Speaker 1: I've always considered myself a pretty grounded person. As a
Speaker 1: thirty five year old salesman, logic and quick thinking are
Speaker 1: practically second nature. I've spent countless hours on the road,
Speaker 1: bouncing between meetings, grabbing fast food, and crashing in generic motels.
Speaker 1: It's a solitary kind of life, but one I've grown
Speaker 1: used to until one night in March twenty twenty three,
Speaker 1: near Las Cruces, New Mexico, made me question everything. I'd
Speaker 1: wrapped up a long day of meetings later than planned,
Speaker 1: my last client running over by an hour. It was
Speaker 1: already dark when I hit the highway. Normally i'd stop
Speaker 1: for the night, but something about the quiet of the
Speaker 1: road was oddly comforting. The sound of the tires on
Speaker 1: the asphalt was relaxing, so I decided to push on.
Speaker 1: I figured i'd find a place to sleep once I
Speaker 1: hit the next big town. After a while, the fatigue
Speaker 1: started creeping in, making it harder to keep my focus
Speaker 1: on the road. I looked at my GPS, hoping for
Speaker 1: some relief, but the next motel was still a good
Speaker 1: two and a half hours away. Then I spotted a
Speaker 1: rest area sign up ahead, a small blue rectangle offering
Speaker 1: a place to pull over and take a breather. It
Speaker 1: wasn't the cozy motel room I was dreaming of, but
Speaker 1: it would have to do for now. When I pulled
Speaker 1: into the rest area, the quiet was almost tangible. A
Speaker 1: solitary street lamp struggled to light the lot, its weak
Speaker 1: yellow light reflecting off the cracked asphalt. A single car
Speaker 1: was parked off to the side, its hood popped open.
Speaker 1: The scene felt odd, but I shook it off and
Speaker 1: carried on. After all, it wasn't unusual for people to
Speaker 1: have car trouble, especially on long stretches of highway like this.
Speaker 1: I parked a few spots away from the car, stretching.
Speaker 1: As I got out, the air was cool and still,
Speaker 1: the kind of silence that makes your ears strained to
Speaker 1: catch any sound. I walked over to the vending machine,
Speaker 1: fishing in my pocket for change while deciding between a
Speaker 1: pack of trail mix or a candy bar. I heard
Speaker 1: a voice call out behind me, Hey man, you got
Speaker 1: a minute. I turned to see a man walking toward
Speaker 1: me from the car. He was middle aged, maybe late forties,
Speaker 1: with a weathered face and a slightly hunched posture. His
Speaker 1: plaid shirt looked old and battered, and his jeans were
Speaker 1: frayed at the cuffs. Despite his rough appearance, he was
Speaker 1: smiling a little too much. If you ask me, car trouble,
Speaker 1: I asked, Yeah, battery's dead, I think, he said, scratching
Speaker 1: the back of his neck. Could you give me a jump?
Speaker 1: I looked over at his car. The hood was open,
Speaker 1: but there were no jumper cables in sight. There was
Speaker 1: an undertone in his voice that didn't feel right, but
Speaker 1: I didn't want to jump to conclusions. Got cables, I asked.
Speaker 1: There was a moment of hesitation, his smile fading just
Speaker 1: for an instant. Ah ah No, must have left him
Speaker 1: at home, he said, But maybe you've got some. Sorry,
Speaker 1: I don't, I replied, there's a gas station about twenty
Speaker 1: miles up the road, though they might be able to help.
Speaker 1: His face tensed, though he quickly masked it with another
Speaker 1: two wide smile. That's a long way, he said, Could
Speaker 1: you maybe give me a ride just to the station there?
Speaker 1: It was the first real alarm bell. I didn't know
Speaker 1: this guy, and the last thing I wanted was a
Speaker 1: stranger in my car. I'd love to help, but I'm
Speaker 1: on a tight schedule, I said, taking a step back
Speaker 1: toward my car. Good luck. Though his smile didn't waver,
Speaker 1: but his eyes hardened. Come on, man, he said, there
Speaker 1: was a slight sting in his words. Now it's just
Speaker 1: a quick ride. I really can't, I said, turning away.
Speaker 1: That's when I saw a movement near his car. In
Speaker 1: the low light. A figure crouched behind the car came
Speaker 1: into view just enough to catch my attention. I felt
Speaker 1: like I'd been punched in the stomach. There wasn't just
Speaker 1: one man, there were two, keeping my composure. I said sorry,
Speaker 1: I've got to go and started walking quickly to my car.
