Rest Stop
by Bill Wilson  

Jack’s eyes were shutting involuntarily, a sure sign that the coffee and caffeine tablets had done all they could to stave off his fatigue. A tired man driving a tractor-trailer was a dangerous combination; he had been a trucker long enough to know that. Switching on the turn signal, he pulled into the rest stop that beckoned to him from the side of the highway, and looked for a parking space.

Had he known at the time what awaited him there, he would have kept on driving.

Jack had seen more inviting places during his years on the road. Most rest stops nowadays are brightly lit and at least appear safe. This one was neither. It was located well off the highway, with a thick grove of trees blocking his view of the interstate. There was a strange absence of parking lot lights, and the building that housed the restrooms and vending machines was pitch black, illuminated only by his headlights as they shone on it. The sky was filled with heavy clouds, but occasionally the light of the full moon would appear as the clouds thinned. Thick forest bordered the rear of the rest stop. There was one other vehicle in the small parking area, a tractor-trailer at the other end of the lot. Its driver was most likely asleep, Jack figured. He pulled into a spot and killed his engine.

He glanced up at the snapshot that was clipped to his sun visor, and took it down to cradle it longingly in his big hand: his beloved wife, Lori, with their boys, Bryan and Todd. Dear God, how he missed them. He had been on the road two weeks, way too long for a family man to be away from home. He thought for a moment about picking up the cell phone, calling home. But it was after eleven, and they would be in bed. He kissed the picture instead and pinned it back on the visor. "Soon," he thought, "soon."

This was Jack’s last run. His trailer was empty, and he was heading back to the terminal in Atlanta to turn it in. Soon afterwards the truck would be going up for sale. Years as an independent trucker had caused endless hardships and stress for him and his family, almost leading to divorce a couple of years back. But the job had been good to him financially. He had bought a hundred acres of land about an hour north of Atlanta, and Jack would be trading in his trucker license for a farming permit. Lori was ecstatic about the idea; she had grown up on a farm, and was looking forward to having her man home for a change. The boys were excited too. He could not wait to see them again.

Moments later he climbed down from the rig, carrying a long handled, club-like flashlight with him. It would serve as both illumination, and, if necessary, protection on his short trek to and from the restroom. He spotted the door with the "MEN" sign on the outside and stepped through it. As he did a foul, odor assaulted his nostrils. It was the combined stenches of old urine and damp feces, mixed with stale cigarette smoke and God only knows what else.

Jack had been in some nasty public restrooms in his life, but this one took the cake. There was a solitary light bulb in the ceiling that illuminated the filthy interior. It could not have been more than a 40 watt, and its light was barely sufficient to guide him to a stall. He smiled as he opened the cracked wooden door and saw his suspicions were correct: a dung-stained seat and no toilet paper. No problem, he thought to himself, unzipping his heavy vest to retrieve the can of spray disinfectant and small roll of paper towels he carried underneath. Be prepared, the Boy Scout motto taught him as a youth, and he never forgot that simple advice.

Finishing his business, he headed back towards his rig. Thoroughly exhausted, he looked forward to slipping into the warm covers on his bunk and drifting off to sleep. The parking lot seemed darker than ever. There were still no other vehicles except for the tractor-trailer parked at the other end. He glanced at it briefly, and for a moment thought he noticed a light flicker behind it, where the trailer door was located. But then he saw nothing, and chalked it up to imagination and fatigue.

Minutes later he was snoozing peacefully, the truck locked up tight and the flashlight within easy reach, just in case. The battery-powered digital clock by his head showed midnight. Not having any freight to deliver for a change, he could enjoy one of the rarest of luxuries for those in his profession: a full eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Or so he had hoped. The long banging noise at the truck door jarred him from his repose a couple of hours later. "Hey, honey, open up! It’s cold out here, baby!" The voice was young, female, and pure white trash. Jack heard the words and cursed. "Damn lot lizards!" The term was trucker slang for the prostitutes that frequent rest stops.

Grabbing the flashlight and pulling on his undershirt, he opened the truck door. "No," he said as he did. "I don’t want any company. Now get out of here before-" the words froze in his throat.

