The highway stretched out in front of me like an endless dark ribbon as I drove the Charger along at a steady fifty miles per hour, having no idea where I was supposed to be going. The radio continued to play songs from the 80s. I tried to change the channel, but there appeared to be only one. Couldn’t turn it off either.

In between songs, the disc jockey’s sultry voice would come on, her tone almost hypnotic as she warned of the dangers on the road. “It’s a stormy night out there,” she would say, “and we all know the Drifter likes a stormy night. The rain, the thunder, the lightning—it all adds a certain... atmosphere to his hunts. He thrives in the chaos, feeds on the fear it brings. So, keep your eyes peeled, dear listener, because you never know when he might appear.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, taking out my cigarettes, which thankfully I still had in my inventory. At least they didn’t take those away. “Thanks for that.”

The DJ’s voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial whisper, as if she were sharing a dark secret. “They say the Drifter can control the very elements, that he can summon the storm to do his bidding. The rain that lashes against your windshield, the thunder that rumbles in the distance—it’s all a part of his deadly game. A game that you, dear listener, are now a part of.”

A haunting melody began to play in the background, its eerie notes unnerving me. The DJ’s voice took on a mocking, sing-song quality. “But don’t worry, don’t fret, for the night is still young, and the game has just begun. You have a chance, a fighting chance, to outwit and outrun the Drifter. To complete the challenges, break his power, and send him back to the hell he crawled out of.”

Her voice grew darker, more menacing. “But be warned, the highway is his domain, his playground. He knows every twist, every turn, every shadowy nook and cranny. He can appear anywhere, at any time, and he won’t stop until he has what he wants. Until he has you.”

The DJ let out a low, chilling laugh that seemed to echo through the car, a sound that sent a wave of dread crashing over me. “But who knows? Perhaps you’re the one he’s been waiting for. The one who can finally put an end to his reign of terror. The one who can solve the riddle of the road and break the curse of the endless highway.”

As music replaced the voice of the DJ, I continued driving, strangely comforted by the hum of the engine, despite the storm raging outside. I smoked my cigarette and thought for a minute about the movie, The Hitcher. Obviously, that’s what this whole Trial was based on. I remembered watching that movie one time when I was a kid, and it had scared the shit out of me. Rutger Hauer as the hitchhiker had put in a truly chilling performance, and if the hitchhiker in this Trial was even half as lethal and sinister, then I was in for a dark and dangerous ride indeed.

Occasionally, a car or a truck would pass by, but it was too dark to see who was driving. It might as well have been ghosts behind the wheel. No one seemed to be moving in my direction, as if the specters who haunted this highway knew what lay ahead, and they didn’t want to go there.

My mind turned to Annalise and Snuggles after a while as I wondered how they were doing. Were they trapped in some alternate dimension like I was, about to play cat and mouse with some psycho based on a character from a dark 80s movie? If they were, I could only pray my friends survived. I didn’t want to go into the Second Circle alone. Sure, I might continue to survive without my two friends by my side. But did I want to? What would be the point? A man isn’t meant to be alone in the world. A man has to—

I slammed on the brakes when I suddenly saw a figure standing in the middle of the road up ahead. The car slid on the wet blacktop, but I managed to stop before I hit the tall, dark figure, who was just a few feet in front.

The figure stood motionless, silhouetted against the dark backdrop of the stormy night. As the Charger’s headlights illuminated him, I could see that he was dressed in worn, tattered clothes, his longish, rain-soaked hair plastered to his face. His eyes, wild and manic, seemed to glow in the dim light, reflecting the cold, eerie glow of the partially covered moon above.

Right away, I knew it was the Drifter.

My heart pounded in my chest as I stared at the figure, my breath catching in my throat. Even though I expected it, I was still taken aback by how much the man looked just like the serial killer from the movie, his face a twisted mask of malevolence, his lips curled into a sinister, knowing smile.

Rain dripped from his soaked clothes, pooling on the asphalt around him. He seemed impervious to the storm, his gaze fixed on me with an unnerving intensity. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles turning white as I stared back at him, unable to look away.

As I watched, the Drifter raised his hand, and I realized he was holding something. I tried to make out what it was, my mind racing with dark possibilities. And then, with a casual, almost nonchalant motion, he threw the object onto the hood of the Charger.

