He was always getting into it with his dispatcher, too. The company had a “no forced dispatch” policy also, which meant they couldn’t make him go anywhere he didn’t want to go—except they did. A lot. Weekly, in fact. There were a few cities that were not his favorite. Chicago, Atlanta and the Dallas/Fort Worth area came immediately to mind. Not truck-friendly cities, that was for sure. Detroit was pretty fucked up, too, but he knew Detroit. It was close enough to be considered their old stomping grounds. Flint and the surrounding areas weren’t much better, but it was home. He never had any accidents or speeding tickets, no moving violations, but there had been many close calls, especially in those fucking towns. When he was out in the wide open, say the plains areas, he could get his truck up to maximum speed, set the truck’s cruise control and ease on back. He always had his ever-growing death metal cd collection, but after a while he grew bored with only music. He ventured into the wide, wide world of audiobooks. Mostly horror authors: Stephen King was a favorite, Clive Barker, Dean Koontz, even thriller and suspense authors like Thomas Harris and sci-fi authors like J.R.R. Tolkien. He ate through the audiobooks like wildfire as he drove his life away.
There was a brief period of this driving career that he got into catching up on all of the old and new trucking classics. Songs like “Six Days on the Road” (the Steve Earl version), “Eastbound and Down” by Jimmy Reed from the old Smokey & the Bandit movies, “I’m Driving My Life Away” by Eddie Rabbitt and of course the classic “18 Wheels & a Dozen Roses” by Kathy Mattea were among his favorites. They did kinda bum him out though. Mostly they sang about how hard and lonely life on the road was and it was all true. He had a CB that he never used, he kept to himself when shutdown at a truck stop, had no real friends at home to speak of, no girl to keep him company and to keep him warm at night. His mental deterioration was going on still just beneath the skull and he didn’t even know it. Kinda hard to make friends when you just thought everyone else was a total and complete piece of shit. Kinda hard to meet a girl when all you came across—both figuratively and on occasion, literally—were the truck stop prostitutes called “lot lizards.” They did warm him up from time to time on the very worst of the lonely nights, but only for a half hour at a stretch. Then, the whores would be out and on to the next truck to warm that poor slob up for a half hour. It really was a disgusting lifestyle, even if he partook on more than a few occasions. Somebody ought to put a stop to it. He thought this mostly on the nights when the girls were not in evidence. He’d see a truck pull into the parking lot and slowly back its way into a parking spot. The trucker would get out and he’d hold a hand up to help his wife or girlfriend or sometimes even his kid out of the truck and they’d go into the truck stop for some grub, laughing and talking and having a merry old time. While he sat in the truck behind the wheel staring out with envy, jealousy and anger. Bitter resentment was his best friend and his true twin brother. It was all he had to hold onto, the only true companion that would not leave him to go fuck another. That would not leave him to go commit suicide. Little did he know, bitter resentment was the true whore of America and in fact, the world at large, and it was fucking a greater number of people daily than he could ever in his life imagine.
He still did not know what true hatred was up to this point, the full extent of darkness and sour loathing, although he was well on his way down the correct path to finding out. Every day he drove was like grinding teeth, teeth that were already ground down to the sensitive nerves. It really amazed him that he had an 80,000 pound, 18-wheeled death machine—which, by the way, does not stop on a dime (to coin a phrase)—and still these motherfuckers in the little four-wheelers (aka: cars and pickups) would just blindly, blatantly cut him off every fucking chance they got. How many times had he seen four-wheelers cut across four or five lanes at once to just barely grab an exit when they could have just as easily taken the next exit and looped back? How many times had he clutched the steering wheel in a mad grip of utter hatred for these careless fucks? How many times had he yanked down on the air horn cord and blasted someone out while flipping them the bird and cussing at the top of lungs for doing this reckless shit? He didn’t know, but it had to be in the upper hundreds or maybe even the lower thousands by now. It was, after all, a daily occurrence. He always had secret fantasies and wishes watching people like that. Fantasies and wishes that an accident would occur, especially one where he was involved, but not at fault. He would climb down out of his big Peterbilt truck and walk over all pissed off to the driver, grab them out of their car and begin to hammer punch the fucker into an unconscious state. He would go through these fantasies for long minutes, even hours sometimes as he drove down the long long highways of America. He’d have on one of his audiobooks and be thinking about hurting a fucker that had cut him off two states ago and blink and realize he had no idea what was going on in the story. Then, he’d snap out of it and back the cd up a few tracks to pick up the story thread again. His headaches grew worse and worse in those days, acid reflux was eating at his guts, his sleep suffered, too. Even with the soft rumbling of the truck idling while he slept for heat or a/c, he slept poorly. It just wasn’t fair. Those people like that get away with that shit every fucking day and no one ever makes them pay. They never learn from what they did or almost did to someone else because no one ever makes them pay. It’s so fucked. Long and hard he dwelt upon this misery.
