Riding the Sticks Road

Zack Adamson sat in the hard dirt alongside I-75, somewhere north of Lake City. He was a lean man in his thirties, with plastic-framed glasses that made him look more artsy than nerdy. He’d never really gone out and walked just to do it, but starting some time before in Clermont, he decided it was past time for a long walk.

Zack had nothing else to concern himself with. It had been one hell of a spring.

Zack had lived in Clermont, Florida all of his life. His father and mother were still very close to him. His wife Alicia and his son Patrick were his life, as a wife and a child were to any decent husband and father. He helped Alicia keep the house in order. He taught Patrick how to throw a curveball. These were little things in the greater picture. Yet they seemed so monumental.

It was amazing how much they meant to him. It was equally amazing how quickly they were taken away.

Three weeks before, a moving truck had plowed through Harold Adamson’s minivan, in which Estelle Adamson, Alicia Adamson, and Patrick Adamson were also traveling. They were all killed in the accident. According to the paramedics, all of the fatalities occurred immediately upon impact. The doctors had told Zack that none of them had suffered much, if at all. If there was comfort intended in those words, it didn‘t help. None of it was comforting at all.

Zack was a socialite. He had to be talking or laughing or even arguing if that’s all that was available. He struggled if he wasn’t in a crowd. The idea of being all alone was more than just a concern, it was a gripping, heart-rending fear.

The first few days without his family hadn’t been lonely in the least, for many had gathered around him to honor them all. The funeral was a mass affair, as the Adamsons were a popular family. Zack cried a lot, as was expected, but he got lots of hugs and his hands were squeezed quite often. A cousin had stayed with him in his empty house during the days leading up to the funeral. But in the end, everyone left him. The people from town went about their daily routine, for even though the massive loss of life within the Adamson family was tragic, it wasn’t the sort of thing that would bog down their lives. Before two days were done, Zack was forgotten, and he sat alone in his house, staring at portraits.

On the fourth day, Zack put the barrel of a .38 magnum in his mouth and squeezed the trigger. He’d felt something, like a cool breeze brushing against his skin. His eyes widened.

There had been no sound. The gun hadn’t discharged. He had been certain that he set the safety properly. Zack looked at the gun, then put it away, disgusted with himself.

On the fifth day, Zack put on one of Patrick’s baseball caps, staring at the odd apparition that greeted him in the mirror. He was pale and sickly, with a far too small cap resting askew atop his head almost comically.

The sixth day was the day that Zack decided to go for a stroll. He headed north, following Highway 27 all the way to the Florida Turnpike, and he kept on walking. He stopped briefly at Okahumpka Service Plaza. He took a bathroom break and debated as to whether or not he should buy a cup of coffee. He decided against it, and returned to the road.

The seventh day was more walking. By the time he had reached Interstate 75, he found himself rather enjoying the billboards, especially the ones advertising Café Risqué, a popular gentleman‘s club in the area. He’d make an occasional pit-stop to empty his bladder, but he never dawdled for long, feeling to excited about the idea of just venturing.

The eighth day was the same as the seventh, and the ninth was the same as the eighth. Zack kept following good old I-75, wondering how far it actually went and deciding that he’d follow it as far as he could. On foot if he had to. Zack was finding that there was no greater joy amidst his misery than walking.

As the days passed, Zack kept moving along. His body grew thinner, yet more healthy, as he hadn’t even bothered for fast food along the way. He‘d find public water fountains and drink. He hadn’t felt any sense of hunger along the way. At one point, he became worried and wondered how long someone could go without actually eating. After a bit of thought on the subject, he cast it aside. When he got hungry enough, he’d eat. In the meantime, there was more walking to do.

Before long he found himself looking down at the little town of Lake City, a town that seemed to be built fully around the Interstate, and wondering if perhaps the idea of all of this walking wasn’t a bit overrated. He wondered how he’d get back to Clermont if he decided he wanted to return. He had money, but were there any cab services out here in the middle of nowhere? Perhaps bus stations? He looked to the south, wondering if it was time to return. The north beckoned him, and he continued in that direction.

After Lake City, there wasn’t much if anything on I-75. Exits themselves were rare. Zack found himself wondering if Lake City were the edge of the world, and if he hadn’t somehow drifted into some forbidden land, like the Garden of Eden.

That night, Zack fell asleep in a dry part of the ditch alongside the interstate and wished that he could see his family one last time.

The next morning, Zack got up and walked. There was an exit four miles ahead of where he slept, and he took a bathroom break at a Shell Station. The name of the town was Pouchers Corner. He’d never heard of it before.