The girls were painfully thin. Layers of makeup covered their blemished faces, and their hair was long and stringy, slightly damp from the misty drizzle that was now falling. They held lit cigarettes in their long, tapered fingers. Though the night was chilly, they were not shivering, though they were scantily dressed. Their smiles seemed to hide something that lurked just beneath their outward friendliness. It was a feeling of…malice? No, something else, malevolence, yes, but a hunger as well, a desperate longing for…something. Jack sensed these things as he stared at them.

What was it in their eyes that entranced him? He was not sure, but he had to fight against whatever it was that pressed against his thoughts…

"Look, ladies," he began again, slowly. "I am a happily married man, and not looking for any…companionship. Why don’t you run on? I have to be in Atlanta tomorrow night, so I need my sleep." "OOOOOOO, Atlanta!" one of them cooed in response. "Take us with ya, baby. I just love southern gentlemen!" The other one, her dark hair and eyes contrasting with her companion’s platinum blonde locks, chimed in. "We could make it worth your while, big boy," she added, in a voice that was surprisingly seductive.

He fought to get words out. The pressure in his mind was almost overwhelming. "No, no," he finally managed to say. "Go on now. I am tired. Go on before I call the state police." They said nothing, just kept staring at him. Was it his face they were looking at? He shut the truck door. As he did they turned, walking off into the suffocating darkness as the rain began to fall harder. They were being drenched, but didn’t seem to notice.

Jack slipped back under the warm quilt his wife had made for him last Christmas. As he began to fall asleep again, the clock showed 2:20 AM. He thought of the hookers once more, and his heart skipped a beat as he realized what part of him they had been staring at.

It was his throat.

Seconds later he was dreaming. Usually he dreamt of Lori and the boys, of being on the farm with them. In his dreams he and her would be laying on a blanket, curled up together on a hillside as the sun went down, watching their beloved children as they played, the sweet scent of hay in the air. That was what he dreamt of most of the time.

Tonight was different. His mind fed him pictures, not of pleasant autumn days and children, but of fetid, damp, dark places overlaid with the stench of decay. It was like the slaughterhouse he had worked in as a young man, with the smells of blood and death everywhere. He could see only dull gray shapes moving through a thick, clinging substance, like a housefly struggling against a spider web. And, somewhere far in the distance, he heard screams.

He awoke with a start, sweat soaking his bedclothes. The clock face read 3 AM. Cursing loudly, something he rarely did, he sat up on the bunk and rubbed his eyes. He felt refreshed enough to drive a little more, and decided he would. There was another rest stop up the highway about thirty miles. He would spend the night there. This one was giving him the creeps.

Then he saw the women who had propositioned him before, through the window at the foot of his bunk. The rain had stopped, and the moon poked through the clouds, allowing him to see. A car had pulled in and parked near his truck. The ladies were leading the driver, a middle-aged man, into the woods behind the parking lot. Jack shook his head slowly, feeling pity for the poor fool. With all the diseases going around these days, how could anyone be so stupid?

The three figures disappeared into the darkness. A couple of minutes passed.

Then the scream came from the direction they had walked towards. It was high-pitched, but definitely male. Jack’s blood froze in his veins. He reached for the long handled flashlight. What he saw next sickened him.

The driver of the car ran fled from the woods, his clothing torn and muddy. Even in the dim light of the moon, Jack could see the man’s throat was covered in blood. Staggering, the fellow tried desperately to get to his car.

The hookers appeared behind him. They charged after their prey, almost running on all fours, they were stooped so low. It was like the way a dog ran, or a wolf.

Jack blinked as they came closer. He could not believe what his eyes were telling him he saw. The prostitute’s eyes glowed in the dim light of the parking lot.

They caught up to the motorist just as he reached his auto. He tried desperately to fight as he cried out for help. He fell to the ground, and they pounced upon him. The car blocked Jack’s view of the scene, but he did see the man’s arms flail the air briefly, and then drop.

The prostitutes stood, and the dark-haired one slung their victim’s body over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Jack could not believe such a frail woman was so strong. The man’s body twitched, but he made no attempt to fight as he was carried back into the woods.

Jack attempted to call 911 on his cell phone, but the rest stop was too remote to pick up a signal. He tried the CB, but only received static. He was torn between the desires to drive to safety, or to help a man whom he had never met, and who was most likely dead by this time.

