18 Wheels of Horror

by Eric Miller

  The barrel of the gun danced precariously in front of Lou’s face as the spiky-haired gunman’s hand shook with indecision. Sweat beaded his forehead as his glance alternated nervously between Lou and the doorway.

  “C’mon. Don’t be stupid.” Terry’s outburst drew the punk’s attention and the barrel of the gun. “Nobody’s getting hurt, you hear me? Just go and don’t come back. We won’t say nothing, will we, Lou?”

  “That’s right.” Lou sounded like a mouse squeaking.

  “All right. All right.” The punk feverishly buried the barrel of the gun back into his waistband. He scowled at Terry. “Don’t ever tell me what to do again, man. You better hope we never meet again.” He swung his leather jacket closed to hide the gun, and stared at Lou and Terry as he backed away slowly from the counter.

  The punk nearly jumped a foot in the air when the bell above the doorway jingled. Chatter from a police radio filled the air as a balding cop in a blue uniform stretched tautly by the paunch gut hanging over his belt removed his hat from his head and shook off a light dusting of snow from the brim. He loomed larger than life in the doorway, as wide around as he was tall, despite being tall enough to have to duck his head under the door frame. The oaf’s face scrunched as he sized up the scene. The confusion of recognizing the tension between the punk, Terry, and Lou without knowing what was going on registered on his face.

  “What do we have here, Lou?” Lumpy popped a knuckle on a hand as gnarled and thick as a root of an oak tree. He eyed the sweaty punk who stood so still he didn’t look like he was even breathing. “Is everything all right?”

  “What we’ve got here is a bowl of firebrand, extra meat, no beans, just how you like it.” Lou could’ve won an Academy Award for his business-as-usual performance. He nodded at the punk, and rolled his eyes. “He’s another first timer. He tried some of your firebrand, and couldn’t handle it. It’s coming out of his pores. He’s just going to get some air, cool down. Weren’t cha, pal?”

  “Yeah…that’s right.” The punk laughed anxiously. He fanned his sweaty forehead. “I need some air.”

  Lumpy laughed heartily as he patted the punk on the shoulder. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone played with the firebrand and got burned.” He patted the belly bulge sagging over his belt. “Not everyone has my cast-iron constitution.”

  The punk nodded agreeably as he backed his way to the door. He eyed Lou and Terry warily, and when they didn’t rat him out he darted quickly out the door.

  “Poor lad.” Lumpy hiked a tree-trunk size leg over his customary stool at the counter, and eagerly accepted a bowl from Lou. “I remember my first bowl of firebrand. When I shit, it burned my ass so bad that I didn’t sit or walk right for a week.”

  As Lumpy slurped spoonfuls, sighed his approval, and belched contentedly, Terry’s thoughts turned toward the punk and that watch. He knew he should be relieved his brains weren’t splattered over the walls like the chili in Lumpy’s bowl, but he couldn’t let it go. How could he? It’s our anniversary for Christ sakes, he thought.

  “Are you okay, Terry?” Lou asked another question entirely with a wide-eyed glance and a nod toward Lumpy.

  Terry knew the right thing to do was to tell the cop about the young thug and his gun, but that would take time and that’s the one thing Terry didn’t have. If he had any qualms about his decision, seeing that punk with that watch erased them. It had to have been a sign he was doing the right thing.

  “I’m fine. I think I’ll be going now. Gotta make up some time on the road.” Terry hated lying to his friend, but he couldn’t very well tell Lou what he intended to do. “What do I owe ya?”

  “It’s on the house.” Lou waved his hands as if Terry’s money was no good. “You be careful out there.”

  Lou nodded toward Lumpy again. “Are you sure that you don’t have time to tell us about your adventure? I heard it was a doozie.”

  “Nah. He’s probably better off getting on the road.” Lumpy ripped open the plastic on a package of saltines with his teeth. “I’m working a double shift tonight because some weirdos are coming to town to hold some paranormal convention. I guess there are some ghost stories working the freaks up around here. People swear they’ve seen a ghost bus or van or something like that. I’d leave, too, if I could.”

