18 Wheels of Horror

by Eric Miller

  “Where is there to hide?” the Man in White said. “They can get through anything.”

  “Guess we’ll just find out,” Greg said. “Won’t we?” He turned and hurried toward the back of Happy Joe’s.

  ***

  Two Isoguls broke inside the rest stop. One flew right into some poor guy’s head, splitting open his face right down the middle. The guy, a big bear of a fellow, cried out just before his face broke apart, revealing the workings inside. Greg saw white and yellow shapes that quickly turned red. Blood streamed out. The fellow’s hands were up and at the Isogul, but it was useless. The thing had nailed him. He dropped to his knees and the Isogul made its way inside his head. He fell facedown. The Isogul burrowed its way out from the back of his head and flew into the air, coated in a slick layer of blood and bile. A small proboscis slithered out from a slit that Greg thought might have been a mouth. It licked some of the gore before slipping back inside the top part of the Isogul.

  The second Isogul headed right for Greg. He ducked, but the damn thing found him. His heart raced a million miles a second. This is it. I’m done. I’m a goner, he thought.

  Greg gulped; the Isogul hovered right in front of his nose. He tried to get a good look at the thing, but it spun around on itself so quickly he couldn’t really pin down any single feature, other than it was as dark as night. The Isogul lunged. Greg ducked, half expecting the thing to catch him in the face, just like it had for the big guy.

  It did not.

  Instead, it hovered in front of him for a few moments before it flew past.

  He turned, looked, and saw the Man in White, his arms outstretched in either direction, his palms up, an Isogul hovering over each. He’d been controlling them—Greg knew it was the Man in White who’d been the catalyst.

  Greg didn’t know what to say or do. He just wanted his dad.

  The Man in White turned his gaze on Greg. His smile faded. His chin lowered. Then he turned dark. It was as if his skin had grown see-through, only not with light, but with dark. Greg’s heart sank, in the same way it had just before he went over the first hill on a roller coaster, or when he stumbled upon a dead dog, or when he knew he’d done something wrong and was waiting for his dad to come home. Dread. That was what he was feeling.

  The Man in White turned, his eyes like two spinning dark holes. His mouth opened, revealing an endless chasm as far and deep as Greg could imagine.

  If he gets closer, he’s going to swallow me up and I’ll never be seen again.

  Get out.

  Of here.

  Now.

  Or else.

  Dad.

  Got to see Dad.

  Got to find him.

  Get us out of here.

  The Man in White went even darker. He was nothing. He was everything. The Isoguls gathered round. Happy Joe’s Rest Stop faded in places. People were on the ground, spread out. The very earth beneath their feet rocked to and fro. Greg felt like he was on a boat, if a boat could somehow be anchored in the middle of the desert. Pieces of the floor fell out. In them, there was the same endless darkness as in the man in white’s empty face.

  A woman wearing a baseball cap with a piece of Wisconsin cheese embroidered on it slipped near one of the holes. A man reached out, grabbed her forearm. “Babe!” he yelled. “I gotcha.” But he only did for a few more moments. Two Isoguls flew in, hovered, and then dipped down. In a blink, the man’s forearm slipped apart from the rest of his body. They’d cut him so clean and quick, reminding Greg of when he cut a piece of ice cream cake for his cousin’s birthday using a knife they’d dipped in hot water. He saw a circular shape in the middle of the arm, right before it and the lady wearing the Wisconsin Cheese hat slipped into the black hole. She didn’t scream. She didn’t seem to react at all. One of the Isoguls followed her inside. The fellow who’d tried to save her yelled—he made a sound like he’d been kicked in the gut. Greg saw him staring at the stump of his arm left behind, right before the Man in White appeared behind him. With one fast kick, the Man in White sent the man with the severed arm over and into the black hole. An Isogul chased him, too.

  “What the hell is happening?” Greg didn’t know where the voice had come from, but the Man in White with the missing face turned in his direction. A hole appeared where his mouth would have been and opened like the unhinged jaw of a snake about to swallow its prey. Black tendrils rolled outward, like fifteen-foot snakes, and slithered around the parts of Happy Joe’s that hadn’t turned into black holes.

