Frightliner Read online

  Once he’d put some distance between himself and the diner, however, things seemed better. He tried the radio and found a Classic Rock station with the funny commercials and no talk of mysterious killings. When he stopped at a gas station, he lingered a while talking with the pretty lady at the counter as she got him a couple of hot dogs and a Slushee. He tossed chips and a couple of candy bars on the counter next to a liter bottle of Coke, promising himself to eat better tomorrow.

  Unlike a lot of attendants, she knew the area well and was full of light chatter about events. She was married with two kids, judging by the photo taped to the register, but she was friendly and he found himself basking in her warm smile.

  Her smile faded, however, when he asked her if she was driving home alone tonight. “Why do you ask?” she said suspiciously.

  “It’s just that there was a murder last night, ‘round Carlsbad. Woman alone on the road at night—”

  “Oh!” She brightened. “Oh, you’re so sweet. No, I’ll be fine. My shift is off before sundown and my husband comes to get me ‘cause we’ve only got the one car. And Jerry has the place at night, and no one’s gonna mess with him. Besides, that’s in New Mexico. What are the chances he’ll come around here?”

  Her optimism was infectious and when he got to the turnoff for 10, he blew right by it. She was right; what were the chances the murderer would stay on the same highway and go this far? Besides, he really couldn’t afford the extra hours of driving through San Antonio. The station attendant had warned him that there was a big air show in Del Rio, and to be prepared for a lot of traffic.

  True to her word, he hit Del Rio just at rush hour, with the highways full of tourists, military and family in for the show. Even the drive-through at Arby’s was backed up, but the crowds had succeeded in erasing the last of his earlier concerns. He even had a friendly argument with his swinging alien. “Hey, it’s a sandwich!” he told it indignantly. “Turkey, lettuce—it’s healthy!”

  He went on, stopping only for bathroom breaks and gas until the sun had set and the world was lit only by a waning moon and the lights of his rig. Earlier that day, he would have been freaked at the thought of driving alone at this time of night. Now, he even had enough humor to chuckle as “Hotel California” came on the radio just as he was thinking about pulling in for the night. He’d only been on the road nine hours, but the events of the day had drained him. He didn’t have to turn in his load until late tomorrow morning, and besides, he was running low on fuel. He could turn in early, gas up, and get in as the warehouse opened. He rolled his eyes as the Eagles sang “Such a lovely place…” as he pulled in to a truck stop just outside Eagle Pass. Still, he was oddly relieved to find the place was called “Lazy T.” He laughed at himself as he stuck his keys in his pocket and opened up the cab door.

  His laughter died in his throat.

  It was the truck! It was parked just outside the glow of the parking lot lamppost, so that it was tantalizingly visible without having any clear features. But he knew it was the truck. He just knew. And all of the horror of the morning came rushing back, leaving him frozen in his tracks.

  Had it followed him? Ridiculous. It was already here when he pulled in. What reason did he have for thinking it was, well, after him?

  Just call the cops, let them handle it, he thought. But what would he say? He had nothing to connect this truck with anything wrong, let alone a murder. Screw it. Just put in an anonymous tip. Who knows? If that Leroy character had heard something about it, maybe the authorities had, too.

  Well, if he was going to call it in, he had better be able to describe it. The dim lighting made that harder than he’d expected, however. He couldn’t tell the color, even if it was dark or light. He circled toward the back; the license plate was so dirty he couldn’t even tell what state it was at this distance. Oddly, he could see the mud flaps on the back wheels, which seemed to shine with an unearthly light. They had those silver silhouettes of a buxom woman reclining suggestively, but whether from shadows or road grime, their throats looked oddly incomplete.

  That’s sick, he thought, yet he found himself walking closer, as if compelled to examine them more closely.

  He suddenly realized he was angling toward the cab and not the back, remembered what Dale said about being alone after dark, and made a beeline for the truck stop. As he approached the doors, his eyes fell on a little Mexican guy who was sitting on the bench, holding some kind of beaded necklace and praying. For a minute, he had the urge to tell him to get inside where it was safe, but brushed it off with a shake of his head. The guy was probably a beggar who was out there because the manager wouldn’t let him in. He never even looked up as Jay pulled the door open and stepped in.