He went back to the Interstate, walked a little bit further. There was hardly any traffic at all on the road, to the point where actually seeing a vehicle was an anomaly. Around the time that the sun started dipping deep into the west, Zack found that he had worn a hole straight through his Nikes. He sat down on the hard dirt, examining the hole in his shoe as the day succumbed to night.

Zack took off the shoe, wincing slightly at the stench, and fingered at the hole in his shoe. The sole was terribly worn, to the point to where it was almost paper-thin. He sighed, wondering where the nearest shoe store could possibly be.

It was just then when he saw a pair of glowing lights coming behind him along the interstate, looking predatory in the fading light. He could make out the shape of a semi truck without a trailer. He hadn’t hitched at all during his walk, but now it was becoming quite clear that he would need assistance if he planned on staying on the open road. He stuffed his foot back into the worn shoe, edged toward the road, and stuck out a thumb, hoping that he would be seen in the fading light.

The semi roared past, doing somewhere in the vicinity of seventy miles per hour. Yet as it rushed past him, throwing Zack’s hair back away from his face, the red brake lights flashed in the dark air, glowing like embers from a fire. There was a high-pitched squeal as the brakes did their work, and a low hiss of air as the truck came to a complete stop.

Zack looked at the truck before moving toward the passenger door. Something niggled at the back of his brain, telling him to just stay put, that there was more reason not to enter this truck than reason to enter it. But that was only a sign of his old self, and Zack had no interest in listening to that person anymore.

As he approached the passenger side, he looked at the truck. It idled uncomfortably, like a bull before a rodeo. It was bright red, like a cherry, and along the side was the word “Ferryman” written in flowing script. Zack didn’t know many truckers, but he assumed that this was some sort of nickname that this particular driver used over the C.B.

As he pulled himself up into the cab, he looked across at the driver. He was a thin man, appearing to be in his forties. He wore thick, black-framed glasses and a smudged baseball cap. His smile was gap-toothed and otherwise amiable. He had leather gloves with the fingers cut out, and he offered Zack one as he took his seat. It was a strong grip.

“Where ya headed, pardner?” the trucker asked in a thick, odd accent.

“As far as you’re going.” Zack replied. “I’m Zack Adamson. I suppose you’re the Ferryman?”

The driver cackled softly, nodding. “That’s what they call me, you got that right. Not my real handle, though, ya got me? My real name is Charon. Jon Doe Charon, to be exact.”

“Jon Doe?”

Charon smiled. “Helluva icebreaker, ain’t it?” He winked.

Zack smiled. It had been a while since he’d had any sort of conversation, and this one was already leaning toward being a good one. He started to think that he should have hitched a few rides before now, because just talking seemed to make him breathe easier and think more clearly. The night sky grew dark and opaque, but Zack didn’t care for the surroundings. He just enjoyed the conversation.

They talked for what seemed like hours, mainly about nothing at all. Charon was hauling his charge somewhere not too far north. He liked to stay in Macon overnight, even though he thought that was one hell of a dirty city. He didn’t know if he’d need to move on northward or if he would turn back south again after unloading. Zack enjoyed hearing all of this, and he felt an odd kinship to Charon, for both of them seemed to be on endless paths with unknown destinations. It was exactly the sort of thing he could admire.

Zack told Charon what had happened in Clermont, which was a story that had interested the trucker very much. There were even points in the story where Charon would wipe behind his glasses, obviously shedding a tear or two. The part where Zack had failed at committing suicide even brought a little gasp. Before this trip, Zack would have never believed he could bring emotions from a person he had just met.

“Miss ’em like mad, I bet,” Charon said after a while, eyes fixed on the road ahead of him. The headlights let off an ethereal glow in the vast darkness. “I ain’t never really had no family to speak of, but I know how people get when they lose someone. A lot of folks say something like “I didn’t just lose a wife, I lost a part of myself” or what have you. I guess that must be true. I guess if you lose something like that, you just get tired of going along altogether.” He shook his head, and a flicker of a reflection from the dash lights swung back and forth as he did so. “I guess it’s just harder to go along.”

Zack nodded. He stared ahead, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. “It’s harder than you can imagine. It’s like dragging weights all around you, and…” He paused, his throat tightening. Not gonna cry. Not now. Time to stand firm. Yet tears had already spilled, and his voice creaked as he spoke. “I just miss them so much.”

