Standing still was out of the question; it was far too cold. What made matters worse was the rain. In ten minutes, it had changed from vertical to horizontal, and as icy drops of water hit my face, they stung like needles against my exposed skin.
The wind picked up everything from the ground and threw it around like shrapnel. The temperature lowered by the minute, and I felt frozen when the hail started falling. I needed a ride soon, or I'd be suffering from hypothermia.
When my breath became visible each time I exhaled, I coughed occasionally from breathing in icy cold air. What the hell was I doing hitchhiking in this weather? Wasn't it supposed to be warmer in October?
The radio weather report I'd heard earlier said it would be 'sporadic showers', but the rain had not stopped since hearing the news. It felt like someone was manipulating the weather to change my travel plans, and I would die if I couldn't find shelter soon.
A truck driver had dropped me off at a junction five miles back, and the area I now walked was unfamiliar territory. I hurriedly looked at my soggy road map, but this place, wherever it was, was too small to be shown. I saw the name of the last town and quickly picked out the following village on the map, but there was nothing in between. My map showed wilderness.
I walked quickly to keep warm, and the collar on my jacket pulled around my ears to keep the rain out. I couldn't figure out what happened next, but the hairs on my neck stood out. I distinctly felt my balls try to retreat into my belly, leaving my scrotum a cold and empty sack.
When it suddenly went dark, my head circled to see if the street lights had blown, and then, as I looked up and down the road, I noticed no lights on anywhere. Something had caused an electrical short, and a distinct smell of ozone was in the air. A strange feeling washed over me as though something or someone was trying to introduce themselves. My fingers tingled, and my heels went numb.
After walking another half mile, lights raked the darkness over my shoulder. I frantically waved my thumb, hoping the driver would see me and stop. Freezing water flew up from the tyres as the car passed, and the spray soaked me even more than I was already. My head automatically bent to let the water run from my hair to the ground.
As I chanted my "I must get out of this weather" mantra, I heard the vehicle stop fifty yards further up the road. The reverse lights came on, and the car snaked from side to side as it raced across the ground in reverse. The differential howled in protest at going backwards too quickly. I thought, 'Jesus, this guy's trying to kill me.' Then, as the car stopped a couple of feet away, I thought, 'A lift. I've got a lift."
It was a black Chevrolet, probably a 1960 vintage. The chrome alone must have weighed as much as a Honda. The window on my side opened, and a female voice said, "Can I give you a lift?"
I leaned in toward the window."I'm heading for the next town, maybe thirty miles away. Anywhere close would be much appreciated. I'll look for somewhere to stay when I get there."
"Please, get in. How long have you been out in this awful weather?"
I opened the passenger door, took off my pack, and threw it onto the back seat. "My last lift dropped me over an hour ago." The words came out as a stutter, like a kid reciting poetry. I tried hard not to shake, but it wasn't working. I must have been closer to hypothermia than I realised.
"Make yourself comfortable; I'll turn up the heater and see if we can warm you up again."
She seemed friendly enough and unconcerned that she'd just picked up a man in the middle of nowhere. All I needed right then was the warmth from the heater and a little TLC if it was on offer.
Water leaked from my clothes onto the seat and the floor. I said, "I'm sorry about getting your car wet."
"Don't worry; it'll dry off soon enough. No harm done." We shook hands briefly, and when I felt her warmth, it made me feel that much colder. "I'm Beverley, by the way."
"Hi Beverley, I'm Danny, Danny Lehman." Beverley was stunning and much older than me, maybe in her mid-forties. Her hair was jet black, except for a streak of white about an inch wide running through the centre. She had pulled her hair into a ponytail held by a flexible gold band. I knew it would be as soft as silk without touching it. The noise as it swished against her dress was mesmerising.
I gazed away momentarily when she said, "Has the cat got your tongue? "
"I'm sorry, did you say something?"
"I said are you getting warmer? I can turn the heater up, or you could take a drink from the flask in the glove box."
I felt embarrassed when Beverley caught me staring at her like a schoolboy looking up his teacher's dress. "I'm sorry, Beverley, what flask?"
"It's a witch's brew that will make you feel good. After all, it is All Saints Eve. You know, Halloween." I soon laughed with her when she gave a theatrical, high-pitched laugh like a loon.
"I don't want to turn your car into a sauna by asking you to turn up the heater even higher, so I'll try your 'witch's brew."
She didn't speak; she just smiled, then returned her eyes to the road. I took in the rest of her at a glance. She wore a black wool dress that reached mid-thigh. The front plunged low enough that her cleavage showed stark white against the black material. From where the dress finished, I saw black leather knee-high boots with a grey zig-zag pattern along the outside of each boot.
It was hard not to stare. Even though she was as old as my mother, she was a good-looking woman. I could not help wondering what she would look like without the dress, maybe just standing in the black boots and stockings.
I removed the flask from the glove box. It was covered in red leather and had a coat of arms engraved on the front. The engraving showed a phoenix rising from the ashes of an object on fire. On closer inspection, it was a globe, but not the Earth. The wings of a fabulous bird smouldered as it rose into the sky, its beak open in pain. The inscription below the drawing was in a language I didn't understand, but I knew it wasn't English.
I removed the heavy silver stopper and tipped the flask to my lips. The witch's brew wasn't that at all; it was either a costly Brandy or an old single malt Whiskey. What I did know was that it tasted superb. After entering my throat, a river of warmth went into my stomach.
"What is this, Beverley? It tastes great."
"It is a rare 1858 single malt from Loch Airy Distillery in Inverness, Scotland."
"1858. Wow, that's old! How did you get a hold of it? If my dad were alive, he'd be in seventh heaven sipping on this."
