Chapter 1: Highway to Hell

I flicked the cruise control on, settling in for the long haul—then my foot slammed the brakes, and nothing happened. Not a squeal, not a shudder. Just sixty-five miles an hour and a gutful of panic.

My mouth went dry. I kept blinking, hoping it was just a bad dream, but the speedometer needle never budged. My hands locked around the wheel, knuckles bone-white as the road’s hum grew into a roar in my ears.

No matter how hard I stomped the pedal, the speed stayed stuck. Sixty-five. Unstoppable.

I hammered the brakes again, boots grinding the pedal, but the car barreled forward, as if possessed—some nightmare machine with my family along for the ride.

Up ahead, a semi loomed in the right lane, its trailer smeared with a faded Pepsi logo, taillights glowing like the eyes of a demon. Diesel thundered louder than the static from the radio.

To the left, a white sedan crawled along in the passing lane, barely moving—a roadblock with a license plate.

I gritted my teeth. Some folks treat the left lane like it’s their own personal parade. He was probably scrolling TikTok or lost in Google Maps, not a care in the world.

In the back, my wife was feeding our baby Goldfish crackers. She paused, Goldfish halfway to our daughter’s lips. Her eyes darted to the speedometer, then to my face. The crinkle of the snack bag sounded way too loud. Our daughter giggled, feet kicking her car seat, completely oblivious.

The seatbelt bit into my chest as I twisted to look at her. My heart thundered, but I tried to keep my face calm for her sake.

Catching her gaze in the mirror, I forced out, "Buckle up. Hold on tight. And—hey. I love you."

Confusion and fear flashed across her face for a split second. That’s the kind of thing you only say if you’re about to do something reckless—or if you’re scared it might be goodbye.

My wife’s eyes widened as I slammed the horn, the blare echoing through the car. She clutched our daughter tight, color draining from her cheeks.

The white sedan ahead was still crawling—maybe forty-five, tops. The driver’s head bobbed, totally oblivious. Panic twisted inside me, frustration curdling into fear.

God, I hated left-lane lurkers. Back in Jersey, a stunt like that would get you ticketed in a heartbeat. Out here, nobody even blinked.

I laid on the horn, desperate. Finally, the white sedan sped up, red taillights flickering as it pulled ahead—maybe realizing there was a two-ton missile on its bumper.

But just as relief started to trickle in, the sedan’s brake lights flared.

For a heartbeat, I thought they were letting me by. Then it hit me—they were brake-checking me.

There was nothing in front of him—just my horn and his ego. He wanted to teach me a lesson.

I shouted, stomping both feet on the useless pedal, but the car didn’t slow. My heart hammered up into my throat as the gap shrank in a blink.

But the brakes were dead. I had nothing—no tech, no hope. We were a runaway train, and he just yanked out the rails.

With a sickening bang, I slammed into him. The impact rattled my teeth, my forehead snapping forward. Something thudded in the trunk. Our baby shrieked. I tasted blood from biting my cheek.

The whole car shuddered. My wife clung to the grab handle, I gripped the wheel like my life depended on it. Swerving even a hair would have thrown us under the semi.

The wheel shook so hard my arms ached. My wife’s knuckles went white on the ceiling handle, her face pressed to the window, jaw locked in terror.

Luckily, the white sedan just wanted to scare me. As soon as I hit him, he floored it, his car lurching like a deer in headlights. His head jerked in the rearview—maybe realizing things just got real.

He fishtailed for a heartbeat, then straightened out and shot ahead. I barely breathed.

We passed the truck. The sedan’s window dropped, and a man leaned out, waving and cursing. He flipped me off, veins bulging, lips curled in a snarl. Probably the kind of guy who posts dashcam videos and calls himself a patriot.

He flicked his blinker, weaving into the right lane, daring me to follow. My hands trembled on the wheel.

My wife rolled down her window, shouting anxiously that our brakes were out. Her voice was high, desperate, lost in the wind. Her hair whipped her face as she leaned out, but nobody could hear us.