Silence greeted this for some time. Zack cried a little, and wiped his tears on his sleeves. Charon didn’t say much, but Zack could tell that the trucker was having some difficulty as well. The silence between them seemed to drift longer and longer as the open road passed them by. Zack wondered when they’d reach Macon.

All of a sudden, Charon flipped the turn signal to a right turn.

Zack raised an eyebrow.

Charon didn’t bother turning his head. “I like to make a run on this exit. It’s called US 43, but I call it what everyone else in the area calls it: the Sticks Road. Lotta folks like to travel this stretch of road. It’s usually a comfort to ’em.”

“Can we get to Macon from there?”

Charon smiled. “The Sticks Road takes you where you need to be. Don’t worry, Zack. Just enjoy the ride.”

The exit came on them, and Zack was surprised that Charon had seen it. There were no signs for US 43 or for anything called ‘Sticks Road’. Zack idly wondered how any highway had managed a name like that, but when he saw the surroundings, he understood. This was the Sticks, the Boonies, whatever you wanted to call it. Nothing but trees, trees, and more trees, stretching out to eternity.

The road itself was in poor shape. Cracks ravaged the asphalt, and the yellow lines were faded like old chalk. The shoulders appeared to be dangerously steep. Charon didn’t seem to notice, for he sped along the ribbon of road at a good 75 mph, never worrying in the least that he might come across a deep pothole and wreck his rig.

Zack found himself wondering if they were in Georgia yet. They had to be, but he hadn’t seen any signs or Welcome Centers. He opened his mouth to ask Charon, but something in the trucker’s appearance made him keep his mouth shut. Charon’s face looked thinner, less lively. His eyes seemed sunken, like deep caverns behind his glasses. It’s got to be the lack of lights on this road, Zack thought, but grimly he knew it wasn’t so. Something had happened to Charon.

“We ain’t in Florida, Zack,” Charon said, his voice gravelly. “And we ain’t in Georgia, either.” The word Georgia sounded more like Jawja in his odd accent. “The Sticks Road don’t run in neither of them states. No sir.”

Charon turned his head, and Zack pinned himself against the passenger door, terrified. Charon’s eyes glowed a soft, pulsing red behind his glasses, and his nose seemed to be slouching away from his face, looking like a fleshy beak. When he smiled, his lips were gone, revealing a skeletal grin that belonged to a corpse, not someone driving a truck. “Don’t be afraid, Zack. No need to be. I ain’t the Devil and I ain’t one of his imps. I’m just the Ferryman, and the Sticks Road is my place to drive. Bein’ scared of me is a waste of your time, my friend. Ain’t a thing to be scared of anymore. Not nothing.”

“Who the hell are you?!” Zack screamed at the apparition, no longer caring about potholes and steep shoulders, no longer worried about which state they occupied.

“Charon’s my name, like I said,” the trucker said softly, his voice a bit miffed, as if there was no need to answer such a silly question. “You needed this lift. I gotta take you along the Sticks Road, so you can go home to Mom and Dad, to Alicia and Patrick, and so everyone can have a smile on their pretty faces.”

“What are you talking about?!”

“The safety wasn‘t on, brother,” he said with a spectral smile. “It’s your last ride, little man. Hope you liked it.”

And Zack looked through the windshield, and suddenly day had broken, and his eyes were filled with a bright light. Through slitting eyelids he could see a pretty house, the sort of house that only resides in a woman’s fondest dream, and on the front lawn were his parents, eating a picnic lunch. Patrick was riding a bicycle with training wheels, laughing like mad. Alicia was coming out of the house, carrying a blanket. A warm smile was on her face as she walked toward Zack’s parents.

Zack found words difficult to form in his mouth. He turned to Charon’s horrifying form, eyes wide. “Just what in the hell is this?”

“Not Hell,” Charon replied. “Everyone takes this ride, man, whether they want to or not. I was sent for you. It was time for you to make this trip to the Land of the Dead. Like I said before, the safety wasn’t on. You didn’t fail in your suicide attempt. But you got no reason to fret. Unlike most of my passengers, you’re getting exactly what you want: them. So get out. This ride is done. I just hope you enjoyed the conversation.”

Zack left the cab, unable to believe what he was seeing. He walked around the front of the idling truck, toward his family. They looked up at him and waved, and Zack went to them. They embraced, and Zack felt hot tears stinging his cheeks. They all cried with joy.

Behind the wheel of his semi, John Doe Charon adjusted his mirrors, as if to make sure that there was no other traffic headed his way. He smiled, knowing that no other car or truck would ever touch this stretch of asphalt. After all, the Styx Road belonged only to the Ferryman.