Status: Coming soon.
Steel Cowboy
One and Only
It was cold trucking through the mountains, so cold that you shivered in the open-air truckstops, even under three layers of flannel and two layers of grease– one the kind you work up naturally from hauling fifty tonnes of steel around at a hundred and ten kilometres an hour, and the other kind you get from truckstop food. Truckstop food is mostly carnie food– soggy chips, oily sausage and egg rolls with disintegrating hash browns, cheap frankfurts in buns and dagwood dogs, but it was so cold that day that even the lard couldn’t keep me warm. The faraway bush was invisible under a blanket of mist, while the air clasped my throat with clammy fingers, forcing me to breathe out ghosts.
The highway is a curious mistress. Sometimes she’s the road to sunset, a veritable rainbow bridge. Other times, she’s colder than any other woman who ever had a heart to turn to ice. This was one of those occasions.
All along the vast, black ribbon, I watched them come. It gets lonely in the mountains, a place where a steel cowboy can go days without being witnessed by anyone besides other riders, but there are always trucks–trucks parked together in temporary caravan towns, trucks looking out for one another, trucks on the airwaves, trucks speeding up and down the deadly slope; beasts of light with horns of steel that leap out of the clouds of fog flying at you in the moonless pre-dawn and timeless dusk.
Looking back on that night, I can’t help but wonder what was ordinary and what was apparition. Trucks appeared as if by magic, so silently that I never knew when to expect them. The alpine was a world of smoke and mirrors– reflectors and headlights, dozens of eyes on shining grills, puddles of oil with dirty rainbows and rainwater collected in potholes, screens of lingering fog and belches of exhaust fumes. Even I travelled on wheels screeching with the mad sound of a discontent steed that longed to go faster. Lunging out of gear down the mountainside, as if possessed, it constantly had to be reined in.
Men lose their minds out on the open road, with no sleep and only bottles of nightmare fuel on their dashboards, and so there are some as might say I’m not being truthful. They say I’m crazy, but I’m telling you, I’m no rookie in the industry. Everything I say happened was real.
I’ve described for you the mammoth trucks, those hurtling, silver-pronged bulls. The eyes of the most rabid trucks out that night glowed a Hellish red, but none was as bad as the monster I was stuck behind, a land-locked leviathan with a gaudy, yellow tarp flapping noisily. On the tarp, in letters of orange warning, was this name:
The vehicle careened dangerously, nearly toppling as we rounded the bends, where the road wound sinister as a serpent’s tongue. I had to keep my distance for fear of going over the cliff side with the madman’s trailer, and tumbling hopelessly into one of the creeks or ravines hundreds of metres below. I honked my horn, but the driver ignored me, and then I glimpsed it– a flash in the fog, a mirror mocking me. The driver’s seat was empty.
There was a screech as my truck baulked, and I skidded out of control. The engine rumbled, and spluttered to a halt, inches from the edge of the sheer drop. There was no sign of the circus truck ahead on the winding road. It couldn’t have pulled ahead, because there were no lights gleaming in the distance either. It had simply vanished.
Cursing, I climbed down from the cabin, leaving all my own lights on as hazard, lest another vessel strike mine and sink. I stared out into the darkness, but everywhere I looked, there was only the pitch of the road, black trees before a black sky, black on black everywhere. A galleon moon stared baleful from a sky scattered with pinhole stars. Sailing on silver waters, she turned clouds into nebulas as she passed. I drank in this haunting view, but it only made the atmosphere ring of distance and emptiness. I called out, and heard nothing back. Had the truck gone over the edge? If it had, how had I not heard it?
Shivering, I clambered back into the driver’s seat of my vehicle, and switched on the radio, bashing from static into life. ‘Hello,’ I spoke into the transmitter. ‘This is 4177, over.’ I waited, but there came no reply. I spoke again. ‘I’ve lost somebody on the Clyde.’ Again, the airwaves were silent, but then–
‘This is 4178 coming in, loud and clear.’
I paused, and a chill ran down my spine. I wet my lips, which were suddenly very dry, and sipped some water to stop the same dryness from constricting my throat.
‘4178,’ I said, cautiously, ‘what are your coordinates?’
The incoming static nearly obscured the answer, but I could make it out. ‘No coordinates, over.’
‘M-Mick?’ I stammered, but there was no further reply. I hit the radio with my fist again, to make it behave, but it was dead. All was eerily quiet. After jumping out of the truck for another once over the highway, I uncovered nothing, and hopped back into the cabin, to take the descent down the mountain with extra caution. A few times, I wavered in my lane, the enormous bulk behind me forcing me down, but I rode my steed skilfully, and paranoia saw us safely to the flats.
