by Eric Miller
“Hello?” he shouted again.
Nothing. Just Hank Williams and the rain.
Warthog walked slowly through a swinging door into the kitchen. It was as immaculate as the rest of the diner—countertop, gas range, sink, all sparkling stainless steel, all freshly cleaned and polished. A small connecting room contained shelves piled high with cans of sweet corn and baked beans and cling peaches, and on the far side of the room, a door to a meat locker stood slightly ajar.
Slightly ajar.
He walked slowly to the door and hesitantly pushed it open. A blast of cold air emanated from the darkness. He felt along the inside of the doorway for a light switch and found it.
The room was filled with bodies and body parts hanging from meat hooks. A young woman with long, stringy blonde hair, her right arm missing, her face twisted in horror, the hook piercing her stomach. An elderly man, still wearing his baseball cap, his left leg sawed off, suspended in the air. Various arms, legs, and other unidentifiable organs, hanging from the ceiling like so many cold cuts in a delicatessen. And in the center of the room, a naked torso—armless, legless, blood still dripping from the chest wound where the hook burst from the skin—dangling like some gruesome piñata.
From the next room, Patsy Cline sang forlornly about falling to pieces.
Warthog fell back, overwhelmed with horror and nausea. He covered his mouth as he gagged and retched, his eyes wide. Then he turned and ran, through the kitchen, through the diner, and out the door into the turbulent night.
His head spun and he lost his balance on the slippery asphalt, falling hard on his right knee. He pulled himself up and half-ran, half-staggering back to the truck. Pulled himself up into the cab and slammed the door shut. He sat breathing hard, rain hammering the windshield, sweat pouring from his brow, trying to digest what he’d just seen.
He grabbed the cell phone and dialed 911.
“9-1-1 service is not available in your area,” came the automated voice. “Please hang up and call your local police department.”
Warthog hit zero for the operator.
“Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and dial again.”
He tried twice more and got the same recording.
Shit. He grabbed the mic and switched the CB to channel 9, the emergency channel. “Emergency,” he said, his voice shaking. “Emergency on Old Hutch.”
There was a crackle, then a familiar voice. “Howdy, good neighbor. Y’all get on out to Chuck’s Diner?”
“Buzzsaw, this is an emergency!”
“Emergency? Why, sounds like somebody found mah little surprise.” Malicious laughter floated to him through the ethereal static. “Hope it wasn’t too much of a shock for you, son. But ah figured, heck—you’re used to haulin’ meat, ain’t ya’?”
Warthog’s jaw dropped and he heard a gasp escape his own mouth. For a moment, he sat in stunned silence.
He regained his wits and rapidly switched to channel 10. “Emergency! Emergency at—”
“Howdy, good neighbor,” came the voice.
Warthog squinted with confusion and checked to make sure he’d actually changed channels. He had. He switched the dial again, randomly clicking to another channel.
“Emergen—”
“Howdy, good neighbor.”
He switched to channel 12.
“Howdy, good neighbor.”
To channel 4.
“Howdy, good neighbor.”
To channel 21.
“Howdy, good neighbor.”
What the fuck? His whole body shook as he stared at the CB radio. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be on all the channels at the same time.
“Now at this point, son, you got two options, way ah see it,” said Buzzsaw through the static haze. “You can head on back up Old Hutch. Head west to where you saw that cruiser a few miles back. Might still be there. ‘Course, I ain’t sayin’ it is. Not sayin’ it ain’t, either. Not sayin’ nothin’ one way or the other. But it might be, and you could take that chance. You surely could. Maybe that cruiser’s still there. Maybe them troopers’ still alive. You could take that chance.
“‘Course, that would mean drivin’ back up Old Hutch, like ah said. And that there’s a gamble right there. That’s takin’ you in the opposite direction you want to go. So that’s a choice you got to make. Ah ain’t makin’ no choices for you, son. That’s your choice.
“On the other hand, you could keep headin’ east. Might be an entrance back onto I-80 in a few miles. ‘Course, might not. Might be a weigh station up ahead, maybe just a mile or two. ‘Course, I ain’t sayin’ there is. Not sayin’ there ain’t, neither. Not sayin’ nothin’ one way or the other. Just want to make sure you’re thinkin’ through all your options is all.
