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He hated driving alone at night. It was an eight-mile stretch of empty, pitch-black desert road from the highway to Hawthorne Munitions Depot, a drive that took roughly six minutes to get through, and god he fucking hated it.
The highway was fine. Great, even. Nothing but the setting sun, wind beating against the vehicle, and static-y radio had kept him company for the last several hours. The sun was long gone now, though, the sky seeming to melt into the inky horizon. And that was fine as well. Deimos wasn’t afraid of the dark, those days were long behind him. He was, however, afraid of what was in the dark, no matter how “full proof” the rule system they’d come up with was.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he pulled onto the exit, stopping just short of the dusty road as he was overcome by that all too familiar “I wanna curl up into a ball and cry until morning” feeling. He hated this. He fucking hated it so much and he swore to himself that next time Doc had him make this drive, he was going to have a conniption over it.
Deimos steadied himself with a deep breath, swallowing his nerves. Remember the rules.
Mouth shut.
Radio off.
Brights on.
Turn the rear-view mirror away.
Keep your eyes straight ahead, don’t stop the car, and don’t get out.
One more deep breath just to stall a little longer, and Deimos pulled off of the exit and onto that accursed road.
The first mile always went without incident, but he still gripped the steering wheel like a vice, an anxious tremble settling itself in his stomach. Every bump in the road had him jumping in his seat, every silhouette of the landscape trying to play tricks on his mind. What if he blew a tire out here or broke down? He wasn’t supposed to stop the car and there was no way in hell he would get out to change it even if he did. Was he allowed to call for help? Should he just wait until morning? All questions he only seemed to remember when it was too late to ask.
He exhaled shakily as the headlights started to flicker. Mile two. Deimos tapped his fingers idly against the steering wheel, trying to distract himself.
He was just being paranoid. Their vehicles’ headlights flickered all the time, it was part of being colossal pieces of shit. Maybe the jostling of riding on a dirt road made it worse. The radio turned itself on and back off again and it really did make him want to cry.
The third mile was where it got worse. The silhouettes on the side of the road started to take more shape, no longer rocks and barren trees out of the corners of his eyes, the shapes closer to human and somehow darker than the world around them. Deimos kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. They don’t like being looked at.
By the fourth mile, the darkness started to feel suffocating, like it was closing in around him. His headlights didn’t shine quite as far. The shapes were getting closer to the sides of the car.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Pretend they aren’t there and whatever you do, don’t look.
The tapping started and tears started to well up in his eyes. On the windows. The roof. The door panels. Even underneath the car. Some of it light, rhythmic rapping, some of it sounding like someone had smacked their hand against the vehicle. At the edge of his vision, he could just barely make out a face outside his window.
Deimos’s blood ran cold when he heard someone say his name. It was never the same voice. Sometimes distant, sometimes right next to him. Voices he knew, voices he loved, voices he hated, voices he never wanted to hear again. It was whispered so close to his ear that he had to fight back the urge to look behind himself.
Two more miles. Hawthorne was visible off in the distance now. Deimos floored the gas.
The tapping stopped and the voice was gone, now replaced by the screaming. It was like someone was being murdered in the middle of the desert, far out where he couldn’t see. It wasn’t real. There was no helpless victim and no serial killer to save them from. What was waiting for him out in the dark was neither alive nor human.
Invisible hands slammed against his door panel and made him jump so hard that the car swerved on the road, Deimos nearly losing control. He didn’t care that he was crying and shaking like a goddamn baby now. He wanted to get home and he wanted the banging to stop. The closer he got to the depot, the more it quieted down, his tires squealing as he crossed the threshold into Hawthorne.
The main bunker entrance was just up ahead, doors already open and lights already on. Home sweet fucking home. He floored it into the garage and came to a screeching halt, practically yanking the keys out of the ignition and nearly tripping in his hurry to get out of the car and get inside.
Don’t look back out into the dark. Eyes ahead. Stay in the light.
Deimos’s hand fumbled as he punched the security code into the door, feeling like the blackness was still trying to swallow him. It opened with an affirming beep and he rushed inside, slamming the door behind himself and reengaging the locks.
He didn’t bother letting Doc know he’d made it home safe. Didn’t shower like normal or get undressed once he’d reached his room aside from shedding his jacket and shoes.
He simply crawled into bed next to his already sleeping partner and huddled close under the sheets, strong arms wrapping around him almost automatically in a warm embrace. Deimos held his breath, waiting for the scratching at his door to start.
Don’t get out of bed no matter how loud.
Don’t open the door no matter who you think is on the other side.
Just close your eyes and pretend to be asleep. They’ll leave you alone by morning.