I Got Hired to Drive America's Loneliest Highway. They Gave Me Nine Rules.
I’m a long-haul trucker.
Or at least I was till the shipping company I had hauled for fired me after I lost a shipment last winter.
“Sorry, Mitch, we just can’t take any chances.” The regional manager said as he handed me the severance package.
I spent months applying to various trucking groups, but with no luck. No one wants to hire a driver who flipped an 18-wheeler on the highway, nearly crushing a family’s minivan. I was about to give up my search and change my career path when a new listing caught my eye:
DRIVERS WANTED
The Waylon Shipping Company is looking for talented drivers to haul across the western United States. If you want to join our family, apply below!
REQUIRMENTS
Willing to drive overnight; we don’t operate in the daytime hours.
Able and willing to drive alone.
A calm and level head.
Willing to relocate to Ely, Nevada
PAY AND BENEFITS
We are happy to offer a generous $2.20 per mile!
We provide eye and dental!
I stared in disbelief at the ad; that pay was nearly triple what my former company offered. I reread the listing three times, convinced I had missed a decimal point somewhere. When I couldn't find one, I submitted my application. After a week, I hadn’t heard anything and figured they had seen my record. So, I was quite surprised to receive a call from Nevada.
“Hello?” I answered
“Yes, hello. Am I speaking to Mitchell?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I replied
“Fantastic! My name is Harvey from the Waylon Shipping Company. We received your application and are excited to see if you are a fit for our driving family. Do you have some time for a few questions?”
I perked up at that. “Yes! I’m free now.”
“Great, well, first question: are you willing to relocate to our hometown of Ely, Nevada?”
I shrugged to myself. “Yeah, I got nothing tying me down.”
“Good to hear,” the phone replied. “Next question: have you ever had an accident?”
I swallowed. “Unfortunately, yeah. Last winter I rolled a semi; it cost me my last position.”
The phone was quiet for a moment before saying
“I see. Well, here at Waylon, we believe in second chances; everyone makes mistakes and that certainly doesn’t disqualify you.”
I was shocked; every other interview I had ended the moment I mentioned my crash. Stammering I replied
“Well, thank you, that’s really kind of you.”
“Of course, next question: have you ever picked up a hitchhiker?”
It was an odd question, but I answered honestly, “No, never.”
“Excellent. We haven't had much luck with drivers who pick people up.”
I was silent, but the voice continued
“Last question, Mitch, are you a family man?”
That question rubbed me wrong; with a dry throat, I said
“No, it’s just me.”
“Makes this job easier, Mitch. Thanks for your answers, and I’m pleased to be able to offer you a position at WSC. If you accept, are you able to relocate within 72 hours?”
Glancing around my already bare apartment, I answered
“Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Wonderful, report to the Waylon headquarters at 7:30 PM three days from now.”
It took a grand total of 4 hours to get all of my earthly possessions packed in the back of my pickup truck. Driving from New England to Nevada is no small feat, and I was thankful that I had been given several days. The drive filled me with hope; nearly everyone had given up on me. And I nearly gave up on myself. I wasn’t going to waste this second chance Waylon was giving me.
Two days later, I arrived in Ely, Nevada. I checked into an extended-stay hotel that would become my home for the time being. I spent the third day relaxing and familiarizing myself with Ely. Nevada has a way of making you feel like you’ve left true civilization behind. Ely felt like the last town before the map just gave up. It felt isolated in a way I'd never experienced back in New England.
That evening, I prepared for work; I realized that I didn’t know if I’d be driving tonight or just going through some sort of orientation. Even though I doubted they would have me drive my first night, I decided to be prepared just in case. I packed a little overnight bag with fresh clothes and toiletries. Along with snacks and plenty of water. Then I hopped into my truck and drove over to Waylon’s.
Waylon’s headquarters was nothing exciting, just a small old building on the outskirts of town. It had a large fenced-in lot that was home to about a dozen semis. Every truck was identical. Same black paint. Same bright yellow ‘W’ on the door. Even parked side by side, it was hard to tell one from another. In front of the building was a small, cracked parking lot, guarded by a large sign that read: “Waylon Shipping Company: We drive because We care.”
I walked in the front door to an old, musty lobby. It looked like it hadn’t changed since the late 90s. Sitting in the corner was an older man. As I entered, he slowly rose to his feet. Slowly, he hobbled over to me. He reached a wrinkled hand to me
“You’re Mitchell, right?”