  The place had a dingy look that said it had seen better days, and it smelled like grilled food and overused bleach water. The sign said, “Please wait to be seated,” but no one was at the counter. The pay phone was out of order, so he caught a busboy and asked him if they had a phone he could use.

  “Sorry. Can’t,” he said dully. Either he didn’t care why Jay needed the phone or he’d heard that request too many times to care.

  “Listen,” Jay spoke quietly, just in case the owner of the rig was in there eating. “I just want to call the police and report that old truck out there!”

  “What? The red one? Hey, anyone own a big red semi?!”

  “That’s mine,” Jay hissed. Couldn’t this kid keep his voice down? “The old one, over in the corner, just beyond the lights.”

  The boy made a big show of peering out the double glass doors. “I don’t see no truck out there.”

  Jay looked. It was gone. “But—all right, who just left here?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Don’t give me that. Whoever was in that truck must have come in here—why else stop? Now I want to know who it was!”

  The busboy just stared at him. So did some of the other customers. It was suddenly very quiet, the sizzle of the grill ominously loud. For a moment, he remembered the drunk husband back at the barbeque joint. I probably sound as crazy as he did. “Never mind,” he mumbled and slunk out into the twilight before they called the cops on him.

  Once he was out of the doors, he stopped dead, his jaw dropping. The damn truck was back! And it was turned around, so that the windshield now faced the restaurant. He caught a flicker of movement. Despite the distance, he thought he saw eyes…

  Without realizing it, he was heading toward the truck, striding toward it, rolling up his sleeves as he went, his mind numb but for a sudden anger. He’s laughing at me! Who does this guy think he is, playing games with me? When I get over there, I’m gonna throw open the door, rip it off the hinges if I have to, then I’ll—

  A hand caught him by the elbow. “Don’ do it, mister.”

  Jay whirled, ready to take the head off whoever was coming between him and his target, and the moment he took his eyes off the windshield, his anger vanished, leaving a sudden panicked confusion. What was he doing? He never started fights, and he’d actually thought of taking on a possible murderer? He’d been honest when he’d told Dale that morning that he wasn’t a tough guy, and the thought of what he had been about to do left him weak-kneed. He sank onto the bench beside the little Mexican who’d stopped him. Jay could feel his eyes on him as he tried to sort out what had just happened. Why had he thought there was someone in that truck laughing at him? Had he really thought he’d seen eyes? That’d be impossible—it was too far away, the light too dim. Yet… He glanced up toward the truck.

  “I would not look too closely,” the man beside him warned. “That truck is old evil.”

  “You see it?!”

  “Si. It has been here since you arrived.”

  “But when I asked in the restaurant, no one else could see it. Even I didn’t for a minute.” The little man shrugged. Up close, he didn’t look like the vagabond that Jay had assumed he was. He was clean and clean-shaven and looked well-enough fed. His face, illuminated by t
he lights outside the café, was gaunt, but from sadness rather than malnutrition, it seemed. Jay could see some kind of lace necklace with postage-stamp sized pictures not quite tucked under his button-down shirt. His eyes regarded Jay steadily.

  “Well, you’re right, friend. That truck is old and evil.”

  “No. That is not what I mean. It’s—como se dice?—old… ancient. It is an ancient evil. You must stay away from it. Here.” He kissed the beaded necklace and placed it in Jay’s hands. “Take it. Keep it close to you always. It will keep you safe.”

  “Uh, right.” He glanced at it. The pretty jeweled beads were in groups, with a couple of links of chain and bead in between each group. Where they met was a medallion of a lady, then more beads, then a cross with a man stretched across it. A crucifix. The word drudged up out of his memory. He’d been raised Southern Baptist, with a minister who had strong words about Catholics and their idols of the crucified Christ. Suddenly, things were getting surreal again. He glanced back at the truck stop. He didn’t think he could show his face in there again. Better to find something further down the road. He wasn’t particularly sleepy anyway, especially not now.

