The Walking Man

By: Chris Stevens
September 10, 2008

In an age of child molesters, rapists, and serial killers, some legends and myths loose their way. It was thought that the tale of “The Walking Man” was created to discourage people from picking up hitchhikers. Who needs a tale though, when nowadays, fact is much scarier than fiction. A knife slit across the throat. A body dumped on the side of the road. Newspaper headlines have discouraged enough would-be hitchhikers and their rides to allow “The Walking Man” to fade away like a bloodstain on blue carpet.

If you asked Steve Copping what “The Walking Man” was, he would reply that it was some lame old dance, or some book by Stephen King his father liked to read. At eighteen, Steve still had a lot of life to experience and wasn’t much interested in dancing or books to know the difference.

What Steve was interested in was cars and girls. He had just broken up with his girlfriend Stacy, or rather she had broken up with him. They had been off again, on again for the past two years. Like yoyos on each hand, they kept looping back to each other. As Steve saw it, they were on the downward spin. He was currently “walking the dog” and she was doing the “sleeper”. At least it wasn’t the “cradle”, the scare of that was what brought them together the last time.

With his love life on hold, that left his car, a 1963 Chevy Malibu to be exact. Since graduating from high school, he had been tinkering with it daily and had finally got the beast up and running. There were still a few fur balls caught in the kittens’ throat, but before long she would be purring. Her coat was still primer gray with maroonish spots of bondo on the fenders, but after next weeks paycheck he would have enough to give his kitten some stripes.

Sweat trickled down his nose and as he wiped it off, he smeared grease on his pale skin. His curly brown hair bore streaks of oil as well, as he constantly brushed his hair out of his face with his smudged hands. He had just closed the hood and plopped himself in the drivers seat when his mother started calling him. He couldn’t hear her at first. Before he had even got the car running, he had installed a killer stereo with eight speakers. He didn’t get the big speaker box in the back, that was just ridiculous. That was for hip-hop, rap, and low riders. Steve wasn’t his father’s son, except when it came to music. After spending a childhood of having to listen to Van Halen and ACDC playing all throughout the house, the stuff wore off on him and he found himself addicted to what they now called old school heavy metal.

The late, great Bon Scott just finished belting “Highway to Hell” when he finally heard his mother’s wailing.

“Steve! Steve! Turn that music down! I might have to put up with that with your father, but I don’t have to take it from you!” She wailed in a nasally whine.

“What’s that ma’? I can’t hear you. The music’s too loud.” He replied. He heard her; he was just trying to get her goat.

“I said turn that down. You have a telephone call.” Steve had started turning the music down in mid-sentence, causing the second part to come out like a scream above the silence. “Now was that nice?” His mother asked calmly.

“No, not really, but it was funny.” Steve responded.

“Alright you little smart-aleck, maybe I should just tell Stacy you’re not here.” The woman stated in mock anger.

“Stacy?” His voice betrayed him. Then he tried to tone it down to hide his excitement. “I wonder what she wants?”

“How would I know? I didn’t ask.” The woman with curly hair said as she walked away. Steve wasn’t his fathers’ son, but he was clearly his mothers’. If he had been a girl they would be almost identical despite the twenty-year difference. Like a lost puppy, Steve followed close behind.

With his heart jumping out of his chest and running down to his sleeve, he picked up the phone and laid on the charm. “Hey babe. So has anyone told you your beautiful today because if they haven’t, let me be the first.”

“No precious. Do you really think so? I dunno, I woke up feeling kind of bloated.” The voice on the other end responded. A voice that clearly wasn’t Stacy’s.

“What the fu….”, Steve looked over at his mother, who was covering her mouth to stifle her laughter. “What up Mike?” He asked as he gave his mother the evil eye.

“Nothing much brother-man, but maybe I should be asking you the same thing. Is there something you need to tell me?”

“Fu….Screw you Mike.” Steve looked at his mother again as she let out a chuckle, and then walked away.