Turning the ignition key, he cranked the heavy engine and let it idle for a few moments. Then, changing his mind, he switched it off. He reached for a small first aid kit, the long handled flashlight, and the .38 caliber revolver he kept under the passenger seat. Every instinct he had urged him to run, but something deeper, something that had been instilled in him as a child, told him he had to try to help.

Opening the truck door as quietly as he could, he slipped out of the cab and to the pavement. Scampering quickly along the lot, thanking himself for staying in good physical condition, he headed in the direction that the hookers, or whatever they were, had carried the man.

As he passed the other parked rig, he thought for a moment about waking the driver and enlisting his help, but decided against it. He crept to the edge of the woods, and in the dim light of the moon saw the beginning of a trail. His night vision was exceptionally good, and allowed him to follow the path. He crept forward quietly.

The heavy flashlight was secured inside his insulated vest, which was zipped up tight. He clenched the revolver in his right hand. He would not use the flashlight unless it was absolutely necessary. He was afraid the "ladies" might see the beam and know someone was approaching.

Inching forward, his eyes strained to pick up any details in the smothering darkness. The trail was saturated with mud, though the sky above was clearing. His boots sunk deep into the muck, and made a sickening sucking sound as he lifted his feet. Tree branches slapped him in the face as he made his way down the narrow trail. His nerves were on edge, waiting for something to shatter the dark and stillness. His right palm dripped sweat as he held the revolver tightly.

Just ahead of him he saw a figure lying on the ground. He neither heard nor saw anything else. Moonlight fell on the scene. Lying there drenched in dirt and blood was the man who had walked off with the hookers. His shattered lips moaned pitifully, the only sign that he was still alive. Jack walked towards him, reaching for the first aid kit stuffed in his vest pocket.

"Sucker!" He tried to spin around as he heard the solitary word from the woods behind him. The next moment one of the women was clinging to his back. It was the blonde. Jack cried out in fear and shock. He thrashed about wildly, trying to dislodge her, but she clung to him like a tick imbedded deeply into its host’s flesh. Her pale, thin arms wrapped around his in a crushing bear hug. How could she be so strong? Jack wondered. Then his left shoulder exploded in pain as she bit into it with razor-sharp teeth. As the blood began to flow, he felt a thick, hot tongue began to lap it up. His head exploded with pain and fright, and he felt consciousness begin to leave him.

Jack spotted a large tree to his rear, and charged backwards as fast as he could, slamming his attacker into the heavy trunk. She screamed and released her grip, falling to the ground. Jack spun and backed away from her. She glared up at him. His blood froze in his veins as he saw her face. There was no trace of humanity left in it. She looked like a dog-thing, with glaring red eyes and a weird, hairless snout full of glistening fangs. She growled at him as one hand, the fingers ending in talons, rubbed her injured back.

Jack’s eyes met hers and his body went stiff. He felt the pressure in his head again, and moving seemed impossible. The revolver was still clutched in his right hand, but he could not summon the willpower to raise it and fire. The thing in front of him slowly raised itself from the muck, and crouched like a dog preparing to leap. Jack knew she was going to attack again, and fought to free his mind.

A second later she sprung into the air, jumping high above his head, and then, the full moon bathing her in light, she descended towards him. Her arms were stretched open, her fangs spread wide, ready to sink into his throat.

Raising the revolver, Jack fired. The .38 round caught her in the forehead and blew her backwards, tossing her against the tree. Jack nearly lost his dinner when he saw her lying there, her shattered skull spilling its contents in the bright light of the moon. Her eyes stared blankly at the sky above, and she - or it - was most certainly dead. Jack breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed his grip on the gun, leaning against another tree for support.

He knelt down before the fellow they had caught before. Feeling his neck for a pulse, he sensed nothing. The poor devil was out of his misery. Jack stood and made the sign of the cross, saying a silent prayer for the dead man’s soul.

Then the other one was upon him, clinging to his back and sinking razor-sharp talons into his flesh. "Bastard!" she screamed. "You killed Jenny! Now I’m going to kill you!" The pain exploded across his body as he fought to free himself again.

The shock of this attack, combined with his disgust at what they had done to their victim, enraged him. Adrenalin coursed through his body, feeding energy to his powerful muscles. The thing on his back was strong, but so was he. He thrust an elbow backwards into its rib cage and heard it gasp in pain as it loosened its grip. Jack grabbed its ratty black hair and, using all of his strength, hurled it over his shoulder and onto the ground.