  He rose, again trying to look casual while feeling conspicuous. “O.K. Thanks. Listen, I need to be moving on. It was nice talking to you,” he added, hoping he didn’t sound like he thought the guy was crazy. Still—ancient evils and beads of protection?

  He could tell by the man’s look that he suspected what Jay was thinking. Nonetheless, he spoke seriously. “Keep those near you. And keep away from the truck. I will pray for you.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” He headed back to his rig without looking at the man or the battered old truck, though it continued to lurk on the edge of his vision. He reached into his pocket for his keys, unlocked the door, stepped inside and immediately locked the door behind him. It wasn’t until he moved to put the keys in the ignition that he noticed he still held the beads in that same hand. He shook his head, now angry for how spooked he was allowing himself to get, and tossed them on the seat beside him. He pulled out of the parking lot, resolving to find the next truck stop and get a good night’s sleep. In the meantime, put all of this craziness out of your mind, Jay. This ain’t some stupid horror movie where the monster is gonna jump out and eat you.

  Still, it was several miles before he could steel himself enough to look in the rear-view mirror.

  His one glance revealed an empty road, silvery in the moonlight, dark-edged with just that highway ribbon. It couldn’t have been much past 10 o’clock, but it felt later.

  Jay looked down at the dash in front of him, lit palely, showing him all the dials, the radio, everything he might want to know about the safe little island that was his truck. He wondered what he would do if one of the warning lights came on. Check engine. Overheat. Gas—oh, shit! What in the name of God would he do? A cold sweat broke out on him and his hands trembled on the wheel. He felt the truck slowing down as he unconsciously eased up on the gas.

  He glanced once more into the mirror and there, far back but coming up steadily were twin headlights. There was something ghastly about those lights, something cold and twisted – like phosphorescence on the waves of some dark ocean, where fishes nibbled at the flesh of the newly dead and lost sailors clung to spars, past praying, waiting for the dawn they would not see. He almost put on the brake.

  This is crazy, he told himself. Get a grip! It’s only a car. Or a truck? He decided to speed up a little. Time is money, he told himself crazily. Time—TIME!

  And how old was that truck, anyway? And what was its story? How long since it had carried its last cargo—or did it carry something now? Coffins, he thought and laughed a little at himself. What a load of manure he had been thinking! He turned up the radio and it was oldies. He didn’t remember putting on that particular station, but then maybe he had outrun the station he had on earlier. Sixties stuff? Or older?

  The lights were gaining.

  He couldn’t, he told himself, go any faster. You didn’t speed a truck on a two-lane. Only a fool took those curves at seventy-five. A song ended, something about dead boyfriends, car wrecks, wailing laments from the dead. An announcer came on—or maybe it was just part of the song. He seemed to be reciting poetry.

  Both hands on the wheel, Jay gave his attention to the road. Behind him, something big was gaining on him. Each time he rounded a curve, he lost sight of it and then as it came into view, it was closer. Closer—

  —and in the dark, moonlight is all, stars gleam above the clotted earth of opened graves, and we go down into the frigid dark, cold blood, cold kisses—

  With a squeal of brakes he dragged the truck away from the verge. What a time to fall asleep! And how long had he been listening to that drivel on the radio? It was almost—he shuddered—hypnotic!

  It’s him talking! He’s on the radio! Freeing one hand from the wheel, Jay reached over and switched off the radio, but the voice laughed. He turned off the CB. It had been nothing but static, anyway. The silence unnerved him, and he felt himself tense, waiting, anticipating the voice. He stared at the dial with something like horror. This could not be happening!

  Behind him, the truck had matched speeds. It was playing with him, he thought. Waiting for him to stop of his own accord. Then it would pull up behind him, park quietly, waiting for him to open his door and—boots crunching on gravel—watching as the cab loomed up in front of him, beside him—his hand on the door handle—

  “No!” He said it out loud. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, clenched like the hands of a corpse gripped in rigor mortis. He felt the presence behind him, calling on him to pull over.

  In one last effort, he switched on the CB and keyed the mike fast. “Mayday,” he croaked. “Anyone there?”

  “Ahead,” a husky voice answered. “Keep comin’, son. Don’t let that thing make you stop. Just keep comin’." It was the voice of Leroy Bartlett, the man he had met at the barbecue place.

  He didn’t even ask what he was doing, 400 or more miles south of Carlsbad, New Mexico, didn’t ask what he thought he could do to help. He just set the mike down, put his hand back on the wheel and prayed he could get to the friendly voice in time. Without thinking about it, his foot pressed a little harder on the accelerator. He took a turn a little too fast, felt the rig sway. The string of beads slid to rest against his thigh.

  The engine sputtered.

  “No!” He glanced at the gas gage. The red arrow hovered for a moment on the E, then sagged against the peg below it. “No!”

  His truck slowed to a stop and any hope of escape he may have had faltered with it.

  He started to reach for his CB—

  The lights in his rearview mirror flashed glaringly then faded as the truck pulled up beside him. Without meaning to, he glanced out his side window, at the darkness of the cab beside him. The driver, something, was there in the shadows. He could just sense it turn toward him—

  And his mind went blank.

  “Jay!” a voice squawked from his CB. “What’s going on!?”

  A part of him wanted to answer, wanted to scream, but he couldn’t make himself do either. Instead, his hands slowly fell from their death grip on the steering wheel to his sides. His fingers brushed against the chain of beads.

  And his mind cleared. But just a bit, and he didn’t know if it was his panic or his lack of faith that kept him rooted to his seat, as the truck pulled over ahead of him. Its door opened. He shut his eyes, not wanting to see what came out.

  “Jay! Answer me! Where are you?” a voice called.

  Using the hand that held the beads, he picked up the mike. “Help,” he whispered.

  He thought he heard boots crunching on gravel, but he couldn’t tell over the pounding of his heart.

  “Lock the doors, Jay. Don’t let him in. He can’t come in if you don’t let him. I’m on my way.”

  What did he mean, he wouldn’t come in? A strong swing with a crowbar and he could bust the window and fo
rce his way in. Jay could see it happening, heard the crashing glass. Of course he could get in—

  Of course I can get in…

  The crunching sounds had stopped. Did he hear another car, or was it the roar of blood in his ears? Why couldn’t he move? The CB was silent now, just a steady sinister hiss. He was trembling so hard, he dropped the mike. The beads fell from his clutch, but hung loosely from one finger. He couldn’t take this.

  You don’t have to…

  Any minute now, a crowbar—or maybe a shotgun. Our Father, Who art in heaven…

  Of course I can get in…

  He was right by his door. Jay could feel it. What was he waiting for? Now I lay me down to sleep…

  Why prolong this? Of course, I can get in…

  I’ll open the door, fast-like. Make a run for it. Jay felt his hand moving toward the door lock—the driver’s side. A part of him shouted, “No!”

  Yes, unlock the door. Make a run for it. You can outrun me… Yes…

  No! Clutching the beads again, he fought to stop his other hand. He was dimly aware of headlights reflected in the rear-view mirror lighting up his cab.

  Better to run, a voice urged in his mind. Its voice. Of course I can get in. Better to open the door yourself and flee…

  His right hand pressed on the latch. His left hand punched it locked.

  Open the Door! the voice commanded. His right hand obeyed.

  A sudden dull thud, an inhuman screech of anger and pain, and the squeal of brakes.

  Suddenly, whatever had a hold of Jay’s will released him and he sagged against the door, gasping. He screamed as the door was flung open and he fell into someone’s arms. He struggled, pulled back a hand—the one with the beads—to punch—

  “Wake up! It’s me! I’m on your side!”

  He stopped and blinked. The little Mexican from the truck stop was clutching his shoulders, shaking him. “What? How?”