“So that’s what you got to decide, son. You gonna head east or west? You gonna take a chance that—”
Warthog clicked off the CB. He sat in the darkness of the cab, listening to the rain, drenched to the bone and trying to control the violent shaking of his body.
A map. A good old-fashioned goddamn map. Before he’d gotten so dependent on his fucking useless GPS, he’d used maps. He clicked on the dingy dome light and began tearing through the contents of the glove compartment. A map of Texas. A map of Illinois. Come on, damn it. There has to be a map of Iowa in here somewhere.
Iowa. He pulled it from the jumble of other maps, papers, and fuel receipts. It was tattered and yellowed, thinning and tearing along the folded creases, and he unfolded it as gingerly as he could with his wet, trembling hands. In the dim glow of the dome light, he squinted at the tiny text. His eyes had clearly worsened with age; he could barely believe he’d ever been able to read these damn things. He found I-80 and traced it with his finger, east across the state. Finally found where it intersected with I-235 and traced it north, looking for where he’d turned off.
Nothing.
He retraced the route with his finger. It had to be here somewhere. East on I-80 to 235. North on I-235 to Old Hutch. He squinted harder in the dull yellow light as fat drops of water dripped onto the map, disintegrating the paper before his eyes.
There was no Old Hutchinson Highway. At least not on the map.
He peered out into the darkness. East or west? Back the way he’d come or forward toward God-knows-what? But Old Hutch couldn’t be that long a stretch of road. If it were, it would have to be on the map. Wouldn’t it? It certainly hadn’t been constructed recently. It must have been here when the map was printed. And if the map didn’t even show it, maybe it was tiny. Maybe he hadn’t even been on it as long as he thought he had. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. Maybe I-80 was just a few clicks up ahead. Maybe…
Can’t stay here. Have to find help. A weigh station. Highway patrol. Something. He started the truck and, feeling slightly reassured by the familiar roar of the engine, pulled back onto Old Hutch, heading east.
He’d been driving for only three or four minutes when he saw a light up ahead—a small, rundown gas station on the westbound side, barely illuminated by an old streetlamp. Set back behind the single gas pump was a small convenience store, and as he slowed he saw a light shining from the window and an elderly man behind a cash register. The man looked up as Warthog eased the semi into a wide left turn, cutting across the highway. As he rolled toward the station, he saw the old man emerge expectantly from the office, pulling a rain parka tightly around him.
All at once, the night was alive in a blizzard of flames. The ground shook as the gas pump ignited and a ball of fire shot skyward. Warthog slammed on the brakes, then threw the semi into reverse as flames swallowed the convenience store. Fiery debris rained down.
And then the old man emerged through the wall of fire, a living torch, his clothes and hair and skin ablaze, a blood-curdling cry emanating from his lips. He staggered forward into the beams of the truck’s headlights and Warthog watched in horror as the flames melted the skin from his body and the heat boiled his eyeballs in thei
r sockets. The man hurled one final shriek of anguish and agony into the night before collapsing into a smoldering pile of flesh and bone. He lay dead in the middle of the road like a raccoon squashed flat by an eighteen-wheeler.
Screaming and shaking with fear, Warthog threw the truck into gear and hit the accelerator.
“Howdy, good neighbor. Looks like your night’s just full of surprises, don’t it?”
Warthog stared at the CB radio. The cold red eye of the power indicator light stared back at him through the darkness of the cab.
But I turned it off. I turned it off. I know I did.
He clicked off the radio and turned his attention back to the road. The wind had picked up now, the rain flying straight at the windshield as he drove. He felt as if he were flying through an endless tunnel of raindrops that glittered in the headlights. The effect was like a kaleidoscope, dangerously mesmerizing. He shook his head, struggling against its hypnotic pull.
“Now that wasn’t very neighborly, was it, son?” came the voice again. “You ain’t gonna get rid of me that easy.”
Warthog looked. Sure enough, the power light was back on.