“Screw me? I’m sorry Steve but I don’t twinkle, if you know what I mean. You’re my bud an all, but I just don’t like you in that way.” Mike stated trying to sound sincere.
“Alright, now that you and my mom have had your little laugh, what the hell do you want?” Steve asked. He was irritated; one for being had, the other for getting his hopes up in the first place.

“What? Your mom tell you your precious little Stacy was on the line? Oh, man, that’s classic.” Mike laughed.

Steve began to fume. “What do you want Mike?”

“Hey man, don’t get mad at me cause your mom put one over on ya. Anyway, I thought you and Stacy were splitsville?”

“We are.” Steve responded solemnly.

“Alright man. Tell you what. Let’s take your mind off her and go out tonight. Maybe we can find some strange twang for your thang.”

“Mike, are you really eighteen?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well that line might have been funny when we were in the eighth grade, but it isn’t funny now. And you and I both know that any “twang” would be strange to you because you’ve never gotten any.”

“Screw you man!”

“Now look who’s propositioning who. You better watch out, it’s been a while. I just might take you up on it.”

“I always knew you were a queer.”

The two friends continued their banter for several minutes before cementing their plans for that evening.

#

By the time evening came around two more of Steve’s friends had signed up for the nights festivities. Since Steve was the only one of the group with a car he had the honors of picking them all up. Kenny and Stan were at Stan’s house and he picked them up first. Stan hopped in front and Kenny climbed in the back. Steve greeted his friend’s with a hand shake that consisted of twists, turns and knuckle bumps as they climbed aboard.

They picked up Mike last. He was carrying a black duffle bag and an Alfred E. Newman smile. “What me worry?” Mike’s expression spoke and it made Steve worry a lot. As the unofficial leader of their pack, Mike demanded certain rights and one of those rights was riding shotgun. Even though Stan stood a whole head taller than Mike, he relinquished the coveted spot with barely a grumble. Size wasn’t everything and at six-foot-three it just made the oversized boy clumsy, not dangerous. Steve and Kenny were both 5’10. Mike was the one who was vertically challenged at 5’6. He didn’t exactly have a little man’s complex because he carried with him the self-assurance of ten years worth of martial arts training. Mike didn’t flex his muscle too much; only when he wanted something.

“What’s in the bag?” Steve asked as Mike got in.

“Oh man, you’re going to love this!” Mike exclaimed as he unzipped the bag. Kenny and Stan practically bumped heads as the two leaned over the back seat to look inside the bag. Steve peered in as well. At first he couldn’t make it out from all the red and black wrappings. Then he saw a “Black Cat” logo across a large brick like bundle. There were firecrackers, bottle rockets, roman candles, and a whole slew of other goodies Steve had never heard of. Mike giggled with glee as he displayed his arsenal to his friends.

“Where did you get all that stuff?” Kenny asked.

“Yeah man, you go to Mexico or something?” quizzed Stan.

“Naw man, my dad was passing through one of the Dakota’s for some reason. Apparently this stuff is all legal out there. He bought me a bunch and sent it to me. I guess he thinks he can make up for being a bad father by corrupting me even more with
explosives.” Mike explained.

“So what’s the plan, Stan?” Kenny questioned.

Stan looked at his friend. “Why are you asking me?”

The other three boys all rolled their eyes. “He wasn’t asking you, you big dummy.” Mike responded. “But the plan is quite simple really. Let’s head out to the dead end of Citrus and light up the sky.”

The road was deserted and dark. The street lights cut out a half mile up the street before the road turned to gravel. A common dumpsite for worn out appliances and waste it was also a favorite spot for the local teens to go drinking on the weekend. It happened to be a Tuesday, so the place was deserted.

It wasn’t quite like New Years in Time Square, but it made for a lot of fun. Bottle rockets snapped rather than boomed, and firecrackers cracked with all of the enthusiasm the little explosives could muster. After forty-five minutes of innocent debauchery, they hadn’t put much of a dent in the bag. They were about to light off one of the larger rockets when Mike noticed headlights approaching. Mike was the resident convict, having spent a night in juvenile hall when he was sixteen, so he knew the distinctive glare of a cop car approaching.

