HLM -Chapter 811 The Phantom Car on the Highway

The sun was setting in the west, and the streetlights were beginning to glow. As dusk fell and visibility worsened, James Abrito’s mood grew brighter instead.

At twenty-eight, Abrito was a high school teacher in Queenstown. He had been born in Auckland, where his parents still lived, so whenever he had time off, he would drive back to visit them.

He considered himself lucky. Two years ago, when he came to Queenstown for a job, the Sunset Town section of Highway 8 had just opened to traffic. If it hadn’t, he would still have to take the Tahiti Town route—longer and in much worse condition.

The first time he drove along that stretch, he didn’t think much of it. It looked like any other New Zealand highway—grasslands and wilderness, sparsely populated.

But the second time, things felt different. There were more buildings in town, and the roadside scenery had become unexpectedly beautiful.

Driving from west to east, the highway was lined with lush trees: magnolias, red maples, rhododendrons, wintersweet, and jacarandas that painted the sky deep blue when in full bloom.

The flowers bloomed year-round, but few people paid them much attention, for further east lay a far more famous scenic route—the celebrated “Birth Flower Road” of Oceania.

Abrito loved these sights. At first, he made a point of driving home during the day so he could enjoy the roadside scenery.

But after a while, he discovered something even better about this section of Highway 8: the road was in perfect condition and the view was wide open—ideal for speeding!

Every man, he thought, has speed running in his blood. As a math teacher, his life was usually calm and quiet. That craving for velocity hid deep inside him—until it could be unleashed on this road.

Yes, the scenery was beautiful. But so what? He lived in Queenstown, one of the most picturesque places on earth. Even the most breathtaking views grew dull after a few trips. What could compare to the thrill of raw speed?

Especially at night. Once the sun went down, the tourists disappeared—most came for the scenery and stayed in town overnight. That left the road nearly empty, perfect for driving fast.

This is the time, he told himself. Let the beast trapped inside break free!

He stomped the accelerator.

The red Ford Mustang roared, its engine bellowing as the speedometer leapt from sixty to eighty miles per hour—and kept climbing.

Eighty miles, not kilometers—that meant nearly 130 km/h. Technically illegal, but Abrito didn’t care. Everyone drove like this here. The police couldn’t possibly catch them all.

The Mustang thundered down the highway, trees flashing past in a blur. All the frustrations built up at school were swept away by the wind.

He felt like a Hunnic cavalryman of old—at that moment, he was the child of the wind!

But soon, an even faster “child of the wind” appeared. A silver sports car streaked past him, leaving only the glint of a golden cross-shaped emblem in its wake.

A Chevrolet Camaro—the Silver Phantom!

Camaro and Mustang were roughly equal in class—both affordable performance cars popular among New Zealand’s younger drivers who couldn’t afford a Porsche or Lamborghini.

Because of their similar specs, whenever a Camaro and a Mustang appeared on the same road, a race often followed.

Abrito accepted the challenge. He noticed that the Camaro had been behind him earlier, only accelerating sharply once its driver recognized the Mustang’s emblem.

“So you want to race? You’re in for it. Let’s see how you handle the Mad Ghost.”

Without shifting gears, he slammed the pedal again. The Mustang roared furiously, speed climbing once more.

To maintain visibility, he switched on his high beams—custom-fitted, stronger than standard.

Instantly, red and silver lights flickered across the dark road. The stretch was deserted, giving both drivers free rein. Engines howled as they took turns gaining the upper hand.

The cars were evenly matched, and neither driver was reckless enough to lose control—they were racing for pride, not suicide.

Gradually, Abrito gained ground. His Mustang closed the gap, drawing alongside, then half a car length ahead.

The Camaro seemed to yield, slowing down. Abrito smiled, easing off the gas as well.

Just then, a pickup truck appeared ahead, moving slowly down the middle of the lane.

Abrito’s headlights illuminated its rear. He looked up, preparing to overtake—but the high beams lit up the truck’s rear window, revealing two enormous faces staring back at him.

The faces were huge, filling the entire rear glass—expressionless, pale blue-white, their black lips twisted at odd angles. One face was wider on one side, narrower on the other; their sunken eyes glimmered with deathly gloom, like corpses risen from coffins!

Abrito’s heart lurched violently. He froze in terror and slammed the brakes, screaming, “Ahhh! Holy Mother, save me! Save me!”

The Mustang’s brakes were superb; the car screeched to a halt—but the Camaro was right behind him!

His sudden stop left the Camaro’s driver no time to react. The other slammed the brakes too, the ABS chattering frantically—but it was too late.

Boom!

With a deafening crash, the Camaro rammed into the Mustang’s rear, shoving it forward. Luckily, both had slowed down beforehand, so the collision wasn’t fatal—though the Camaro’s airbags exploded with a pop.

Inside the pickup, a man known as Gerald glanced coldly at the wreckage in his rearview mirror. Into his radio, he said calmly, “Okay. Call in the ambulance.”

On the other end, Wang Bo asked, “Not too serious, right?”

Gerald replied indifferently, “No deaths. Some injuries, maybe. They were street racing— I waited until they slowed down before pulling the curtain. It’ll be lesson enough.”

Indeed, both drivers survived.

The Camaro’s driver jumped out, furious. “You idiot! Are you trying to kill us?! Murder! This is murder!”

Abrito stumbled out of his car, pale as a ghost. “Jesus above!” he cried. “That was a phantom car! I saw a phantom car!”