His job once more began to suffer. He was late for more and more appointments, he was threatened with termination, he was bitchy all the time, especially to the people whom he thought of as ass-fucks at the docks and warehouses he went to. Even to the nice ones. He just became that mean motherfucker that most folks try to avoid and some folks want to fight. There had been that, too, of course. A few punch-outs at truck stops. Inside the truck stops, it was nice lighting and occasionally clean toilets and Cinnabon’s, but out in the parking lot, it was wild west law. If two guys got into a punch-out, the other truckers gathered around to watch and to keep the truck stop workers from breaking it up. They’d gather around and cheer on their favorite and take bets as the fight was going and toss a guy back in the mix if he tried to bitch out of the fight. Then, they’d all just go back to business as usual. It was insane, but he felt that the folks he really wanted at a truck stop to beat the shit out of were the fuckers cutting him off daily. He often fantasized about following a car or truck that had cut him off to wherever they were going and when they came to a stop, shoving all 80,000 pounds of this truck right up their ass! He smiled with ever-increasingly bad teeth and blood-shot eyes when he thought about it. Just rear-ending a motherfucker at 60 miles per hour and be done with the whole fucking thing! Sweet!
Probably more than anything though, truckers cutting off other truckers was what really pissed him off the most. They were supposed to be the professionals out here, supposed to know how the fuck to drive and how to treat other people with respect, supposed to know how dangerous this machine they’re driving down the highway really is, supposed to care about and look out for each other. No brotherhood there. Wild west law. Get the fuck outta my way, I’m coming through! When he stopped to think about it though, it made sense. Truckers were just people and people were all shit. One his favorite metal songs said so. “People = Shit” by Slipknot. Pretty much summed it up for him. That was why he was a die-hard metal fan to the end. The metal bands got it, they understood. The world was fucked and sometimes you just have to scream at the top of your lungs about it or go out of your fucking mind and choke a guy to death! It was rage therapy. The most insane, intense, most guttural screams and vocals had the most soothing and calming effect on him. It got all of that anger to the surface and then he’d scream along with the music and for a short time, the world would be OK again. And at a metal show? Forget about it! Tens of thousands of screaming fans all pissed off at a stupid, pointless, blind world too dumb to quit tripping over its own dick. It was his family, it felt like home. For a few days after a really good, really
angry show, he felt so normal, whatever the fuck that was. He’d be good for a few weeks. Then, slowly but surely, the world would sneak back up on him and sucker punch the shit out of him. What a vicious circle.
