by Eric Miller
Nothing.
The man lowered his voice the next time he spoke and sounded more relaxed. “I know most of you are alone out there with nothing but voices to keep you company. You’ve left your families at home, maybe haven’t seen ‘em for quite a while. You long-haul truckers know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, right? You don’t see the family for weeks sometimes. All alone out there on the road. You can’t wait to get home and see them. Or maybe…maybe…”
There was another silence, but he did not release the call button.
“…maybe you got no family to go home to. That’d be worse, I think. Missing them is one thing, but if they don’t exist…well, that would be sad.”
The man lifted his thumb from the call button with a faint click of disconnection. Spence realized the man had not identified himself, which was virtually unheard of on the CB radio. But Spence already had an image in his head. The man sounded like the actor Sam Shepherd, but without the drawl. Any drawling this guy did was simply lazy speech.
He listened for a response, for Sam Shepherd to continue. It took a while, but he finally keyed his microphone again.
“I guess the only thing worse than having no family to go home to would be having a family and then losing ‘em. Then you used to have a family to go home to, but…not anymore. Yeah, I think that’d be worse than just about anything.”
Spence realized the muscles in his back and shoulders were tense and he was starting to feel fidgety. He knew it was irrational, but he had the sickening feeling that the man was talking to him. That was impossible, of course.
He continued, his voice still coming through with perfect clarity: “Now, I’ve known some truckers who take the wife with ‘em. Maybe the kids, too, I dunno. That way you don’t have to go home to the family, they’re right there with you. All safe and sound where nobody can hurt ‘em.”
Spence’s insides began to slowly twist themselves into a knot as his eyes moved back and forth between the road and the radio. His stomach felt queasy. There were other voices on the radio, but none as strong as that one.
“Yeah, that’d be the best thing to do, I think. Take ‘em with you. No reason not to.”
Spence’s head jerked toward the green numbers. He did not reach for the mic, but he spoke to the radio. “No reason not—ever heard of something called regulations, assmunch?”
“Yeah, that’d be the safest thing to do. ‘Specially these days. There’s a lotta sick, twisted people in the world. And these days, most police departments can’t afford to do a thing about it. They’re just runnin’ around and fittin’ in, but they’re not like everybody else. They enjoy doin’ bad things. Usually to good people. It’s an ugly world, and it’s just gettin’ uglier when a man’s family isn’t safe in their own home.”
It had been the kind of crime scene that perpetuated a belief in evil. The supernatural kind of evil. It was horrible. Torture, stabbing, dismemberment, sexual assault before and after death. Blood everywhere. The kind of crime scene that practically replayed the screams for anyone who saw it. It was enough to make anybody wonder about the possibility of a non-human evil force.
Spence had given the idea a lot of thought, but had rejected it years ago. He was a history buff and an avid reader—he listened to a lot of audiobooks on the road—and he had not, as yet, encountered anything in human history that even vaguely suggested the necessity for a supernatural force of evil. Humankind had, from the beginning, proven itself quite capable of evil without any assistance whatsoever. Whenever someone asked him if he believed in the devil, he always said, “No, I think it’s pretty obvious we’re self-taught.”
The unidentified voice on the radio had sounded like a regular guy at first. But after those remarks, his voice took on a sinister quality. Spence didn’t think it would register with anyone else. It was only from his point of view, he was sure. Because it would be insane to think Sam Shepherd was speaking directly to him. That would be delusional.
“You’re awful quiet tonight,” Sam said. “Isn’t there anybody out there who knows what I’m talkin’ ‘bout?”
Spence wanted a cigarette. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, looking for that Marlboro filter. He’d stopped eight years ago and hadn’t craved one in half that time. This sudden craving was more of a need. But he knew how hard they were to quit and how easy it was to start them up again. Just one cigarette, that was all it would take. Because one cigarette always came with nineteen others and what nicotine addict, no matter how long it had been since the last puff, could let them just sit there?
It wasn’t a problem, though, because he had no cigarettes in the truck and it was a long way to the next gas station or convenience store.
“Or are you one of them truckers who can’t wait to put his family behind him?” Sam said. “Gettin’ away from ‘em as fast as possible so you can hit the truck stops and roll around with the lot lizards? If so, shame on you. That’s a good way to get a disease that’ll make your junk fall off. Or get your throat slit by one of them creatures. And shame on you for doin’ that to your family. Leadin’ ‘em on like that. They’d be better off without you if that’s how you feel, ya snake.”
The glow of headlights crept around a hill that the road hugged, and a moment later, the lights themselves appeared like eyes in the night. A Volkswagen Beetle zipped by, resembling its namesake from Spence’s vantage point.
“Boy, I guess nothin’s gonna rouse you tonight, huh? It’s just dead out there, isn’t it? And sad, real sad. Like a graveyard fulla dead whores.”
The darkness sped by as he waited for Sam Shepherd to continue and drown out the voices that sounded like ghosts gibbering in the night. He listened for the faint sound of that microphone being keyed.
It didn’t come.
“…smokey’s not too busy tonight, but about an hour ago, I saw…”
A bobcat darted across the road at the very edge of his high beams. It almost looked like a shadow except for the brief glint of its eyes as it tossed a glance Spence’s way.
