18 Wheels of Horror

by Eric Miller

  Hayward’s list was long and tedious for others to attend to. Nobody could do anything without him raising an eyebrow or a ruckus. They were such a part of his existence, they created a lifestyle of fear. Some whispered that ol’ Hayward was scared of his own shadow. He wasn’t. But he was terrified that somebody might step on his and cause him all kinds of problems and suffering.

  The idiosyncrasies were a mainstay at home, a living Bible, really. Hayward’s Commandments, they were called, and Moses would need far more than two tablets to carve them on. Two mountains, perhaps, would suffice. But they also followed him on the road, where he’d spent at least five days a week or more for the last twenty-two years. His rig, and the employ of Amicus Freight Lines, took him all around the Midwest and beyond, delivering facial creams, sticky hair goop, and various sundries to dime stores, truck stops, and whatever hole in the wall the waybill sent him to. He loved being at home with his cricket sleepless wife and listless boy, but his true calling was life on the road. The majority of his hauling time was spent by himself, marveling at the glorious countryside provided by the U.S. of A. by way of the Almighty, collecting his thoughts on everything from motor oil to puppy breath and listening to apocalyptic wasteland audio books. He didn’t like to pay the price for the actual items he found in the truck stop shops, but his oldest friend, Red Alpert, did a real good job of reading yard sale paperbacks into a cassette recorder for him. He had all the voices down pat, made a pretty decent explosion sound with his lips pursed to a tin can, and even made a little beep when the tape needed to be turned over. More than his onboard entertainment, Hayward enjoyed the peacefulness of the road, away from others. He’d rather be stuck in O’Hare International traffic in the safety of his cab, for hours on end, than have to deal with somebody who would break one of his multitude of rules, thus putting his life in danger, or merely putting a severe crimp in his day.

  A few miles separated him from that last tombstone back on the road. Hayward was breathing easy now, and his passing out wasn’t a big deal to him. It barely registered as an occupational hazard at this point. He screwed the lid back onto the bottle of smelling salts and would leave it be until he neared the next major cemetery. His GPS displayed them, with a little skull and crossbones icon, as places of personal interest, just as he had other settings for designations such as truck stops, derelict roadside attractions, and that restaurant that sold the pecan log rolls. But Hayward had driven these roads so many times, he could cruise the routes with his eyes closed. And he sometimes did whether he meant to or not. He didn’t need the GPS, but he liked to see the icons scroll by.

  Hayward had already delivered his haul hours ago, and didn’t have anything coming up for a couple days. The terminal dispatcher told him to enjoy a nice, extended weekend with the family. And he would. He wished he could spend more time with the boy. He was growing up, and mostly out, these days. Hayward checked in several times a day, and noticed the boy’s cracking voice only since yesterday. He knew that pubes were already popping and girls were on the horizon. Brought a tear to his eye.

  Last year, Hayward had asked what the boy wanted to do on his spring break from school. They didn’t have much money, so he feared that he would want to go ride the coasters in Ohio. But they would have found a way. He got good grades and didn’t fight much with the other kids. He deserved a little something now and then. Hayward asked again on the last day before the break. His heart melted when the boy told him the only thing he wanted to do was ride with his daddy on one of his hauls. He had it all worked out, in case Hayward was against it. He promised to be mostly quiet, do everything he was told, wouldn’t tease the lot lizards, and would hold his farts until they got out of the cab. All things Hayward lived for.

  That was the first and the last time the boy got to go with him. They laughed and had manly conversations about engines and wrestling all over the countryside. That two-day trip created a bond most fathers and sons dreamed of. Hayward had never been so proud to be called daddy. Until the drive home. The boy had adhered to all the rules and observed all procedures. He was so good at holding his breath, Hayward thought that one day he could be one of those five-minute dudes. But all started to go south when they showered up at a truck stop. The boy was becoming a man, and with that, manly smells start to seep out of the body. The constant farting was nothing a rolled down window wouldn’t settle. But the sourness emanating from the kid’s armpits was something else entirely. It just sort of hung around. Got trapped in the nose and wouldn’t shake loose. He bought the boy some Irish Spring soap from the gift shop. He was embarrassed for a spell, probably because he noticed it himself. But Hayward told him that’s what men use and ladies like. The boy’s face beamed proud. He lathered up and couldn’t stop smelling his fresh self. And that’s where it went wrong. The boy wouldn’t stop whistling that jingle from the commercial. Over and over. Sometimes you hear some ditty somewhere, and it gets stuck in your head. Won’t cut loose no matter what you try to do. The boy just couldn’t stop whistling that jingle.