He was locked into this thread of thought and lost deep within the intricately woven pattern on the 5th of October, two years to the day since Vic killed himself, when another truck began coming into his lane. It was hammering rain and he really should have been paying closer attention to his driving, but so should the other guy. The other truck came into his lane while passing on an interstate. He really had no reason to come back into this lane so soon, he had wide open lanes up ahead, no pulled over vehicle or emergency crew. Vincent had enough time to register that fact before he swerved to miss the tail end of the other guy’s trailer clipping him and the soft shoulder to his right caught his wheels. He had been in situations before where he had been caught daydreaming and the shoulder had grabbed his wheels and he had been lucky. No accidents so far, but he was having one now. The shoulder grabbed his passenger’s side wheels, all nine of them, and pulled hard. He swerved to get back up on the black top and over-corrected. The front tire of his truck caught the pavement, but the trailer tires and rear truck tires slid further down the steep embankment and he had the sudden sensation of switching from forward momentum to sideways and downward momentum. He knew he was rolling the truck, but he couldn’t save it. Just had to hold on and go along for the ride. The embankment was very steep indeed and as he rolled down it, broken glass and loose personal items around the cab became projectiles that came at him from all directions, slicing and hitting and hurting. He was belted in so he stayed in his seat, he also held a death grip on the steering wheel. The sounds of crunching metal and the impact of the truck as it would leave the ground then reconnect were loud and omnipresent. The world was put into a dryer and set on high speed. When the truck finally settled, it seemed like an hour later, he was in a grey-out state. Barely conscious, but slightly aware and confused. He looked around as his hands still tightly held the steering wheel, now bent into a melting oval. His eyes fluttered a few times as he heard cars and trucks stopping up above him, then the whole…entire…miserable world…went away.
****
He opened his eyes and looked around. He was in a dimly lit room, but it was at once vaguely familiar. He slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes. He was on a couch with a throw blanket on him. He looked beneath it. No shirt, only in boxers. He looked around again beginning to remember what had happened. He rubbed at his head and felt all around his body. No bruises, no cuts, nothing wrong at all. He was completely unharmed. He pulled the blanket off and sat upright, feet on the floor, hands resting on his lap. He was back in Vic and Jen’s trailer. What the fuck? He felt disorientation trying to pull him under again. A woman’s ghostly voice whispered: “Can you hear me?” He looked around, but no one was there. He glanced briefly up the hallway, but nothing stirred. He went over the trauma of the accident in his mind, in bright clarity it would seem. He remembered everything. The thoughts, the rain, the ass-fuck that ran him off the road and kept going, the spinning out of control, the debris hitting him and hurting him from all sides. What the fuck was this. The floor creaked in the dark hallway. His attention focused there on a slender, young, sexy pair of female legs slowly walking toward him, seductively. He scanned up and saw it was Jen, as she had been the night she watched him masturbate. She was young and very pretty, dressed only in an intentionally cut up t-shirt. The shirt was cut in places to show cleavage, lower breasts and parts of her very firm stomach. He could also make out the pretty little red panties she wore beneath.
“Jen…? What the fuck? Is this happening?” he whisper-moaned. She placed a finger to her lips, the universal gesture of shh. She strolled up to him on the couch, she leaned over in front of him and with a warm, experienced hand, she pulled his already stiffening cock out of the front of his boxers and stroked it gently. He leaned back, too stunned to know what to do, too shocked to stop her. She stopped for a brief second, long enough to reach down and pull her red panties to the floor. She picked them up and wadded them up. She leaned in and loving stuffed them part way into his mouth, another shushing gesture. Panties in his mouth, he watched in fascination as she hiked a leg up onto the couch, took hold of his throbbing penis and in one smooth maneuver, she guided it into her dampness. The warmth welcomed him at once. He responded in kind. She sat slowly down on his lap and he was engulfed entirely inside her. Taken in by the want and desire he had always felt for this amazingly beautiful woman. He tried to ask her why she was doing this and what if Vic woke up, but she held him in place with her hands and body and—truth be told—he loved her panties being in his mouth. She rode him, slowly at first. She began to increase her speed as she spoke in a whisper.