It was like screaming through glass—no one could help.

Seeing me drive on, the sedan gave chase, engine roaring. He stalked us, a shark behind wounded prey. In my side mirror, his face was wild, eyes fever-bright.

He was furious—like we’d ruined his day, not the other way around. He jabbed a finger at me, then his phone, probably filming. His outrage twisted his face.

He cut in front again, brake lights flashing. He wanted another round, right here on the highway.

Who does this? It was like a demolition derby, and my family was the target.

Guys like him are why you see those highway crosses by the shoulder.

I thought about the news stories: “Family of three killed by road-rager.” I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt.

As soon as he blocked me, I rammed him. No time to think—just metal on metal, crunching steel in my ears. My hands burned on the wheel.

Another bang. His front end crumpled, my car shot forward. I gritted my teeth and jabbed at the lane assist button on our old Honda Accord, praying the tech would actually work. The car beeped and swerved, my shoulder burning where the seatbelt dug in.

When you’re going this fast, you can’t panic. One slip, and we’d be gone.

I forced my breathing to slow. In, out, in, out.

My wife sobbed in the back, hugging our daughter: “How did we run into someone like this?” Mascara streaked her cheeks. I had no answer.

I wanted to tear that driver apart. My vision tunneled, fists shaking so bad I nearly snapped the wheel in two.

My wife and daughter—my world—were in the car. I couldn’t let this maniac win.

We were barely holding on, but he’d never admit fault. He’d just say we rear-ended him and tried to run. Some people can’t see past their own windshield.

He’d go home and brag about taking down a reckless idiot.

Sure enough, he caught up. His car was beat up, hood crumpled, a headlight swinging like a loose tooth. But he was relentless.

Smoke puffed from his hood, but he was hell-bent on payback.

My speed was still stuck at sixty-five. He floored it, racing ahead again. Billboards for car insurance and fireworks blurred past. The green exit signs glowed in the afternoon haze.

My heart sank—a bad feeling crawled up my spine.

Sweat ran cold down my neck. I braced for his next move.

His window rolled down. He leaned out, grinning like a maniac. I tensed.

He tossed a bucket of ramen noodles right at us. Hot broth splattered the windshield, the smell of chicken and old garlic flooding the car. Noodles slapped the glass, greasy streaks smearing everything.

I cursed and hit the wipers. The blades squealed, making it worse. The car filled with the stench of cheap takeout.

I could barely see the road. I scraped at the mess with my sleeve, arm coming back wet and reeking of broth.

My wife was trembling, but she snatched up her phone and jabbed at the screen, cursing when Siri tried to call her mom instead. Finally, she got through to 911.

“My husband and I are on the interstate, and our brakes are broken,” she gasped. “There’s a car brake-checking us and throwing noodles at us.”

The dispatcher probably thought it was a prank, but the terror in her voice was real.

“Please, officer... please save our family.”

She wiped her tears, hooked up Bluetooth, and sobbed, “Honey, the dispatcher wants to know our location, but I don’t know where we are.”

After connecting, I rasped, “We just passed the Maple Heights exit, heading south.” My voice was raw, shaking.

The dispatcher asked, “What’s your car’s color and license plate?”

I replied, “Matte gray, license plate 4LQX72.”

“We’ll block the highway entrances ahead and dispatch state troopers to escort you. Can you see the license plate of the car causing trouble?”

“I didn’t memorize it. He’s driving right next to me.”

“Understood. We’ll check traffic cameras. You keep driving.”

I pictured a wall of monitors, officers watching our nightmare in real time.

I swallowed hard, then asked, “How far is the nearest emergency pull-off?”

A few seconds of silence, then: “Fifty miles. We’ll do everything we can.”

The world tilted. Fifty miles. My mind reeled, mapping the endless road between us and safety.

Despair washed over me. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the urge to scream.

The sedan was still there, driver mouthing obscenities, jabbing his finger at me, possessed by hate.

Finally, an emergency shoulder appeared ahead. Hope flared.

