THE CONVENTION
I’m beginning to think...
I am beginning to think that this man is a serial killer.
There is no way to be sure, but he has been driving for more than three hours now and has not uttered a word once, except for a clumsy ‘hello, good evening’ when I got into the back seat. He has not looked up from the road a single time, not even to check on me in the back. And more than this, he really looks like a serial killer: He has deep-set eyes which remind me of the craters on the moon, dark and far away. His eyelids are so short they hardly exist at all. And his jaw protrudes further out from his face than is right for any human being, which contrasts with his eyes in a way that makes me shiver a little. The man is tall, at least 6-foot-6. He wears a thick sweater, even though it is warm inside the car.
The worst part? There is nothing I can do about this man right now. We are driving through the Cascade mountains, which are large and, at night, pitch-black. I check my phone. No service. I probably won’t get service until we arrive at my destination, and then there won’t be any more need to text someone about my safety.
So I simply wait there, in the suffocating darkness of the backseat of his tiny sedan.
As we pass the last gas station for the next 124 miles, I decide to test the waters.
“How long have you been driving? Are these sorts of long trips a common thing in your line of work?”
The driver makes no noticeable response—his eyes remain laser-focused on the road, his long and calloused hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel. After a few more minutes, he makes a move; he throws his right fist towards the passenger seat a couple of times, straightening his arm, in an effort to pop some joint in his elbow. It pops with a sound like sharp teeth crunching into raw crab-shells. On some days, this wouldn’t be an off-putting sound to me. But today, I flinch a little.
The driver makes me feel sick.
Perhaps I should have done more research before booking him. Truth is, he is a recommendation from an old friend back in the city. But I shouldn't have listened to that friend, anyway—he’s long dead now. And, though the driver has not done anything technically wrong, he makes me nervous all the same.
We drive out of the mountains and into the high-plateau desert and the driver finally takes his eyes off the road. I strain to see what he’s fixated on, and then I do. On the side of the road, in the broad view of the car’s headlights, there is a deer painted crimson with blood. It is dead. A vulture is pecking at its neck and at its eyes. The vulture, too, is splattered red.
Desert life.
We continue down the highway. It is still pitch black.
I wonder if the driver was so focused on the roadkill because it reminds him of the kills he makes, preying on innocent animals the way I imagine does. I wonder if the sight of blood excites him, if it stirs something inside him, pulls the trigger for him to kill again.
Of course, there is still a chance that my driver is not a serial killer. But I am becoming more and more certain that he is, with each mile that we drive. It would at least explain the calluses on his hands.
It is 4:36 A.M. We are still driving through the desert. And I am beginning to get hungry. Because of my difficult schedule over the past couple of days, and because of some unhappy things that occurred back in the city, I have not eaten in days. My stomach rumbles. It’s so loud I swear the driver must hear it. But he does not react at all. His hands are still placed firmly at 10 and 2, and his eyes have not left the road since we drove by that dead deer a couple of hours ago.
Finally, the driver moves his hand. I get a good view of his fingers, long and thick—he would be a good piano player if not for the bumpy calluses. Both of his hands leave the steering wheel; they skitter towards the bag in the passenger seat. I worry about what might be in that bag. His hands make rattling sounds as they hunt for something.
The car is starting to drift—a few more seconds and we’ll be off the road. The driver notices this and stabilizes the wheel with his left hand, still rattling through the bag with his right. At last, he pulls out a small, metal object.
Right. A smartphone. I let out an audible sigh of relief. Safe for now.
It is 5:17 A.M. and the desert plateau is giving way to a deep canyon. In the canyon, illuminated by the late moonlight, there seems to be a large river. We are getting very close. I believe this canyon is the place where my conference is going to be held. The others will be there already.
I am looking forward to the conference. It has been a stressful couple of days.
Now I see the driver using his smartphone. It occurs to me, briefly, that the driver may very well be deaf. He is also struggling with his vision, given that the text on his phone is very big. He is reading a message from someone; and because of the large text, I can read it from the back seat:
Can’t wait to see you tomorrow evening. It’s been way too long.
– K
Who is K? A daughter, a son, a friend? K could mean anything. A victim, maybe? It surprises me that this man has people who are looking forward to seeing him, no matter the context.
Which makes me feel a little worse for what is about to happen.
The driver slowly pulls into the parking lot at the hotel in the canyon. I can see the rosy-pink sky out my window to the east. The driver pulls into a parking spot. The hotel, from what I can see, is all dark. I am sure this is the right place.
Well, I’ve arrived, and the driver has not tried to pull anything. Well done. Serial killer or not, none of it matters now. I lean forward, toward the drivers’ seat. For the first time, he turns around to look at me. As he sees me, a look flashes across his sullen face—and he is scared. Very scared.
I lean closer and let my teeth sink into the side of his neck. His body goes limp. I drink and drink and drink. His blood tastes better than any in recent memory. It is a warm, thick milkshake.
When I am done, it feels as though I’ve just had the biggest meal of my life. He was 6-foot-6, after all. But I am confused. Why did he know to be scared when he looked at my face? I thought I’d done a better job on my appearance this time around.
I lift his now feather-light body and dump it into the passenger seat. I climb forward, into the drivers’ seat, and look at myself in the rearview mirror. My appearance is well put-together, yes.
Still, I do look quite a lot like a vampire.