Winnemucca to the Sea

Adventuring across Nevada is a quiet and lonely thing. The Silver State doesn’t speak much. It stretches itself out, empty and still, like the soul of a man who’s gone too long without saying what’s on his mind.

That evening, I was driving State Route 140, heading out of Winnemucca. Denio had come and gone, the last whisper of civilization behind me, and the light was fading fast. It was the kind of cold that crept up slowly but hard, settling deep into your bones before you realized it.

I spotted him up ahead, just a figure in the twilight.

A guy about my age, standing on the roadside with his thumb out. I don’t ordinarily pick up hitchhikers. But it was Nevada in October, and the nights turned bitter when the sun dropped. I pulled over, letting him in.

He introduced himself—Greg, I think he said—and we shook hands. His grip was soft, like a man who hadn’t worked much with his hands.

We got back on the road, the Bug humming along the blacktop. At first, he didn’t say much, which was fine by me. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

But after a while, Greg started talking. A little at first, just some nonsense about where he’d been, where he was going. The usual small talk you expect from a stranger. But as the miles wore on, his words took a darker turn.

He spoke about killers and men who hunted other men. His voice changed, low and steady, with something in his tone that set me on edge. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, my hand drifting toward the pistol I had tucked in the side door pocket.

Never travel unprepared, I thought, even when you are supposed to be alone.

I let him ramble a bit, watching the road, watching him. Then I cut in, slow and casual, “Funny thing… What do you think the odds are of two serial killers ending up in the same car?” I kept my eyes forward as I said it, my voice even, just another man making conversation.

The air in the car shifted. His face changed—dark, like a storm rolling over the desert.

“Pull over,” he said, pulling a long knife from his coat. “I’m robbing you.”

I didn’t argue. I slowed the car and pulled off to the side of the road. He barked orders and told me to get out. I did. But I left the door open as I backed away, my boots crunching on the gravel.

He stepped out of the passenger side, his knife gleaming in the dying light. And then, without warning, he was gone. One wrong step, and he tumbled over the embankment. I heard a long, drawn-out “Ahhh, shiiittt!” as he fell into the darkness below.

I stood there for a moment, staring into the valley. The cold had settled in by then. The night was thick with silence. I slipped back into the Bug, threw it into gear, and rolled away.

It pays to know the road you are traveling, especially when you have two serial killers in one car.