18 Wheels of Horror

by Eric Miller

  “My legs!” He tried to push himself away from the truck, but his pants leg was wedged firmly underneath a tire. He couldn’t move anywhere. “C’mon, man. What the fuck is going on? Who is in the truck?”

  Terry turned to look at the cab, but the headlights abruptly turned on and blinded him. He turned his head away from the glare, and put his hands over his eyes. “I can’t see.”

  The truck began rolling forward.

  “Aahh!” The punk yelled as the crunching of bones could be heard over his screams. The laughter picked up again as the truck slowly made its way across the tracks. “Help me. Help me, motherfucker,” the punk screamed. Terror shot out of his pained eyes as he held out his hand toward Terry, but in an instant he’d disappeared under the truck.

  To Terry’s disbelief, the truck and trailer gradually made its way across the tracks and came to a stop once it was safely on the other side. As soon as it stopped, the headlights turned off and the laughter died away.

  For a moment, he stood awestruck, staring at his truck. There’s no way it could’ve moved on its own. The tracks rested on an incline. If anything, the truck would’ve rolled backward if it moved at all. But that didn’t matter, as the brakes were on. He walked around to the back of the trailer and gasped. There were handprints in the snow clinging to the rear of it, but that wasn’t what took the air out of him.

  There, dangling from one of the handles to open his trailer, hung Cathy’s watch. The moon light glinted on the inscription on the back: Never Lost Again.

  R. B. Payne’s work can be found in anthologies such as All American Horror of the 21st Century: The First Decade, and Permuted Press’ Times of Trouble. Upcoming work is featured in Expiration Date from Hades Publications, Unspeakable Horror 2: Abominations Of Desire from Dark Scribe Press, and his post-apocalyptic story Spark will be published in Dark Discoveries magazine in mid-2015. His first novel The Night Watchman is nearly complete and will be published in early 2016. Updated information can always be found at www.rbpayne.com.

  BIG WATER

  R. B. Payne

  I AM A SIMPLE MAN.

  And this is a simple story.

  Well, at least it started out that way.

  My name’s Roy Kincaid, nice to meet you.

  For starters, I drive a big rig named Janet 784 and what you need to know is I’ve got security clearance to the Air Force’s Flight Test Centers including the mother of all locations, Detachment 3. You might not recognize the official name because everyone calls that patch of worthless Nevada sagebrush Area 51, Dreamland, or Paradise Ranch.

  Area 51. Every alien conspiracy nut in the world eventually cruises the Extra Terrestrial Highway hoping to score a photo of Gort out walking the dogs, or maybe a Colonial Viper zipping by. Fat fucking chance. Most gawkers eventually get bored and end up at the Bunny Hutch getting their oil changed along with the regulars that work Highway 375 for a living. At the end of the day, all those rubberneckers ever get is a selfie with some roadside hooker’s tits.

  And I’m not a sexist for saying that because every geek I’ve ever seen standing next to the Black Mailbox with a camera and a giant lens was a dude. Which isn’t to say there’s not weird shit roaming this planet. The fact is: You only see what they want you to see.

  And that’s the simple truth, my friend.

  Anyway, this whole thing started with a “cammo” guy named Big Ben. He and Charley were designated greeters. But not at Area 51, that location is strictly for tourists. Dreamland is military sleight-of-hand; a roadside attraction designed to lure the lame of mind. The real deal is Slick Rock, south of Moab, Utah. About twenty-eight miles from goddam nowhere and six miles east of Canyonlands National Park.

  That’s where I first met Mama.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  For all intents and purposes, Big Ben and Charley are contract killers and I should have realized that up front. But they worked for the Department of Defense and that sort of made everything legal. At least I thought so back then.

  Big Ben and Charley run perimeter management at Slick Rock and spend most of their day cruising the desert in a four-wheel drive keeping John Q. Public at arm’s length. And even though they’re technically civilians, they wear camouflage gear like they earned it. Who knows, maybe they did earn it somewhere along the line.

