PROLOGUE
PROLOGUE
Samuel Jerome moved through the metal forest at night, one leg dragging slower than the other. His flashlight swished as he grunted and, wincing, rubbed at his bad leg. “Damn cold,” he muttered to himself, his breath fogging the chilly air.
He limped along the dusty, dirt strewn pathway meandering through the scrapyard. Occasionally he'd hear a soft clink of metal as he kicked a washer or a discarded screw. Every time this happened, he grumbled beneath his breath. The younger workers didn't take the job seriously enough.
His flashlight beam illuminated old, rusted vehicles lined along the side of the path. Some of them had weeds coming out the windows where the overgrowth had been left unattended for too long. There were refrigerators and old microwaves, with the parts stripped. A few shipping containers contained all manner of old bed springs and box screws. The place had a bit of a personality. The scrapyard always felt peaceful at night. No sounds here. The closest highway was too far to hear anything. But above, against the clouds, he occasionally caught the flash of headlights as the vehicles zipped by in the distance.
His own beam of light moved along the row of cars.
He went still.
He frowned, aiming the flashlight.
No weeds around the base of this automobile. A new arrival?
He didn't recognize it. Generally he was around when they received vehicles, as he liked putting old cars back together in his spare time, and would occasionally barter the boss for parts.
This Buick, though, was facing the wrong direction. It still had its tires. No overgrowth. And it wasn't facing the road like the others.
He scowled, slowly, hesitantly moving towards the car. He wasn't sure what made him pause. But a sixth sense caused him to go still on the old, grease-stained junkyard road.
He flashed his light towards the front seat.
It had been difficult to see from the path, but now that he'd gotten closer, he thought he spotted a figure sitting on the driver's side.
His heart pounded. His temper followed. "You can't be in here!" he called, his voice shaking.
No response. He circled, taking a couple of steps to the side, still aiming his light. "Hey, you in there!"
There was definitely a driver. The figure didn't look back. Didn't move, didn't blink.
By now, Samuel was growing uncomfortable. This wasn't the sort of thing they paid him for. He'd chased off more than his fair share of kids in the past but usually a good shout or the sound of a few of the dogs was enough to get them running.
But this fellow sat motionless. Indifferent.
Fear and frustration competed for dominance. With a shaking hand, still limping slowly forward, he pulled his phone from his pocket. No sense in playing the hero, much better to call for backup.
"I'm calling the police!" he shouted.
The man in the car didn't move. And only then did it strike Samuel that perhaps the trespasser needed help.
"Are you all right?"
Even as he said it, he spotted the blood trickling down the side of the man's head. Also streaked along his tensed knuckles gripping the steering wheel.
Now, Samuel Jerome's heart leapt. He took a couple more hurried steps towards the car, his feet scraping against the ground.
His light shone through the window now that he'd completely circled to the side. As he stared into the car, his eyes widened in horror.
A young man was sitting in the driver's seat. His eyes were closed. Blood stained the side of his face and his hands around the steering wheel.
"Hey, you in there. Are you okay?"
Samuel cursed, pounding on the glass. The young man didn't respond. The old junkyard employee's hand darted towards the handle. He tried to pull it. It wouldn't budge.
He hissed, glancing at the metal door, and then realized that someone had welded the door to the frame of the car. The metal was bubbled and warped and meshed together.
His heart was pounding wildly. The pain in his leg intensified. He cursed, flipping his flashlight, aiming, turning away so no glass would get in his eyes, and slamming the metal base into the back window.
Glass shattered. He let out a breath, tenderly guiding his arm through the window towards the lock of the front door.
"I'm calling for help!" he said. "Young man, can you hear me?"
A second later, he realized how stupid it was to try the door from the inside. It was welded. It wasn't moving, even unlocked.
Samuel tentatively reached towards the front seat, chills along his arms, down his spine. His fingers touched the young man's shoulder.
Cold as ice. Trembling, he reached up, looking for a pulse. None to be found.
The man was dead. And yet his hands gripped the steering wheel.
Now, with a sudden, daunting sense of fear, Samuel spotted the wire wrapped around the man's wrists, holding them against the wheel.
"What in the world..." he murmured.
And then he spotted the spike. Straight through the back of the headrest. It looked like it probably went far enough to pierce the head, holding it upright.
The man was dead. Someone had posed him as if he were driving the car.
Samuel Jerome screamed, stumbling away from the car and hitting the dirt road. He shuffled back, wincing and grabbing at his leg.
Under the watch of night, alone in the junkyard, crawling on the dirt away from a dead man, he fished out his phone. Dropped it.
Picked it up again. Damn it. The screen was cracked.
He lifted the device, and, desperately, dialed 911.