He snatched the revolver off the ground where he had dropped it. The woman-thing lay in the mud, barely moving but able to glare up at him and growl. Jack pointed the gun, and pumped the five remaining rounds into its chest. It screeched in pain, and then its glowing red eyes shut slowly, and it stopped moving.

Jack looked at himself, and saw the blood flowing down his torn vest. He had suffered bites and gashes in his battle with the things, and needed medical attention. He turned to walk to his truck, where a larger first aid kit was waiting. He would bandage himself up as best he could and find a hospital somewhere. Then maybe he could figure out a way to explain all this to the authorities. He started down the trail towards the parking lot.

Then the hard, heavy stone collided with the back of his skull, and he fell forward into the mud.

***

Dragging him, that’s what the thing was doing, he realized. His head was pounding so hard he thought it would burst, and the pain overwhelmed his senses. There was someone beside him, being dragged as well. Oh, hello, neighbor, he said, how are you? Not talking much, I guess. Maybe that’s because you’re dead.

His mind cleared up enough to feel his head bumping along the ground, the roots and stones bruising and gashing it. He was being dragged by the woman-thing. What was she, he wondered, a vampire, were-creature, or another kind of monster that was only supposed to exist in the movies?

"I’m a ghoul, you idiot," she said casually, turning her inhuman head to address him. She was dragging him by his right foot down the trail. The dead man was being dragged beside him in her other hand. "Too bad you didn’t know that before, dumb ass. Otherwise you might have known that only head shots can take us out." He felt the ground beneath him turn to pavement, and knew he was being dragged towards the truck parked nearby.

She dropped his foot. "Now you just lay there like good prey, mister," the ghoul said to him. "Gotta take ol’ Ronnie here to the sisters for a late-night snack."

His head was still on fire with pain, but he watched with misty vision as she dragged the corpse towards the truck. As she did he heard a horrid pounding sound from inside the trailer. He realized that it was full of others like her. She opened the rear door, and as it slid up he saw dozens of pale arms and faces thrust outward. The things screamed and clawed the air, impatient for their meal. The one who had dragged him tossed the body into the trailer, and it shook as they fell upon it in a feeding frenzy. The dark-haired ghoul shut and locked the door, walking back towards him.

His brain was struggling, trying to think. What did she say before, something about "head shots?" His hand reached into his vest.

"Don’t be surprised, mister," she said in an almost friendly tone as she approached him. "We have been around for eons. Nature abhors waste, you know. In the wild a carcass is food for all sorts of creatures. Did you think you could escape the natural cycle by sealing your dead in boxes and planting them?"

She stood directly in front of him now. Jack trembled at the horrific sight. There was no longer any need for her to put on a human appearance, so he saw her as she truly was. Her skin was a pale, sickening, mucus-like green. Most of her face was a snout, shaped like a wolf’s and filled with sharp teeth that were stained dark with dried blood. Somehow she was still able to speak, even with such an inhuman mouth. Sank deep into her head were tiny, red eyes. He trembled with loathing and fear.

"Of course," she continued, "fresh is always better. We have grown tired of subsisting on the rotting, formaldehyde-drenched scraps you stick in the earth. And we are tired of tunneling through the ground like gophers to find our meals."

She did not notice his hand sliding into his vest. "So we are expanding our interests. That truck over there, it is filled with my sisters. We will be in LA this time tomorrow night, where we will join the others."

Kneeling, she put her face near his, sniffing his wounds and smiling. He wanted to retch upon smelling her hot, foul breath, but he kept control. "We will feast, not on dead humans, but on live ones. And we will reproduce, grow our numbers, spread from the west coast across this pathetic nation of yours. Soon, my dear prey, we may even be in Atlanta, the city you mentioned before. Maybe you have some friends or family there? I would love to meet them." Her snout parted in an inhuman smile. His hand grasped something in his vest.

A second later the heavy flashlight smashed into the side of her head. Jack leaped up and fell upon her, pounding the heavy metal shaft into her skull again and again. She screeched and fought back, but his own war cry filled the air as well. His mind went back to the savage, primal training he had received years ago in the Marines. Man and she-ghoul fought a pitched battle in the dim light of the full moon, while the nearby tractor-trailer shook with the blows and shrieks of the monsters within. They sensed the battle outside and cheered for their sister.