But the sedan blocked the right side, matching my every move. My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth would crack.

My wife wiped her tears, then unfastened her seatbelt: “Honey, did you turn on lane assist?”

“Yes,” I croaked, barely able to look at her.

“Hurry and get out, let me switch with you.” Her voice was all panic and love, steel underneath.

Her lips trembled, but she was brave. “The back seat is more likely to survive. Let me drive.”

I said nothing, just gripped the wheel tighter.

She kept begging: “If you’re gone, what will our daughter and I do? I can’t earn enough to raise her. You’re better off surviving than me.”

I looked at my daughter—her big eyes wide, sparkling with innocence, still babbling and kicking, clueless.

She waved a Goldfish cracker at me, sticky fist glowing in the sunlight—a blessing from a world that made sense.

I forced a smile: “Baby, say ‘Daddy.’” My voice cracked. She’d never called me Daddy before. If this was the end, I needed that one word.

She giggled, waving her cracker, babbling, “ah-poo, ah-poo.” Her laughter was a miracle and a curse.

Seeing I wouldn’t switch, my wife tried to pull at my clothes, desperate.

My nose stung. I whispered, “Don’t use the baby as an excuse. Listen to me...”

Tears blurred my vision. I wiped my face, voice choked: “I’ve never believed in ghosts, but if I could meet you again, I’d want another life together.”

She stared at me, dazed, as dread surged through my chest.

The sedan was overtaking again, sliding into my blind spot. Every instinct screamed danger.

His window dropped, and something flew out.

Before I could duck, my windshield exploded. Shards rained down. My wife screamed—a sound I’ll never forget.

A screwdriver had shot through the windshield, impaling her shoulder. Blood soaked her shirt. She kept blinking, like if she just focused hard enough, she could will the pain away.

In that instant, my mind went blank. Only rage and terror were left. Kill him.

My daughter, who had been laughing, now shrieked in pain. Blood streamed down her tiny face, glass sparkling in her skin.

My wife, pale and shaking, forced herself to yank out the screwdriver. She lunged to our daughter’s side, whispering, “Baby... don’t be scared...”

She rocked her, sobbing, “The baby’s face is cut... there’s glass in her skin, I don’t dare move it...”

I sobbed, wishing I could trade places. Twenty minutes ago, my wife was teasing me about my gas station coffee, and our daughter was singing along to Baby Shark.

Now, blood everywhere. I promised myself: if I survived, I’d make that driver pay.

The right windshield was shattered. Glass and wind howled through the cabin, stinging our faces.

Every mile was agony. I remembered news stories about highway projectiles—families killed in a heartbeat. Today, we were one bad headline away.

If the screwdriver had been an inch off, my wife might be dead. I almost vomited from fear.

If I was alone, I’d ram him off the road. But my family needed me. I forced myself to stay calm.

The sedan’s driver flipped me off again. I wanted to run him off the road.

Then a desperate idea hit me: let him stay in front. If I couldn’t brake, I’d use him as my shield. He’d clear the way, and if he slowed, I’d rear-end him to stop myself.

If he tried to exit, I’d follow—if I hit him, at least my family might survive.

It was twisted, but it was all I had.

I merged behind him, glued to his bumper. He swerved left, I followed. Right, I followed. His confusion grew—he was losing control.

My wife, clutching her wound, said weakly, “Honey, stay close.”

He tried to lose me, but I stayed on him. When he swerved at the last second, I followed, narrowly missing a cardboard box in the road—he wanted me to crash, but I refused.

We slowed as I rear-ended him again. My speed dropped—sixty-five, fifty-five, forty-five. Hope flickered.

If we kept slowing, I could crash into the guardrail at a survivable speed.

But then he sped up and swerved away, leaving me stranded, speed creeping up again. I shouted, “Hold on!”

The car slammed into the guardrail. Screeching metal, spinning world. I angled the car, trying to shield my family. Pain exploded in my side. The hood crumpled, sparks flying.