  They were coming up on a cemetery. The boy’s head was bobbing listlessly from highway hypnosis. Hayward nudged him.

  “Suit up,” he said.

  The boy nodded through his grogginess. They’d been through this a dozen or more times that morning, so Hayward didn’t see it coming. On the count of three, they both sucked in and held their breath. But the boy was just going through the motions then. They’d almost cleared the cemetery when the boy shook himself truly awake. He looked right at Hayward and smiled. Then whistled that damn soap jingle. And not just the one time. He had started a reprise until Hayward shot him the stink eye and cursed through gritted teeth. The boy was about to wail, but Hayward cupped his hand over his mouth and put the hammer down.

  They say that whistling past the graveyard was a sign of showing perseverance in the face of adversity. But Hayward took it as showboating to the dead.

  Nobody rode in the cab after that. Nor did they want to.

  ***

  Hayward dreaded driving the route from the terminal to his home. The same one as the damned whistling incident. About an hour and a half was all it would take, but treacherous beyond belief. A gauntlet of final resting places and other snafus. He’d already passed most of the little boneyards that he’d encounter, but just this side of the homestretch was the double punch of Mount Hope Cemetery and Devil’s Dip. One right after the other.

  Mount Hope was the largest cemetery in the region. It seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. Even if he weren’t a superstitious sort, he’d hold his breath passing by. The local soy bean plant smelled so bad, people thought the odor was coming from the graves.

  This is where all of Hayward’s training would come into play. It was his Olympics. Go time, and the main reason for the smelling salts strapped to his steering wheel. Hayward wanted nothing more than to run and gun his way past the place, but it was a reduced speed zone and well-known hangout for Kojak with a Kodak. Cops with radar guns. There was heavy enforcement here because just beyond Mount Hope was the most frightening area of all. Hayward’s bowels rumbled just thinking about it.

  The patch of snaking road was called Shiloh on any map you’d find. But everybody from the region called it Devil’s Dip. The turns were fast and sharp. It wouldn’t take much for speed demons to lose control and go over any embankment along the stretch. Most turns didn’t have rails and it was a steep drop into a wooded area. Sadly, so many did just that over the years, the name stuck. Roadside memorials with flowers, white wooden crosses, teddy bears, bottles of booze, and whatever the deceased were into were placed on every turn on both sides of the road. Some had been there for years, replenished, polished, or fixed by loved ones. New ones cropped up every month or so. Devil’s Dip was bad business. And it got worse.

  The area was known to be haunted by those who fell prey to the curves. Their bodies were laid to rest in Mount Hope just a few hundred yards away, but somehow here they were. Being where th
ey weren’t supposed to be. Lost souls with unfinished business, the pissed off kind, looking to add to their army of roaming damned with a bloodlust that would make Dracula blush. The legend went that if the dead weren’t appeased with a sacrifice, they’d pull you down with them. Hayward heard it that slow moving drivers, the Sunday morning type, or those in rigs, would saunter through The Dip slow enough that one of the flesh-eaters could hop a ride home with you. And then hitchhike onto your neck with their teeth. Hayward never picked up a hitcher, alive or dead, no matter how nice the rack.