I rolled into the next truckstop around 11pm, and what should I see there but the B BROTHERS FAMILY CIRCUS truck! I was certain it was the same one, and not a duplicate. Immediately, I got out of my seat and marched over to have a word with the driver. Driver there was none. I decided to search inside the cafeteria, one of those 24/7 diners that accompany petrol stations on the road, but nobody had seen the driver of that truck.
‘Mate,’ I said to the pump cashier, ‘How long has that truck been there?’
‘You must be in desperate need of sleep,’ the young fellow replied, yawning. ‘You’re the only customer I’ve had all night.’
I spun around, and the yellow tarp was gone. The truck had disappeared again. I remember feeling prickles on the back of my neck as I stepped up into my truck once more. I turned the radio on for company and a little sanity in the coming witching hour, but all I received was static. I supposed I’d hit the damn box a fraction too hard when trying to get it to work earlier. I kept driving, with only the stars for travelling companions and the flat, black ribbon of the road to be my guide. I hummed to myself a little, so that, distracted, I almost didn’t see it at first.
There, at the crossing where the lonely highway meets the railway line, was the yellow truck. I thought weariness was playing a trick on my eyes, however, because instead of B BROTHERS FAMILY CIRCUS, the tarp now clearly read, BEELZEBUB BROTHERS FAMILY CIRCUS - HELL IS QUITE THE SHOW!
I felt as though I had just plunged into a lake full of icy cold water. My every instinct said to run away from that scene, but I knew there was no evading the Devil’s own circus. Besides, the driver, and there was definitely a driver now, had already seen me.
‘You’ve got some commitment… cowboy, to be driving at this hour. What is it about this job that seems to have you captive?’
He didn’t walk towards me, but left those agonising steps for me to walk. I felt and heard every clicking and clacking of my boots on the tarmac, which was cracked and uneven like congealed lava. I felt forced to look the apparition in the eye the whole time, lest he disappear and reappear directly in front of me, or worse, behind my back.
I got a real good, long look at him, so let me describe the fiend for you. He had mismatched eyes, one filmed over with blind hatred, the other lit from within with orange malice, like fire trapped in amber. He was skinny, all bones and stretched, pale skin that threatened to break over his many points. He seemed to be made of teeth and canine grins, and lieu of a forked tail, a cloak of midnight swished behind him– the same midnight, perhaps, that was his cover to appear at crossroads. He appeared to be rooted to the spot, in the very centre of the crossing. Either that, or he chose not to move in order to deliberately draw me to that spot, hoping maybe that I would be lured to my death when a train swept by.
‘Do you know what day it is?’ the black-robed magician asked, in a voice that was all hissing tongues of snakes and flames. I did, but I said nothing. ‘It’s the sixth anniversary,’ he supplied, ‘and you know what that means.’
Again, I knew. Six years ago, my brother, Mick, went over the mountainside on the Clyde. It was a wet evening and a dangerous road, and he was only young– twenty-three at the time. I was twenty-five. 4778 was his number. He was the registered driver to sign up right after me, and I was on the road behind him the night he disappeared. I remember running up and down that patch of tar, the same patch I had searched for the missing circus truck, calling his name until my voice was hoarse and tears choked out my speech. At first, I prayed to God for his safety, but God didn’t answer. I never got my miracle.
And so, I prayed to Satan. I cursed holy justice, and wished –no, pleaded– that it were me instead of him. I would join the Devil in Hell, if I could only hear Mick’s voice one more time, and know that he was in a better place. All this I swore on the crossroads, these very crossroads, while I waited bitterly for the train to come by and take my life.
But something got in the way that day. The train never came. Later, I learned from the papers that it had been delayed by a rare breakdown. Nevertheless, six is the Devil’s number, and I knew from that day that he would come for me.
‘You do understand,’ the ring-master magician said, with a snarl. ‘You pledged your soul to me. There is no escape this time. I’ll draw you to me, because you are mine.’
The beast stretched out a long-fingered hand, and, to my horror, I felt my feet moving of their own accord. A distant whistle announced the coming of the train.
‘Right on midnight,’ the Devil said with a deadly smile.
Closer and closer I inched, trembling in boots that carried me towards my doom. The train was coming closer and closer, the whistling grew louder, and then, the train sped up.
Whoosh!
It was in front of me, carriages flying by before me, maybe six inches from my face. I couldn’t force my eyes to close. I had to witness them all, women and children in carriages, shrieking as they saw me, men cursing, and then… Mick! It sounds insane, but he was unmistakeable. I know my own brother when I see him, and that was Mick. No doubt about it. His face alone was calm and peaceful. He alone was in a quiet place forever.