  A guy with a big Steelers shirt jumped up behind the Man in White. He had something in his hands: a huge hammer, the horns pointed toward the Man in White.

  The hammer hit the Man in White square in the back of the head.

  Dark light, for lack of a better description, exploded out the back. The hammer-wielder ducked a bit, shielded his face with his arm, but the damage had been done. The black light burned hundreds of little holes wherever it’d touched. Greg thought it looked like he’d gotten nailed with buckshot…buckshot from hell. The poor guy screamed. Half his face was littered with little holes. They bled, but only for a few moments.

  Grey smoke drifted out from the holes. The man shook. He cried out, but then then was silent as his head slowly caved in. First his eyes went blank, and then he collapsed, as if the darkness that had shot inside him ate him from the inside out like an evil batch of otherworldly termites. Then the rest of him flattened, caved, and dropped, his remains a pile of steaming flesh and burned clothes. He was gone in maybe thirty seconds.

  Greg froze. What the hell am I supposed to do now? He didn’t know, but he felt he had to do something or else it was only a matter of time until the Man in White turned his gaze on him once more. Then what? He’d have to find a way out. But he knew the Man in White could see and sense him. It didn’t stop him in any way, shape, or form. It’s like he’s toying with me, Greg thought. He wants me to see all of this.

  The Isoguls flew through Happy Joe’s. They found people hiding behind chip stands, they broke through doors to get into the bathrooms and the showers, and in each place, people begged, people screamed, but people always went quiet. This kept up until there were no more people anywhere Greg could see. He crawled toward the end of the aisle, where there were piles of smashed sunglasses, bags of Doritos, large remnants of a mirrored display, and tons of blood. The only thing untouched was the Happy Joe’s theme song, still playing over the house speakers.

  Where you gonna go when you’ve got to go… Get refilled. (Killed.)

  Happy Joe’s. Happy Joe’s.

  Fill up your tank (skank)

  Get a drank (drink)

  At Happy Joe’s. Happy Joe’s.

  Greg kept to his place through most of the carnage, unsure of what to do. He thought if he moved the Isoguls would be drawn to him. The entire time he hoped against hope his dad hadn’t been in the bathroom, or hidden inside a closet, when the Isoguls searched and slaughtered, sliced and diced.

  Where are you, Dad?

  The dark black holes spread, swallowing several pools of red gore. The folks were all gone, though, sucked into the endless nowhere the Man in White Without a Face had brought. Greg crawled on the floor, but he didn’t get far. The Man in White stood at the end of the aisle, all the Isoguls spinning around him.

  He had no face, but he spoke, and the Man in White used Greg’s father’s voice to do so.

  “I’ll eat your fear. Saved the best for last, kid. Made you the most scared. Sweetens the meat.”

  Greg looked around. He didn’t see any way out. The Man in White Without a Face stepped toward him. The ground under his feet faded and turned dark, revealing the great nothingness beneath. Even his feet faded; several green tendrils slid out where his feet had been, their tips like razor-sharp knives.

  Crawling back, Greg nearly lost his breath.

  “Come on, Kiddo. One last walk. You won’t feel a thing.”

  Don’t look up. Don’t listen. It’s not Dad. It’s a tra
p. Just get the hell out of here. Somehow.

  “Kiddo. You won’t hurt anymore.”

  I’m not hurting now. What the heck?

  “One last walk.”

  Greg felt burning on his skin, as though someone were shining a flashlight filled with pain at him. He grimaced, but did his best to avert his eyes and ears.

  The Man in White’s voice changed. It still used his dad’s, but whatever his native voice was, that blended in, too.

  “C-come on, K-Kiddo. O. O. O.”

  It sounded like his dad, but it didn’t sound like his dad, too.

  “K. Kid. Do. Doh.”

  There were weird noises mixed in, too: sounds unlike anything Greg had ever heard.

  His arm hurt so badly. His forehead did, too.

  Need something to protect myself with. Something to hide behind.

