This is the Highway Killer Speaking
Aaron Gonzales
As Eric Shannon walked on the shoulder of the highway heading out of town, the cold wind blew against his numb face and chilled his bones. He only wore a ratty hunting jacket he had got from the Salvation Army—not fit for the cold Montana winters. The jacket had a good deal of holes and loose threads. Slung on his shoulders was a stained backpack, and this pack had his entire life inside it. It had a single change of clothes, a couple cans of food, some cigarettes, and one large hunting knife.
The highway heading east out of Brownsville was a busy one. Cars passed by every minute, and Eric could feel the cold gust of wind they left in their wake. He was walking with traffic—not against as he should—and his fingers were cold. He was only two miles out of town, and he was debating whether he should turn back.
He decided against it. He would keep walking, and he would hitch a ride or two to get to South Dakota. If not there, at least Broadus.
Eric kept walking. A few hundred feet from him was a black garbage bag someone must have tossed from their car. The bag had something in it, and it had tumbled from the paved highway and down onto the weeds on the side. As Eric got closer, he could see that the bag was ragged and torn from the fall. There were a few holes in the bag, and something had leaked from it.
A viscous liquid had pooled underneath the bag and onto the yellow weeds. It was thick and dark red. It was blood, Eric realized, horrified. The bag rustled. Something was moving inside. Eric took a couple steps back, frightened. As if on cue, a brown field mouse scurried out of the bag.
Eric saw what the bag contained and bent over to vomit. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked back at the garbage bag.
Poking out of the bag was a limp, grey, hand.
Far off, in a farmhouse on the outskirts of Brownsville, a middle-aged man was shackled to a brick wall. His mouth was gagged with an old t-shirt, and his eyes were filled with fear. His wrists were bloody from the handcuffs and sweat stung his eyes.
The door opposite the captive man opened and the man panicked. He began rattling the chains, desperate to escape, but to no avail. A shadowy figure entered, his face obscured by a burlap sack he wore as a mask, with a meat cleaver in his hand.
The police had not even arrived on the scene that Eric Shannon found when this captive man was chopped up alive. It would take another two weeks for them to find this body—chopped up and skinned in the apple orchards west of town.
The highway heading east out of Brownsville was a busy one. Cars passed by every minute, and Eric could feel the cold gust of wind they left in their wake. He was walking with traffic—not against as he should—and his fingers were cold. He was only two miles out of town, and he was debating whether he should turn back.
He decided against it. He would keep walking, and he would hitch a ride or two to get to South Dakota. If not there, at least Broadus.
Eric kept walking. A few hundred feet from him was a black garbage bag someone must have tossed from their car. The bag had something in it, and it had tumbled from the paved highway and down onto the weeds on the side. As Eric got closer, he could see that the bag was ragged and torn from the fall. There were a few holes in the bag, and something had leaked from it.
A viscous liquid had pooled underneath the bag and onto the yellow weeds. It was thick and dark red. It was blood, Eric realized, horrified. The bag rustled. Something was moving inside. Eric took a couple steps back, frightened. As if on cue, a brown field mouse scurried out of the bag.
Eric saw what the bag contained and bent over to vomit. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked back at the garbage bag.
Poking out of the bag was a limp, grey, hand.
Far off, in a farmhouse on the outskirts of Brownsville, a middle-aged man was shackled to a brick wall. His mouth was gagged with an old t-shirt, and his eyes were filled with fear. His wrists were bloody from the handcuffs and sweat stung his eyes.
The door opposite the captive man opened and the man panicked. He began rattling the chains, desperate to escape, but to no avail. A shadowy figure entered, his face obscured by a burlap sack he wore as a mask, with a meat cleaver in his hand.
The police had not even arrived on the scene that Eric Shannon found when this captive man was chopped up alive. It would take another two weeks for them to find this body—chopped up and skinned in the apple orchards west of town.
Aaron Gonzales is a senior and simply wishes to get out of Roswell. He enjoys restoring classic cars and watching football. Unfortunately, his favorite team is the New York Giants, who haven't been good since 2011.