“Mitch,” I corrected him as I grasped his hand. “Yeah, that’s me.”
He nodded. “Harvey couldn’t make it and wanted me to get you squared away. I’m Bill”
“Good to meet you, Bill.”
He gestured down the hallway as he said
“Let’s move to the back; we got a lot of ground to cover.”
I followed him to a small conference room in the back. It was grimy and smelled of cigarette smoke and Febreze. As we took our seats, Bill looked at me and gave a slight smirk.
“I bet you got a lot of questions huh?"
I nodded. “A few come to mind, yeah.”
“Well, I’ll start at the beginning. Waylon Shipping is an essential part of the infrastructure of eastern Nevada and western Utah.”
He swallowed before continuing
“We’re one of the few companies hauling goods to the small towns that make up this region. The route we run, the one you’ll get really used to, is along Highway 50 from here in Ely to South Lake Tahoe.”
I nodded, urging him to continue.
“Now this stretch of road is empty, real empty. It’s the most barren stretch of road in the lower 48. That’s part of the reason bigger companies don’t run it, and it falls to us. We always run at night because we’ve found that the high heats of the day are hard on the rigs. We’ve had less break downs since switching to nights.”
He stared at me for a moment before resuming
“What you’ll be doing is making runs. Twice a week you’ll drive an empty trailer down to South Lake Tahoe, spend the day at a hotel, then return the following night with full trailer of goods from our suppliers. Got it?”
I shrugged and said
“Seems simple enough.”
He ran his hand through his hair
“Yeah, sounds that way doesn’t it?”
I was about to ask what he meant, but he quickly changed the subject
“So what do you say? Ready for your first run?”
“What? You mean tonight?” I said surprised
He nodded. “Yep, we’re currently down a guy, so it’s all hands on deck. I just need a copy of your license, and you’ll need to sign the contract.”
After I signed the contract, Bill and I walked out to the lot. He pointed to one of the Black semis
“You’ll be in number 3 for now.”
As he stared at the truck, I noticed his jaw tighten.
“This was Brad’s truck.”
He swallowed hard
“But he’s not with us anymore, so she’s all yours,” he said as he turned to me
“Any advice before I head out?” I asked, hoping to get as much information out of him as I could.
“There are a few jerry cans in the cab, and I recommend filling them up before you leave town. There are very few gas stops along the way, so you really need to plan out your stops and make sure you have enough fuel.”
I nodded slowly, suddenly becoming nervous.
He ushered me to the truck.
“Go on, you’ll be fine, just follow the rules.”
"What rules?"
Bill didn't answer immediately, but when he did, all he said was
"They're taped to the wheel."
Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the lot.
Shrugging, I walked to the truck and climbed up into the cab. Shutting the door behind me, I quickly looked around at the standard cab I was in before turning to the steering wheel. Taped to the steering wheel was a single sheet of yellowed printer paper. It read:
RULES FOR DRIVING HIGHWAY 50 AT NIGHT:
1. The only real gas stop is the BP in Austin; DO NOT STOP AT ANY OTHER GAS STATIONS.
2. Eureka, Dayton, and Fallon are daytime-only cities. Never stop there at night.
3. If you pass a weigh station, pull in and weigh the trailer, even if the lights are off. Your trailer is empty on the journey out.
4. If another Waylon truck passes you heading east, call dispatch immediately and report the truck number. There should never be more than one Waylon truck on Highway 50 at a time.
5. Do not enter any town that appears before Austin. There are no towns between Ely and Austin.
6. If you hear someone knocking on the cab, do not stop to inspect it. Continue driving until you reach Austin.
7. If your truck breaks down, call dispatch and do not exit the cab. The only places you can get out of the truck are Austin and anywhere between mile 362 and mile 401.
8. If every radio station goes silent at once, pull over and wait 12 minutes.
9. If you see lights in the desert that remain the same distance away for more than ten miles, stop watching them.
The bottom of the page was roughly torn, as if it had been hastily ripped from a notebook. I snorted.
"Very funny."
I looked out the windshield, half expecting Bill to be standing somewhere in the lot watching me through the darkness. Nobody was there. The lot sat empty beneath the yellow glow of the floodlights. I turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. The black beast of a vehicle shuffled its way out of the lot as I began my first and my last journey with Waylon.