  He pictured his dad then, and hoped against hope he was all right. If he was here, what the heck would he be able to do against these things, anyway? Then, he knew. Dad’s smart. He always has a way to fix things and make things okay, no matter what.

  No matter what.

  He turned away, twisting around. Saw the pieces of broken mirror in the debris. Reached for a bigger piece. Spun around with it, still keeping his head down. Did his best to aim it back at the Man in White Without a Face.

  Like when we used to aim the rearview mirror back at jerks that’d tailgate us with their high beams.

  Give it back to them.

  Give it back to him.

  Greg held up the mirror, catching the Man in White Without a Face in its reflection. Everything the Man in White Without a Face had given—all his dark energy—every bit of it—shot right back at him. It happened before he knew it, and before he could turn away.

  The Man in White Without a Face made the loudest, worst noises Greg ever heard. Even worse than when his cousin played him that grind core metal stuff he’d found on YouTube. That was funny. The Man in White Without a Face was anything but.

  He’s trying to burn me out like he did the others. Trying to take me.

  He held the mirror higher.

  Then he peeked, just a little.

  Greg looked into darkness so vast and hopeless—so empty and bleak—he wanted to give in. Fall inside. There’s nothing here worth living for. Everything is hopeless. Everything is for nothing. Just dust floating in a cosmos that’s collapsing into nothing. There is no meaning. There is no being. No consciousness. Be one with the universe. End your suffering. End the pointlessness.

  No. I don’t believe it.

  “There’s that ‘I’ again. Always this meaningless self-preservation. Always this arrogance and belief that you matter.”

  We do. I do.

  “Tell me why? There is only this.”

  Greg’s face hurt like he’d been stung by a million bees. Same with his arm. This is what a tattoo feels like. Just a tattoo. You’ll look cool. You’ll be grown up. The riders are going to think you’re okay now. A man.

  Greg knew what he had to do. He raised the mirror shard upward and tilted it until it caught the Man in White Without a Face. Then the Man in White Without a Face stepped back, clutching at the amorphous black that stood in for his head.

  There were spots of darkness…sub-darkness…growing on him. His own projections had reflected back and erased parts.

  He stumbled back.

  A tendril reached out, flapped around, and went for Greg. He slammed the edge of the mirror down on it, severing the tip. The Man in White Without a Face let loose a horrendous screeching noise. He stepped back again. His head expanded and contracted in several places; its shape and movement were otherworldly and complex, as though made from a dense, stringy cloud. Quickly, his entire body turned into the same. The scream turned into several voices, then more, countless more, until there sounded a hellish choir of trapped souls. The voices slid through several chords, notes changing, somehow drawing a sick feeling deep inside Greg’s gut.

  In a flash, the dark remnant of the Man in White Without a Face rose and then rolled itself out and away, going through one of the black holes it’d opened inside Happy Joe’s.

  It was gone. Greg stood. The piece of tendril it’d left behind had shriveled and darkened. When Greg kicked it, intending to send it into the abyss, it crumpled into black dust. That, too, blew away until there wasn’t a trace.

  There was a path to the front door, to the outside. He hurried over, past the simmering dark holes, piles of debris, and moist human remains.

  At the door he saw the pumps. Saw the cars at the pumps. Saw the rigs. When he made it outside, he saw something else: his dad.

  Greg rushed out the front doors.

  His dad smiled. Spread his arms. Greg couldn’t believe it.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he said. “Long time.”

  “Dad,” Greg said. “So glad you’re safe.”

  He ran toward his dad, but thought: Weird. Dad never hugs me like that. Hasn’t called me “kiddo” in years. What the heck?

  Greg glanced down. He did, as he ran forth, and saw his father’s feet weren’t quite there. They were cloudy—ghostly—and something moved where they should have been. Something unnatural. When Greg looked up, his father’s eyes were empty, replaced with the same endless chasm he’d seen in the Man in White’s face.

  It wasn’t his dad. Not the one he knew.

  “C’mere, Kiddo. Gimme a great big hug.”

  He tried to run past, but something caught him—phony dad’s arm. Handless, the fleshy tip ended in what Greg thought might be a snake’s tail. It wrapped around him in a millisecond, squeezing him like an anaconda.

