[i]“Runnin’ my rig around ninety-five...Rockin’-and-a-rollin’ in overdrive…”[/i]

The driving guitar of George Thorogood and the Destroyers pounded from the battered speakers of David’s F250, competing with the roar of the diesel engine to shatter the midnight silence as he put the pedal to the floor, grinning as the needle climbed past 90. He’d been driving for a few days now, stopping along the road to sleep whenever fatigue overtook him, and was now tearing up the highway outside Williamsport, Pennsylvania, bound for Haverton, Massachusetts.

The hunting had been good out in Washington, but a week before he’d received an email from an old Massachusetts contact by the name of Robert Chandler, and what he’d read had worried him. After wrapping up business in Spokane, David had packed his gear, changed his plates, and hit the road.

The Militiaman-turned-Hunter fired up his phone, opening his email to read the message again.

[b]"Mr. Connally,

I don't know if you remember me at all, but you did some freelance work for my friends a while back up here in Massachusetts? Things have gotten pretty Bad up here lately, and I could use the help; truth be told, my sponsors are kind of insisting. I'm pretty Forlorn. Hope to get as many folks up here as I can, things are that bad, but I'm starting to doubt too many will show given the state of the rest of the world. If you can make up here, let me know and I'll send you my address in Haverton. If not, or if you're already Dead, well then don't worry about it.

- Robert Chandler
[i]Mundus vult decipi.[/i]" [/b]

David turned the email over in his mind, thoughts drifting back to the “freelance work” mentioned in the message.The more he thought about it, the more he seemed to remember who he was dealing with; a bookworm type who’d stayed mostly in the background, compiling intelligence for the rest of the group he’d been assisting at the time. He’d departed without leaving his contact information, so the fact that the guy had managed to track him down spoke volumes about his research skills all by itself. David Connally wasn’t an easy man to find, and he liked it that way.

[i]Could be a trap,[/i] he thought to himself, then shrugged and dismissed the idea. Chances were slim that a bunch of Vampires would bother sending an email and inviting him out for a beer. If they knew where he was, he’d be dead already.

As the song ended, David reached into the cooler in the passenger seat and fished around for a moment, groping through the ice until his fingers wrapped around cold metal. He popped the tab on another can of Coors Original and took a long swig, his blue eyes narrow as he pondered what he could be driving into. After another sip he stuck the can in the cup holder and tapped out a quick reply to Chandler with one hand.
[b]Robert,

David here. On my way, 5 hours out. C u soon.[/b]

Foghat’s “Slow Ride” fired up on the iPod plugged into the stereo system, and the Arkansas native grinned again and edged the accelerator up to 100, the rumble of the diesel engine bellowing his presence into the night.

[i]Better make that three hours…[/i]