Jack swung the light hard and brought it down on top of the thing’s head. He heard a sharp cracking sound, and the ghoul fell to its knees. He was preparing to swing again when he heard the truck engine start and the lights come on. His opponent turned towards it, and a cry of terror issued from its snout. "No, master, please!" he heard it beg. "NO! I did not mean to reveal the plan! I thought he would be dead soon!"

Her body jerked straight up and hovered an inch or so above the pavement, as if some invisible hand had snatched it into the air. The truck gathered speed incredibly fast and headed towards them. Jack felt the pressure in his mind once again, and could not move. This time the force was stronger. He saw the headlights coming up fast, and closed his eyes tight.

He thought of his family, of Lori and the boys, and suddenly found himself able to move. He dodged the truck by inches as it flew past him. The ghoul was not so lucky. The hood smashed into its body and knocked it to the pavement, and the wheels of the huge truck crushed its skull underneath.

As it pulled out of the rest stop and back onto the highway, Jack heard the things inside the trailer pounding the walls, screaming in rage and frustration. Across the back door was a sign: "R.S. Meatpacking, Chicago, Seattle, and Coming to Los Angeles." The rig joined the interstate and sped into the darkness.

Jack looked down at the smashed body near him, and realized the ordeal was over, at least for now. The pain, fatigue and horror his mind had been fighting back washed over him, and he felt as if he too were dead.

He staggered back to his truck. Using the sizeable first aid kit he kept in the cab, he cleaned and dressed his wounds as best he could. Waves of exhaustion swept over him.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he tried to start the ignition, but felt consciousness oozing away. He could do no more tonight. He fell sideways across the seat and surrendered to sleep.

Eight hours later he awoke. Sunlight bathed the cab, and he sat up, every muscle in his body aching. Looking around the rest stop, he saw a few cars parked up near the rest rooms, including a vehicle from a janitorial service. Good, they were cleaning up that crap hole, he thought.

He looked over his body. His chest, shoulders and forehead were wrapped in bandages, making him look like a mummy from an old monster movie. Monster - he smiled grimly as he thought the word. Putting on a shirt and cap, he climbed out of the truck and walked slowly across the parking lot to where the fight with the thing occurred the previous night.

Where its body should have been there was nothing but a deep, black stain in the asphalt, almost as if someone had poured motor oil in the spot and let it dry there. Glancing towards the trail that led into the woods, he thought for a moment about exploring it during the day. But he changed his mind and walked back to his truck.

Cranking the engine, he pulled out of the rest stop and re-entered the stream of traffic on the interstate. He was headed east now, to Atlanta, where his family awaited him. Ahead the atmosphere was a gentle blue, and a few wispy clouds trolled across it. It would be clear skies ahead for the rest of the trip.

A little over half an hour later he remembered what the ghoul had told him. "We will be expanding. Maybe soon we will come to Atlanta. I would like to meet your family."

Pulling the truck off the highway, he prayed harder than he ever had. More than anything he loved his wife and kids, and his desire to be with them was overwhelming. He started driving east again.

By the time he reached the next exit, though, he realized he had a stronger desire: to keep his family safe. He got off the interstate, turned his truck around, and got back on the highway. This time he was headed west.

Somewhere on the long stretch to California was another tractor-trailer, with a sign for R.S. Meatpacking on it. He would search until he found it. And then -…

He was not sure what he would do then. He had no idea what he was going to tell his wife. But he knew he must do something. He glanced up at the picture on his sun visor, and a tear trickled down his cheek. Then he looked towards the wide, flat horizon ahead. Dark clouds filled the distant western sky as he drove towards the storm that awaited him.

©2002 Bill Wilson

Bill Wilson is 36 years old, call Athens GA his home, and has had fiction published in various electronic and print pubs, including The Murder Hole, The Nocturnal Lyric, The Haunted, The Blue Lady, and two stories will be in the Halloween issue of the print mag Black Petals. His non-fiction book, Build a Catapult in Your Backyard, was published last year by Loompanics Unlimited (www.loompanics.com). Besides books and writing, Bill enjoys camping, working on old cars, intelligent conversation and Jazz.