When all the carriages passed, the Devil was gone, as was the circus truck. The train seemed to have driven them away. I looked at my watch. It read 12.01am. The longest minute of my life, supernaturally drawn out, by my reckoning, was over. Quickly, I vaulted back into the cabin of my truck and shoved it into gear. Without a backward glance, I sped away.
My dead brother, Mick the steel cowboy, was watching over me that day.
The highway is a curious mistress. Sometimes she’s the road to sunset, a veritable rainbow bridge. Other times, she’s colder than any other woman who ever had a heart to turn to ice. This was one of those occasions.
All along the vast, black ribbon, I watched them come. It gets lonely in the mountains, a place where a steel cowboy can go days without being witnessed by anyone besides other riders, but there are always trucks–trucks parked together in temporary caravan towns, trucks looking out for one another, trucks on the airwaves, trucks speeding up and down the deadly slope; beasts of light with horns of steel that leap out of the clouds of fog flying at you in the moonless pre-dawn and timeless dusk.
Looking back on that night, I can’t help but wonder what was ordinary and what was apparition. Trucks appeared as if by magic, so silently that I never knew when to expect them. The alpine was a world of smoke and mirrors– reflectors and headlights, dozens of eyes on shining grills, puddles of oil with dirty rainbows and rainwater collected in potholes, screens of lingering fog and belches of exhaust fumes. Even I travelled on wheels screeching with the mad sound of a discontent steed that longed to go faster. Lunging out of gear down the mountainside, as if possessed, it constantly had to be reined in.
Men lose their minds out on the open road, with no sleep and only bottles of nightmare fuel on their dashboards, and so there are some as might say I’m not being truthful. They say I’m crazy, but I’m telling you, I’m no rookie in the industry. Everything I say happened was real.
I’ve described for you the mammoth trucks, those hurtling, silver-pronged bulls. The eyes of the most rabid trucks out that night glowed a Hellish red, but none was as bad as the monster I was stuck behind, a land-locked leviathan with a gaudy, yellow tarp flapping noisily. On the tarp, in letters of orange warning, was this name:
B BROTHERS FAMILY CIRCUS
The vehicle careened dangerously, nearly toppling as we rounded the bends, where the road wound sinister as a serpent’s tongue. I had to keep my distance for fear of going over the cliff side with the madman’s trailer, and tumbling hopelessly into one of the creeks or ravines hundreds of metres below. I honked my horn, but the driver ignored me, and then I glimpsed it– a flash in the fog, a mirror mocking me. The driver’s seat was empty.
There was a screech as my truck baulked, and I skidded out of control. The engine rumbled, and spluttered to a halt, inches from the edge of the sheer drop. There was no sign of the circus truck ahead on the winding road. It couldn’t have pulled ahead, because there were no lights gleaming in the distance either. It had simply vanished.
Cursing, I climbed down from the cabin, leaving all my own lights on as hazard, lest another vessel strike mine and sink. I stared out into the darkness, but everywhere I looked, there was only the pitch of the road, black trees before a black sky, black on black everywhere. A galleon moon stared baleful from a sky scattered with pinhole stars. Sailing on silver waters, she turned clouds into nebulas as she passed. I drank in this haunting view, but it only made the atmosphere ring of distance and emptiness. I called out, and heard nothing back. Had the truck gone over the edge? If it had, how had I not heard it?
Shivering, I clambered back into the driver’s seat of my vehicle, and switched on the radio, bashing from static into life. ‘Hello,’ I spoke into the transmitter. ‘This is 4177, over.’ I waited, but there came no reply. I spoke again. ‘I’ve lost somebody on the Clyde.’ Again, the airwaves were silent, but then–
‘This is 4178 coming in, loud and clear.’
I paused, and a chill ran down my spine. I wet my lips, which were suddenly very dry, and sipped some water to stop the same dryness from constricting my throat.
‘4178,’ I said, cautiously, ‘what are your coordinates?’
The incoming static nearly obscured the answer, but I could make it out. ‘No coordinates, over.’
‘M-Mick?’ I stammered, but there was no further reply. I hit the radio with my fist again, to make it behave, but it was dead. All was eerily quiet. After jumping out of the truck for another once over the highway, I uncovered nothing, and hopped back into the cabin, to take the descent down the mountain with extra caution. A few times, I wavered in my lane, the enormous bulk behind me forcing me down, but I rode my steed skilfully, and paranoia saw us safely to the flats.
I rolled into the next truckstop around 11pm, and what should I see there but the B BROTHERS FAMILY CIRCUS truck! I was certain it was the same one, and not a duplicate. Immediately, I got out of my seat and marched over to have a word with the driver. Driver there was none. I decided to search inside the cafeteria, one of those 24/7 diners that accompany petrol stations on the road, but nobody had seen the driver of that truck.