The sound of it landing was sickeningly heavy, a dull thud that seemed to echo through the car. I stared in horror as the object rolled slightly, coming to a stop in the center of the hood. It was a severed head, the eyes glassy and lifeless, the mouth frozen in a silent scream. The rain pounded down on it, washing away the blood that still clung to the matted hair and pale skin.

A wave of nausea hit me as I stared at the grisly sight, my stomach churning with revulsion and fear. The Drifter’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with a twisted, sadistic delight. He seemed to feed off my horror, his presence growing more menacing and oppressive with each passing second.

And then, as suddenly as he had appeared, he turned and walked away, melting into the darkness that lined the highway. I watched him go, the storm seeming to grow more intense, the rain lashing against the windshield with renewed fury, as if the very elements were conspiring against me.

I sat there, frozen, my eyes locked on the severed head that stared back at me with empty, accusing eyes. The haunting melodies of the 80s songs played on.

“It’s only a damn game, Kade,” I told myself, as I stared at the severed head outside. “Just a game…”

Sure. Only it wasn’t, was it? This shit couldn’t get any more real. If the psycho who’d severed that head got the better of me in this Trial and I failed to take him down, I’d suffer a fate far worse than death, doomed to roam this highway forever, trapped in… wherever the hell this place was.

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So no, this wasn’t just a game. This was about the fate of my eternal soul.

Punching the gas, I set the car into motion. The severed head remained on the hood as if it were glued to the metal, the eyes staring at me accusingly. Then, unable to look at it anymore, I hit the brakes suddenly and the head rolled off the car and on to the road, disappearing from sight.

Jesus, I thought as I accelerated again, leaving the unwanted present from the Drifter behind. Even if I make it through the Trials of the Damned, even if I ‘succeed’, the goddamn PTSD I’m sure to suffer from won’t make the rest of my existence worth living.

* * *

I don’t know how long I drove for. It could’ve been an hour or it could’ve been several. The highway just continued on and on, a monotonous strip of road with no features, no landmarks around it. The night stayed dark and the sky kept up its raging attempt to drown everything in rain.

But then I saw it.

A faint, flickering neon sign in the distance, a beacon of sorts piercing through the relentless downpour. As I approached, the sign came into focus, the neon letters spelling out Last Stop Diner in a eerie, intermittent glow. The sign cast an otherworldly light on the rain-soaked asphalt, reflecting off the puddles and creating a shimmering, almost hypnotic effect.

“What do we have here then…"

I slowed the Charger down and pulled into the parking lot, the gravel crunching under the tires. The diner was a rundown, vintage building that looked like it had been forgotten by time. Its once-white paint was now a faded, chipped gray, and the large windows that lined the front were grimy and streaked with rain. A lone, rusted gas pump stood sentinel near the entrance, a relic from a bygone era.

The parking lot was empty, devoid of any other cars. The only sign of life was the flickering neon sign and the dim light that filtered through the diner’s windows, casting long, dancing shadows on the wet ground. The rain pounded down on the roof of the Charger, a steady, almost deafening drumbeat that seemed to echo the pounding of my own heart.

I turned off the engine and sat there for a moment, staring at the diner. There was something unsettling about the place. But I knew I couldn’t just keep driving forever. I needed information, supplies, and maybe even a moment of respite from the endless highway and the horrors that lurked in the darkness.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the car door and stepped out into the storm. The rain lashed against me, cold and unforgiving, as I made my way toward the diner’s entrance. The door creaked open with an eerie, mournful sound, revealing a dimly lit interior that seemed to be frozen in time.

The diner was a long, narrow room with a counter that stretched along one side and booths that lined the other. The floor was a checkered pattern of black and white tiles, worn and scuffed with age. The air stank of old coffee, stale cigarettes, and something else—a faint, underlying smell of decay and despair. The same smell that seemed to permeate all of Infernum.

A jukebox stood in the corner, its once-vibrant colors now faded and muted. It played an old, scratchy 80s tune, the melody barely audible over the howling wind and pounding rain outside. The only other sound was the distant hum of the neon sign, a faint, almost imperceptible buzz that seemed to pulsate in time with the flickering light.

