The Fork in the Road

Written By: M.D. Smith IV

The GPS flickered, chirped like a dying insect, and went blank.

Eric laughed and kept driving. “It’ll come back. It always does.”

Shirley didn’t laugh. Southern Mississippi had thinned into something older and heavier. Pines pressed close on both sides, their needles muting sound. The paved road had cracked, then surrendered entirely to dirt. Her phone showed a blue dot floating in a gray void, as if they had driven off the world.

“We’re not on the map,” she said. “Eric… stop.”

The dirt road narrowed. Spanish moss drooped from hardwood limbs like unwashed hair. The air smelled wet and rotten, sweet in a way that made her stomach turn. Every pothole jarred the car, the suspension groaning.

Eric drummed the steering wheel. “Relax. It’s probably a shortcut.”

Ahead, something rose out of the trees.

Not a signpost.

A fork.

A massive, weathered wooden fork stood upright at the junction, its tines thrust skyward, gray and splintered, taller than the car. The wood was scarred with old cuts and dark stains that might have been sap.

Beyond it, the road split.

“There’s a fork in the road,” Eric said, amused.

“Is there a sign?” Shirley asked, still staring at her phone like it might save them.

“That is the sign.” He slowed. “Someone’s got a sense of humor.”

Shirley looked up.

Her breath caught.

“This isn’t right,” she said. “Turn around. Now.”

Eric grinned, that same grin he used when he ignored warning labels and swam past posted buoys. “You worry too much.”

He veered right.

The road dipped, then opened into a clearing that felt like a wound in the forest. Crooked cabins leaned together as if whispering. Fires burned low in pits, giving off greasy smoke. Something moved between the structures.

At first, Shirley thought they were animals.

Then they stood upright.

Pig-shaped. Dog-shaped. Almost human. Too human.

Their bodies were squat and knotted, limbs bent at the wrong angles. Faces sagged and stretched, mouths too wide, teeth too many. Their eyes shone wetly in the firelight, intelligent and hungry.

Eric stopped the car.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, delighted. “This is wild.”

“Don’t,” Shirley said. “Please don’t get out.”

Eric opened the door and got out.

The smell hit her—blood and smoke and something metallic. He stepped forward, laughing nervously.

Shirley hit the door-lock button and put her hands to her face and nose in fear.

“Hey! We’re lost. Just looking—”

More shapes detached from the shadows and structures.

Small, human-like figures swarmed him, no taller than children, their faces twisted, teeth protruding from their mouths at angles, skin leathery and gray. They circled, chattering in a high, excited language that scraped her nerves raw. One poked his leg. Another tugged his sleeve.

Eric laughed again, uneasy now. “Okay, okay—back up.”

They leaped.

Stone blades flashed. A scream tore out of him, short and wet. Blood sprayed the dirt. He went down under a pile of bodies, his voice cutting off mid-word.

Shirley screamed.

She slammed into the driver’s seat, behind the locked doors, and threw the car into reverse. The tires spun, throwing dirt and bodies. Something thudded against the windshield. A face appeared, grinning, before vanishing beneath the hood.

She fishtailed, spun, then found the road and floored it.

Hands slapped the car. One body bounced and rolled beneath the wheels with a sound she would hear forever. She didn’t look back.

She blasted toward the fork, sobbing so hard she could barely see.

“I told you,” she whispered, hysterical. “That fork wasn’t for directions. It was about eating people.”

Relief came too fast.

A shadow dropped across the road.

A pre-cut large oak tree slammed down in front of her, perfectly placed, blocking the narrow path just before the fork. The engine stalled as she braked hard. The forest went quiet.

Then the little people came.

They poured from the woods, dozens of them, chittering, running on bowed legs, eyes bright with anticipation. They swarmed the car, rocking it, clawing at the doors.

“No,” Shirley gasped.

Her hands shook as she fumbled through the glove compartment. Eric’s revolver lay there, heavy and real. She’d hated the thing. Now she blessed it.

She turned to the driver’s side window just enough to aim.

The first little person leaped up, its face filling the opening.

She fired.

The sound was deafening. The creature’s head snapped back, face exploding in a wet red burst. It fell, twitching.

Another immediately took its place, where there was now a hole in the window.

She fired again.

The glass shattered, spraying her with shards. The creature dropped, screaming.

They poured through the broken window.

She fired wildly—four more shots—hitting bodies, missing others. One clawed her arm. Another bit her shoulder, teeth tearing fabric and skin.

Hands dragged her from the car.

She screamed, kicked, fought—but there were too many.

Four of them seized her bare legs, her skirt up to her thighs. Two clamped onto her torso. Two more wrenched her arms over her head. They hauled her across the dirt, skin scraping, breath squeezed from her lungs from tightening grips.

The village fires burned brighter as they dragged her into the camp.

Past the place where Eric had died.

Closer to the fires, toward waiting shapes and sharpened stones.

The forest swallowed the road behind them.

And the fork stood silent, pointing nowhere at all.

M.D. Smith of Huntsville, Alabama, writer of over 350 flash stories, has published digitally in Spillwords, Flash Fiction Magazine, Flash Phantoms, and many more. Retired from running a television station, he lives with his wife of 64 years and three cats.

https://mdsmithiv.com/