The first leg of the journey was short. Roughly about 10 minutes from Waylon’s lot to Ely’s nearest gas station. It was a run-down, locally owned place with heavy greenish-white lights that lit up its small parking lot and the desert that surrounded it. As I stepped down from the cab, I looked around and realized this was the final stop for quite some time; I had better get the most out of it. I started the gas pump and slowly walked into the gas station.
It was a dingy little place, its flickering lights illuminated old shelves filled with dusty, probably long-expired snacks. I found my way to the lone drink cooler and snatched a few cheap energy drinks. Behind the counter was a middle-aged man who clearly didn’t care for his appearance. His rounded belly peeped out from beneath a too-small, stained T-shirt, and a patchy, unkept beard covered his face. He nodded lazily at me as I approached. He scanned my items, and as he did, he glanced out the window at my black semi.
“You’re drivin’ for Waylon, huh?” he proclaimed in a gruff voice
I meant his gaze, “Yeah. Just got hired, first night, actually."
He nodded slowly before declaring
“Tell you what,” he slid the drinks over the counter
“This one's on us, welcome to the area.”
I smiled, “Well, I appreciate it, thanks a lot.”
As I walked out the front door, I barely heard him quietly say
“Good luck tonight, mister.”
It didn’t take long for all signs of humanity to disappear in the rearview mirror. The only evidence that any human had ever set foot here was the worn and cracked asphalt path that snaked its way through the tree-dotted hills. The road was wide open and completely empty. I couldn’t help but smile and relax a bit. I thought to myself
“If this is the route, this will be the best job I’ve ever had.”
I flipped on the radio and found a classic rock station, and cracked open one of the energy drinks. Soon, I realized I should have grabbed some food in Ely as I was beginning to get hungry. Looking at the GPS, I saw that there were no stops until Eureka, nearly an hour and a half away.
“I’ll have to stop there and grab a burger,” I muttered to myself.
The desert was beautiful under the gentle light of the moon. I had never seen such a clear night sky. I settled into a passive enjoyment of the drive. In the thirty minutes I had been driving, I hadn’t seen any other cars. The isolation was both calming and eerie. And as the radio continued its tunes, I found myself humming along. Then I heard it. A gentle, quiet tapping.
It was on my right; it sounded like a single finger tapping on a window
Tap
Tap
Tap
I jumped slightly at the unexpected sound before quickly glancing over to the passenger side window, half expecting to see a horrible creature filling the whole window, but there was nothing, just the countryside flying by. I tried to convince myself that it was nothing, maybe a stray pebble bouncing off the windshield, or background noise from the radio. These explanations largely satisfied me, and I soon went back to enjoying the drive. But about five minutes later, I heard it again, a little louder, a little firmer
Tap
Tap
Tap
I swallowed hard and slowly turned my eyes to the empty seat next to me. The window was empty. I silently told myself to get a grip as my focus returned to the road. Five minutes later, it was back. Too loud to be a pebble, too clear to be from the radio.
Tap
Tap
Tap
My hands grew clammy, and I forced myself to ignore it this time. But five minutes later, the tapping was replaced with loud pounding
Bang
Bang
Bang
It shook the cab, and right away I told myself
“There must be something loose over there.”
That thought was followed by
“I got to pull over and secure it.”
But right as I was preparing to pull over, I saw something fast approaching in front of me. It was a roadside, something I hadn’t seen since leaving Ely. The faded green sign only had one location listed. It said
“Camon Exit 4: 6 miles.”
I eased my foot toward the brake before stopping myself.
"Don't be an idiot," I muttered.
Pulling an eighty-thousand-pound rig onto the shoulder in the middle of nowhere over a little banging was how people got killed.
“I’ll stop there for a moment and check for damage,” I told myself
The pounding continued for the next six miles.
Before long, a lone exit appeared on the horizon. A weathered sign said “Camon 1 mile”. I followed the new path, and in the darkness of the desert, the lights reminded me of every tiny farming town I'd ever driven through. As I turned off the highway, the pounding lowered again to a low tapping.