We hit a tree at nearly thirty. The airbag exploded, suffocating me in powder and pain. My ribs screamed. I struggled to turn, desperate to see my wife and daughter.

My wife was unconscious. My daughter wailed, blood streaking her face.

I fought the seatbelt, but my leg was pinned. The white sedan was stopped ahead. The driver got out, phone in hand, swaggering over like a tourist at a car crash.

He pointed the camera at me, sneering: “Look, this idiot was driving reckless, rear-ended me, tried to run. Now I’ve got him.”

He yanked open my window, grabbed my hair, and slapped me across the face: “Didn’t you love honking? Didn’t you love hit-and-run? Now you’ve met me. I never go easy on jerks like you.”

He smashed his phone into my mouth, over and over. Blood and plastic filled my mouth, pain exploding in my skull.

He finally noticed my wife and child. “So the whole family’s here? When you were driving like a maniac, did your family tell you not to mess around? Now you’re all together.”

He stretched, lit a cigarette, and sat on a rock, not even pretending to help. “Fine, just wait to pay damages.”

I spat blood. “My brakes failed. I wasn’t honking to rush you—I was afraid of hitting you, but you wouldn’t move and even brake-checked me...”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right, right, right... brakes failed right when you rear-ended me.”

He wasn’t listening. He never would.

I twisted, checking if my wife and child were breathing. The car was starting to smoke. The smell of burning oil filled the cabin.

I yanked at my leg, jeans ripping against the shattered console, the coppery smell of blood mixing with burnt plastic. I couldn’t move—the car seat behind me blocked the seat back.

The driver laughed: “Look at you now. Why were you so cocky before?”

I screamed, “Can’t you call an ambulance? My wife and child are in the car!”

He shrugged, “Not my circus, not my monkeys. You crash, you burn. That’s on you.”

He pulled out his phone again, filming: “Look, this guy’s car is burning. Soon the whole family will burn to death. That’s karma for reckless driving.”

My head spun. If this kept up, my family would die here.

Suddenly, my wife stirred. She coughed, blinking, blood trickling down her arm. “Honey...”

“Babe, the car’s about to catch fire. Take our daughter and get out first!”

She struggled up, using her left hand to unbuckle our daughter. Blood dripped onto the seat. She finally got the buckle, then cried, “Why aren’t you coming out?”

“I’m stuck. You take our daughter out first.”

She didn’t hesitate. She picked up our daughter and got out. Flames licked the hood.

She set our daughter on the grass and shouted, “Honey, you come out too!”

I struggled, but my hands slipped. My wife yelled at the driver, “Why are you just standing there? This is all your fault. Why won’t you help?”

He swaggered over, lit his cigarette from my burning car, and laughed, “In your next life, drive properly.”

My wife grabbed his arm, sobbing, “Why won’t you help? How many times do you want to hurt our family?”

He slapped her hard. She crumpled to the ground. “You and your whole family are road trash. You shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel.”

She covered her face, sobbing, “Our brakes were broken! But you deliberately braked in front of us!”

He spat, “Your brakes weren’t broken, your conscience was.”

Watching my wife get hit, my hatred peaked. I screamed inside, muscles straining against the wreckage.

I yelled, “Don’t worry about me, take care of our daughter!”

With my daughter out, I forced the seat back, freeing my legs. The white car driver kicked my wife in the face: “If you hadn’t kept honking, none of this would have happened! I hate people who honk nonstop!”

At that moment, my legs came free. I crawled out, hands hitting cool grass. I sucked in smoky air, coughing.

The driver laughed, “I’m dying of laughter, you jerk. Dare to drive like a maniac again?”

I staggered toward him, fists clenched, blood dripping down my calf.

He sneered, “The cops will be here soon. You’re involved in a hit-and-run. You’re finished! I’ll tell the police everything you did!”

Red and blue lights flashed in the distance. I had no idea if they were coming to save us—or finish the job.

I’d always thought monsters drove beat-up vans, not sedans with baby-on-board stickers.