  Terry finished his goodbyes and headed out the door. A blast of cold air belted him like a Joe Louis uppercut as soon as he ventured out into the night. His teeth chattered, and he tugged on the collar of his wool overcoat to try to shield the nape of his neck from the chilly bite of the wind. As if angered by his impudence, the gale howled and whipped a forceful draft so bitterly cold into his face that it stole his breath from his chest.

  “I won’t miss this weather,” Terry muttered under his breath at the cold. The only sounds he heard came from the click of the blinking lights on the neon sign above the restaurant, and the howl of the nipping wind which dispatched waves of pain throughout his achy joints. “Fucking arthritis; I won’t miss you, either.”

  Each step on the unforgiving, frozen concrete of the parking lot sent throbbing pains through his knees. They felt so wooden and stiff he thought he might fall. The light snowfall had already melted, leaving an even more dangerous cousin, black ice. It was just as slippery as regular ice, but the slick sheet of ice remained unseen, looking like nothing more than a glossy sheen on the pavement. He’d learned from a long trucking career that the night was full of unseen terrors just waiting to turn a peaceful run into a nightmare.

  Terry had parked at the truck stop which shared a large rectangular lot with Joe’s. It resembled a concrete jungle, full of trucks, bright red lights, smoky exhaust fumes, and purring engines. Yet, the jungle had no signs of life. He didn’t mind being alone anymore. There was a time in his life when the prospect of growing old alone scared him more than death itself, but now he preferred the isolation. He’d pushed away anyone who’d tried to help him so that he could be completely alone over the past year. Although, he’d be lying if he said he was ever completely alone. Her memory and the guilt of failing her weighed on him every waking moment as if he were doomed to pull a cart full of his failure for eternity.

  Only, Terry didn’t feel completely alone. He could’ve sworn he heard more than the howl of the wind as he shuffled to his truck. He felt eyes upon him as if he were constantly being watched. He stopped periodically to look around, but he never found the mysterious watcher whose gaze unsettled him.

  Terry sighed in relief as he saw his bright red Peterbilt truck. Just as he reached for the door to climb into the cab, he heard a loud squeaking noise from somewhere nearby. He craned his neck to look at the rear of his trailer, but he didn’t notice anything unusual. He slowly crouched down on his hands and knees to look underneath it. But nothing was there. He couldn’t hear anything anymore either. The popping and creaking of his stiff joints as he bent awkwardly underneath the running boards were the only things breaking the tense silence which made his whole body tingle with unease.

  “Jesus Christ. It’s cold.” He cursed his absentmindedness for forgetting his gloves as he balanced himself with his palms against the concrete to push himself up.

  “My mom says never to go out in the cold without gloves.”

  “What the…” Terry swung around to face the girlish voice he heard coming from behind him. A girl no older than ten looked up at him. Her eyes haunted him. They’re Cathy’s eyes. He knew his mind betrayed him for as he studied this girl more closely he saw his dead wife in all of her features. “I’m sorry, little girl. Are you lost?”

  “No.” The girl smiled brightly.

  She even smiles like Cathy.

  Tears formed at the corner of Terry’s eyes. He noticed his hands had started shaking and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He never thought he’d see another look at him the same way she had. He froze, unable to talk, unable to breathe, unable to move.

  “My teacher said you’re the one that’s lost,” she con
tinued.

  “Excuse me?”

  “She knows about you; what you’re going to do.” The little girl pointed across the lot to a large yellow school bus Terry hadn’t noticed. “She said it’s not your fault. She said to stay away from the railroad tracks.”

  Red-faced, Terry turned away from the girl to hide his shame. How did she know? How did her teacher know? “I don’t know what you think I’m going to do, but…” Terry stopped his reply short when he turned back around to find the girl had gone. He frantically swiveled around to find any trace of where she’d vanished, but couldn’t spy her anywhere. He noticed the bus he’d seen had disappeared as well.