Speaker 1: He didn't follow me, but I could feel his eyes
Speaker 1: burning into my back. As I unlocked my car and
Speaker 1: climbed in, I looked toward his car. The second man
Speaker 1: was now standing half hidden in the shadows. He was younger,
Speaker 1: dressed in dark clothes, and his posture screamed trouble. I
Speaker 1: locked my doors and started the engine. As I reversed
Speaker 1: out of the lot, my headlights swept over them. The
Speaker 1: older man was glaring at me now, and the younger
Speaker 1: one had stepped out into full view, watching me drive away.
Speaker 1: Neither of them made a move to stop me. But
Speaker 1: their presence was enough to make my skin crawl. Back
Speaker 1: on the highway, I kept checking my rear view mirror,
Speaker 1: expecting to see their car following me. For a while,
Speaker 1: the road was empty and I started to relax, but
Speaker 1: then headlights appeared in the distance, gaining on me fast.
Speaker 1: My pulse quickened as the car came into view. They
Speaker 1: were tailing me. I tried to stay calm, maintaining a
Speaker 1: steady speed. The highway stretched on, empty and endless, with
Speaker 1: no exits in sight. The sedan crept closer, its headlights
Speaker 1: glaring in my mirror. I debated speeding up or pulling over,
Speaker 1: but neither option felt safe. Then I spotted a sign
Speaker 1: for a way station up ahead. The way station was
Speaker 1: lit up like a beacon, with several trucks parked in
Speaker 1: the lot. I veered toward it, hoping the presence of
Speaker 1: other people would deter them. As I pulled in, the
Speaker 1: sedan slowed down, then sped past without stopping. I parked
Speaker 1: near the way station office, my hands shaking as I
Speaker 1: watched their tail lights disappear into the night. I stayed
Speaker 1: there for a while, finding comfort in the low rumble
Speaker 1: of trucks and the chatter of drivers coming and going.
Speaker 1: Eventually I felt calm enough to continue my drive, but
Speaker 1: the memory of those two men stuck with me. What
Speaker 1: if I'd agreed to give him a ride? What if
Speaker 1: I hadn't noticed the second guy? The questions haunted me
Speaker 1: the rest of the way to my hotel. Now, whenever
Speaker 1: I'm on the road, I'm more cautious than ever. I
Speaker 1: avoid rest areas at night, stick to well lit gas stations,
Speaker 1: and always trust my instincts because you never know who
Speaker 1: or what might be waiting in the shadows. Salt Lake City, Utah,
Speaker 1: was a familiar checkpoint on my long haul roots. As
Speaker 1: a truck driver with over a decade of experience, I
Speaker 1: had seen my fair share of rest stops, but this one,
Speaker 1: on a quiet June night, would leave a mark on me.
Speaker 1: I'd never forget. I had just finished a grueling twelve
Speaker 1: hour stretch, kind where you start to feel the road
Speaker 1: blending into a single, monotonous blur. The bright green glow
Speaker 1: of the sign felt like a signal of safety, a
Speaker 1: relief after the tension rest area two miles it read,
Speaker 1: and I decided to pull in for the night. The
Speaker 1: rest stop was like many others, a modest lot with
Speaker 1: a handful of parking spaces for trucks, weak overhead lights,
Speaker 1: and a vending machine near the entrance. There were no
Speaker 1: other vehicles when I arrived, and that suited me just fine.
Speaker 1: The solitude was a welcome break from the constant noise
Speaker 1: and motion of the highway. I parked at the farthest
Speaker 1: edge of the lot, where the shadows from the trees
Speaker 1: made the area feel even quieter. After a quick walk
Speaker 1: around to stretch my legs, I climbed back into the cab,
Speaker 1: locked the doors, and prepared to settle in the silence
Speaker 1: of the night wrapped around me. As I drifted off,
Speaker 1: the low noise of the truck's engine had a calming
Speaker 1: risk that made me drowsy. It couldn't have been more
Speaker 1: than an hour later when I was startled awake by
Speaker 1: the glare of bright headlights. A truck had pulled into
Speaker 1: the lot, parking far closer to me than necessary. The
Speaker 1: rest of the lot was nearly empty, so why park
Speaker 1: so close. The truck idled for what felt like an
Speaker 1: eternity before its headlights blinked off. Drivers sometimes parked close
Speaker 1: for safety in numbers, even though it seemed fine. Something
Speaker 1: about the situation didn't sit right. I lay back down,
Speaker 1: trying to ignore the discomfort and get some rest, But
Speaker 1: just as my eyes started to close, the truck's headlights
Speaker 1: flashed again. This time, I sat up fully. Was it
Speaker 1: an accident a signal? My heart thudded faster as I
Speaker 1: looked around, trying to figure out what was going on.