  “Great big hug.”

  The Dad Imposter glitched. The outside melted in places, revealing the same dark cloud he’d seen take over the Man in White.

  It’d crawled into one hole and came out another, mimicking his dad.

  As Greg remembered his dad, so, too, did it. He pictured his dad in his jeans, a black T-shirt, and his favorite red Peterbilt baseball cap. The thing mirrored the picture in Greg’s head. He switched it up, trying to recall his dad swimming with him on their trip to Lake Eerie. He’d worn those new, long hip-hop-inspired trunks, and Greg had been shocked at what good shape his dad had been in. While he did, the thing did its best to pull together, appearing just as Greg had remembered his dad. It squeezed tighter.

  “Just a hug.”

  There was no way Greg would get out of its grasp.

  He had an idea.

  An image.

  His dad, leaning over him. Immeasurably sad. Greg lost his breath and faded. His dad looked on as he passed. Sadness filled him tip to toe. He cradled his son’s body. Greg’s vision went. He slipped away. It was the only way.

  Dad. Worse off than any person could possibly be. Dad. Standing over me. Lifts his hands to his head. Lets me go. He has something in his hand. Raises it to his face. Looks at it. I can’t see too clearly. Everything’s going black. Then there is a loud boom. A white flash. And I am falling…drifting away from his grasp.

  Its grasp.

  Only a moment.

  Get up and run. Don’t wait until your eyes work again. Go for it.

  Greg ran.

  He never looked back.

  The thing screamed. He knew it was rushing after him. Felt it opening black holes. Knew it was coming.

  He didn’t look back. Wouldn’t. If their eyes met…

  A sound like the earth cracking.

  Don’t look. Ignore it. Run.

  He made it just past the pumps, and to the small fence at the end of the parking lot. There was their big old red Peterbilt cab. It was fuzzy. He ran as fast as he could. When he made it past the fences, everything cleared.

  He made it to the cab, and looked around. “Dad?” he said several times.

  At one point, he looked behind, back at Happy Joe’s Rest Stop, and saw nothing. A big pit of darkness had swallowed the whole thing, or so it appeared. There seemed to be some kind of vapor surroundin
g the area. He couldn’t place what it was. He heard screams. Some sounded human. Some sounded formerly human. Some sounded like they were from hell.

  “Hey?”

  Someone touched his shoulder.

  He turned.

  His dad. It was really him.

  “Dad?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

  “Where’d you go?” Greg studied him, not entirely convinced he was real.

  “Came out to the rig real quick. Got a message we have to get to Memphis three hours earlier,” he said. “But when I went back to get you…I couldn’t get in.”

  “What’s happening, Dad?” Greg asked. He couldn’t believe his dad had just been standing there. It seemed too easy. He always was pretty matter-of-fact and reserved, so Greg wasn’t expecting him to be doing a dance or anything more than he had. And that was another reason he knew it was really him, and not an imposter.

  “I don’t know,” his dad said. “But let’s get the hell out of here. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Not sure I even saw what I saw,” Greg said. He ran through the events in his head. None of it seemed real now that he was with his dad. It felt like it had to be a bad dream, or a movie.

  “You’re right about this not seeming real. Can’t say how glad I am you’re safe. Climb in. You can tell me what happened on the road,” his dad said. “Just promise me one thing?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Don’t tell your mom. I don’t know what to make of this. I can’t believe it’s even real. But I do know that we’ve got a load to deliver. There are people that are counting on us. You good with that?”

  Greg smiled. “How far is Memphis?”

  “About six hours,” his dad said, clamping a hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “Great,” Greg said. “So long as we don’t have to make any more pit stops, we should make it.”

  “Nope,” his dad said. “No more damn pit stops.”

  “Those places are hell.”

  They spoke like everything was normal, but Greg knew, just underneath, they were both still rattled. His dad, as always, was a rock.

  As they drove away, Greg looked at the dark chasm that’d once been Happy Joe’s, and wondered what others would make of it if they found it. Would it make the news? Would it be swept under the rug? Would someone figure it out?