  “I must be losing my mind,” he muttered to himself and climbed up into the cab. Cathy smiled down at him as he slammed the door shut. The picture of her always greeted him from its perch atop the driver’s seat visor. It was his favorite. They’d picked up handfuls of the chocolate birthday cake and smeared it all over each other. The black frosting dripping from her honey-kissed brunette curls and the tip of her chin made him smile every time. He chose to remember her that way rather than the last time he’d seen her.

  As he turned the ignition and eased his truck off the lot, Terry shuddered as his last glimpse of Cathy ran through his head. He remembered the coroner pulling back the white sheet to reveal her bullet-riddled body. The nightmare of the bloody craters left in her chest and forehead brought tears to his eyes.

  It should’ve been me.

  He’d failed her. He told her that she’d never be lost in his arms. He told her she’d be safe. How had he repaid her trust? He didn’t protect her like he promised.

  It’s all my fault. At least, it’ll all be over soon.

  Terry’s thoughts wandered as he steered the stretch of Route 66 as familiar to him as the back of his hand. He’d decided to end it all where his life began. The memory of that hot, humid summer day made the whistling winter winds, the soft, wet snowflakes pelting his windshield, and the nip of the frigid night air on his exposed skin fade away.

  He remembered the school bus with smoke pouring out from underneath the hood. The frightened children along the shoulder of the highway chattered and fidgeted anxiously as they stood thirsty and sweaty in the sweltering August heat. That summer became infamously known as The Drought. Throughout Illinois, no rain fell from mid-June to late September. Everything shriveled and turned brown.

  That’s when he noticed his Cathy. How could he not? Unlike all other signs of life, she defiantly wouldn’t wilt under the blazing sun. She stood unfazed, in a dress as serene and blue as the ocean, as she pulled apart boys who were fighting and comforted girls who were crying. From the moment she looked up at him with her pleading eyes as big and brown as caramels, he knew he had to pull over. She called him her heaven-sent highway hero. He told her she’d never be stranded alone anywhere again.

  Every summer during her vacation from teaching, they made it their routine. They’d stop at Joe’s for a bowl of chili, and then make the short trip to the old mission next where the bus had broken down. She confessed to him that she never worried because she felt the Hands of God that day. She said it was no coincidence the bus broke down so close to Saint Anthony’s. She gathered strength from the nearby marble statue, and knew she wouldn’t be lost for long. Before she kissed him, she’d always say that God delivered him to her that day.

  As he pulled off to the side of the road, Terry looked up at the statue as tears welled in his eyes. “I’ve been lost for so long. Why haven’t you helped me?” Saint Anthony, clad in his robe with a babe in his arms, looked solemnly down upon him. Only silence answered Terry’s cry.

  Terry had come this far. He knew he had to finish what he came to do. He pulled back on to the highway, drove a few hundred feet, hung a right, and stopped in front of the railroad tracks which intersected the side road he turned off on. “God forgive me,” he cried. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he sniffled to keep snot from running down to his lips. He put the truck back in gear and eased it on to the tracks. He waited until his cab sat firmly in the middle, and stopped.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I couldn’t do it without you.”

  Terry had a friend who worked for Burlington Northern. He knew this was one of their railroad lines. He knew the lights of a locomotive would be bearing down on him soon. He knew they’d never get it stopped in time. The 30 freight cars the locomotive lugged behind it would make sure of that.

  Terry figured his final moments would be different. He thought his life would play out in his mind like a movie, but that wasn’t the case at all. His mind raced back to earlier in the day. He thought only of the punk and the watch he had no business owning. He wanted that watch back.

  How did he get her watch?

  A series of loud taps snapped Terry out of his reverie. As he looked over to the driver’s side window, a muzzle of a gun slammed against the glass. The glass shattered, and as shards fell into Terry’s lap he felt the coolness of the barrel at his temple again.

  It’s him.

  “What the fuck d’ya think you’re doing, darkie?” The punk clacked his tongue piercing against his teeth and licked his lips. “If I’d a known you wanted to die so damn bad, I’d a capped your ass at the greasy spoon back there.”

  “Do it then.”

