内华达州的太阳像一颗巨大的火球悬挂在蔚蓝得仿佛抛光的天空中,灼烧着66号公路,沥青路面仿佛软化下陷.热浪扭曲着公路上方的空气,地平线泛起涟漪,空气本身也感觉沸腾起来——每一次呼吸都像被灼烧,仿佛细小的余烬灼烧着你的喉咙.在沙漠中,海市蜃楼上演着残酷的戏码:连绵起伏的沙丘变成了波光粼粼的湖泊,湖岸边点缀着朦胧的棕榈树,然后又变成了城市摩天大楼的模糊轮廓,在热浪中摇曳消散,最终再次重现.这就像一场永无止境的狂热之梦,嘲讽着任何胆敢穿越这段路的人.
卡车司机戴夫紧握方向盘的手掌汗湿透了,黏糊糊的感觉让他难以忍受.他心不在焉地用牛仔裤擦了擦,但粗糙的牛仔裤反而让他感觉更湿润.他那辆1985年的彼得比尔特油罐车陪伴了他十五年——油漆早已剥落,露出了里面锈迹斑斑的金属,如同老人饱经风霜的肌肤,但引擎依然发出低沉而顽强的轰鸣,如同一头过了巅峰却远非无牙的雄狮.它从德克萨斯州运来原油,巨大的重量在路上留下了两道车辙,痕迹一直延伸到地平线.
戴夫四十八岁,鱼尾纹很深,是常年风吹日晒留下的痕迹.他的头发稀疏灰白,随意地向后梳着,露出额头上密密麻麻的汗珠.他穿着一件灰色的"彼得比尔特"T恤,领子已经变形,上面的标志也褪得几乎认不出来.脖子上挂着一条银十字架项链——这是他妈妈在他第一次跑步前送给他的,说这项链能保佑他平安.如今,项链已经失去光泽,被汗水浸得发黑,但他从未摘下过.
他已经在66号公路上行驶了二十多年,看着它从一条熙熙攘攘的主干道逐渐沦为一条近乎鬼路的路.曾经,这条路充满生机——卡车,开着通宵营业的餐馆和汽车旅馆的城镇,以及照亮沙漠黑暗的霓虹灯招牌.后来,州际公路出现了,66号公路逐渐衰落.如今,废弃的城镇星罗棋布,它们用木板封住的建筑在风中摇曳,如同沉默的哨兵.
戴夫的目光扫向后视镜,心脏猛地漏跳了一下,像被老虎钳钳住一样.那个影子已经跟着他走了三英里——不像搭便车的笨重步伐,而是稳定,有节奏的步伐,跟在他身后十码处,像循环播放的录音.他看不到一张脸,只有一个模糊的身影在热浪中闪烁,眼看就要消失,却始终没有真正消失.
他猛踩刹车.轮胎的尖啸声划破了沙漠的宁静,路面上袅袅升起的烟雾,散发着刺鼻的恶臭,令人作呕.一块被太阳晒得褪色的路牌在柱子上嘎吱作响,红色的油漆剥落:下一站:死亡谷,47英里.上面的字母看起来快要完全脱落了.
A man in a black leather jacket leaned against a rusted guardrail, as if he'd been there since the earth was young. His cowboy boots were caked with Colorado red dirt—the kind of deep, rich red that looked like dried blood, the sort that conjured images of old western shootouts and unmarked graves. In his hand, a hunting knife caught the light, its blade glinting cold. The sheath was carved with a vulture, wings spread, its beak pointed straight at the valve on Dave's tanker—like it was eyeing a kill.
"Need a new blade, friend?" The man's voice was rough, laced with the click of chewing tobacco. The smoke ring he blew dissolved instantly in the heat. "This one'll get you through tonight's dust storm. But remember—when you hit five grand at that Vegas casino, I take thirty percent."
Dave let out a snort, baring teeth stained yellow from years of chewing. Twenty years on the road, he'd seen every con artist under the sun: drifters who turned violent once they got a ride, grifters spinning tall tales to part you from your cash. He gunned the engine; the diesel rumbled in protest, shaking the cab.
The man rapped on the window—tap, tap, tap—a rhythm that felt like Morse code, each knock thudding in time with Dave's heartbeat. "Oh, and the girl in your back seat? Shouldn't have swiped her old man's casino chips. He filed a report last night. Vegas PD's got her flagged as 'high risk' in their dispatch system."
That hit like a cactus spine to the throat, choking Dave. He jerked his head down to Lila, huddled in the back. She was sixteen, maybe, in a faded denim skirt with a small hole at the hem, exposing a thin ankle. Her face still held traces of childhood, her eyes wide and startled like a frightened deer, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. A corner of a blue casino chip peeked out of her skirt pocket, stuck with a scrap of Caesar's Palace gold fabric—no mistaking that.
Dave's heart started hammering, a drum in his chest. He knew Lila's dad—Marvin Carter, a big shot in Vegas, ran a couple of casinos, famous for his short fuse and long memory. Rumor had it, a guy once skipped out on a debt to him; they found his body floating in the Colorado River three days later. If Marvin tracked Lila to him…
A badge glinted from the man's jacket pocket—a brass star, "Sheriff" stamped in the center. It looked exactly like the one on the abandoned police station down the road, its paint peeled away, the year worn into a faint indentation. Dave remembered that station: his dad had told him about it, back when he was a kid. Built during Prohibition, 1929. The sheriff back then, Tom Wilson, was a hardass, cracked down hard on bootleggers, made a lot of enemies. Got his face blown off in a gang shootout, dumped out back behind the station. They didn't find him till the buzzards gave him away.