I took a tentative step inside, the door swinging shut behind me with a final, ominous creak. The diner was empty, or at least it appeared to be. The booths were vacant, the counter stools unoccupied. But there was a sense of presence, a feeling that I wasn’t alone.

As I made my way further into the diner, I noticed the small details that hinted at the passage of time. The calendar on the wall was stuck on a date from decades ago, its pages yellowed and curled with age. The menus that lay scattered on the tables were faded and stained, their prices listed in amounts that seemed almost quaint by modern standards.

But there was something else, something more sinister lurking beneath the surface. The mirrors that lined the walls were cracked and distorted, reflecting twisted, grotesque images that seemed to shift and change with each flicker of the neon light. The shadows that danced in the corners seemed to take on a life of their own, writhing and twisting as if possessed by some unseen force.

I made my way to the counter, my footsteps echoing in the empty room, and sat on one of the creaky stools.

“Hello?” I called, not sure if I wanted anyone to be here or not.

The place remained silent. No one appeared to serve me. Sighing, I lit up a cigarette, dismayed to see that over half the pack was gone. Guess I needed to slow down and stretch out what I had left.

As I sat smoking, wondering what my next move was going to be, a voice soon startled me. To the left, behind the counter, stood a young woman with short blonde hair, wearing a waitress uniform.

Jesus, she looks just like…

“Hey there,” she said, smiling slightly as she came walking over. “What can I get you?”

She spoke in a Southern drawl, and pretty much acted like this was just a normal encounter. That this place wasn’t part of some nightmare Trial scenario. That it was in fact just her normal place of work, and that she had a hometown go to after her shift, which I doubted.

“Eh, coffee, I guess.”

The waitress smiled. “Coming right up.” She turned and poured hot coffee from the pot into a plain white mug, then set the mug on the counter. “There you go.”

“Thanks.” I tasted the coffee, for some reason expecting it to not be real, but it was. “That actually tastes good.”

Smiling, the waitress shook her head slightly. “What you expect it to taste like?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. Not coffee.”

“Okay. You’re a little strange, aren’t you?”

“Strange? Is that a joke?”

“No. Why would it be a joke?”

I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter.” She was clearly deep into the role. I wondered how she ended up here. Probably another repurposed soul who failed the Trials. Or maybe even a victim of the Drifter.

“You hungry? I can make you some food if you want.”

“I’m good, thanks.” My stomach was still full from the pizza I ate before the Trial started.

“How about some pie, then? We do a good cherry pie here. Folks usually love it.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, playing along. “Why not.”

The waitress smiled. “One cherry pie coming right up. I’m Nadine, by the way.”

Nadine and not Nash, even though they looked identical. There was the showrunners worrying about copyright again. I shook my head at the absurdity of that. “Kade.”

“Nice to meet you, Kade. I’ll be back with your pie in two shakes of lambs tail.”

She smiled at that, then walked out back, leaving me alone at the counter while I sipped my coffee and smoked the rest of my cigarette.

Then I heard a noise behind me. Like someone clearing their throat.

What the hell? I thought I was alone in here.

Before I even turned around on my stool, I knew who I would see sitting behind me.

Sure enough, when I turned around, I saw the man from the highway sitting in one of the booths.

The Drifter sat casually in the booth, his back resting against the faded, cracked vinyl, one arm draped over the top of the seat. His wild, rain-soaked hair was slicked back, revealing a face that was both hauntingly familiar and utterly terrifying. His eyes, cold and calculating, bore into me with an intensity that turned my blood to ice.

His lips were curled into that same sinister, knowing smile, a smile that seemed to hide a multitude of dark secrets and twisted intentions.

He was dressed in the same worn, tattered clothes I had seen him in earlier, the fabric stained and weathered from countless nights spent on the endless highway. The faint scent of rain and something more ominous—a hint of decay and violence—lingered around him.

Jesus, he makes Herbie Floss seem like a carnival clown by comparison.

As I stared at him, he raised a hand in a mocking wave, his fingers long and bony, the nails caked with dirt and grime. Grubby Band-Aids were wrapped around his knuckles.

“Hey there,” he said, his voice almost cheery, though he couldn’t hide the sinister edge to it. “Why don’t you join me for a chat, Kade?”