  Hayward pulled his rig to a stop on the berm, grabbed his cooler, and ran into the Stop ‘N Go Market, a do-all place with an attached squat and gobble diner with a sign that read, “Eat here and get Gas” above the neon marquee outside. They had fine food and cheap gasoline that kept the locals coming. But Hayward had never eaten there in all his years, and they didn’t pump diesel. What they did offer for him was the freshest choice cuts of meat a caveman could ask for this side of the Heartland. Locally grown beef, pork, poultry, and the occasional bucket of frog legs. They had it all and they’d prepare it any way the larger stores refused to do anymore. Hayward passed the snack cakes and chip aisles, something he only did here, and made a beeline to the meat counter. He didn’t know the butcher’s name, but they’d traded business so many times over the years, they were beyond that type of thing now. They greeted each other with a smile then Hayward put his game face on.

  “What can I do you for today?”

  Hayward looked at the beautiful rows of meat lined up and displayed behind the glass counter.

  “Two pounds of each. Same as always,” he said. “Forget the tripe. They won’t like it.”

  “Most don’t because they ain’t had it.”

  The butcher worked his way down the line. Scooping all kinds of chuck, sirloins, chops, butt, and on through the animal kingdom onto Styrofoam plates. He placed each on the scale until he hit the mark then placed it in a clear plastic bag.

  “No need to waste those bags on me. Just put ‘er in the cooler. All of it.”

  The butcher gave him a curious look as he placed the last bit of meat into the cooler with a slap.

  “Buddy, you need to invite me to one of your barbecues one of these days. You sure do know your meat. I may even bring some extra for the grill.”

  “If I ever have one, I’ll let you know. You think you can pour some of that blood in there?”

  “How’s that?”

  Hayward was superstitious to the extreme. But he didn’t want to broadcast it to the world. “Keeps it fresh for the ride.”

  “Anything you want,” the butcher said as he scooped up some of the excess blood from the trays and dumped it into the cooler. Hayward paid the man in cash and lugged the cooler to the rig with a groan.

  ***

  The sun got ahead of schedule and was already setting over the horizon. Hayward turned on his lights and was feeling antsy. The demons of Devil’s Dip didn’t slack off during the daylight, but he figured they really liked to cause problems at night. Scary stories rarely occur at high noon. And he’d already called home and supper was getting cold on the table.

  He barreled down the road and saw the green road marker that told travelers of upcoming gas, lodging, and food. There was another sign posted just underneath like an addendum. Mount Hope Cemetery was just a mile ahead.

  Hayward puffed a couple breaths of air in and out of his lungs as a warm-up. Cleared his throat and got straight in his seat. He unscrewed the bottle of smelling salts on his steering wheel. The vapor slowly permeated the cab. He took solace in the odor. This wasn’t the cheap crap you can get anywhere. This was souped-up Chinese menthol with a tiger on the label that he had found online.

  His headlights caught the outer boundaries of Mount Hope. Stone masonry stacked six feet high and painted white. Black metal fencing on top of that. The cemetery kind. The creepy type with the sharp points on top that made you wonder why they needed anything at all. Nobody was getting out and anybody who wanted in was a damn fool.

  Hayward blew all the air from his lungs and heaved it back in with a wheeze. His finger tapped the wheel as he slid his eyes from the road to the cemetery and back. Immediately over the gates, the newer gravestones shone in the moonlight. Beyond them, the older ones creeped in the darkness. Floating above the others. He was starting to feel heaviness in his chest already. A bit too soon. He goosed the engine a bit, but eased off immediately when he saw the bubblegum rollers peeking over a hedge. He glanced at the police car as he drove by and saw the cop aiming with his radar. Hayward was just under the limit, so he was fine on speed. But speed was what he needed right now. He had other things to worry about.

  Maybe it was the chili dogs and onion rings he had for lunch talking, but Hayward wasn’t feeling up to his usual snuff. He still had a distance until he cleared the cemetery perimeter, but his lungs were already burning something fierce. His eyes started to bug more than usual and he could feel that black pressure veil of consciousness squeezing in on his head. He checked the side mirrors and the policeman was still in view. He pushed the accelerator just enough to give him a little boost. His tapping finger started to drum like a conga line and he bounced a bit in his seat.

