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Hybrid
Tyler was a killer. He left more than a dozen bodies in his wake as he hitched across the country toward Los Angeles.
With the sweltering heat of Nevada’s desert beating down, sweat pouring from his skin, he slowly trudged away each mile of Route 582 waiting for his next victim to happen upon him. When a silver sports car appears out of nowhere, a grin edges his lips. Its beautiful driver offers him a ride, unaware it may just be her last kind act.
With the sweltering heat of Nevada’s desert beating down, sweat pouring from his skin, he slowly trudged away each mile of Route 582 waiting for his next victim to happen upon him. When a silver sports car appears out of nowhere, a grin edges his lips. Its beautiful driver offers him a ride, unaware it may just be her last kind act.
ebook
First published July 11, 2011
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About the author
J.D. Barker
55 books6,847 followersJ.D. Barker is the New York Times and international best-selling author of numerous novels, including DRACUL and the wildly popular 4MK series. He is currently collaborating with James Patterson. His books have been translated into two dozen languages, sold in more than 150 countries, and optioned for both film and television. Barker resides in coastal New Hampshire with his wife, Dayna, and their daughter, Ember.
A note from J.D.
As a child I was always told the dark could not hurt me, that the shadows creeping in the corners of my room were nothing more than just that, shadows. The sounds nothing more than the settling of our old home, creaking as it found comfort in the earth only to move again when it became restless, if ever so slightly. I would never sleep without closing the closet door, oh no; the door had to be shut tight. The darkness lurking inside needed to be held at bay, the whispers silenced. Rest would only come after I checked under the bed at least twice and quickly wrapped myself in the safety of the sheets (which no monster could penetrate), pulling them tight over my head.
I would never go down to the basement.
Never.
I had seen enough movies to know better, I had read enough stories to know what happens to little boys who wandered off into dark, dismal places alone. And there were stories, so many stories.
Reading was my sanctuary, a place where I could disappear for hours at a time, lost in the pages of a good book. It didn’t take long before I felt the urge to create my own.
I first began to write as a child, spinning tales of ghosts and gremlins, mystical places and people. For most of us, that’s where it begins—as children we have such wonderful imaginations, some of us have simply found it hard to grow up. I’ve spent countless hours trying to explain to friends and family why I enjoy it, why I would rather lock myself in a quiet little room and put pen to paper for hours at a time than throw around a baseball or simply watch television. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I want to do just that, sometimes I wish for it, but even then the need to write is always there in the back of my mind, the characters are impatiently tapping their feet, waiting their turn, wanting to be heard. I wake in the middle of the night and reach for the pad beside my bed, sometimes scrawling page after page of their words, their lives. Then they’re quiet, if only for a little while. To stop would mean madness, or even worse—the calm, numbing sanity I see in others as they slip through the day without purpose. They don’t know what it’s like, they don’t understand. Something as simple as a pencil can open the door to a new world, can create life or experience death. Writing can take you to places you’ve never been, introduce you to people you’ve never met, take you back to when you first saw those shadows in your room, when you first heard the sounds mumbling ever so softly from your closet, and it can show you what uttered them. It can scare the hell out of you, and that’s when you know it’s good.
jd
A note from J.D.
As a child I was always told the dark could not hurt me, that the shadows creeping in the corners of my room were nothing more than just that, shadows. The sounds nothing more than the settling of our old home, creaking as it found comfort in the earth only to move again when it became restless, if ever so slightly. I would never sleep without closing the closet door, oh no; the door had to be shut tight. The darkness lurking inside needed to be held at bay, the whispers silenced. Rest would only come after I checked under the bed at least twice and quickly wrapped myself in the safety of the sheets (which no monster could penetrate), pulling them tight over my head.
I would never go down to the basement.
Never.
I had seen enough movies to know better, I had read enough stories to know what happens to little boys who wandered off into dark, dismal places alone. And there were stories, so many stories.
Reading was my sanctuary, a place where I could disappear for hours at a time, lost in the pages of a good book. It didn’t take long before I felt the urge to create my own.
I first began to write as a child, spinning tales of ghosts and gremlins, mystical places and people. For most of us, that’s where it begins—as children we have such wonderful imaginations, some of us have simply found it hard to grow up. I’ve spent countless hours trying to explain to friends and family why I enjoy it, why I would rather lock myself in a quiet little room and put pen to paper for hours at a time than throw around a baseball or simply watch television. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I want to do just that, sometimes I wish for it, but even then the need to write is always there in the back of my mind, the characters are impatiently tapping their feet, waiting their turn, wanting to be heard. I wake in the middle of the night and reach for the pad beside my bed, sometimes scrawling page after page of their words, their lives. Then they’re quiet, if only for a little while. To stop would mean madness, or even worse—the calm, numbing sanity I see in others as they slip through the day without purpose. They don’t know what it’s like, they don’t understand. Something as simple as a pencil can open the door to a new world, can create life or experience death. Writing can take you to places you’ve never been, introduce you to people you’ve never met, take you back to when you first saw those shadows in your room, when you first heard the sounds mumbling ever so softly from your closet, and it can show you what uttered them. It can scare the hell out of you, and that’s when you know it’s good.
jd
Ratings & Reviews
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
April 27, 2023
I love the imagination of J.D. Barker, he's clever with the writing nib indeed. This short story didn't take long to read but left me with a smile on my face.
It's got a unique plot and the twists are great, as for the whole concept and the ending? Stunning!
Don't underestimate the enjoyment of short stories. This is an author to watch, if you love your horror to have substance like I do.
*** I said in 2015 this was an author to watch. Well, that certainly was a good prediction with a number of novels under his belt now. ***
It's got a unique plot and the twists are great, as for the whole concept and the ending? Stunning!
Don't underestimate the enjoyment of short stories. This is an author to watch, if you love your horror to have substance like I do.
*** I said in 2015 this was an author to watch. Well, that certainly was a good prediction with a number of novels under his belt now. ***
October 27, 2015
I am usually not a big fan of a short story. When I saw this story was only ten-pages-length, I was skeptical. So, it surprised me and showed me how much a good writer could do with ten-pages. A hot car, a sexy chick, and a hitchhiker. I do say that some lines were as predicted. However, the images and atmosphere created in this story were so cool, and I loved it.
April 7, 2015
I read this twice. ‘Forsaken’ had already converted me into a huge fan of J.D. Barker’s writing, so the natural step forward was to read more of his works, and ‘Hybrid’ was of much the same standard.
It was shorter than I was expecting, but I think this is what distinguishes its value. What was written was packed full of substance and intrigue; I personally feel that any more writing would have detracted away from the atmosphere the author created – sometimes less is more.
It gave us a snapshot in time of two sinister characters in a chance meeting, and threw in an unexpected twist for good measure; the quirky combination of mystery and menace is what made this short story so entertaining.
Nothing but true talent could build such a thrilling foundation of immorality in so few words; I really enjoyed this snippet of J.D. Barker’s flair for writing.
It was shorter than I was expecting, but I think this is what distinguishes its value. What was written was packed full of substance and intrigue; I personally feel that any more writing would have detracted away from the atmosphere the author created – sometimes less is more.
It gave us a snapshot in time of two sinister characters in a chance meeting, and threw in an unexpected twist for good measure; the quirky combination of mystery and menace is what made this short story so entertaining.
Nothing but true talent could build such a thrilling foundation of immorality in so few words; I really enjoyed this snippet of J.D. Barker’s flair for writing.
March 9, 2015
short and sweet. too short to be honest. Well written but lacked character detailing. the story itself was interesting.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews