18 Wheels of Horror

by Eric Miller

  Rook coughed, slowly climbing to his feet. He risked a glance over his shoulder, watching the asphalt roar by beneath the truck.

  “How did you come to own this magnificent machine?” Judas asked.

  “Years of hard work. Saved up my money. Union benefits. You know how it goes.”

  “Your cavalier attitude is wearing thin,” Judas said.

  “Charm and grace, like I said,” Rook answered.

  “Personality quirks only get you so far,” Judas muttered.

  Rook spun on his heel. “Quirks? Nah. Charm is a great thing.” Rook pulled a necklace from behind his shirt, displaying a beaten coin encased in glass. “This one has traveled with me for longer than I care to remember. Hell, really longer than I could possibly remember. This charm was with me when Pompeii was on fire. I held it as I watched the Huns pass over the mountains and level everything in their path. I carried it at Gettysburg, had in my pocket in Dallas in ’63, and it helped me crawl from the rubble in New York a few years ago. What I’m trying to say is this: If you’re trying to scare me with a pig-sticker that’s incapable of drawing blood, you’re going to have to step up your game.”

  Rook stared at Judas, watching the glow in his eyes vibrate as his gaze darted from Rook’s eyes to the charm, and back to the spear in his hands.

  “I recognize the coin. You were there. You were there when I betrayed…” Judas’s eyes welled with tears, then hardened. “You will give it to me. The spear may not draw blood, but it can remove your head from your filthy body.”

  Rook smiled and shook his head. He kicked at some imaginary dirt and turned slightly away from Judas. “You’re not touching it. Drop the spear and get lost in the fog if you know what’s good for you.” Rook extended his arm, holding the coin in front of him like a ward to push Judas back. For a moment, it seemed to be working, as the demon inched closer to the opening in the truck. Rook rested his hand on the shelf near the door and raised an eyebrow.

  “You expect me to retreat from a charm?” Judas growled.

  “Nah,” Rook shrugged. “Charm is the distraction. When the situation falls apart like this, I let Grace do the talking.”

  The interior of the trailer lit up with a blinding light as Rook emptied both barrels of his riot gun into Judas’s head. Gore sprayed the walls as Judas frantically grabbed at the back of his skull, which was considerably more open than it had been a minute ago. Judas looked at Rook with his remaining eye, and what was left of his jaw was struggling to make a sentence.

  Rook seized the spear from Judas’s floundering hand and swiped a clean slice across his neck, liberating the head from Stick’s body. The skull clattered to the floor with a wet thud. Rook reared back and drove a hard kick into the sternum of Stick’s dancing headless corpse, sending it out into the night.

  “Shut it down, Coogles!” Rook shouted.

  Down down down down! Came the barking reply, lost in the growl of downshifting.

  Rook lifted up the skull. The eyes were lifeless again, the skin dry and desiccated. His cargo had a giant hole in it and considerable damage, but all things considered, a delivery was a delivery. The recipients could try to file an insurance claim. Most likely they’d try to take it out of his hide, but when those complaints came, Rook always handled them with Grace.

  He wandered through the hallways of his trailer toward the front of the truck, pausing to hang Grace back in her wall holster beneath a fading tintype photo of a young woman with steel-grey eyes and a mouth set in a firm line. Rook kissed his fingers and touched them lightly to the photo.

  “Thanks, Annie.” He closed his eyes, letting his mind drift back to the day she had given him the gun as she lay dying, imploring him to abide by the creed inscribed in the handle: Deal with people in love and kindness. Deal with all else in sacred silver and lead.

  He opened the door to the cab and slid into the driver’s seat, accepting a few over-excited licks and nips from Coogles in the passenger seat.

  Ready for break. Break break break.

  “We can’t get off the road yet, buddy. Long way to go and a lot of packages to drop.”

  Want break! Hunt and fly! Fly fly fly.

  “You can take a flight when I stop to pick up more bullets, right? Maybe we’ll stop at Chef Ray’s. You can have a shrimp po’ boy while he blesses my ammo, huh?”

  Poboypoboy!

  “That’s the spirit,” Rook sighed. “You think we’ll ever get proper thanks for saving the world so many times?”

  No! No no! I love you!

  “Go to sleep, Coogles.”

  The furry white beast curled up in the passenger footwell and muttered sleep sleep.

  Rook started the truck up and turned on the lights, watching the remaining fog burn away into the night. He almost wished he could have kept Judas around. It would have been nice to talk to someone around his age.

  Jeff Seeman is the author of two novels, Political Science and Guns and Butter, and was a contributor to the Bram Stoker Award-nominated short story anthology Hell Comes To Hollywood. He’s written several feature-length screenplays, one of which was adapted into the film American Virgin. He has written, produced, and directed a series of short comedy videos and performed stand-up comedy in Los Angeles, Boston, and San Francisco. Jeff dedicates this story to the memory of Richard Matheson.

  ROAD KILL

  Jeff Seeman

  1:17 AM. TWENTY-EIGHT HOURS and twelve minutes.

  331 miles to Chicago.

  And the blur of white lines on black asphalt shooting past in the darkness—endlessly, mercilessly. And the low, steady hum of eighteen tires on asphalt unremitting, and the high, steady whine of the engine unrelenting. And the tattoo of rain on the windshield and the squeak-swish-squeak of the wipers incessant. And the feel of the seat hard and painful against his back, the cracks in the cold brown vinyl exposing the cheap foam padding beneath, hardened and yellowed with age. And the air stale with the smell of sweat and nicotine. And the flashes of light from passing streetlamps throwing nightmare shadows inside the dark cab, then disappearing, then darting in again, like a slow, steady strobe. And the quiet symphony of static and indistinct, barely human voices drifting from the CB radio like memories from some distant, hypnotic dream. And the coffee in the extra-large Thermos had gone cold hours ago. And the supply of pills was dwindling. And he’d been driving for twenty-eight hours and twelve minutes, log book long forgotten.

  And it was still 331 miles to Chicago.

  And by now she might already be gone. After all, she’d left him the message over 24 hours ago. And this time she‘d sounded as if she really meant it. She might have already packed up the car, taken the kids, and left.

  She might have already taken all her clothes from the bedroom closet—the brightly colored summer dresses, the dark business skirts and serious blouses, the tight little black cocktail dress that she always worried made her look fat. He tried to imagine what their closet would look like half-empty. Mostly empty.

  She might have already packed up all the kids’ toys. The stuffed animals and the video games, the board games and the Lego sets. The doll with the fancy clothes and curly blonde hair he’d brought back with him once from San Francisco. The autographed catcher’s mitt he’d gotten at Fenway. The Nintendo Wii he’d bought for Christmas, the one the kids had been so excited about, the one they’d played all day long and then never touched again. They might all be packed up in brown cardboard boxes by now and sealed tight with packing tape.

  She might have already taken all her things from the bathroom. Her toothbrush from the holder on the sink. Her seemingly dozens of bottles of lotions and creams and gels that he always teased her were probably all the same thing, just marketed in different bottles. Her pink silk panties, the ones she used to hand wash and hang over the shower curtain, the ones that always used to annoy him when he wanted to take a shower but delighted him when he’d come home from a long trip and she’d sent the kids to their grandmother for the week
end and she’d greet him at the doorway wearing nothing else. And she’d run her fingernails ever so lightly over his skin as she removed his clothes, like ten tiny, precious tongues.

  She might have already taken all the pictures down from the walls. The one at their youngest’s first birthday party, the whole family crowded around the birthday cake, the guest of honor with his eyes wide and innocent and completely uncomprehending of the occasion. The one the waiter had taken that weekend in Puerto Vallarta, the two of them with their arms thrown around each other, laughing, wild, high on love and sex and tequila, the Pacific Ocean behind them. The wedding photograph… She wouldn’t take that, would she? But leaving it would almost be too cruel. For him to come home and be greeted only by that photograph looking down from the wall on an empty apartment. No, she couldn’t be that cruel. She’d take the wedding photo with her.

  And for the tenth time that hour, he grabbed the cell phone from the passenger seat and hit Redial. Ringing.

  Come on. Pick up. God, please pick up.

  “Hi, this is Amanda. Leave a message.” Beeeeep.