Camon was a small dusty desert town, and slowly my truck entered its perimeter. And as I did, the hair on the back of my neck stood up, and my palms grew sweaty. Surrounding the road on both sides stood dozens of people. Young and old, men and women, they stood perfectly still, and their faces were emotionless, though all their eyes followed the truck as it passed. They wore old-fashioned nightgowns and striped sleeping clothes that looked like they belonged in faded black-and-white photographs. I pulled into an empty lot on the far side of the town. The truck stopped moving for the first time that night. Nearing panic, I quickly shifted into reverse. As I did, a low, icy voice froze me in place.
“You actually stopped,” it mockingly said
A cold but firm hand grabbed my shoulder from behind the driver's seat. I wildly swung my other hand up to my shoulder, fully expecting to connect with a foreign hand, but only hit my own shoulder. Quickly, I turned around to confront the voice, but I was alone. The space behind me was a small storage space that only held my duffel bag. I could feel my heart beating wildly as I searched every inch of the cab. But there was nothing. The chaos inside the cab made me momentarily forget the strangeness of Camon. But soon I remembered, and hopped back into the driver's seat, reversed the truck, and prepared to face Camon again, but it was different. In fact, it was gone. There were no people, there were no buildings, and there weren’t even any street lights. Just a long dark road leading back to the highway. Camon was gone.
I glanced down at the yellow paper I had crumpled and tossed into the cupholder. I picked it up and straightened it out, carefully rereading it. Two of the mysterious rules caught my eye:
5. Do not enter any town that appears before Austin. There are no towns between Ely and Austin.
6. If you hear someone knocking on the cab, do not stop to inspect it. Continue driving until you reach Austin.
“You got to be kidding me” I muttered aloud as my feet found the pedal and the truck began moving towards the highway. As I travel this barren road, it began to change. I noticed that it seemed to grow more worn and cracked, and suddenly it shifted from an old asphalt road to a dirt road, similar to a country road in the Midwest. As I neared the highway, vegetation and uneven terrain overtook the dirt road that used to be a highway exit. As I remounted the highway, I was quite sure that the road I had just traveled had disappeared, just as the town of Camon disappeared.
“This can’t be real.” I said as I lightly slapped my face and pinched my forearm, hoping I was dreaming. But I remained awake.
“This is real,” I stated, defeated.
I lowered my eyes momentarily to the center console, the rules stared up at me. I was unsure if they were a helpful guide or a harsh judge.
The road was quiet for the journey to Austin; however, the whole time I felt like I was being watched, as if someone stood directly behind me. 45 minutes later, a solitary sign welcomed me to the isolated town of Austin. Austin felt real, as if people actually lived here, as if it was supposed to be here. I found my way to the BP, and after starting the fuel pump, I briskly walked into the small truck stop. A bearded old man stood behind the counter and watched me as I entered. Turning to him, I asked
“Can I get a few packs of Camel Crushes?”
He stared for a moment before turning and picking out two packs from the wall behind him. Before turning back to me, he looked out the window at my truck, then slowly turned back to me. His eyes stared intently at me as a simple phrase escaped his lips
“You got dirt on your truck, did somethin’ happen?” his eyes never left me
I stared at him as he stared back I didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t wait for me to ask
“You didn’t stop, did ya?” he whispered
I swallowed hard
“Yeah,” was all I could say
I could see his jaw tighten before he pointed to the showers
“Go take a shower now, and use lots of soap, he can’t stand the smell. I’ll take care of your truck. Go now.”
I didn’t ask, just turned and headed to the showers.
After my shower, I walked to the front, where the old man met me. He handed me the cigarettes
“Here’s your smokes,” his eyes glared at me
“Don’t do that again.”
I felt like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar, as I meekly replied
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded in agreement
“Go on, get out of here, you got a long way to go.”
With that, I walked back to my rig, opening the cab door, I was met with the overpowering smell of commercial hand soap, no different than the stuff you find in any public bathroom. The old man must have cleaned the cab. The driver's seat was lightly damp as if he dumped a whole carton of the stuff on it. I glanced back and saw the man staring back at me. He tapped his wristwatch to signal to me that I need to get going.
I felt a twinge of fear as I left Austin; the lonely road disappeared into the empty darkness. According to the rules, the only other place I could stop and rest was at mile 362, nearly a four-hour drive. I took a deep breath as I began the long, desolate stretch.