  Anyway, when the cammos spot an unauthorized individual approaching the site, the first warning is typically a glint off the lenses of binoculars. That sends most people scurrying away like cockroaches in a bright light because the signs on the highway say Use of Deadly Force Authorized, Do Not Enter and, if that’s not clear enough, there’s a Skull and Crossbones.

  If a second warning is needed, Big Ben pops off a couple of shells from an AA-12 Semi-Automatic Shotgun. In a harmless direction, of course. His official mission is to “observe and deter.” Keep local idiots and nosy reporters out. Still, there is no third warning. Big Ben and Charley boast that they’ve permanently deterred over a hundred trespassers. My guess is that’s bullshit talking and there’s no more than a dozen bodies buried in the desert backcountry.

  So on the day all this shit started, I ground the gears as Janet 784 rolled to a stop at the Slick Rock checkpoint. I flashed my ID like I always do. Two pimply soldiers checked my Bill of Lading like they always do.

  Janet 784 purred. She’s a Freightliner with about 400k miles. Sweet. And she’s a reefer. Did I mention that? A lot of the shipments are moved cold. I never know what’s in the trailer. I don’t want to know, in fact, I’m paid not to know. All I do know is that I cruise in light, and I roll out heavy. I pick up at Slick Rock; I drop off at Dayton. I snag another load in Utah. I drop off at Okie-City.

  That’s how it works.

  The two guards glanced to the ridge behind the guard station for authorization. Big Ben leaned against the fender of his Jeep. I can still see him in my mind’s eye. The morning sun made everything clear and bright although the temperature was nearly a hundred and twenty degrees already.

  Off to one side of the Jeep, Charley took a piss. Big Ben barely moved in the oppressive heat, just nodded his head once.

  All clear.

  I gave the two guards a mock salute. They smiled. I jammed the gears and headed to the labs. Up until that day, one week on the road was pretty much like the next.

  Shit, I can see I’ve confused you. So let’s down another couple of shots of Tres Cuatro Y Cinco and I’ll tell you the whole story from the beginning.

  ***

  Big Ben grinned and slapped me on the back. He leaned closer. His breath smelled like cigarettes and hamburger with a beer chaser.

  “How’d you like to score a million bucks, pal?” he whispered.

  “Yeah, right,” I said.

  He’d never called me pal before.

  “Seriously.”

  “You jerking me?”

  “Nah, serious as shit. A million freaking bucks.”

  Well, maybe it’s a legitimate offer. I figured something was up when Big Ben and Charley suggested hoisting a few beers off campus in the middle of the afternoon. But I don’t know why he whispered; we were the only three customers in The Celestial Kingdom, a brewpub in Moab. In the evening, the bar would fill with mountain bikers and rock climbers. Right now, the bar was all ours.

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  I played it cool but my heart raced. I tilted back in my chair and balanced on the aluminum legs. Took a long sip of beer. Charley gave me the eye as Big Ben made his pitch.

  “No questions. We load your truck. Whatever you see, you forget. You deliver to San Pedro out in Cali. We provide a Bill of Lading. You pick the route. Me and Charley ride bitch. We don’t make it there, you don’t get paid.”

  “Is this official?”

  “Fuck, does it sound official?”

  “Is it legal?”

  “I said no questions.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t see me doing hard time.”

  Big Ben glared
. Charley shifted his butt in his chair. I tried to figure if this was the real deal or some sort of security screening.

  “Alright, I’ll think it over,” I finally said. I didn’t know how to play my cards. Shit, did I even have cards?

  “Tonight, Roy. It’s tonight. No time for thinking.”

  Then I felt it. Big Ben was proud of his Heckler & Koch Mark 23 and I could feel its barrel pressing on my balls. The corners of his mouth curled in what he must consider to be a smile.

  “The correct answer is yes,” said Big Ben.

  The chair legs slipped and I crashed to the floor, beer soaking my shirt. The gun disappeared but I knew it was still nearby.

  Charley, grinning, gave me a hand and I struggled to my feet.

  Truth is, like many Americans, I’m dead broke. It isn’t that I don’t work hard or that I’ve screwed up. But, for some reason, my truck payment is always a few months late, and Janet 784 is my meal ticket. Finance company wants it back pretty bad.