  Fuck. He tossed the cell phone aside.

  From the radio, Patsy Cline sang faintly, mockingly. Something about falling to pieces.

  And the rain poured down. And the squeak-swish-squeak of the windshield wipers. And the low hum of eighteen tires on asphalt. And the high, steady whine of the engine. And he popped another pill and washed it down with the last dregs of cold coffee. And he checked his watch.

  And it was 1:19 am. Twenty-eight hours and fourteen minutes. 329 miles to Chicago.

  ***

  Ttschhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

  “Break one-nine.”

  All he’d been picking up on the CB for the past twenty minutes had been a swirl of static and a few barely audible voices. Probably due to the storm. Occasionally, he’d catch the hint of a conversation fading in and out, mostly talking about the weather or last night’s baseball game. But this voice had cut through the auditory mist, more distinct than the others. A Southern drawl. A nasal twang.

  “Break one-nine,” it repeated.

  Another distant, barely audible voice responded. “Come on, breaker.”

  “This here’s Buzzsaw. Ah got a full grown bear takin’ pictures on Old Hut—” The voice disappeared in a sea of static. Ttschhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

  Shit. Speed trap. He’d been trying to keep it at close to eighty since San Bernardino. He grabbed the microphone.

  “Come back on that?” He waited for a response. Nothing. “Come back on that, Buzzsaw?” he repeated.

  There was a crackle of static, then, “Howdy, good neighbor. What’s yer twenty?”

  “Old Hutchinson Road. Eastbound.”

  “Y’all got a bear in the bushes your side, mile marker five. Right behind the billboard for Chuck’s Diner.”

  He peered out the windshield, through the darkness and driving rain, and his headlights illuminated what appeared to be a billboard, about three hundred feet up ahead. He eased off the fuel pedal. 75…70…65…

  He passed the billboard doing sixty. Sure enough, it was a peeling, faded sign proclaiming the culinary virtues of one Chuck’s Diner. He threw a glance at the passenger side view mirror as he drove by. A highway patrol car sat just behind the billboard, a cheetah waiting in the bushes to pounce on the next passing gazelle.

  He shook his head. “Much obliged, Buzzsaw. You just pulled my nuts out of the fire.”

  Thunder boomed and a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the twisted, naked trees lining the side of the road. Buzzsaw’s voice faded in and out of the ether. “Happy…help, good neighbor. Who…talking to?”

  “Warthog.”

  “Glad…acquaintance, Warthog. Whatcha doin’ out…godforsaken stretch…shit and asphalt?”

  “Old Hutch? GPS sent me here. Just before the damn thing died on me. Accident back on 235. Traffic’s all fucked up. Trying to find a way back to 80.”

  “Y’all keep headin’ east. You’ll hit ‘er eventually. Hauling…load?”

  “Nope. Deadhead from L.A. Just trying to get home.”

  “Folks waitin’ for you?”

  He hesitated. “Maybe.” A swirl of emotions coursed through him. “Maybe not.”

  “Don’t sound good. Trouble…old lady?”

  Warthog couldn’t resist a cynical chuckle. “Apparently on the road too much, Buzzsaw. Not home enough. On account of the whole trying-to-make-a-living-and-feed-my-family thing.”

  “Oh, yeah, that thing. Sounds…fuckin’ curse…bein’ a trucker, son.”

  He took a deep breath. “Yeah. Fuckin’ curse.”

  “Don’t see much traffic…Old Hutch,” said Buzzsaw. He chuckled. “Hey, you watch out…ghost now.”

  “Come back?”

  “Local legend. There’s…hairpin turn halfway…ravine about…miles… Locals say… Dead Man’s Curve…some driver…‘bout twenty years ago…skidded…and… When they…found…severed…arms and…head…blood…torso…with his guts all…and his eyes… People say when…they still see his ghost…night…out on Old Hutch. What the kids say, anyhow.”

  Warthog shook his head. “Kids. Every town in America probably got a legend like that.”

  “Yup. Reckon so. Say…diner…pretty decent, you ain’t eaten.”

  “Chuck’s?”

  “Yup. Only place open twenty-four hours…damn county.”