The first three hours were uneventful, even boring. The adrenaline that fueled me earlier that night was quickly vanishing, and in its place, exhaustion set in. My mind began to fantasize about the cheap hotel bed I would enjoy in the morning. I turned up the radio in a futile attempt to distract my mind.
Suddenly, the horizon was lit up by two bright headlights. It was a shock to my system. I had nearly forgotten that encountering other vehicles was possible. This was the one I had seen out here all night. The vivid headlights made it impossible to see the vehicle as it approached, but based on the power and brightness of the lights, I could tell that this was another semi.
As we passed each other, I was able to monetarily see the truck. And my heart skipped a beat as I saw a pitch-black truck with a big yellow W painted on the side. It was an exact copy of my truck. I froze, hoping I had made a mistake, maybe it was a trick of the light, or the error of tired eyes. But in my heart, I knew there was no mistake. My hand reached for the two-way radio, but before I reached it, the speaker crackled to life.
A smooth, charismatic male voice resounded throughout the cab
“Hey there, partner, I see we’re with the same outfit. How’s your run going, buddy?”
The voice was easy-going, yet simple. It sounded like the voice of a lifelong trucker. I pulled my hand back from the transmitter, unsure what to do. A moment later, the voice continued.
“Come on, friend, I know you can hear me. So why not talk to me? Don’t get much conversation on this lonely stretch.”
I thought for a moment before taking the transmitter in a shaking hand.
“What’s your name? I was told there wasn’t any other Waylon guys out tonight.”
A loud crackling sound filled the speakers for more than a minute. I had wondered if we had lost the signal, but then the voice returned, only more serious and deeper.
“I’m not surprised that they have forgotten about me.”
I swallowed
“Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter, Mitch, I could be anyone.”
“How do you know my name?” I squeaked
Loud laughter filled the cab
“I know everything about you, Mitch. I know your mother never loved you, or at least not as much as she loved the bottle. I know how you’ll die. Would you like to know?”
Clenching my jaw, I quickly flipped off the radio, realizing the mistake I had made. Only the radio continued speaking.
“Wasn’t done talking, Mitch.” The voice was far darker and full of malice
“You’ll die alone and unknown, a weak man the world will not miss.”
A loud, high-pitched squeal came from the speakers; it grew louder and louder. The sound hurt my ears, and I thought my head would explode. Thankfully, before it did, the speakers popped, as the radio died, one final sentence escaped
“See you soon, Mitch.”
As the radio grew silent, a painfully bright light filled my rearview mirror; the headlights of a truck were behind me. I watched as the semi behind me sped up and realized it was going to stop. Mere seconds later, the cab shook violently as a loud crash signified that our two trucks had met. Panic filled me as I realized that the second Waylon truck was trying to kill me, or at the very least run me off the road.
I began to swerve defensively, taking up both lanes of the road. But it did little good. The mystery driver didn’t relent, using his bumper as a weapon. I tried my best to avoid his attacks, but far too many connected. Soon I heard what at first sounded like a gunshot, but it didn’t take long to figure out it was the sound of one of my back left tires exploding. Moments later, the other one gave out. And then he began attacking the right side. Soon, one of my right back tires was gone. I had lost nearly all control of the back of the truck, and it began to dawn on me that I might not get out of this one. I started to slowly apply pressure to the brakes, hoping to avoid a rollover. I could hear the metal of bare tires scraping along the highway. In the chaos I managed to notice a small green mile marker fly by, it read Mile 361.
A spark of hope filled my mind as I realized that if I could make it one more mile, maybe I’d find some safety. That last mile felt like an eternity. By the time the sign was visible, I had lost all the rear tires, and controlling the semi was nearly impossible. I managed to grind the truck to a stop just barely within mile 362. Glancing in the mirror, I saw the headlights of the attacking truck. But the vehicle itself was stopped, directly at the mile 362 marker. It sat there for a few long minutes before backing up and speeding off in the opposite direction. With shaking hands, I opened the cab door and cautiously stepped down onto the open highway.
The chilly desert wind blew around me. I could’ve been walking on the moon and not be this lonely. In the vast Nevada desert, I heard nothing. No insects. No traffic. No truck. Just my own footsteps. Making my way to the back of the trailer, I finally saw the full extent of the damage. All four trailer tires were shredded, leaving behind exposed metal wheels. The trailer itself was battered and dented, with one corner completely crumpled in on itself. I removed my hat and ran a hand through my hair as I realized I didn’t have the tools needed to repair all four tires. The trailer was in no shape to continue.
