he accomplished his task, laying the corpse down and tentatively covering him with leaves.

Ultimately deciding he didn't want anything to do with a DUI and negligence, he stalked back to his car and got in. He took a deep sigh, then decided to drive off.

No sooner were Bill's hands on the wheel before he felt something cold against his neck. Whatever it was tightened around his throat, making him grunt and croak as he struggled against it. He clawed at it, but it was relentless in its force. All Bill could think was that the corpse of Charles Ross had sneaked in behind him, and was now taking his revenge.

In the last few moments of his life, he heard a man on the radio.

"We interrupt this program to bring you another report concerning Iron Mountain Asylum. It appears that Charles Ross was not alone. He has a fellow patient traveling with him, Darryl Barnes...he is 5'8''...brown eyes...wielding a garrote..."