“I’m going to give you something.” He nodded in pure ecstasy, thinking that was what she meant. “I’m going to put a power into your body that you will use at your leisure.” These words were all in English, but made no sense to him. What was she talking about? What the fuck kind of sex talk was this. She rode him, up and down. He felt her warm, gripping sex pulling at his own, squeezing in that gentle way, bringing him to climax. “I want you to use this power I am giving you to fuck them all up, like a video game,” she said seductively, whispering into his ear as she licked and sucked at his earlobe. “The more you use it, the higher the score. Cum in me and feel the power I offer you.” He leaned his head back against the back of the couch and she rode him faster and faster, intensity growing. The heat was building in their bodies and both clenched up tight and hard as they experienced simultaneous orgasms. Their bodies shook and stayed connected, he was in no hurry now to pull out. The deed had been done. She took a few gasping breaths, quivering all over, then leaned toward his ear again. “You must go now. Your time begins now.” A bright light filled the center of his vision and he heard muffled, over-lapping excited conversation. There was a shrill beeping noise cutting through his attention and Jen was gone. He was gone.
****
He was alone, still in his boxers. The unmistakable feel of beach sand between his toes, the crashing of the distant waves. He was on a beach by the ocean. The moonlight flooded his vision as he held a hand up to shield his eyes. He looked in another direction and jerked back as he saw twelve cloaked figures moving forward toward him. They were a few yards off, but moving quick. The tangy taste of salt in the air told him this was no dream, although it was very similar to the nightmares he used to have around Vic’s death. He backed up toward the water’s edge screaming, “No, no! This isn’t real! I want to wake up! I want to wake up! No!” The figures were close enough that the moonlight revealed their skeletal faces. As their arms came up to grab hold of him and he saw with clear sight the bony hands reaching for him, he faded away into first a transparent ghostly figure, then gone entirely. The twelve figures came to a stop and stood looking at the place where he had been. They waited there.
****
More shrill beeping. Over-lapping voices, now sounding urgent. A jolting sensation of electrical shock. The sound of his own weak, irregular heartbeat. More electricity. A searing jolting pain. Then, bright light in his eyes. He was coming around in the E.R. at some hospital near where the accident had taken place. They had revived him with the paddles and he was just beginning to open his eyes. A muffled voice came:
“Rest easy, we brought you back, but you’re not out of the woods yet.” A doctor with blood on his operating gown, his blood, Vincent’s blood! He began to seize up with panic. The monitors began their loud, shrill alarming and he blacked out.
****
He woke up two days later in a private room. A nurse came in and took his pulse and vitals. She felt his head and checked his urine bag. Catheterized. Shit. Man, didn’t that sting, too? She smiled at him and said some words he couldn’t really make out, then she left. He was in and out of it for the next few days, drugged to the gills, as he liked to say. When a week and some ch
ange had passed, he was fully awake and aware. The catheter was removed and he was using the toilet on his own. They worked with him in physical therapy for the broken leg and ribs. One foot had been crushed when part of the floor compartment caved in. That was still mending. No broken bones in it, but it had split open on the bottom. A small wound compared to all the others. Other scrapes and cuts, some went very deep. Also, he had lost his pinky on his left hand. Cut off by some of the twisting metal. Long gone by that time, he felt like he could still wiggle it, still felt it out there. They worked with him for the next few months, the trucking company and worker’s comp seeing to all the expenses. He had contacted a lawyer, but since it was technically not a hit and run, the other driver who had fled the scene of the accident could not be identified. He wished desperately that he had had a dash cam recording the little prick. Then he could have taken the guy to court and got a great little settlement out of this. Well, fuck it. What’s done is done.
The nurse that was giving him his daily sponge bath was a large woman, roughly 45 or so in age. Deep-set laugh lines and a large welcoming smile showed a woman who really loved her job and took great pride in it. He knew that too from her appearance. Not one hair out of place. Very ample bosom, but no cleavage showing, Professional with a capital P. She kept smiling at him and chuckling though. He looked up at her. “Wanna share the joke, Ms. Amanda?” Nurse Amanda got a little pink flush spreading across her face and looked around conspiratorially.
“I’m not really supposed to say. Etiquette, you know?” He smiled up at her.
“Aw, come on. You only live once, right?” She looked around once more and said:
“It’s kind of embarrassing, I don’t want to embarrass you.” He smiled again.
Individually Wrapped Horrors Page 30