“Pack it away man. Its time to go!” Mike directed.

Stan let the lighter flicker a moment longer, and then released it. The four boys ran back to the car. Feeling like the Dukes of Hazzard, Steve slid across the hood and climbed into the driver’s seat. With a spit of gravel and a chirp of rubber, the boys fled. Lightless, except for his brakes, Steve made it on to another street that bisected the one they were on. This road split again with another street veering to the right.

The boys watched behind them in anticipation and breathed a sigh of relief as they watched the headlights take the road to the right. Steve had been pushing his baby down the dark road which rose and fell in a series of whoop-de-doos. The car bottomed out on one of them, causing Steve to grit his teeth. With the cop car taking the high road he decided to play it safe. He slowed the car down and flicked on his headlights. No sooner did he turn his lights on when they saw another pair of headlights approaching.

“It’s another one.” Mike confirmed.

Steve checked his rear view mirror. The car was fast approaching. “Throw out the bag!” Steve yelled.

“What?” Mike asked alarmed.

“Throw out the bag. It’s the only thing they could bust us for!”

With a look of disgust, as if he was being asked to throw a newborn baby out the window, he did as he was instructed.

Within a minute the speeding Crown Victoria was behind them and thirty seconds later, red and blue flashing lights were strobing in the mirror. Steve was ordered out at gunpoint and he willingly complied. His other three companions were allowed to remain in the car. A second unit pulled up behind the first while Steve had the pleasure of being patted down for weapons. Two officers climbed out of that unit and approached Steve’s car which was basked in a halo of light from the various spotlights shinning from the cruiser.

Two more beams of light flicked on as the officers turned on their maglights and shined them into the vehicle. Mike’s window was down and he heard one of the officer’s take in a big whiff from the vehicle. The only scent to pierce the officer’s nostrils was the heavy odor of gas, oil, and cologne. Mike was quizzed about guns, drugs, and booze. Steve was questioned about the same. The old-timer that had pulled Steve over explained to him that there had been reports of gunfire in the area. Steve assured the officers that they weren’t packing. Steve even went out of his way to give his consent to a search of the vehicle. Mike on the other hand, told the cop he was talking to that he needed a warrant.
Steve was being sent back to his car at about the same time that Mike was about to be pulled out of the window by his ear. Then three beeps emitted from the officer’s radio followed by some squawking none of the boys understood. It must have been important though because the officers ran back to their units dropping Steve and his friends like a crime exceeding its statute of limitation.

With a slight tremble still rippling through him, Steve got back in the car. He looked at his three friends and they all let out a gust of air.

“Go back.” Mike stated.

“Say what?” Steve asked.

“I said go back. So I can pick up my bag. I think I know right were it landed.”

“You’re not serious are you?”

“Yeah, why not? It’s not like those cops are coming back or anything.”

Steve was about to open his mouth in further argument, but found he had none. He wheeled the car around and tried to relax within the steady hum of the engine. As they approached the spot, Mike ordered Steve to pull over. It didn’t take long for Mike to recover his bag of tricks and he was back riding shotgun. It was when they pulled back onto the road that they saw him. At first nothing seemed out of the ordinary; other than the fact that it was the middle of the night, on a dark deserted stretch of road, where neither home nor business met. Then they saw the guy with his thumb out; way out. The hitchhiker didn’t have some lazy hand hunched on his hip. The arm was extended at a full ninety degrees the digit skyward. His walk wasn’t a slow shuffle of tired feet either, but a deliberate march as if he was being pulled along by some unseen force.

“What the hell is that guy doing out here?” Steve asked.

A big head sprang from the back seat and Stan opened his mouth. “Yeah and where did he come from?”

With his small hand Mike grabbed part of Stan’s face and squeezed, shoving his head at the same time, while applying pressure at both sides of his temple. The stunned oaf let out a wail.