Not sure what to do, I pulled out my phone and dialed the number for the Waylon office. As it rang, I hoped someone was still there to answer.
“Hello, Waylon Shipping Company, how can I help you?”
I recognized that tired voice; it was Bill. Relieved to hear a familiar voice I relayed the situation, though I left out the reason for the trailer's damage, and he didn’t ask, though I’m sure he had an idea of what happened.
“Sorry to hear you’ve had some trouble, but it’s not a big deal; the trailers are empty after all. Leave it there, and we’ll have it towed in the morning. What mile are you at?”
“Mile 362,” I replied
“Good,” Bill said, “that’s a recoverable location.”
I wanted to ask more, but Bill simply continued
“Stay safe out there, see you when you get back.”
With that, he hung up. And the deafening silence returned. I turned back towards the cab, but as I did, a calm voice broke the silence.
“Hello, is everything alright?”
Quickly, I turned back around and was greeted by a figure. A tall, thin man stood just barely on the other side of mile marker 362. He wore a full three-piece suit, with a matching fedora. His perfectly shined dress shoes clicked against the asphalt. A sly grin filled his face
“I just happened to be walking on the road and noticed your rig over on the side. Hopefully everything is alright.”
“I’m fine, thanks, who are you?”
He clicked his tongue quietly, “Well, I go by many names, let’s start with you, who might you be?”
Something felt off; his smile felt forced. I avoided his question
“I got a schedule to keep, so if you don’t mind I’ll be going.”
I walked over to the front of the trailer to start unhitching, the stranger continued
“Well, if you’re going that way,” he pointed down the road, “I’d sure appreciate a lift, I’ve been walking so long.”
I didn’t even look his way
“Sorry, I can’t pick up anyone, company policy.”
He chuckled, “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind you being a good Samaritan, mister… I’m sorry I didn’t check your name.”
“That’s cause I didn’t offer it,” I replied blankly
He went silent, so silent that I began to wonder if he was still there. Then his voice returned, only it was different, less cheerful, more angry.
“You’re in Brad’s truck. But you aren’t Brad, so who are you? Tell me now.”
By now, I had finished with the trailer and turned again to the stranger. Though now his face was hidden in shadow, where his eyes had been before were now two tiny white dots in a sea of nothingness.
“I could help you,” the voice sounded less and less human. “I could share with you the mysteries of the universe, I should share the knowledge known only by the ancient unseen things. Things a human mind can’t fathom. You need only tell me who you are.”
A shiver ran down my spine, and I stared in disbelief at the two tiny dots that floated in a dark face. As I stared, I felt a calm overtake me, as if the thing before me was a friend. But something, some instinct in my mind, told me this was the furthest thing from a friend. It took great effort, but I managed to turn my gaze away from the stranger's face.
A weak “No” was all I could say, but it was enough.
The stranger lurched forward, fueled by wrath, but he couldn’t cross the mile marker; there, he stopped as if pressed against an invisible wall.
“Give me your name! Give me your name! GIVE ME YOUR NAME!” it screamed
I ran back to the cab and climbed in. As I did, I glanced back and saw the stranger evaporate in a cloud of black smoke, though the screaming continued. The truck was free of the trailer, and I quickly pulled away, leaving mile 362 in the dust.
The sky grew lighter as dawn approached. I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw a sign welcoming me to South Lake Tahoe. The GPS guided me to the vendor location. But it was closed, the hours on the door said it opened at noon. so I found a nearby Best Choice Hotel and pulled my truck into the lot. I was relieved to be off the road. I exited the truck, reaching behind the chair to grab my duffel bag. Pulling the bag from the truck, it knocked an old yellow paper onto the ground. Not wanting to litter, I picked it up and shoved it into my pocket, then I walked into the hotel. A few minutes later, I opened the door to a modest hotel room, and a queen-size bed never looked so good.
Tossing myself onto the bed, I emptied my pockets onto the nightstand. Along with my wallet, keys, and pocket knife the crumpled yellow paper sat on the stand. Curious I unfolded it and my blood froze when I read:
“Rule 10: Only stay at the Motel Eight, all other hotels are traps.”