The Endless Highway

Inigo Collins woke to the sun glaring on the dashboard and an acute, bone-deep pain in his head and neck. It took a moment for his vision clear enough for him to see the airbag had deployed from the steering wheel—and to see what he'd collided with.

An old, red telephone booth.

It was odd, a telephone booth like this in the middle of nowhere. It took only one look beyond the windshield to place himself there. Orange sand, knotted grass, and cacti made up the surroundings, and in the distance, dust devils spun against the backdrop of the blue sky. But it was the old, two-lane highway that really spoke to the place's solitude. Iggy couldn't see where it ended or even where it turned. 

He was overcome by a sudden nostalgia as if he'd driven along this highway many times as a kid. He'd never been here before, though, and he didn't even know how he was here now. Iggy knew he could figure it out if his head stopped pounding. There was aspirin in the glove compartment. Gingerly, he sat up and reached for it.

He swallowed the pills dry and reached for his phone. Dead. Next, for his wallet to see if he had any coins for the phone booth. Yes, he knew the irony of using it, but he had to call his boss. And more immediately, he had to think of an excuse for falling asleep at the wheel.

This car was government property, after all. He'd be fired.

Shit.

That's why he was here.

Iggy's eyes fell on his FBI credentials as he opened his wallet.

"Special Agent Inigo Collins," he scoffed.

Only three months ago, he'd been a police deputy. And then, his life became unrecognizable. He'd gotten his criminology degree, for one. And then he'd solved that cold case online. And the FBI had scouted him to solve more cold cases so they could claim someone was. And he'd moved from a police cruiser to a dingy basement. This, in fact, was his first assignment outside of the office.

And this assignment was… some kind of investigation. But what investigation? Iggy stuck the heels of his palms in his eyes to help him think.

It couldn't be important, whatever it was. His satellite office was in the armpit of Utah, a far cry from Quantico. And… Oh, that's right. It was some kind of joke, wasn't it? This assignment was a hazing ritual. 

Theodore Wilkes, a disgraced agent of fifty-seven, headed their office. Flickers of a conversation they had returned to him as if transmitted by analog radio. 

"Oh yeah… the locals out here." Wilkes had whistled, long and slow. "They're out of their heads. And it's that old stretch of highway they complain about most. Five people have gone missing this year, four of them junkies, including the one who came back. He says he saw his doppelganger and had to be committed. Normally, I wouldn't give it a second thought. But people from state HQ have taken notice of the disappearances, and they're making us investigate. They think it's a serial killer."

"So you're sending me?" he'd asked. "Look, I read old case files and occasionally cuss out the vending machine. I can't be in the field."

"There's no danger in it, trust me. And besides, you haven't earned your place yet." Wilkes had patted him on the shoulder. "This is your chance."

And so, Iggy had gone, even though he hadn't had to fire his gun once as a deputy. He'd known something terrible would happen, and here he was, stranded on Missing Persons Highway itself.

He really shouldn't have gone.

He kicked the car door open and lurched out into the breathless heat. There was no wind, not even a breeze, but those dust devils still spun in the distance, paint smudges on a canvas. He shrugged off his suit jacket, his tie close in pursuit. He made his way down to the telephone booth and wrested the door open. Expecting relief from the shade, he found it was even hotter inside.

The phone itself was an old-fashioned wooden device with a distinct silver earpiece and mouthpiece. As a hapless millennial, Iggy couldn't remember a number for his life, and he decided to try 911. So he dialed it and let the phone ring. It was a tinny sound, fake, almost, but someone picked up. 

Instead of an operator saying 911, emergency services, there was dead static.

Iggy waited, incredulous.

"He—hello?" he asked. More static. "This is Agent Inigo Collins of the FBI," he said. There was a long pause as he waited for someone to answer him. "I seem to have crashed my car. I—I mean, I have. I have crashed my car." His therapist had told him to stop using passive language. "I'm not injured, but I need one of your officers to come pick me up, as I can't drive myself back..."

More static, and yet, he was calling someone.

Finally, a voice, but it wasn't speaking English. 