  And I’ve had my share of misfortune, but who hasn’t? I don’t believe in complaining. Bottom line: I don’t have a fancy retirement plan and I can’t remember the last time I could afford to see a dentist. Well, that might just be laziness on my part.

  But why shouldn’t I look out after myself? Screw the credit card companies. They’re the reason I live in my truck week-to-week; shit, the bank took my house during that so-called recession where it sure seems like a lot of people got richer.

  But not me.

  Maybe this opportunity is an equalizer. My lottery ticket. My chance to join the one-percenters. I smiled at Big Ben as I dabbed a napkin to dry my shirt.

  “Do you think you could make that a million…and a half?”

  Hell, it never hurts to press and I figured they were low-balling me anyway.

  Charley clapped me on the back as Big Ben yelled to the bartender.

  “Hey! Three more beers over here.”

  We had a deal.

  ***

  On Underground Level 4, Corridor 13, Lab 9, a creature floated in a massive glass aquarium. Oddly, the rear glass panel was papered with an enlarged photo of a coral reef. Somebody’s warped sense of humor. The glass box was no kid’s toy and the thing inside was no fish. Monstrosity. Now that’s a big word, and yep, I know what it means and I meant to use it.

  A fucking monstrosity.

  “What the hell is it?” I asked, keeping my distance. I never knew this kind of shit went down at Slick Rock.

  I scanned the room. Beakers and test tubes covered a workbench. Wires ran everywhere. I didn’t recognize much of the gear other than a few monitors bleeping like in a hospital.

  “Beauty, eh? She’s a bio-engineered entity. We call her Mama,” said Big Ben.

  Charley tapped on a panel of the aquarium’s glass with the edge of his security pass. Flippers pulsated and the creature slowly rotated to face us. A single indigo eye stared from the center of a bulbous head covered in orange mushroom-like growths. Stringy. As the currents in the water moved, the ‘shroomy things almost looked like hair. Blue-green scales the size of my open hand covered her body and click-clacked faintly as she moved. Like she might be breathing through her skin.

  Then I noticed she had two human arms, small, but sprouting out from under her flippers. Each arm had a hand. Mama reached and touched the glass, palm flat. Yep, a human hand, for sure. The monstrosity had fingerprints.

  Her lidless indigo eye darted as it studied the three of us.

  “Jesus, she’s a big as a Volkswagen,” I said.

  “Careful, Roy, she might take offense to you mentioning her weight,” said Big Ben.

  Charley laughed, Big Ben farted, and I wondered what the fuck I was doing here.

  Oh yeah, money.

  At that moment my legs went weak and I wanted to run. I felt sick, really sick. And where the hell was everyone? A top-secret government laboratory and we’d waltzed right in? Sure, the lab stood down because it was the Friday night before Labor Day and most of the science-types had taken off for Vegas, or god-forbid, Salt Lake City. Still, I expected somebody to be around. Soldiers. Security guards. Foot patrols.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked.

  A voice resonated in my head.

  Sleeping.

  I looked at Mama and her eye stared back, unblinking.

  Sleeping, the murmur came again.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked aloud.

  “Hear what?” asked Big Ben, as Charley slammed a ladder against the side of the aquarium and climbed to the safety railing. The tank hung on a set of ceiling rails so it could be repositioned. Or moved elsewhere for experiments, I figured.

  Charley unhooked the safety catch and clicked on the power. Somewhere a motor whirred, and the water in the tank shimmied. The giant aquarium lifted from the ground and swung free.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just my imagination.”

  “Then shut up and let’s get Mama on the truck,” said Big Ben.

  Big Ben revved the engine on a military loader. We slowly rumbled toward the service elevator with Mama sloshing in her tank. Up at the loading dock, Janet 784 waited with her lift gate down and trailer doors open.

  At the end of the corridor, I peeked into the guard station. Yep, that voice in my head was right. The guard slept.

  “Would have been easier when she was the size of a kitten,” observed Big Ben, braking to a halt outside the access elevator. The doors slid open.

  “Amen,” said Charley, swiping his security pass on the elevator controls and punching the G button. “Super easy. But who woulda known which one to take?”