“Shut up man and sit back. Man your breath stinks. You been brushing with dog shit again?” The run in with the cops had suddenly left Mike in a bad mood and he was going to take it out on those around him.

“Maybe he’s some bum whose been sleeping in a cardboard box out there in that field.” Kenny tried to explain.

“Yeah, look at the way he’s walking. He looks like he’s drunk or something.” Steve observed.

“Or retarded.” Mike whispered. “Hey I have an idea. Drive over to him.” Suddenly Mike seemed to perk up.

Steve noticed that same smile and wicked gleam in his friend’s eyes. “What? It’s not like we are going to pick him up.”

“No shit Sherlock. Just pull over there.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just do it!” Mike demanded.

Instincts go a long way and Steve’s instincts told him to keep on driving. Unfortunately Steve knew he would never hear the end of it and no matter how old the joke was, it was never fun to be the butt of it.

Steve drove over towards the crippled or intoxicated man.

“Pull up in front of him like you are going to give him a ride.” This too was an old joke, but Mike added a little punch to it.

Steve left about ten feet between the strange man and his vehicle as he pulled to the side. He couldn’t get a clear view of the man through the rearview mirror as the man ambled closer, but what he saw, he didn’t like. The man’s pants were in tatters. Long strips of clothing dangled loosely down exposing darkened flesh. He couldn’t see above the man’s waist, but the weird jerking motion of the guys legs sent twinges of pain through Steve’s own legs. He gripped himself at the knees and began massaging them as if he had just been stricken with cramps. He looked in the mirror again. The red glare cast by his brake lights didn’t help any, but he could have sworn the man’s shredded clothing was stained with blood.

He thought to look behind him, but he couldn’t seem to convince his neck to turn. His two friends in the back must have been equally stricken with paralysis because they were as attentive as two whores in Sunday school, eyes straight forward, staring at nothing. Within Steve’s peripheral he saw a flicker of light, then a tiny stream of sparks.

“Drive man, drive!” Mike yelled as he threw both a string of firecrackers and a rather large bottle rocket out of the window. “Ha, let the old rummy suck on that bottle.” Mike squealed as he let out a nervous laugh.

Even above the roar of Steves’ kitten they heard the popping and whistling of the fireworks. This time Steve didn’t even bother to look in the rearview mirror, he just drove. Mike continued to laugh at a joke that was only funny to him. With the cops calling an end to their Fourth of July, and it already being kind of late, Steve called the night over. Mike tried to put up a bit of a fight, but the two party poopers in the back wanted to go back home to their “mommies” as well.

“See you later fuckwads. Hope you guys get nice and fat sucking on your mother’s teat.” Mike bellowed as his friend’s abandoned him on his driveway. Screw his friends. Screw the cops. Screw anyone else who gave him shit.

He lived in the rural part of the city. No sidewalks bordered the yard, and no streetlights brightened the way. Behind the chain link fence was a dirt drive leading into the small two bedroom bungalow. The small house was just another pile of shit his father had left him in. The gate scraped upon the dry earth as he swung it open, kicking up a plume of dust. It made him cough a little as he walked through the cloud.

Mike blinked repeatedly to keep the dust out of his eyes. When his vision cleared, he saw something moving towards him. His house didn’t betray the darkness; neither did any of his neighbors. He could see movement, but nothing else.

“Mom?” He asked hesitantly. Mike lived alone with his mother, but most of the time he just lived alone while his mother was off with her latest package from the boyfriend of the month club. He looked around, but didn’t see his mother’s beat up Honda.

A sliver of fear pricked his skin as he bunched his muscles and prepared himself for a fight. The only friends he had just drove away, so whoever this was, Mike didn’t know them and they had no business being on his property.

“All right fuckface! Who are you and what are you doing in my yard?” Mike demanded.

The person didn’t respond, but continued to move forward. Even in the gloom Mike could make out the awkward shuffle as the intruder pulled closer. High steps followed by a slow drag of the body as if it was being propelled by the choppy waves of the ocean. Metal against metal could be heard jingling and snapping together.