"Deal." Dave pulled twenty bucks from the dashboard compartment, the green bills fluttering to the ground like a dying butterfly. "But where'd you get that badge? The 1929 sheriff—he got his face blown off in a bootlegger gunfight, didn't he?"
The man let out a whistle, a warped version of "Red River Valley," the tune sad and lonesome, drifting across the desert. A 1957 Chevy rumbled up from behind a dune—fire-engine red, impossible to miss against the sand. Antlers were mounted on the grille, still dripping something red that trickled down the hood, leaving snakelike trails. The crunch of its tires on gravel mixed with a faint jingle, like distant bells.
"1927. The guy who had this knife before traded it for that sheriff's job." He flipped the bill between his fingers; the crisp sound scared a flock of crows off the guardrail, their caws fading as they flew. "Cost him seven extra bodies in the Italian-Irish gang war. Made thirteen total. Lucky number, right?" He tossed the knife over. The grip's ridges still held dried blood, dark and crusty, like a secret. "It's yours now, cowboy."
Dave caught it. It was cold, ice-cold, the chill seeping up his arm, making him shiver. Heavy in his hand, the blade sharp enough to bite. Scratches on the metal told stories, though he couldn't read them. He hesitated, then slid it into his belt sheath.
Lila's voice came from the back, small and shaky: "Uncle Dave, are we really gonna make it to Vegas? My dad—"
"Don't worry. This knife's gonna keep us safe." Dave lied, but he didn't want to see her more scared than she already was. He knew why she'd run: Marvin Carter controlled every part of her life—who she talked to, where she went. She'd wanted to go to college, but he'd laughed. Said she belonged in the casino, counting his money.
Dave fired up the tanker, and they rolled on. The desert stayed barren—scraggly cacti with twisted arms, their spines like needles; distant mountains brown and rugged, looming like they might collapse. Dave turned on the radio, but only static came through, broken by snippets of song. He shut it off. The cab fell silent, save for the engine's rumble and the tires eating up road.
Lila fell asleep, her brow furrowed like she was having a bad dream. Dave glanced in the mirror, a pang of pity hitting him. His own daughter was about her age, studying art in college. He hadn't seen her in over a month, just quick phone calls. She complained he worked too much, but she knew—this truck paid her tuition, kept a roof over their heads.
He pulled out his phone, but the screen read No Service. He sighed and slipped it back into his pocket.
At noon, the sun sat directly overhead, baking the world. Dave pulled over at an abandoned gas station—half the roof caved in, the pumps rusted solid, covered in graffiti. He grabbed a sandwich from the cab—stale bread, ham, lettuce—and leaned against the tanker to eat.
Lila woke up, peeking over the seat. "Uncle Dave, where are we?"
"Almost to Death Valley. Eat something." He handed her a sandwich.
"Thanks." She took it, nibbling slowly, her fear easing a little.
Then a sound—like wind, but meaner, a low roar. Dave looked up. A wall of yellow dust was racing toward them, blotting out the sky.
"Dust storm! Lila, get back in!"
She scrambled into her seat. Dave hit the gas, his knuckles white. Storms out by Death Valley were killers—zero visibility, wrecks, getting lost in the desert.
But the knife at his belt suddenly heated up, warm but not burning, a steady pulse against his palm. A direction popped into his head, clear as day. He turned hard, the tanker swerving, dodging rocks and debris, heading straight away from the storm.
Sand pelted the windows like machine-gun fire. The world turned yellow, then brown, then black. But Dave didn't panic. The knife guided him—he could feel it, like a sixth sense. He swerved around a boulder, veered away from a dry gully.
When it finally let up, the sky blue again, Dave pulled over, gasping for air. Lila's face was pale, but she managed a smile. "We made it."
He nodded, glancing at the knife. It was cool again, normal, but he knew—this wasn't just a blade.
By evening, Vegas was glowing ahead, a sea of lights in the distance. Lila perked up. "We're here."
Dave didn't drive into the strip. The knife seemed to tug him toward Caesar's back alley—trash cans overflowing, the air reeking of rot. He killed the engine.
"Stay here." He took the last few hundred dollars he had, walked into the casino. Glitz hit him hard—bells ringing, people cheering, the clink of chips, the sweet stench of perfume and booze. He stopped at a slot machine, hesitated, then fed in every dollar. Pulled the lever.
The reels spun—clatter, clatter, clatter. Dave held his breath. Three 7s lined up. Jackpot!
Alarms blared, and chips poured out, stacking up to five grand. A crowd gathered, cheering. Dave stuffed them into a bag, ran for the door.
Outside, he checked the mirror. The '57 Chevy was parked under a streetlamp, the vulture on its grille seeming to turn, watching him. Dave shivered, tucked thirty percent of the chips into an envelope, set it on the Chevy's hood, then grabbed Lila and hit the road.
Vegas' lights shrank behind them, a glittering dream fading. Dave gripped the wheel, his chest tight with a mix of relief and dread. The knife thudded against his hip, a constant reminder.
莉拉在后座睡着了.戴夫盯着路,车灯照亮了道路,像一条隧道一样延伸.他不知道接下来会发生什么,但他知道——这把刀,这笔交易,改变了一切.
他会保护莉拉的安全.把她送到马文找不到的地方.这把刀还想要什么?他都能搞定.
夜色渐长.66号公路在轮胎下滚动,通向未知.戴夫的旅程才刚刚开始.