  “Thanks, I’ll pass. Trying to make time.”

  “Nothin’ else…for miles,” said Buzzsaw. “Might want…reconsider.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Warthog jammed the microphone back into its clip and put the hammer down, pushing the semi back up to eighty. There was a flash of lightning and the thunder crashed again. The rain came down even harder, as if redoubling its efforts. He snatched up the cell phone again and hit Redial.

  “Hi, this is Amanda. Leave a message.” Beeeeep.

  He cursed under his breath and threw the phone back onto the seat.

  All at once, the road before him seemed to blur. He squinted and blinked several times—hard—trying to regain focus. But everything appeared as if through a haze, even the dashboard just three feet in front of him. A hot flash coursed through his body and sweat dripped down the back of his neck. His head pounded and his mouth had gone dry. He couldn’t feel the pedal beneath his foot any longer. He looked down in disbelief to make sure it was still there. It was, but he’d lost all feeling in his right foot. With a start, he realized the tips of his fingers had gone numb as well. The world spun suddenly around him as if he’d had one too many whiskeys.

  He gulped for air and eased off the pedal, slowing the truck to thirty-five.

  The CB crackled again. “Warthog, this here’s Buzzsaw. Y’all sure you don’t want to check out Chuck’s? Might be a surprise for you.” There was a swirl of electronic feedback, then, “Ah was just there.”

  Warthog tried to shake the dizziness out of his head. Grasped for the mic. Missed it two times. Grabbed hold on the third.

  “Ten-four,” he managed weakly.

  Up ahead in the distance, through blurred, bloodshot eyes and pissing rain, he caught a glimpse of neon lights, red and yellow and white. He couldn’t even tell if he was on the fucking road anymore. Just aimed the truck for the lights and kept rolling.

  ***

  The sign proclaimed it as CHU K’S DIN R. Warthog pulled slowly into the parking lot, rolled to a stop, and cut the engine. He sat hunched over the steering wheel, breathing hard, forcing air into his lungs as the rain pounded on the windshield. His throat was parched and his head still spun. He gripped the steering wheel tightly and stared down at the floor of the cab, waiting for the world to stop swimming around him. Something to eat. Yeah, that’s all I need. I’ll be fine. I’m sure I’ll be fine if I just get something to eat…

  He lifted his head slowly and peered through the windshield, but the rain was too heavy to make out anything but the blur of colored neon. He kicked open the door of the cab, pu
lled his jacket tightly around him, and tumbled out into the downpour.

  He landed hard on his feet and his legs almost gave out beneath him. Struggled to regain his balance. How many hours had it been since his feet had touched solid ground? He steadied himself, a weary, haggard sailor just back ashore after months of being at sea.

  The diner stood small and brightly lit against the darkness. Warthog saw there were a couple of other trucks and even a few cars parked in the lot. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, he thought. Seemed to be able to draw a few customers, even this late at night. Then again, Buzzsaw had said it was the only place open for miles. He jogged across the small parking lot toward the entrance as the rain poured down.

  The tingle of a small bell announced his arrival as he stepped through the front door. He tried in vain to shake the water from his soaking jacket. The diner was so bright compared to the darkness outside, the fluorescent lights fairly sparkling off the freshly polished linoleum. A long Formica countertop with a row of stools on his right, a series of booths on his left toward the windows. Behind the counter, a grill where a hamburger and several strips of bacon sizzled. Glass display cases advertised various cakes and muffins and pies. A jukebox stood against the far wall playing country music over the din of the rain. It was like every other truck stop diner he’d ever been in.

  Except it was deserted.

  He looked around. Two raincoats and several umbrellas hung on hooks near the front door. A wet poncho was draped over one of the bar stools. He walked slowly down the row of booths. A woman’s handbag lay abandoned on one of the benches. A man’s jacket. And there were definitely two semis and a handful of cars parked outside. Where the hell was everyone?

  “Hello?”

  No answer.

  Warthog heard a loud sizzle from behind him and turned to see that a grease fire had broken out on the grill. He rushed behind the counter and turned off the heat, then grabbed the lid of a nearby pot and covered the piece of charred, burning meat. The smell of burnt oil hung heavy in the air.