Mike didn’t know what to make of it, but he had seen enough to know he needed to act. He had rehearsed the move a thousand times, just like in the Chuck Norris movies he used to watch with has deadbeat dad when he was little. He dropped his bag and sprinted towards the shuffling freak. As soon as he got within striking distance, he leaped into the air, right foot forward, ready to collide with the chest of the intruder.

Instead of his rubber sole smacking into flesh however, it just hit air. Mike almost kept the stance too long, which would have sent him tumbling to the ground. Instinct took over though and he landed on his feet. He couldn’t believe he missed, but he quickly turned around to face his opponent. There was no one there.

#

After Steve dropped off his two remaining friends, he returned home. He shut off the engine to his car a little ways up the street and coasted into the driveway of his house so he wouldn’t wake his parents. Quietly he closed his car door and then bumped it with his hip so it would close all the way. He put his key into the front door and let himself inside.

The only light on was the porch light, but that was all he needed as he navigated his way through the still house. As he made his way into his bedroom, he flicked on the light. That’s when he saw the note stuck to his door.

Stacy want’s you to call her.
This time its for real.
She says she doesn’t care what time it is
Just call her on her cell.
Love Mom

Steve beamed as he hopped onto his bed like a little schoolgirl and grabbed the phone from the nightstand. He hadn’t bothered to remove her number from the memory on his phone so he pushed the preset button and let it ring. After the forth ring the pounding in his chest started to subside. One more ring and her phone would go to voicemail. Steve was about to hang up when a voice clicked on the other line. It was a sweet voice, a voice Steve never got tired of hearing. Perhaps it was because Stacy was the first girl he had ever been with that caused the instant lovesick feeling when he thought of her. He had been with two other girls during their off again moments, but no one ever compared.

The voice said hello and he replied in kind. They had spoken briefly and Steve could tell something was wrong. He had heard she had been seeing somebody else, but by the tone of her voice things weren’t going to well and he could feel his yoyo strings being pulled in her direction and he wasn’t about to fight the laws of physics.

#

Mike was having his own problem with physics. How could something be there one second and then be gone the next? Instead of doubting himself, he decided it must have been a shadow. How there could be a shadow in the dark was beyond him, but it was also beyond him to dwell upon it. So he didn’t. He just went in the house, turned on the television, and dissolved his fears in late night fodder.

As David Letterman said his goodnights, so did Mike, involuntarily. Lying on the couch, remote control dangling from his fingertips as his hand was cast down towards the floor. A tiny stream of drool was seeping from parted lips as his breath steadied. Drifting, falling, being embraced by sleepful bliss. Something sparked and Mike jerked awake. The room was dark, not even the television was casting a glow. Another spark. A single, flickering flame bobbed and weaved doing the fighters’ dance. The light revealed someone or something behind it.

Mike reacted by trying to jump to his feet. Sleep had fuzzied his head and he found himself tripping over the coffee table in front of him. Without the earlier grace of his flying kick, he stumbled headfirst, but was still able to do a half roll out of it and land on his back. Darkness once more, followed by night shattering flashes of exploding light. Having seen one too many action movies, Mike thought someone had just opened fire on him with an AK47. He began to low crawl, trying to remain low and out of sight. The blooms of white had robbed him of what little night vision he had. He couldn’t see anything until he smacked into something cold, wet, and sticky. It felt like a plastic bag filled with rotting fish. At the same time he made contact, there was another flickering light as someone wheeled the flint on a lighter. All he saw were two raw stumps glistening with blood-tinged flesh. Tattered blue jeans hung in strips above the barren stubs, which were once feet.

Something grabbed him by the nape of the neck and lifted him up like a kitten in its mother’s mouth. The hard leathery hand sunk into his tender flesh and he couldn’t help but let out a scream. The room brightened as a shower of sparks rained down. Mike was brought face to face with his adversary and stared into sightless eyes. He couldn’t look away from the empty sockets even as the Roman candle in the intruders’ hand began expelling balls of fire.