Speaker 1: A soft, metallic knock sound reached my ears. It was
Speaker 1: coming from the back of my trailer. My breath hitched
Speaker 1: as I tried to listen. Someone was out there. I
Speaker 1: grabbed my flashlight, considering whether to check it out. Every
Speaker 1: trucker knows the dangers of remote stops. The stories of robberies, assaults,
Speaker 1: and even disappearances were enough to give anyone pause, But
Speaker 1: sitting in the cab feeling like a target was almost worse. Carefully,
Speaker 1: I climbed out of the truck, my boots crunching on
Speaker 1: the gravel. The flashlight's beam lit up the darkness ahead.
Speaker 1: As I edged toward the rear of the trailer, Hey,
Speaker 1: who's there? My voice firm but betraying a hint of tension.
Speaker 1: The knocking stopped. The silence that followed was deafening. My
Speaker 1: flashlights swept across the back doors, revealing deep scratch marks
Speaker 1: near the lock. My insides tensed up. Before I could
Speaker 1: inspect further, a sudden clang erupted from the side of
Speaker 1: the trailer. I swung the flashlight around, catching a fleeting
Speaker 1: shadow darting toward the other truck. I hurried back into
Speaker 1: the cab, locking the doors. My hands shook as I
Speaker 1: fumbled from my phone to call the police. The dispatcher
Speaker 1: assured me officers were en route, but I knew it
Speaker 1: would take time for them to arrive. The other truck's
Speaker 1: engine revved loudly, its headlights flaring to life. Leaning on
Speaker 1: my horn, I let out a long, blaring sound, hoping
Speaker 1: to startle whoever was out there. The other truck's lights
Speaker 1: went dark, plunging the lot into an eerie half light
Speaker 1: for a moment. The silence returned, but it was heavy
Speaker 1: with tension. Then came the sound of footsteps on the gravel,
Speaker 1: slow and too close for comfort. They circled my truck.
Speaker 1: I peered through the window, but the shadows seemed to
Speaker 1: swallow everything. Whoever they were, they knew how to stay
Speaker 1: out of sight. Realizing I needed to take control, I
Speaker 1: revved my own engine, the deep growl, breaking the oppressive silence.
Speaker 1: Looking my high beams on, I swept the area with
Speaker 1: light catching movement. Near the edge of the lot, two
Speaker 1: figures darted toward the other truck, their faces hidden by
Speaker 1: hooded jackets. The other truck sped off into the night,
Speaker 1: adrenaline coursing through me. I stayed in the cab, my
Speaker 1: headlights illuminating the now empty lot until the distant sound
Speaker 1: of sirens broke the tension. When the police arrived, they
Speaker 1: inspected my trailer and found more evidence of tampering, scratches
Speaker 1: near the lock, discarded tools, and what appeared to be
Speaker 1: a makeshift crowbar. One officer shook his head, looks like
Speaker 1: they were trying to break in. Good thing, you scared
Speaker 1: them off. I gave my statement, detailing everything I had
Speaker 1: seen and heard. The officers promised to patrol the area,
Speaker 1: but the marks on my trailer and the abandoned tools
Speaker 1: were stark reminders of how close I had come to
Speaker 1: being a victim. I followed the police as we left
Speaker 1: the rest stop together. I installed extra locks on my
Speaker 1: trailer and a dash cam to monitor my surroundings, but
Speaker 1: no amount of preparation could erase the memory of that night. Now,
Speaker 1: every time I drive into a rest area, I can't
Speaker 1: help but think about how exposed I felt that night.
Speaker 1: That night in Salt Lake City taught me that out
Speaker 1: here on the road, the real dangers aren't always in
Speaker 1: the distance. Sometimes they're parked right next to you, waiting
Speaker 1: for the perfect moment to strike.