18 Wheels of Horror: A Trailer Full of Trucking Terrors

18 Wheels of Horror

PRAISE FOR BIG TIME BOOKS ANTHOLOGIES

Hell Comes To Hollywood

"Gorier than any PG-13 horror flick you’ll see, and written better (by a mile) than any SyFy schlockfest, Hell Comes To Hollywood is worth a look."

—Dr. Loomis, Ain’t It Cool News Horror

If you’re a fan of horror, delivered in any medium, this is a must-read.

—Matt Molgaard, Horror Novel Reviews

"Hell Comes To Hollywood is all-encompassing, featuring stories that span from wonderfully gratuitous, over-the-top gorefests…to tales that are genuinely haunting and linger in your mind long afterward…"

—Vivienne Vaughn, Fangoria

Hell Comes To Hollywood was nominated for a Bram Stoker Award

Hell Comes To Hollywood II

"Miller’s Hell Comes To Hollywood II ought to be required reading for anyone who has even an inkling of trying to make it in the City of Dreams."

—Scott Urban, The Horror Zine

If you are looking for some short stories to satisfy your horror cravings, then this is the book for you!

— Desiree Putaski, Bookie-Monster.com

On the whole, the anthology receives a big thumbs up; it is entertaining read with an unusually high number of good stories…

—TT Zuma, Horror World

Some (of the stories) are funny, some are scary, some are disturbing, some are sad. All are memorable, lingering in the mind like the evocative and unique aroma of movie-theater popcorn.

—Christine Morgan, The Horror Fiction Review

18 WHEELS OF HORROR

A Trailer full of Trucking Terrors

Loaded, Driven, and

EDITED BY ERIC MILLER

Big Time Books™

Los Angeles, California

www.BigTimeBooks.com

18 WHEELS OF HORROR

A Trailer Full Of Trucking Terrors

Anthology, Cover, Title, Front and Back Material all copyright © 2015

Eric Miller dba Big Time Books(tm)

A Dark Road © 2015 Ray Garton

Rising Fawn © 2015 Brad C. Hodson

Never Lost Again © 2015 Joseph Spencer

Big Water © 2015 R.B. Payne

Downshift © 2015 Daniel P. Coughlin

Siren © 2015 Eric Miller

Whistlin’ By © 2015 Shane Bitterling

Lucky © 2015 Del Howison

Happy Joe’s Rest Stop © 2015 John Palisano

Pursuit © 2015 Hal Bodner

Beyond the Best Seasoning © 2015 Meghan Arcuri

Take the Night © 2015 Janet Joyce Holden

King Shits © 2015 Charles Austin Muir

Cargo © 2015 Tim Chizmar

Crocodile© 2015 Edward M. Erdelac

Sleeper © 2015 Ian Welke

The Iron Bulldogge © 2015 Michael Paul Gonzalez

Road Kill © 2015 Jeff Seeman

Cover art © 2015 Keven Carter

www.car-n-art.com

Quote before Lucky is from Unnatural Exposure by Patricia Cornwell

© 1997 Patricia Daniels Cornwell

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, digital copy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher.

These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Interior and E-Book layout by Steven W. Booth,

www.GeniusBookServices.com

If you like this book, we want to know.

Email us at: [email protected]

Dedicated to

John DeTroia, Chris Mendoza,

Charles Moore, and other

absent driver friends

See you again someday at the

truck stop in the sky…

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

FOREWORD

A DARK ROAD

RISING FAWN

NEVER LOST AGAIN

BIG WATER

DOWNSHIFT

SIREN

WHISTLIN’ BY

LUCKY

HAPPY JOE’S REST STOP

PURSUIT

BEYOND THE BEST SEASONING

TAKE THE NIGHT

KING SHITS

CARGO

CROCODILE

SLEEPER

THE IRON BULLDOGGE

ROAD KILL

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Welcome to 18 Wheels of Horror, an anthology of trucking horror stories born out of my love for dark fiction, trucking stories, and the open road. In spite of there being millions of truckers plying the highways around the world, there’s not a lot of dedicated trucking fiction, so I wanted to add some great stories to the existing body of work and hopefully inspire more. I think the writers and I did a damn fine job, and we hope you agree.