“‘Sides, ain’t good to spend so much time alone. See, that’s your problem, son. Too much time alone. Too much time on the road. Just like your old lady said. Spend that much time alone, your mind starts goin’ places it shouldn’t. That’s what ah think. Ah surely do. Forget how to be a husband. Forget how to be a father. Heck, forget how to be a man. You know it’s true, don’tcha, son? You’ve thought the same damn thing. Sure you have. Ah know you have. Only natural. That’s what ah think. Damn, you forget how to be a goddamn human being’s what it is. Got to re-engage with the world, son. Re-engage with people. See, that’s what ah do. I re-engage with people.” The voice broke off into laughter. “What ah call re-engaging.”
Warthog grabbed the microphone and took a deep breath, working up his courage. “Did you kill those people?”
“‘Scuse me, son? Come back?”
“Did you kill those people?!”
“Back at the diner? Surely did, son. Surely did. Old man at the gas station, too.”
A chill went through Warthog’s body as the words sank in, confirming his fear. “Why?!” he stammered.
“Just bored, s’pose. Ain’t you? Ain’t you bored, driving for miles and miles with nothin’? Thought ah’d provide us a little entertainment’s all. Oh, don’t have to thank me none. Got to admit though, son, you ain’t bored no more. Ain’t that right?” He chuckled. “Don’t you go tellin’ me you’re bored now, boy. ‘Cause ah do not believe that. Not one bit.”
Warthog took another deep breath. “Where are you?” he demanded. “I haven’t seen another truck all fucking night long. Where the fuck are you?!”
“Ah, well now that’s a question, son, ain’t it? That’s a question. Ain’t easy to answer, though. Wish I could tell ya’. Ah’m here. Ah’m there. Ah’m a little bit everywhere, s’pose. Ah mean, when you’re on the road, where are ya’ really? You know what ah’m sayin’? ‘Nother trucker asks yer twenty and you tell ‘em, ‘Ah’m a-headin’ east on this’ or ‘Ah’m a-headin’ west on that’ or whatever. But you ain’t really there. Or least yer only there for a moment. Then yer gone. Then yer somewhere else. So I mean, where are you really? You get what ah’m sayin’?”
“Are you…following me?”
“Followin’ you? Well, depends how you mean, son. Not so much followin’ you. Not really.” Another laugh. “But ah’ll put it this way. Ah’m goin’ everywhere you’re goin.’ Anywhere you go, that’s where ah’ll be.”
The trailer. He’s in the fucking trailer. That’s why I don’t see his truck on the road. Son of a bitch has a CB hooked up back there and he’s been talking to me from my own goddamn trailer the whole time. That must be it.
Warthog slowed the semi and pulled over to the side of the road. Pulled a flashlight from the glove compartment and fished a tire iron out from under the driver’s seat.
“What you getting’ up to now, son? You be careful now, hear? Don’t go doin’ nothing stupid. Think you may have had enough surprises for one night.”
He opened the door and jumped out. The wind and rain lashed at him furiously as he walked to the back of the trailer, the beam from the flashlight slicing a narrow path through the darkness, the mud sloshing beneath his feet.
He placed the tire iron on the metal step at the back of the trailer and shoved the flashlight into his jacket pocket, beam pointing upward, in order to free his hands. Pulled himself up onto the slippery step, retrieved the tire iron and tucked it under his left arm, then pulled out the flashlight again. With the light in his left hand, he reached out with his right, his heart racing, his hand trembling. Slowly, as quietly as possible, he unlatched the trailer doors. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the right door open. A blast of cold air emanated from the refrigerated unit, turning his breath to mist in the night air. He shined the flashlight inside.
In the glare of the flashlight beam, he caught a glimpse of something shiny. Shiny and wet. He gasped.
Bodies. Like the meat locker at the diner. Like the cargo he’d unloaded back in L.A., only these were human. Suspended from meat hooks, filling the cargo trailer. The remnants of tattered clothing still clinging to their flesh. An arm. A severed leg. A half torso, split down the middle. All wet and sticky with blood.
