2A/N: The idea for this came up to me when my mom and I were talking about lonely truck drivers and hitchhikers. Enjoy.
A lone figure stood on the side of the slightly hectic highway. The man, dressed in baggy jeans and a loose shirt and ragged shoes, held his thumb out. He sighed as another 18-wheeler roared by. He hiked his backpack up higher on his shoulder and shoved his thumb out further, wiggling it slightly. Hitchhiking, although not the easiest thing to do in today's society, was exhilarating. Especially the way John Millers did it.
Finally, thirteen trucks and 37 cars (John had been counting), an 18-wheeler pulled onto the shoulder to let him in. John grinned and jogged up to the passenger door and hopped into the tall cab. Once he got settled in his seat, he looked over at the driver. He was a chubby man with a few days worth of stubble and greasy black hair. John hid his look of disgust by looking out the window as the truck driver pulled off the shoulder of the highway.
"So, where ya headed?" The driver asked with southern twang.
"Doesn't matter," John muttered, looking back over to the driver.
"Good," the driver said, "I'm Bill."
"John, John Miller." The driver grunted in response and the inside of the cab was quiet except for the sound of the air rushing in from the window that was rolled down. John took this time to survey the inside of the cab. It was littered with junk food wrappers and greasy fast food bags.
John reached down to open a zipper on his backpack and pulled out a small object and slipped it into the right front pocket of his jeans. He fingered the smooth metal and slid his finger along the blunt edge of the sharp object. The knife was small but did the job well enough. He sighed, content. The adrenaline was already starting to pump through his veins.
He looked over at the truck driver, Bill, who was sitting there, unknowingly driving a serial killer. John smirked slightly. Bill would be number thirteen. John had been hitchhiking across the country for quite a while, murdering those who picked him up and then skillfully cutting the body up and burying it and hiding the vehicle.
He glanced down at the clock, it read 6:32. John frowned. He would have to wait twenty-eight minutes. Whenever he killed, he killed on the hour. It would ruin his pattern if he were to change that. So he sat there for twenty-eight minutes, staring out the window. The scenery had changed from tall buildings and fast food joints to tall trees and brown fields.
John's heartbeat quickened, ready for the excitement. He slid the knife out of his pocket and turned to Bill.
"Pull over," John told the truck driver.
"You know," Bill muttered, glancing over at John, "I've been thinking about killing myself recently. You picked the perfect day to get in my truck. Now we can just go together."
John's eyes widened and his scream filled the silence of the cab as Bill wrenched the steering wheel to the left.
Tonight, at approximately seven o'clock, an 18-wheeler carrying 9,000 gallons of gasoline wrecked on Interstate 35. The driver is believed to have lost control and veered onto oncoming traffic. The approaching vehicles, hit the truck and knocked it over, causing the tank of gasoline to fall over and spill. A small electrical problem caused by the wrecked sparked a fire, causing the truck to explode. We are being told there was no survivors in the truck and there are many critical injuries to those who were in cars nearby the explosion.