If you’re not a trucker, don’t worry; you can still enjoy these stories. Anyone who likes good genre fiction will find many a good read in these pages, and might also learn something about the trucking world.

As with any book, a lot of thanks are in order, the unsung heroes that make it all possible. So in no particular order I’d like to thank:

Everyone who has supported Big Time Books over the last few years. The fans, the writers, the reviewers all made it clear they liked what we were doing and wanted more.

The Horror Writers Association. I am still amazed at all the talented, professional, and friendly people that I have come to know since joining. Proud to be a member and help the organization—and the horror genre—grow.

Paul Carlson. His trucking fiction list at www.cuebon.com introduced me to lots of new trucking stories and books I wasn’t aware of, as well as his own fiction. Paul is a rare breed, a driver and a writer. Wish there were more.

Elie Littauer. Driver, Beta Reader, and much more.

Steven W. Booth and Leya Booth at Genius Book Services. Their formatting, design, and proofreading skills help turn words into a real book. Magic.

John Palisano, Shane Bitterling, Patrick Shiffrar, and the rest of the Big Time Books Irregulars. For all the behind the scenes support.

Keven Carter. For the kick-ass cover art and title design.

Red Sovine, C.W. McCall, Jerry Reed, and all the other singers and writers of trucking songs over the years. You inspired generations to hit the road and showed that there were real people behind the wheel.

Jack Burton. The greatest (fictional) driver of all time. Still out there somewhere, driving the Pork Chop Express through hell and high water, keeping the world safe from evil.

Richard Matheson. He wrote a lot of amazing things, but Duel was the grandaddy of all trucking horror stories and this book wouldn’t exist without it.

Truck Drivers everywhere. You literally move the world. From big rigs to box trucks to delivery vans, without you everything would stop. It’s a lonely, hard job, so I hope this book gives you a break from the road and gives you some entertainment.

And special thanks to every one of you that blasted the horn without fail when a kid gave you the sign.

One final note to the truckers: The writers that made this book happen are terrific storytellers, but most are not drivers. And though I have a CDL and have been a professional driver for many years, a few things might have gotten past me, or I let them go for sake of the story. So I hope you will overlook any mistakes and enjoy the tales anyway.

Eric Miller

Los Angeles, California

July, 2015

FOREWORD

Civilization rolls on eighteen wheels. Truckers are out there, day and night on roadways all over, bringing darned near every item your family might want or need.

Truckers are a welcoming bunch. It doesn’t matter if you’re a tattooed ex-con or a burned-out neurosurgeon, if you can pass the requisite tests you’ll soon find yourself behind the wheel of a big rig.

Every trucker has some gripping tales to tell, about a whole range of unusual experiences. Even so, such literature has always been rare, whether written by truckers or about them. Several dozen Romance novels center upon truckers, along with a similar number of Science Fiction stories. As for trucking Mystery tales, there are, to the best of my knowledge, only two in print: one novel and one short story.

Ah, and then there’s Horror. Truckers are often far from home, in unfamiliar places, working alongside complete strangers. The possibilities for trouble are endless.

Here in your hands is a great new anthology, with eighteen hair-raising stories from talented authors. Read and enjoy, then say a prayer for those intrepid truckers, who are speeding past you in the evening gloom.

Paul Carlson

Driver and Writer

www.cuebon.com

LET’S ROLL…

With over sixty books to his credit, including the trucking horror classic Lot Lizards, the Bram Stoker Award-nominated Live Girls, and The Loveliest Dead, Ray Garton is indeed a Grand Master of Horror, the award given to him at the 2006 World Horror Convention. He has also written thrillers such as Sex and Violence in Hollywood and Murder Was My Alibi, movie and TV novelizations for shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer and A Nightmare on Elm Street, several short story collections, and a series of young adult novels under the pseudonym Joseph Locke. He and his wife live in Northern California.