‘Mate,’ I said to the pump cashier, ‘How long has that truck been there?’
‘You must be in desperate need of sleep,’ the young fellow replied, yawning. ‘You’re the only customer I’ve had all night.’
I spun around, and the yellow tarp was gone. The truck had disappeared again. I remember feeling prickles on the back of my neck as I stepped up into my truck once more. I turned the radio on for company and a little sanity in the coming witching hour, but all I received was static. I supposed I’d hit the damn box a fraction too hard when trying to get it to work earlier. I kept driving, with only the stars for travelling companions and the flat, black ribbon of the road to be my guide. I hummed to myself a little, so that, distracted, I almost didn’t see it at first.
There, at the crossing where the lonely highway meets the railway line, was the yellow truck. I thought weariness was playing a trick on my eyes, however, because instead of B BROTHERS FAMILY CIRCUS, the tarp now clearly read, BEELZEBUB BROTHERS FAMILY CIRCUS - HELL IS QUITE THE SHOW!
I felt as though I had just plunged into a lake full of icy cold water. My every instinct said to run away from that scene, but I knew there was no evading the Devil’s own circus. Besides, the driver, and there was definitely a driver now, had already seen me.
‘You’ve got some commitment… cowboy, to be driving at this hour. What is it about this job that seems to have you captive?’
He didn’t walk towards me, but left those agonising steps for me to walk. I felt and heard every clicking and clacking of my boots on the tarmac, which was cracked and uneven like congealed lava. I felt forced to look the apparition in the eye the whole time, lest he disappear and reappear directly in front of me, or worse, behind my back.
I got a real good, long look at him, so let me describe the fiend for you. He had mismatched eyes, one filmed over with blind hatred, the other lit from within with orange malice, like fire trapped in amber. He was skinny, all bones and stretched, pale skin that threatened to break over his many points. He seemed to be made of teeth and canine grins, and lieu of a forked tail, a cloak of midnight swished behind him– the same midnight, perhaps, that was his cover to appear at crossroads. He appeared to be rooted to the spot, in the very centre of the crossing. Either that, or he chose not to move in order to deliberately draw me to that spot, hoping maybe that I would be lured to my death when a train swept by.
‘Do you know what day it is?’ the black-robed magician asked, in a voice that was all hissing tongues of snakes and flames. I did, but I said nothing. ‘It’s the sixth anniversary,’ he supplied, ‘and you know what that means.’
Again, I knew. Six years ago, my brother, Mick, went over the mountainside on the Clyde. It was a wet evening and a dangerous road, and he was only young– twenty-three at the time. I was twenty-five. 4778 was his number. He was the registered driver to sign up right after me, and I was on the road behind him the night he disappeared. I remember running up and down that patch of tar, the same patch I had searched for the missing circus truck, calling his name until my voice was hoarse and tears choked out my speech. At first, I prayed to God for his safety, but God didn’t answer. I never got my miracle.
And so, I prayed to Satan. I cursed holy justice, and wished –no, pleaded– that it were me instead of him. I would join the Devil in Hell, if I could only hear Mick’s voice one more time, and know that he was in a better place. All this I swore on the crossroads, these very crossroads, while I waited bitterly for the train to come by and take my life.
But something got in the way that day. The train never came. Later, I learned from the papers that it had been delayed by a rare breakdown. Nevertheless, six is the Devil’s number, and I knew from that day that he would come for me.
‘You do understand,’ the ring-master magician said, with a snarl. ‘You pledged your soul to me. There is no escape this time. I’ll draw you to me, because you are mine.’
The beast stretched out a long-fingered hand, and, to my horror, I felt my feet moving of their own accord. A distant whistle announced the coming of the train.
‘Right on midnight,’ the Devil said with a deadly smile.
Closer and closer I inched, trembling in boots that carried me towards my doom. The train was coming closer and closer, the whistling grew louder, and then, the train sped up.
Whoosh!
It was in front of me, carriages flying by before me, maybe six inches from my face. I couldn’t force my eyes to close. I had to witness them all, women and children in carriages, shrieking as they saw me, men cursing, and then… Mick! It sounds insane, but he was unmistakeable. I know my own brother when I see him, and that was Mick. No doubt about it. His face alone was calm and peaceful. He alone was in a quiet place forever.
When all the carriages passed, the Devil was gone, as was the circus truck. The train seemed to have driven them away. I looked at my watch. It read 12.01am. The longest minute of my life, supernaturally drawn out, by my reckoning, was over. Quickly, I vaulted back into the cabin of my truck and shoved it into gear. Without a backward glance, I sped away.
My dead brother, Mick the steel cowboy, was watching over me that day.