Spence eyed the CB microphone on its hook, considered reaching for it, but didn’t.
“…Sweet Tart, lookin’ for the Sweet Tart, are you out there, baby, or am I gonna have to…”
Farther down the road, a pale barn owl swooped out of the darkness and into the glow of his headlights for an instant, then banked away from Spence’s oncoming truck and shot upward, back into the night.
With only darkness outside the truck, there was nothing to see beyond the reach of the headlights.
He kept glancing at the radio. Waiting for that voice.
The radio fell silent. No voices at all.
His right hand struck like a snake, snatched the microphone from its hook and keyed it as he brought it to his mouth.
“I’m a trucker,” Spence said. He lifted his thumb.
“There you are,” Sam Shepherd said with a soft laugh. “I was wonderin’ how long it would take. I knew you were out there.”
“What’s your handle?” Spence said.
No response.
Spence said, “You got the Sidewinder here.”
“You headin’ back home, Sidewinder? Headin’ home to—” he chuckled, “—the family?”
A deep chill moved through Spence and raised gooseflesh on his back and neck. He lifted the mic again, but said nothing because he did not trust his voice. A glut of emotions were lodged in his throat.
That chuckle had been made of ice and Sam Shepherd’s words sounded like they were spoken through a smile. But it wasn’t a pleasant smile, Spence knew that. Whoever this man was, he knew exactly who he was talking to and he was having some sick fun.
He keyed the mic and opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t because what he was thinking was—
His thumb snapped away from the button as if it were hot.
“Crazy,” he muttered. “It’s crazy.”
Since the murders, he’d been afraid of losing his mind because, after losing both of them at once,
it felt like a real possibility. He kept reminding himself of all the times he’d read and heard that if you wondered if you were crazy, you couldn’t be, or you wouldn’t be wondering.
“Who am I talking to?” Spence said.
“Think of me as a friend of the family, Sidewinder.”
He worried that he might vomit and considered pulling his truck over and parking for a bit until he pulled himself together. But he didn’t.
“You son of a bitch,” he said to the road. He lifted the mic and said, “You sound pretty close. Friend. You’re real loud and real clear. What’s your 20?”
“Oh, I’m…around. You’re on the move, though, right?”
Spence decided it would be good to keep him engaged in small talk for a while. Maybe he could learn a few things about him unobtrusively, without questioning him directly. “Yeah, I’m on the road with a load of appliances.”
“Yep. You truckers are the blood in America’s veins, keepin’ the country alive. Movin’ the products we need back and forth to the places where we need ‘em. While your loyal family waits for you at home. Ain’t that right, Sidewinder?”
Had he put the slightest emphasis on “loyal family”? Had he dragged those two words out just a bit?
For an unpleasant moment, Spence thought the rig was making a deep, ugly grinding sound and was relieved that it was only his teeth. He clenched the microphone so tightly that the plastic crackled.
With teeth still clenched, Spence said, “You keep bringing up my family. What do you know about my family?”
“Breaker 19, breaker 19.”
“Go ahead, breaker,” Spence said, and when he heard the angry snap in his voice, he took a deep breath. His hands were shaking.
The man sounded a little slurry. “You got Grandpa Moses, here, and I got my grandkid with me. So if you don’t mind watching the language—”
The deep breath didn’t help. “What the fuck is your grandkid doing up this late on a school night?”
After a moment: “I don’t see’s how that’s any of your goddamned bidness!”
Sam Shepherd spoke up, wiping out all other sounds on the radio: “There goes the neighborhood. Look, Sidewinder, you wanna keep jawin’, switch up.”
Still holding the mic, he reached out his right hand to change the channel, but he waited.
“You still there, you crazy bastard?” Grandpa Moses said. “These are all public channels, you goddamned freak, so you never know who’s listening!”
A memory bobbed to the surface from the depths of hours he’d spent as a child watching TV. He brought the mic back to his mouth and said, “This has been a production of the Children’s Broadcasting Network.”
As he switched to channel 20, something caught his attention. It was a glimmer of light somewhere up ahead and to the right.
“Come on, Sidewinder.”
He heard that grinding sound again.
Spence said, “Who are you? What’s your handle?”
“Those are two different questions, Sidewinder. Which one do you want me to answer first?”
“What do I call you?”
“You can call me whatever you want.”
“Oh, I have been, believe me. But you saw how that kind of language goes over on the radio.”
His eyes kept searching the darkness on the right side of the highway.
“Ha! Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor, Sidewinder. You know…you seem to think you know me. Am I right about that, come back?”
“No. No, I think you know me.”
“Ah. Well, that’s a different thing, then. But, Sidewinder, you’re just a voice on the radio. How would I know you?”
Spence’s throat burned, his nose began to run, and the lights on his console bled together for a moment.
“You tell me,” he said.
Silence for a while, then: “I guess the only way to find out if either one of us knows the other would be to meet in person. Don’tcha think, Sidey? Winder, old boy?”
“Sure. Give me directions and I’ll just zip my little 18-wheeler straight to your door. Very funny.”