A DARK ROAD

Ray Garton

SPENCE HAD ALWAYS FOUND that passing through the long stretches of nothingness in Nevada was much easier to handle at night. His schedules did not always permit him that luxury, of course, but that, whenever possible, was his preference. During the day, the desert was nothing but empty space stretching in every direction, interrupted only by some hills and the occasional rocky butte, all beneath a sky that went on forever. He’d never liked driving his rig through Nevada during the day for that reason. The night concealed all that emptiness under a blanket of darkness. Now, it hardly seemed to matter because his whole life had become one long drive through an empty desert.

He saw no other lights on the road ahead or behind him and hadn’t passed another vehicle in at least twenty minutes, maybe longer. He turned on the radio and made his way up and down the AM dial twice. On such a clear night in the desert, he picked up radio stations from all over the country, but there was nothing to choose from but a call-in show about the paranormal that was simultaneously carried on most stations at that hour, hellfire-and-damnation religion, and sports. He left it on a sports station for a while to banish the deadly silence, but he couldn’t take it for long. It was a call-in show. Lots of yelling.

Spence often wondered why men always sounded so stupid when they talked about sports. Judging by their comments and the way they talked, the men who called the show probably should never be allowed to operate heavy machinery or work with the general public in any way. He was sure they were, for the most part, fully functional and responsible adults, but they didn’t sound like it on that radio show. Was it the sports jargon? Was it the hyperbolic passion they showed for something so inconsequential? Was it their encyclopedic knowledge of a particular sport or player? He wasn’t sure. But he couldn’t take it for very long. Spence enjoyed a good game as much as the next guy, but he had other interests.

He tuned to another station and listened for a while as a woman described what it had been like to be impregnated by the aliens who’d abducted her. None of the callers expressed a hint of skepticism because on this radio show, everything was real—ghosts, aliens, Bigfoot, government conspiracies to poison and/or enslave the human race, and even the natural miracle cures and freeze-dried food to eat after the collapse of civilization that were offered during the commercial breaks.

Who needed that shit? He turned off the radio.

He had plenty of music and audiobooks to choose from, but he wasn’t in the mood for either. He was in the mood for conversation, the interaction of voices. Yelling was fine, but only if people were yelling about something interesting. He was too tired for music, too tired to be read to, and he’d been left alone with his own thoughts too long. He needed some voices from out there to drown out the voices in his head. Voices he would never hear again but could not stop remembering. Among them was his own voice speaking those last bitter words exchanged with his wife Nan and teenage daughter Jillian. The last words he’d spoken to them before they were killed.

Sometimes—like right now, in all that lonely darkness—all he could hear were Nan’s and Jillian’s screams for help deep inside his head.

He did something he did not do often: He turned on his CB radio.

It was handy for truckers. It allowed them to communicate with other truckers, avoid cops, check the conditions ahead. Like anything else, though, it was, for the most part, a gathering of loud idiots who talked and talked and said absolutely nothing. Spence normally didn’t turn it on unless he had a good reason because his tolerance for most of what passed for dialogue on CB radio, like his tolerance for sports talk and alien abductions, was limited.

Spence talked on the radio even less than he listened to it. He had never been able to use CB jargon without feeling self-conscious, as if he were doing a Burt Reynolds impression in front of an audience of strangers. He’d been driving so long that he knew the jargon well, and he wincingly used it—he had to or nobody would talk to him—but, as he liked to say, he didn’t inhale.

He moved through the channels slowly but heard little activity. A few staticky voices faded in and out, distant and ghostly, but nothing close.

…the chicken choker on the backstroke and I got me a fierce case of beaver fever ‘cause I been gone for…

…lookin’ for Pattycakes, you got your ears on? Pattycakes, come in, this is…

…heard they’s a beer bust over at the creek…

He let the radio scan the channels for a while. Voices rose from the static now and then before sinking away again. It wasn’t what he was hoping for, but it would do for now.

The yellow shafts painted down the center of the road raced toward him like missiles in the glow of his Freightliner’s headlights. The darkness hugged that glow, surrounded him, moved down the interstate with him, waiting for an opportunity to rush in and join him, maybe take the wheel from his hands.

…got three kids already, what the hell’s he want with…

He and Nan were going to have three kids. That had been the plan, anyway. But Jillian’s birth had been complicated by a severe case of endometritis. Damage to Nan’s fallopian tubes prevented any future children.

They had been perfectly happy with one, an angelic baby and a well-behaved child. But in the two years before she’d been killed, Spence had noticed that Jillian was becoming somewhat morose. The change was not abrupt but gradual enough to sneak up on him. He and Nan had discussed it in some of their last conversations but had been unable to decide how to address the problem. Now it was no longer a problem.

But Spence thought about it as if it were still a problem. He fantasized about how they might have handled it had things turned out differently, how they would have brought it up with Jillian and tried to find out what was really going on in her life. They did not like the idea of snooping on her and tried to give Jillian her privacy as she got older. But sometimes it was difficult not to take advantage of some of the many snooping options available to modern parents. They kept it to a minimum, but they made sure she wasn’t spending her limited time online visiting any dangerous places or having private conversations with strangers, and a couple of times they’d used GPS to make sure she was where she claimed to be.

Earlier that night, Spence had been torn from a deep sleep and sat up in his sleeper dripping with sweat and filled with a strangling fear that Nan and Jillian were in danger and needed his help. He’d started to get dressed before realizing he was dreaming. Before remembering that the danger was over and they were already gone. He couldn’t get back to sleep because, after remembering they were gone, he started remembering how they were killed. He’d gotten up and hit the road.

How many truckers we got out there in the desert, come back?

The voice boomed out of the radio so suddenly and loudly that Spence jumped at the wheel. He reached over and turned down the volume a bit. The man sounded like he was shouting from the passenger seat.

Spence listened but there was no response at first. The silence went on so long that he frowned at the radio. He knew he wasn’t the only trucker on this road because he’d seen others. Not in a while, but they were out there.

C’mon, truckers, the voice said. "I know you’re there. Traveling the highways like blood flowing through veins and arteries. That’s what you are, you know, you’re the blood in America’s veins, you truckers. Somebody’s gotta have their ears on out there somewhere. Come on back!"

Spence waited and listened. Another long silence followed.

Nothing.

The man lowered his voice the next time he spoke and sounded more relaxed. I know most of you are alone out there with nothing but voices to keep you company. You’ve left your families at home, maybe haven’t seen ‘em for quite a while. You long-haul truckers know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, right? You don’t see the family for weeks sometimes. All alone out there on the road. You can’t wait to get home and see them. Or maybe…maybe…

There was another silence, but he did not release the call button.

…maybe you got no family to go home to. That’d be worse, I think. Missing them is one thing, but if they don’t exist…well, that would be sad.

The man lifted his thumb from the call button with a faint click of disconnection. Spence realized the man had not identified himself, which was virtually unheard of on the CB radio. But Spence already had an image in his head. The man sounded like the actor Sam Shepherd, but without the drawl. Any drawling this guy did was simply lazy speech.

He listened for a response, for Sam Shepherd to continue. It took a while, but he finally keyed his microphone again.

"I guess the only thing worse than having no family to go home to would be having a family and then losing ‘em. Then you used to have a family to go home to, but…not anymore. Yeah, I think that’d be worse than just about anything."

Spence realized the muscles in his back and shoulders were tense and he was starting to feel fidgety. He knew it was irrational, but he had the sickening feeling that the man was talking to him. That was impossible, of course.

He continued, his voice still coming through with perfect clarity: Now, I’ve known some truckers who take the wife with ‘em. Maybe the kids, too, I dunno. That way you don’t have to go home to the family, they’re right there with you. All safe and sound where nobody can hurt ‘em.

Spence’s insides began to slowly twist themselves into a knot as his eyes moved back and forth between the road and the radio. His stomach felt queasy. There were other voices on the radio, but none as strong as that one.

Yeah, that’d be the best thing to do, I think. Take ‘em with you. No reason not to.

Spence’s head jerked toward the green numbers. He did not reach for the mic, but he spoke to the radio. No reason not—ever heard of something called regulations, assmunch?

Yeah, that’d be the safest thing to do. ‘Specially these days. There’s a lotta sick, twisted people in the world. And these days, most police departments can’t afford to do a thing about it. They’re just runnin’ around and fittin’ in, but they’re not like everybody else. They enjoy doin’ bad things. Usually to good people. It’s an ugly world, and it’s just gettin’ uglier when a man’s family isn’t safe in their own home.

It had been the kind of crime scene that perpetuated a belief in evil. The supernatural kind of evil. It was horrible. Torture, stabbing, dismemberment, sexual assault before and after death. Blood everywhere. The kind of crime scene that practically replayed the screams for anyone who saw it. It was enough to make anybody wonder about the possibility of a non-human evil force.

Spence had given the idea a lot of thought, but had rejected it years ago. He was a history buff and an avid reader—he listened to a lot of audiobooks on the road—and he had not, as yet, encountered anything in human history that even vaguely suggested the necessity for a supernatural force of evil. Humankind had, from the beginning, proven itself quite capable of evil without any assistance whatsoever. Whenever someone asked him if he believed in the devil, he always said, No, I think it’s pretty obvious we’re self-taught.

The unidentified voice on the radio had sounded like a regular guy at first. But after those remarks, his voice took on a sinister quality. Spence didn’t think it would register with anyone else. It was only from his point of view, he was sure. Because it would be insane to think Sam Shepherd was speaking directly to him. That would be delusional.

You’re awful quiet tonight, Sam said. Isn’t there anybody out there who knows what I’m talkin’ ‘bout?

Spence wanted a cigarette. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, looking for that Marlboro filter. He’d stopped eight years ago and hadn’t craved one in half that time. This sudden craving was more of a need. But he knew how hard they were to quit and how easy it was to start them up again. Just one cigarette, that was all it would take. Because one cigarette always came with nineteen others and what nicotine addict, no matter how long it had been since the last puff, could let them just sit there?

It wasn’t a problem, though, because he had no cigarettes in the truck and it was a long way to the next gas station or convenience store.

Or are you one of them truckers who can’t wait to put his family behind him? Sam said. Gettin’ away from ‘em as fast as possible so you can hit the truck stops and roll around with the lot lizards? If so, shame on you. That’s a good way to get a disease that’ll make your junk fall off. Or get your throat slit by one of them creatures. And shame on you for doin’ that to your family. Leadin’ ‘em on like that. They’d be better off without you if that’s how you feel, ya snake.

The glow of headlights crept around a hill that the road hugged, and a moment later, the lights themselves appeared like eyes in the night. A Volkswagen Beetle zipped by, resembling its namesake from Spence’s vantage point.

Boy, I guess nothin’s gonna rouse you tonight, huh? It’s just dead out there, isn’t it? And sad, real sad. Like a graveyard fulla dead whores.

The darkness sped by as he waited for Sam Shepherd to continue and drown out the voices that sounded like ghosts gibbering in the night. He listened for the faint sound of that microphone being keyed.

It didn’t come.

…smokey’s not too busy tonight, but about an hour ago, I saw…

A bobcat darted across the road at the very edge of his high beams. It almost looked like a shadow except for the brief glint of its eyes as it tossed a glance Spence’s way.

Spence eyed the CB microphone on its hook, considered reaching for it, but didn’t.

…Sweet Tart, lookin’ for the Sweet Tart, are you out there, baby, or am I gonna have to…

Farther down the road, a pale barn owl swooped out of the darkness and into the glow of his headlights for an instant, then banked away from Spence’s oncoming truck and shot upward, back into the night.

With only darkness outside the truck, there was nothing to see beyond the reach of the headlights.

He kept glancing at the radio. Waiting for that voice.

The radio fell silent. No voices at all.

His right hand struck like a snake, snatched the microphone from its hook and keyed it as he brought it to his mouth.

I’m a trucker, Spence said. He lifted his thumb.

"There you are, Sam Shepherd said with a soft laugh. I was wonderin’ how long it would take. I knew you were out there."

What’s your handle? Spence said.

No response.

Spence said, You got the Sidewinder here.

You headin’ back home, Sidewinder? Headin’ home to— he chuckled, —the family?

A deep chill moved through Spence and raised gooseflesh on his back and neck. He lifted the mic again, but said nothing because he did not trust his voice. A glut of emotions were lodged in his throat.

That chuckle had been made of ice and Sam Shepherd’s words sounded like they were spoken through a smile. But it wasn’t a pleasant smile, Spence knew that. Whoever this man was, he knew exactly who he was talking to and he was having some sick fun.

He keyed the mic and opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t because what he was thinking was—

His thumb snapped away from the button as if it were hot.

Crazy, he muttered. It’s crazy.

Since the murders, he’d been afraid of losing his mind because, after losing both of them at once, it felt like a real possibility. He kept reminding himself of all the times he’d read and heard that if you wondered if you were crazy, you couldn’t be, or you wouldn’t be wondering.

Who am I talking to? Spence said.

Think of me as a friend of the family, Sidewinder.

He worried that he might vomit and considered pulling his truck over and parking for a bit until he pulled himself together. But he didn’t.

You son of a bitch, he said to the road. He lifted the mic and said, "You sound pretty close. Friend. You’re real loud and real clear. What’s your 20?"

Oh, I’m…around. You’re on the move, though, right?

Spence decided it would be good to keep him engaged in small talk for a while. Maybe he could learn a few things about him unobtrusively, without questioning him directly. Yeah, I’m on the road with a load of appliances.

Yep. You truckers are the blood in America’s veins, keepin’ the country alive. Movin’ the products we need back and forth to the places where we need ‘em. While your loyal family waits for you at home. Ain’t that right, Sidewinder?

Had he put the slightest emphasis on loyal family? Had he dragged those two words out just a bit?

For an unpleasant moment, Spence thought the rig was making a deep, ugly grinding sound and was relieved that it was only his teeth. He clenched the microphone so tightly that the plastic crackled.

With teeth still clenched, Spence said, You keep bringing up my family. What do you know about my family?

Breaker 19, breaker 19.

Go ahead, breaker, Spence said, and when he heard the angry snap in his voice, he took a deep breath. His hands were shaking.

The man sounded a little slurry. You got Grandpa Moses, here, and I got my grandkid with me. So if you don’t mind watching the language—

The deep breath didn’t help. What the fuck is your grandkid doing up this late on a school night?

After a moment: I don’t see’s how that’s any of your goddamned bidness!

Sam Shepherd spoke up, wiping out all other sounds on the radio: There goes the neighborhood. Look, Sidewinder, you wanna keep jawin’, switch up.

Still holding the mic, he reached out his right hand to change the channel, but he waited.

You still there, you crazy bastard? Grandpa Moses said. "These are all public channels, you goddamned freak, so you never know who’s listening!"

A memory bobbed to the surface from the depths of hours he’d spent as a child watching TV. He brought the mic back to his mouth and said, "This has