“On zdes'. On zdes' nakonets,” said the voice.

It was poised, authoritative. Impossible to tell whether it was male or female. It went on from there, quite conversationally, as if he could understand it and respond. Iggy finally identified it as Russian. There were numbers in the mix, and a series of Da and Nyet, like commands. And the word for bed, the word for airport, and a reference to… was that the title, Gulliver's Travels?

"I—I'm sorry," he said. "Can you speak English?" The static died away, like water draining from a bathtub. There was a sound—crystal clear now—like someone licking their lips. 

Iggy's blood ran cold.

"No," it said in a perfect English accent. "I can't, Agent Collins."

The line went dead.

The creeping sensation returned, and he glanced wildly out the windows. There was nothing but wilderness, crowned by skies so blue his eyes ached. Who was that? Was it the same speaker?

Something was wrong here, and it was definitely above his pay grade.

"Stop," he told himself firmly. "Get a hold of yourself." 

Calls get lost on the air all the time. Wasn't that a thing? Yeah, sure it was. Still, he'd write a report when he got back. Someone else could investigate this highway. Someone more capable.

He'd try the phone again in another five minutes, and if that didn't work, surely someone would drive along.

Gasping for breath, he stepped out. He sat in the shadow of his steaming car and waited for his pulse to return to normal. Iggy knew he was being an idiot. He also knew he had no water, no food, and no way of help.

He was alone. 

Or worse. He wasn't.

"Stop it," he told himself again. "There's no serial killer out here." Even serial killers need water, and this place was missing a drinking fountain. 

He tried the phone again, once, twice, and didn't even get the voice. He sat back down each time and waited.

An hour passed, and Iggy hadn't had to move with the shadow of his car. The sun seemed to be lingering directly overhead, and he was dripping in sweat. He watched the horizon, now, for vehicles. For anything. Any sign of life.

A few times, a mirage tricked him. And that's what he thought he saw now. But the more they moved, the more real they appeared. 

Two figures running up the road, not down toward him.

He had been watching the entire time. Where had they come from?

Watching them, Iggy felt the urgency of his situation more than ever. He'd sweated too much, waiting for cars. He'd die of thirst before anyone else came along. The specks on the horizon were growing smaller, the voices quieter, and though he knew it wasn't advisable in the heat, he began sprinting down the road.

Fortunately for him, they stopped to face one another. Iggy stopped, too, to observe at a safe distance. They were both men. Both are dressed in white shirts and slacks. In fact, they were nearly identical. One of them took something out of his belt. Iggy squinted and ran a few yards closer.

It… it was a gun.

Before he could fathom the idea, a shot rang out. It went wide. The target began to run.

Everything in Iggy told him he should follow suit. He shouldn't approach the desert lunatic who had just tried to shoot someone. But that, he realized, was exactly what he had been sent here for, even if Wilkes hadn't believed it would happen. Utah headquarters had known a serial killer was lurking on the highway. They'd expected their satellite office to conduct an investigation using skilled agents, not the guy in the basement.

But the guy in the basement was the only one here. He had to help.

Iggy, despite everything, approached.

"Your—your face." The words now reached him. "Who the fuck are you? Who was he? How did you guys do that? Oh my God. Oh no. He said that too."

The one who spoke turned around. He walked very casually away from his counterpart as if he couldn't fathom the danger he was in. Iggy watched with bated breath as the other one raised his gun. No, he thought. Don't do it. He closed his eyes tight when the shot rang out. He only opened them again when the silence returned.

The injured man was on his face.

He had been shot with his back turned.

Iggy's ears rang. The shooter dropped his gun and stood, swaying, over the body, though there was no wind. Then, dropping to his knees, he turned him over. At the sight of his victim's face, he got sick on the side of the road.

Iggy felt nothing but rage when the shooter stood up.

"Hey!" he shouted. "FBI, move away from the weapon!"

The man whirled around. "No," he quavered. "You don't understand! He had a gun. "He shot a guy! I'll show you where."

"Step away from the fucking body!" Iggy cried, drawing his gun.

"No, you have to help me!" The shooter cried, and Iggy felt something rise up within him—along with anger, there was now the fear of facing a man who had killed someone right before him. He switched the safety on his pistol off for the first time in years. His finger closed on the trigger. His heart went provisionally cold. He fired, and he fired wide, but still, the message was delivered. The man spared a moment to stare wide-eyed, and then he broke into a run. Iggy followed him without a thought. 

His heart pounded in his head. His legs burned beneath him. Sweat coated him entirely. It was hard to keep a grip on his weapon. He didn't know how much longer he could run. But finally, the man stopped. He turned to face Iggy.

"Please, believe me!" he gasped. "You have to believe me. Something's happening out here!"

Iggy drew closer, panting, gun raised, and all at once, he could see the man's face in full detail.

That is, he could see his own face.

Same green eyes, same Argentine complexion. Same thick hair and scruffy beard. Same shirt. Same belt. Same slacks. Same shoes with cardboard stuffed into the toes.

Same FBI agent.

How?

The man advanced a step, fear in his eyes and in his knit brow, and it was reflected in Iggy's own face, and it was all too much, and his head was spinning like a dust devil, and he had been right. There was something wrong with this place. And this thing, whatever it was, it couldn't be him. It belonged in a plexiglass cage somewhere deep underground. But it was coming toward him now, with eyes the same as his, and he didn't know what to do, oh God, he didn't know what to do.

"Your—your face. Who the fuck are you?" it demanded. "Who was he? How did you guys do that? Oh my God. Oh no. He said that too." The thing shook its head, incredulous. It turned its back to him, and it began to walk away.

It was more by instinct, more to end the insanity, that he pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out. As with the first one, Iggy squeezed his eyes shut until the silence had returned. When he opened them, the gun dropped involuntarily from his sweat-slick hands at the sight. He didn't move to pick it up.

It lay face down, just like the man it had killed.

Iggy dropped down beside it. He seized its shoulders and turned it over to confirm what he'd seen. 

And yes, those were his green eyes, open, vacant. There was a gash on its forehead from where it had struck it against the pavement. Blood was forming a pool under it from the gunshot wound. It was a through-and-through gunshot. Iggy had never been a good shot. He hadn't meant to hit the heart, which was why he had.

Bile rose in his throat.

This was him. It looked just like him. It seemed to be looking at him.

He vomited on the side of the road. He had to get away from it. He had to go home. He had to go home.

He dragged himself to his feet.

"Hey! FBI, move away from the weapon!" He whirled around, and though some part of him knew what was happening, he still denied it.

"No," Iggy quavered, shaking his head vigorously. "You don't understand! He had a gun. He shot a guy! I'll show you where."

"Step away from the fucking body!" the agent shouted.

"No," he cried, feeling tears bead in the corners of his eyes. "You have to help me!"

The agent lifted his gun. The world grew strangely silent, strangely dim, as he stared down the barrel. The sound of the shot brought him back. It sent him running. And so, he ran. But Iggy couldn't run forever because forever was as far as the road stretching. And everything looked the same. And it was the same. And it had all happened before. And it had to stop.

He gasped for breath and turned to face the agent.

"Please, believe me!" he panted. "You have to believe me. Something's happening out here!"

He was met with indifference from his pursuer. From himself—from a man who looked just like him. But it couldn't be.

"Your—your face," Iggy breathed. "Who the fuck are you? Who was he? How did you guys do that?" 

The words echoed.

The words were familiar. He'd heard them moments before from the mouth of the thing he'd killed.

"Oh my God. Oh no. He said that too," Iggy muttered. He shook his head, incredulous. This couldn't be. This wasn't. He wasn't here right now. That wasn't him. He could just walk away. He was dreaming. He'd step off the road, and it would all be alright again. He'd go out amongst the cacti and the dust devils and keep walking until his shoes were the color of the ground. Someone would find him. He'd go home.

He turned around. He made it all of three steps before he heard the gunshot before his legs gave out.

He was on his knees, facing the horizon and what seemed a great length of sky. 

Then, he fell on his face.