  “You got me there,” conceded Big Ben.

  At the loading dock, we secured the tank onto the trailer’s floor panels. Triple straps, just to be safe. We were ready to roll.

  In the darkness, Big Mama emitted a pulsing blue-green aura. Her indigo eye cut through me as I slammed the trailer doors shut.

  The three of us clambered into the tractor.

  “Make it cold,” said Big Ben, as he scribbled the destination on my clipboard. The docks at San Pedro. Pier 9. California.

  “Super cold,” said Charley.

  I must’ve given them a look because Big Ben added, “It keeps Mama calm.”

  “Super calm,” added Charley.

  I cranked the reefer as cold as she’d go. We pulled away and a few minutes later we rumbled to the Main Gate. A searchlight beamed lazily into the night sky. Next to it, two soldiers sprawled in the dirt, rifles askew. Asleep.

  A voice drifted into my head.

  Dead.

  All dead now.

  ***

  For hours, we rolled down 191 toward Arizona and soon Utah disappeared in the moonless dark. I kept my focus on the road, one eye peeled on the rear view. Any minute I expected to see the flash of Johnny Law on my tail or maybe a military bear in the air. Nothing. Meanwhile, Big Ben smoked an entire pack of AS Menthols.

  Back in the sleeper, Charley sawed a few logs.

  At five AM a ribbon of orange on the eastern horizon meant dawn approached. Fuel gauge said we were dry; luckily Tuba City loomed not far ahead.

  Dimly lit billboards gave way to the electric glow of a truck stop. I rumbled off the highway and fueled Janet 784. She was one thirsty girl. After paying, I pulled into the back row of semis where the truckers slept. Maybe we could catch a little shut-eye.

  Under a flickering lamppost, three lot lizards were looking for the last John of the night. I knew one of them, Tiffany. I wouldn’t say I was a regular, but there’d been a time or two I’d needed a friend.

  Tiffany, in hot pants and a mesh top that read Lakers, approached the cab. The other two women, seeing that Tiffany had a natural, wandered off.

  “I’ll get rid of her,” I said.

  “Nah,” said Big Ben. “Let her in the cab.”

  Charley woke.

  “I’m not interested in a party with you guys,” I objected, but by now, Tiffany had hooked her arm on the
side mirror and peered in the driver’s window. I rolled it down.

  “Hey, Roy. You’re looking good.”

  “You too, Tiffany.”

  A lie. She looked worse than ever. The meth does that to you. Thin, and when she smiled, toothless. Of course, in her line of work, that might be a plus.

  Tiffany grinned wider.

  “I see you brought some friends, baby. Maybe I can give you my three for two special.”

  Before I could answer, Big Ben said, “Sure, sweetheart, climb on in.” He reached across me and unlocked the door. Tiffany scrambled into the cab. She slid onto my lap and wiggled her bony ass.

  “What have you naughty boys got in mind?”

  Big Ben smacked her head with the butt of his Heckler & Koch Mark 23 and her skull made a hollow pop. She collapsed onto the center console.

  “Let’s move,” said Big Ben, pointing the gun at my chest.

  We rolled back onto the highway, heading west. Tiffany groaned but she didn’t come to.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” I asked.

  “Mama’s hungry,” said Big Ben.

  Charley laughed.

  “Super hungry.”

  And that’s when I knew I’d gotten myself into some serious shit.

  ***

  Once upon a time, there was a dog.

  Now this isn’t your typical boy and a dog story because I didn’t have that dog long. Certainly not long enough to fall in love. Not even a whole day. But, for the sake of argument, let’s just say I felt something for that mutt.

  I first saw her limping on the roadside about halfway between Sloan Lake and Highway 25 heading to Casper. About five years ago, maybe six. Anyway, Wyoming’s no place for a loose dog, and certainly not in the heat of August.

  After I passed her, I pulsed the air brakes and about fifty yards down the highway I coasted to a stop. The dog approached. Her ribs heaved as she panted. But her eyes weren’t wild, they were sad. Starving. Dehydrated. Looking for someone to save her.