wayside-parliament

An audio version of this story is available on the Voice of Dog podcast as part of their Ghost of Dog Halloween series.

He should've stayed overnight. He really should have.

Leaving Locust Creek right before dusk hadn't seemed like a bad idea at the time; home wasn't far away, and Dusty didn't mean to presume on his sister's hospitality any longer than he was wanted. But the weather had closed in as soon as he hit the highway, a dense fog that, somehow, no one at the telemancy office had seen coming, that slowed the car to a crawl and softened the street lights into soft yellow smears before and behind.

There was something almost soothing about inching along in this cocoon of fog. He forced himself to focus on his mirrors, lest some other vehicle barrel out of a blind spot and into his back bumper.

And was startled out of his tunnel vision by a much smaller impact. Someone was knocking on his window.

He stopped, flipped the switch for his blinkers, and waited. A few shallow breaths later, another knock. He hadn't imagined it. He reached out and cautiously rolled down the window.

A shaggy lionfolk face appeared in the gap. “Evening, stranger,” it said, voice muffled by the weight of the fog. “Y’happen to be going west?”

“More or less,” Dusty replied. “I can take you as far as Last Wolf Hill.” He didn't even stop to think about it. No one deserved to be out in this weather.

“That'll do for me.”

Dusty pushed the shotgun door open, and the hitchhiker slid into the seat. They were older, unkempt, wearing many-times-patched work clothes and carrying a rucksack that had seen better days. “Thank y'much, stranger,” they said as they settled in.

“Call me Dusty.” The hitchhiker didn't reply, and Dusty clicked the blinkers off and set off again, barely faster than his passenger could have walked.

“So, where y’headed?” Dusty asked after an uncomfortably long silence.

“Salt Grove.” The name sounded familiar. “Got some family there. Kid sister sent me a couple odd telemancies, and I'm a little worried about her.”

“I hope everything's all right. I'm just on my way home from visiting my own sister.”

“Family.” The hitchhiker chuckled. “Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em.”

The car crept on. Dusty tried making small talk a couple more times, but his passenger didn't seem keen on conversation.

An eternity later, they finally spoke. “Thanks again for stoppin’ for me. I was startin’ to think nobody would. Last couple wagons didn’t even slow down.”

Dusty didn’t really know what to say to that. “Well, I’m glad to help,” was the best he could come up with.

“Kindness is in short supply these days, ain’t it.”

At last the fog began to lift. The exit sign for Last Wolf Hill hove into view, lit up white like the steady hand of Saint Nanette beckoning him home. As he pulled up to the red light at the top of the off-ramp, a memory prickled at the back of Dusty's mind. Something from a long-ago history class. “Hang on, didn't Salt Grove get blown up or something?”

Silence from the shotgun seat.

He glanced over. The seat was empty.

Other doubts sprang to mind in his passenger’s absence. Half-heard general store gossip. Old folks' tales, or so he'd always thought, about things in the fog.

He glanced up at the receding wall of mist in his rear-view mirror. A glint of chrome caught his eye, a streetlight or two back, from the wreck of a car—no, two cars, by the look of it—that had run off the road.

Kindness is in short supply these days, ain’t it. The thought chilled him to the core.

The red light turned white, and he raced for home.