What's Happening On Hell Bent Road?

Below the Crust pt. 1

Somewhere below the crust of your planet, specifically beneath my road, rests a series of caverns. These caves have long been undisturbed, an inanimate addition to everyday life. However, what lives inside is anything but still. Scouring the darkness for a lost rabbit, a lame groundhog, or anything else foolish enough to fall into its trap, is a group of creatures unclassified by common man. Existing primarily in myths, these things have been content to leave the population of man alone. That is, until last night.

Over the years, after many a car has come down this path, the asphalt began crumbling. It's difficult to say who exactly is to blame, but three poor saps became the scapegoats of a tragic night.

Driving along in a dark blue, beat up pickup, these fellas seemed out to enjoy the scenery. The sun shone on their rusty ride, one of them riding in the back, bouncing with every bump. His whoops of joy competing with the sound of a treble lead rendition of "Born On The Bayou" belching out of busted speakers. The good ol' boy in back tossed his empty bottles onto the road, leaving a trail of broken glass, giving credence to my already ruined opinion of the backwoods trio. Not that there's anything wrong with being country kin. I'm a proud opponent of most of what they call city slickers myself, but that's mostly due to my aversion to oily creatures in general.

My species warns of visiting cities whenever vacationing on highly inhabited planets. There are even PSA's delivered to our daily info boxes about how dangerous the planet Earth can be. That's half the reason I chose this place. I wanted some excitement. The last place I visited was a real nightmare. So much normality it nearly killed me. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime.

So, the boys are riding along, swerving a little more with each sip the kid driving takes. They're cruising along at easily 50 mph, though this road's only recommended at 35 tops. Still, I remember being young and dumb. Brave enough to take on the world, yet still making stupid mistakes whenever I could fit one in. That's probably just a universal effect of being new to existence.

They didn't see it walk out until it was too late. They only felt the thud. The driver slammed his breaks, the tires screeched the truck to a halt.

I could see him looking behind, searching for whatever it was he had flattened. His buddy beside him was still focused out front, frozen in fear of what he was seeing in the headlights.

Waylon started wailing about a good ol' boy, and his noble intentions, but no one was listening anymore.

"What the hell whassat?" The driver was yelling.

"What whassat? I don't fuckin know. What the fuck just happened to Charlie?"

"Charlie? He's in the back? Whatchu think?" The driver pointed to the back and looked surprised to find that his friend was missing. He looked back over at his passenger. "What happened to Charlie?"

"He's out there." The passenger pointed over the hood of the truck.

They exited together, their doors slamming a second away from simultaneously. Their legs gave resistance as they stumbled to the front.

Their friend lay still in the middle of the road. A serious crack had formed where he landed. The driver held back and rested against the hood. The passenger, clearly the better friend, hurried to the injured guy on the ground. He punched his shoulder a few times, then proceeded to shake him profusely while screaming. This didn't seem to do much, and the frantic kid began to hop up and down, throwing a drunken tantrum.

Maybe the road gave way, maybe it was something else, but one second there were three, and the next there was one. The unconscious, and the conscientious kids disappeared into a crevice right in front of the driver. He pushed off from the truck, too eager to see, while not sober enough to properly snoop, and nearly fell in himself. The lucky son of someone spun his arms until he regained his composure and fell back on his rear.

The truck sputtered, threatening to stall, and the barely standing sap scrambled away from the sound. With his attention still on the rumbling vehicle, he failed to notice the hand reaching out of the hole behind him. His compassionate friend, still clinging to life, struggling to cling to the broken asphalt before him, scraped his fingernails across the surface, then slipped back into the crevice.

His friend didn't notice. Not until the quiet countryside, blended with the sound of an idling truck, and another forgotten country icon, was splintered with an agonized scream. This turned the kid's head and he froze, still trying to bring himself back to his feet.

His friend continued to call, though his gasps grew quickly quiet. The truck sputtered again, the motor ceased, leaving the battery to run on alone. Willie Nelson filled the awkward void.

As the world settled around the sobering reality of his situation the young man crawled back to the hole and peered inside. A few seconds passed, then the boy went in after his friends.

At first, the boy couldn't make sense of the soft landing he had been granted. He pulled his lighter from his pocket, lifted a cigarette to his lips, and flicked the scene into lumination.

The cigarette fell from his lips, landing in a pool of blood. His friend was underneath him, tenderized by the bottom of his boots. He leaped sideways, killing the light, and accidentally slammed down on his friend's severed hand. After several shuddering breaths, he managed to regain his composure, and lit the darkness again.

The scene was decimation. His poor flung friend had been ripped apart. One hand missing, the other arm completely removed. A gaping hole torn open where his mouth had been. Blood and organs slipped through the shredded remains of his shirt.

Pools of red were forming at his feet, and having enough of that nonsense, he leaped over the body of his buddy and started shouting.

"Clint! Clint! Come on out here, man! We need to get the hell on outta here!" He paused as his lighter flickered, the dim reflection of the flame dancing on the dark, jagged walls surrounding him.

No one answered, but a sound still rang out.

A shrill cry, like an animal in distress, echoed through the cave. The frightened kid covered his ears. The lighter held strong until he noticed the smell of burnt hair seeping into his nose. The light fell from his hand as he tried to stop the singe.

He heard the splash as it hit the ground.

His only remaining light came from the runoff of the truck, and that didn't go far. The darkness covered all only a few feet from where he stood. He felt around for the lighter, determined to make it work, and found it drenched in a liquid he hoped was water. After fidgeting with it for more than a few minutes he tossed it away, regretting not waiting as soon as he had.