  “Maybe I will.” The punk smiled as he continued clacking and licking his lips like a lizard. “I want to make you work for it first.” He reached into his pocket and dangled the watch in front of Terry’s face. “You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”

  There was no mistaking it. The pocket watch bore the flaming heart of Saint Anthony and the inscription Terry had engraved on it for Cathy—Never Lost Again.

  “Yes.” Terry managed to blurt out his answer before he sobbed deeply. He fell into a coughing fit from the snot running down into the back of his throat.

  “Well, asshole.” The Goth goon jammed the barrel of the gun into Terry’s head and smiled. “You wanted to know how I got this watch. I killed her. You must know her. You know this watch, so you musta given it to her. I killed her, boy. Me and my partner killed that whole busload a kids. You see, we knocked over a gas station. As we were leaving, they pulled up. Talk about the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “But…but…but why?” Terry pointed to the watch.

  “They saw us, man.” The punk spit a piece of his tobacco at Terry’s face. “That’s the first rule a knocking over places. Ya don’t leave witnesses.”

  “Why did you take it?” Terry cried as he grabbed for the watch.

  The murderous madman rammed the butt of the gun across Terry’s face, gashing him across the forehead. “Ya sit there and be a good little boy.” Terry’s tormentor laughed and started clacking again. He sounded like a hissing snake readying to strike. “Why? Why?” He mocked Terry, yelling in his ears. “Because I could. I take what I want. The rest a this whole fucking world can burn.”

  Grief-stricken and outraged, Terry moaned and reached for the watch again. His captor cut another jagged gash in his forehead with the butt of the gun.

  “Be patient.” He giggled as he jammed the barrel into Terry’s temple again. “I’ll kill you, too. But you’ve gotta drive some more first. I’ve got warrants. If I get stopped, I’ll get pinched for sure. I need you to drive north to Iowa. That’s outta range of the warrants up there. They won’t drag my ass from there back to here for bullshit DUI charges.”

  A strange noise drew the demented delinquent’s attention and the barrel away from Terry. It sounded like children’s laughter coming from behind Terry’s trailer.

  “Who’s back there?” The passenger from hell jumped off the running board to the ground and held the gun with both hands as he aimed toward where the sounds had come from. He looked up in disbelief, pointed the gun at Terry, and motioned for him to get out of the truck, too. “Stay where I can see ya. I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re dying the first sign of anything fishy.”

&n
bsp; The laughter started again. It came from the passenger side of the trailer this time.

  “I’m not fucking around, kiddos. Come out, come out, wherever you are.” The gunman swiveled to face the sound of the laughter. He looked flustered as the gleeful sounds seem to surround the trailer.

  “What the fuck?” The punk started shaking. Terry could see the sheer terror in his eyes. He kept pointing the gun in different directions, but found nothing or no one to shoot.

  At the front of the truck, excited squeals pierced the air. Terry traded looks of disbelief with his tormentor, who had lost his cocksure attitude along with all of the color in his cheeks.

  “You go on the other side of the tracks where I can see you.” The pale-faced punk yelled at Terry. “Tell me where those fucking kids are.”

  Terry grudgingly obeyed. He gingerly put one foot in front of the other with his eyes glued to the front of the truck. As he slowly inched his way to the other side of the tracks, he stared blankly in disbelief at what was in front of his truck—nothing at all.

  “What the fuck, man?”

  “There’s nobody there.”

  “The fuck d’ya mean there’s nobody there? I can fucking hear ‘em.”

  “Look for yourself.” Terry shrugged. He couldn’t believe his own eyes. He’d heard the children, too.

  The punk walked around to the front of the truck and kicked the grill. “I’m fucking cracking up. It’s probably from talking to a damn darkie all day.” He sat down on the bumper, and smiled as he pointed the barrel back at Terry. “It’s about time for our little chat to wrap up and hit the road. Cheer up. The sooner I get to Iowa, the sooner I can kill you.”

  Peals of laughter rang out from behind the trailer, and suddenly the truck lurched forward. It threw the punk off the bumper and knocked him down between the tracks. The gun went flying out of his hands and landed far out of his reach on the other side of the tracks.