“Hey, I’m just up the road from you. You’re headin’ straight for me. There’s a turnout up ahead. Take it and park.”
“Are you serious?”
“Course I’m serious. You can’t miss it.”
A sign oozed out of the darkness. TURN-OUT 1 MI.
He was serious. But how had he known exactly where Spence’s truck was at that particular moment? How could that be possible?
“Drones,” he muttered. Drones were for sale to the public now. Anybody could buy one. Maybe he was being tracked from above.
Spence was convinced that Sam Shepherd—whoever he was—knew something about what had happened to Nan and Jillian. Maybe he was the killer. And he was waiting for Spence up ahead. All he had to do was pull the truck over and park.
He decided to do it. He had a .45 tucked under the mattress in his sleeper. He would have to be crazy not to take it with him. But somehow, that gave him little comfort.
He trembled all over. He was as scared as a little boy all alone in the dark.
***
Once the engine stopped, Spence heard nothing. He looked around and saw a couple of picnic tables and a sign with some information about the area. After he killed the lights, he couldn’t even see that much. It wasn’t a rest stop and there were no facilities. Just a place for people to pull over and stretch their legs.
“Sidewinder!” the voice boomed from the radio. “Come back, Sidewinder.”
“Yeah, I’m here. I’m parked and waiting.”
“Take a look to your right. Out at the desert.”
He turned his head slowly, more than a little afraid of what he might see. A small part of Spence’s mind expected to find the guy in the passenger seat, grinning in the dark.
A small cluster of lights glowed some distance from the roadside turnout. He suspected that cluster was the light he’d seen while driving shortly before deciding to stop.
“See that light, Sidewinder? That’s me. Come on out to the camp trailer and pull up a chair. I am 10-7.”
“How the hell did you know I was driving through here right now?” Spence said.
Sam Shepherd did not respond.
“Were you sitting out there waiting for me?”
Nothing.
“Answer me, goddammit!”
But Spence knew he wasn’t going to answer. He’d signed off, and now he was waiting for Spence to show up.
He got his .45 from under the mattress and, two minutes later, his shoes were crunching over the ground and he was walking through the chilly night. In his jacket pocket, his right hand touched cold metal. His left hand held a small, bright flashlight and he swept the beam over the ground ahead. He avoided rocks and holes while keeping half his attention on the lights out there, lights that cast pools around a long camp trailer attached to a big, white Dodge Ram. There were three sources of light: The light over the door, the bright light coming from the windows, and a light mounted on the roof of the camp trailer near the front.
He heard a small sound that grew steadily louder as he got closer to the trailer. Someone was playing music inside. As he got a little closer, he recognized Barry Manilow’s voice. An obscure song from the 1970s, “Starting Again.” He remembered that only because Nan had been a lifelong Manilow fan and had all of his albums.
His crunching footsteps stopped abruptly and Spence thought, Am I dreaming?
Something small skittered over the ground inches from his feet. An owl hooted somewhere. He wasn’t dreaming.
There were pale curtains over the windows, but vague shadows shifted around inside. The old song played. Creatures moved in the night.
This was a crazy, stupid thing to—
Spence would later swear that, at that moment, he was struck on the back of the head with something heavy and hard, and the night disappeared.
***
He regained consciousness
thinking, Which album is that? while Barry Manilow sang “Losing Touch.”
As he became more aware of his environment, he wondered why he couldn’t feel the hard, rocky ground on which he’d fallen. He seemed to be lying on a flat, cushiony surface. Then his right arm slipped off that surface and dropped a foot or so to a harder one. He was holding something in his hand. Clutching it. He tried to loosen his grip but could not. The muscles of his hand felt frozen in place.
Spence opened his eyes and sat up. Looked around.
He was on a couch in a surprisingly spacious, well-appointed camp trailer. It was the camp trailer, of course, that he had been approaching…how long ago?
There were other people in the trailer with him—a man and woman in their thirties, two kids—but they were all dead and sprawled in black pools of their own blood, their faces, throats, limbs, and bodies crisscrossed with slashes and slotted with stab wounds.
“What?” Spence said, his voice a hoarse croak as his head turned in short jerks and his eyes got bigger with each movement.
Am I dreaming?
He smelled the blood. He wasn’t dreaming.
“Hello?” he said, standing. “Who’s here?” He turned his head to the right and leaned forward to look down the narrow, dark hall.
There were no other sounds in the trailer besides Barry’s singing and Spence’s thudding heart.
He realized he was panting as panic burned his nostrils like a toxic gas. He saw the CB radio on the sideboard in the small dining area. It was on and had two orange numbers on its face: 20. The channel Spence had been on…when was it? How long ago?
He was not going to talk to him on the radio. Not this time. He shouted, “Where are you, you son of a bitch?”
Tears blurred his vision and made all that blood look soft and pretty.
“Where the fuck are you?”
Sam Shepherd did not answer. No one did.
He experienced the next few minutes in a series of jarring cuts.
Screaming because he couldn’t help himself, just screaming and screaming when he saw the bloody knife he was gripping in his right hand, a big one, the kind that brought the word “butcher” to mind, the kind that—