  His throat clenched on him and he knew what was next. The air from his lungs worked its way up into his mouth. His cheeks ballooned and spittle bubbled from his pursed lips. He panicked as smelly breath erupted from his mouth. He worked his lips back and forth, trying to grab it back in. He fought hard to keep what little air he had left in him captive. A blood vessel burst in his eye and the last thing he saw before passing out was the bordering wall of the cemetery. He’d passed his first hurdle of the gauntlet.

  A weak smile crossed his lips as his bobbing head hit the steering wheel. His front tooth shattered on impact with the bottle of smelling salts. A low whistle escaped through the vacant spot.

  He awoke with a “Dang it.”

  Hayward gasped for air and shook the cobwebs out of his head. He was already barreling into the first turn of Devil’s Dip when he realized his foot was crushing the accelerator harder than King Kong stomped villagers. He was going fast. Too fast for the curves. He saw a white wooden cross nailed to a tree whiz by his window. A makeshift memorial of somebody he felt bad for. But didn’t want to meet anytime soon. He jerked the wheel going into the turn and over-corrected. The wheels howled as the semi fought to stay on the road. He wrestled the wheel like he was fighting an enemy and got his rig on a steady course around the second bend.

  He could feel tingling heat in his cheeks and his mind was still foggy. He caught a glimpse of something white and shimmering pass by the window out of the corner of his unfocused eye. Whether it was a ghoul or the escaping cotton batting from a child’s stuffed Easter rabbit, he wasn’t sure, but realization smacked him across the face. Hayward rolled down his window and stabbed his other hand to the passenger seat. He flung the lid off of the cooler and snatched the first piece of meat he could.

  “Here’s a chop,” he said as he threw it out the window, careful not to get any of the dripping blood on the side of the cab. He repeated the process as fast as he could, calling out the names of the cuts as he raced through the turns. He hoped that naming the meat would satisfy the unseen ghouls, in case one would give him a stay of life in wait for their favorite dinner.

  Hayward was running low on meat, but only had a few more turns until he reached the ass end of The Dip. He blindly dug around the bottom of the cooler and pulled out a nice bone-in ribeye as he navigated a hairpin. Blood sloshed all over his lap and the inside of his door panel, running into the window sash.

  “Shitdamn.” He rubbed his shirt sleeve back and forth over it, sopping up the spillage. The rig drifted onto the road’s shoulder. The cooler slid to the far side of the seat, banged against the door and toppled to the floor. Blood and the last remaining cuts of meat tumbled out and created a hell of a mess.

  Hayward winced as he rea
ched for the fallen cooler. It was just beyond his fingertips. He repositioned himself on his seat and tried again, peering just over the dashboard so he could navigate the turns. It was no use. Slowing down was not an option.

  “One, two, three!” he said as his head darted below the dash and was able to clutch the cooler between his middle finger and thumb and hoist it onto the seat. He felt the vibration and heard the sound of tires leaving the paved road and turning on the loose gravel of the shoulder. He puffed between his newly gapped teeth and righted himself. His eyes went wide and the puff became a girlish scream when he saw the colony of makeshift memorials bearing down on him. This was the most dangerous turn of them all and it had taken the most lives over the years. White, wooden crosses with loved ones’ pictures taped onto them, wilted flowers and fake ones, teddy bears, and packs of smokes. All seconds from coming through his windshield.

  Hayward yanked at the wheel and tried to right the rig. A cross busted his headlight and bounced over the cab. A stuffed octopus slid around the hood and wedged itself under a windshield wiper. Tentacles flapped in the wind as if waving at him.

  The damage to the front of his truck didn’t concern him. He would assess it in the morning when he was safe. Money could fix dings and dents, but it wouldn’t cure an eternity of torment.

  The cab lurched and his fists tightened on the wheel. He tried to turn it but it would only respond with a shaking sound. The thought crossed his mind that if he just drove with caution, rather than littering the road with slabs of beef, he wouldn’t be in the mess he was in. He didn’t know why such silly things entered his head. He heard a loud skid that was swathed in one of the worst sounds a trucker could imagine. Metal on metal. He looked in his side mirror and saw it. The tail end of his trailer had already swung into the other lane and was gaining on him. This was Hayward’s first visit to Jack Knife City.