As Mike stared at his fate, mouth gaping open in terror, the Roman candle was thrust into his mouth. He tried to close his mouth, but it was too late and he clamped his teeth down on the cardboard container. There was a brief moment when he could taste the gunpowder and he was reminded of the stench of having a cavity filled at the dentist. Then one of the five remaining fireballs went off in his mouth. Gunpowder gave way to the salty taste of blood and rancid smell of burnt flesh as he choked down smoke and flame.

By the time the second fireball ignited, Mike had passed out from the pain. By the time the third one went off, Mike was no longer among the living.

#

“Come over.”

Two words never sounded so sweet and they were the only words Steve needed to hear. He hung up the phone and let himself back out of the house without making a sound. His car growled to life as he backed out of the driveway and followed his heart. Nothing could remove the smile from his face until his car stalled two blocks away from his destination.

“Son of a bitch!” He exclaimed as he pumped the gas and turned the key. He was greeted with a gurgle and a sputter, but nothing more. The smell of fuel clouded the air. Hoping the car was only flooded, he grabbed a flashlight out of the glove box and got out to look underneath the hood. With the hood up, the fumes were even stronger. He fiddled with the carburetor before returning to the drivers’ seat. With his foot on the gas, he tried the ignition one more time. The engine chugged and chugged but failed to kick over.

With a look of total exasperation on his face, he leaned down towards the passenger seat and picked up a screwdriver that had been rolling back and forth on the floor board. As he came back up he noticed something peculiar. The hood of the car had been closed. He didn’t remember closing it. As a matter of fact, he remembered staring at the beams of light shining out from underneath the small gap underneath the raised hood. Maybe the springs failed, but if the hood collapsed on its own, he would have heard it.

He got out of the car and popped the hood again. As he was tinkering he heard a noise behind him. It sounded like someone was dragging their feet along the pebbly shoulder of the road. He turned and saw someone jerkily walking towards him before his headlight cut out. He turned and grabbed the flashlight he had propped in the engine and shined the stream of light towards the approaching specter. Nothing. Nothing was there. Yet he could still hear that dragging sound. He shined the light all around. Nothing. The shuffling sound continued. With all of his senses heightened by fear, he nearly leaped out of his shoes when the loud roar of his engine echoed through the night.

There wasn’t a moment to react before his feline lurched forward striking him in the thighs. He was knocked forward into the engine compartment. That’s when he found out that his kitten had claws as the fan blades cut into his midsection. Through the same sliver of space underneath the hood, Steve was able to see bone white knuckles grasping the steering wheel. Beyond the skeletal hands, what was left of a man with a toothy grin sat in the drivers’ seat.

As things started to spill from the gaping wound within his stomach, the fan belt grabbed a hold of his stringy intestines and completed the task of disemboweling him. Like a saber-toothed tiger, the hood clamped down on its prey and the car sped off into the night. It seemed “The Walking Man” finally got his ride.

#

No one tells the tale of “The Walking Man” anymore. So no one knows of Steve, Mike, Stan, and Kenny. Stan and Kenny met a fate similar to their friends and now they all walk the highway that is neither here nor there. At five-foot-four, Mike is still the leader of the pack. Forever walking. Forever plodding along. It took about a year before their shoes wore through. It took far less time for the soles of their feet to peel away on the sun scorched asphalt.

Even in death they felt the excruciating pain as skin and bone grinded down inch by inch. They felt and saw the horror as ravens and crows plucked out their eyes and fed on their flesh. The most unbearable part though was the chains. They each had chains hooked into their arms, legs and hands. Chains that pulled them forward against their will. Not allowing them to rest. Not allowing them to fall. Onward they were yanked, thumb forever skyward.

So if you happen upon this quartet they will be more than willing to catch a ride. But if you taunt them, you will get the pleasure of taking their place.