Warthog let out a cry and slammed the door shut. He lost his footing on the slippery metal step and fell hard to the ground. The tire iron landed somewhere nearby, lost forever in the darkness. The flashlight rolled a few feet away. He crawled through the mud and snatched it up.
When had he done it? When had Buzzsaw put the bodies in the trailer? It must have been when Warthog was inside the diner. While he’d been finding the corpses in the meat locker, Buzzsaw had been loading more into the back of his truck.
He scrambled to his feet and sloshed back to the cab. Pulled himself up and slammed the door shut.
“Warned you ‘bout goin’ back there, boy. Didn’t ah warn you?”
Warthog grabbed the microphone. “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU???”
“Told you that, son. Didn’t ah tell you? See, locals say there’s a ghost haunts Old Hutch. What the kids say, anyhow. They say some nights you can see—”
“Bullshit! Fuck you!”
Buzzsaw laughed. “Okay, boy, have it your way. But in future, you best be more discriminating where you buy your automotive ‘lectronics, wouldn’t cha say?”
The CB radio. He’d bought it years ago, second-hand. Friend of a friend. Someone in the junk business. Recovered from a highway accident, wasn’t it? Had he ever heard any details of the accident? Had anyone been injured? Killed? He strained to remember.
Warthog began frantically yanking at the electrical wire to the radio.
“Whatcha doin’ there, boy?”
One more strong yank and the wire pulled free. Warthog stared at the radio. The power indicator light stayed solid red.
“Now that wasn’t very friendly, was it, son? I mean really, that’s what ah call downright rude.”
Warthog popped open the glove compartment and began scrambling through its contents, tossing maps and papers every which way.
“That there’s the problem with people these days, boy. Manners. Ain’t nobody got no manners no more. Swear to God. It’s a goddamn shame. Civilization going to hell in a hand basket ‘cuz ain’t nobody got no goddamn manners no more.”
It has to be in here somewhere. Warthog reached into the bottom of the compartment and felt around. His fingertip hit something sharp. Got it. He pulled out a Phillips-head screwdriver.
“Whoa there, son. What’cha plannin’ to do with that?”
He began furiously unscrewing the mounting bracket that secured the radio to the dashboard.
“Okay, okay. Let’s calm down now, boy. No need to do anything drastic.”
One screw out. He savagely attacked the second one with the screwdriver.
; “Ah wouldn’t do that, friend. Ah surely wouldn’t. Friend? You hearin’ me?”
Second screw out.
“Really, son, this is so uncalled for. Ah mean, ah ain’t perfect. Ah admit that. Ah might have said some stuff. Might have done some stuff. But we can put all that behind us. We can start off on a new foot.”
The Phillips-head slipped, jabbing the thumb of Warthog’s left hand. He smarted for a moment, then pushed on ahead. Third screw out.
“Can’t we talk about this, friend? Friend? Can’t we?”
The last screw was stubborn, its threads worn. Warthog gritted his teeth and pushed hard. It finally gave.
“Aw, son…”
With a grunt, Warthog yanked the CB radio from the mounting bracket. He pushed open the door of the cab, tumbled out into the night, and strode to the front of the truck. Standing in the glare of the headlights, the rain pouring down, he lifted the radio high above his head. And then, triumphantly, threw it down. It smashed against the asphalt.
Back inside the cab, Warthog threw the tractor into gear and gunned the engine. He rolled forward just a few feet until the radio disappeared underneath the left front tire. There was a small, almost imperceptible crunch. Warthog threw the truck into reverse and backed up a few feet. The radio lay dead like an animal, its electronic guts scattered across the side of the road.
He burst into tears and crumpled in the driver’s seat, his body shaking as he sat hunched over the steering wheel.
***
It was the changing sound of the rain that finally caused him to lift his head, the steady drumbeat on the windshield having diminished to a sporadic tapping. Warthog looked up to find the rain had tapered off and the clouds had parted. Way off in the distance, a glint of sun peeked out from over the horizon. Up ahead, just a few yards away, a road sign he hadn’t noticed in the darkness. He squinted to read it in the dim light of dawn.
80 EAST. 2 MILES. A wave of relief washed through his body.