Monster Truckers - Episode Two: The Devil Went Down to Georgia (Deepwater to Cabool)

The Rider turned his head, tracking Johnny's movement. Then, he spoke with a voice, deep and sepulchral, "Johnny, set aside your foolish errand, and I will grant you rest."

Johnny reached his feet. "Naw... I don't think so. Dem deals yo' boss be offerin'? Dey always got a catch."

"Your loss." The rider twisted the throttle. The motorcycle's engine roared.

Drags reacheed behind the seat and grabbed his truck gun. He waited, half behind the door of his truck with the gun hidden from the rider. “This guy’s boss got beef with you, Johnny boy?”  Drag calls out.

"Yessir, e'er since I got this here fiddle offa him."

Mac grabbed the mic. "Drags! No, stand down you will only piss it off."

Sam strutted right up to the Rider. He stubbed out what was left of his cigar. "Look at you! Big scary motorcycle, spooky helmet, dramatic entrance. What happens when somebody knocks over the neighborhood water tank? You gonna swim?"

Drags put his truck gun down on the floorboard in easy reach and watched Sam and the biker interact with each other.

The Rider turned to face the little demon. "You are an arrogant and insufferable ass. The Black Preacher will settle your account when the time comes."

"Black Preacher, huh? Scary name. And who are you? Bo Peep?

"Amongst the Riders, I am known as the Last Encore."

The Rider throttled the bike again. Flames appeared around the wheels. He extended his free hand and a chain appeared.

Johnny continued edging toward Dragula's truck.

He moved slowly, taking one careful step at a time, keeping his violin case close to his side. His eyes remained fixed on the Last Encore, watching for any indication that the Rider had noticed his movement.
Fortunately, Sam was making himself very difficult to ignore.

"Nice chain, Johnny Blaze. Your mommy make that for you?"

The Rider's featureless helmet followed him, while flames danced around the motorcycle's wheels.

Johnny took another step.

Then another.

The distance between himself and the Electric Warlock was steadily shrinking.

He glanced toward Dragula, who stood partially concealed behind the open driver's door. The big trucker had put his gun down, but Johnny could see that it remained within easy reach.

Johnny tightened his grip on the violin case.

Just a little farther.

Drags focused on maintaining his composure, eyes on the Rider and his bike, while Johnny got ever closer to his rig.

The Last Encore began turning his wrist, wrapping his fist with the chain. The biker put his kickstand down and slowly dismounted.

Mac grabbed the mic. "Move, brother, move. I'm right behind you."

Drags looked back at Mac and nodded. He kept his eye on the rider and his hand hovering over his gun in the truck. The big Zipper shook his head and thought, “Sam knows everyone - good and evil.”

As the Last Encore dismounted, Xaden slammed the Last Cathedral into gear and mashed down the accelerator.

Black smoke erupted from the twin stacks behind the cab as the engine roared to life.
The mighty Kenworth surged forward.

The Last Encore had barely turned his helmet toward the approaching truck when the enormous vehicle barreled over him and his flaming motorcycle.

The impact jolted the cab, but Xaden kept his foot on the accelerator.

A moment later, the Last Cathedral slammed into one of the water tower's supporting legs.

CRAAAANG!

The impact reverberated through the truck.

Steel buckled beneath the Kenworth's enormous weight, and the tower's supporting framework groaned in protest.

Xaden looked up.

High overhead, the enormous water tank began to sway.

The damaged support was bending inward. Rivets popped loose, and the remaining legs strained beneath the shifting weight.

Xaden slammed the transmission into reverse and cranked the wheel sharply. The Last Cathedral lurched backward, its tires scrabbling for traction.

Behind him, the damaged leg finally gave way.

For one terrible moment, the tower seemed to hang suspended in the air.

Then, the entire structure began to topple.
The remaining supports twisted and tore free as the enormous tank came crashing down.

KRAAAAAAASH!

The tank struck the ground and split open.
Thousands upon thousands of gallons of water erupted from the shattered steel, sweeping across the service station lot and surging down the sloping street.

The Last Encore had barely regained his feet when the torrent struck him.

The Rider disappeared beneath the churning water.

His motorcycle tumbled after him, its flaming wheels briefly visible through the spray before vanishing into the flood.

The rushing water carried both Rider and motorcycle down Main Street, past the abandoned storefronts and toward the marsh at the eastern edge of town.

Within moments, the Last Encore was gone.

Water continued pouring through the streets, carrying mud, debris, and pieces of the shattered tower toward the marsh.

The Last Cathedral stood clear of the wreckage, its engine rumbling and black smoke drifting from its exhaust stacks. Where the water tower had stood, only a twisted framework of broken steel remained.

Xaden rolled down his window. "I think that's our signal to leave!" He shook his head to clear it after his collision with the tower. "Johnny! Get in! We're leaving!" The old bluesman stopped making his way toward the Electric Warlock and climbed aboard as Xaden dropped back into gear.

Sam flew to his car and dropped into the driver's seat.

Xaden, Dragula, Mac, and Sam tear out of Earl's parking lot and cut a hard right onto MO-13. They ford the remaining water washing across the highway and accelerate down the road toward Warsaw. They passed Marrow who was waiting on the side of the road and he fell in behind the convoy as they left the Rider behind.

“Who in the Sam hell was that Sam?”  Drags called over the CB.

The little demon picked up his mic. “Never seen him before in my life, but the Hell part was right. Xaden, nice job with the water tower. That ought to slow him down."

“I thought you knew everyone?” Drags replies. He is a might bewildered at the whole situation so he drives. He grips the wheel tighter and looks in the mirrors to see if they are being followed.

Johnny leans forward and picks up the mic in Xaden's rig. His gravelly voice comes over the air, quiet at first as he begins to speak.

"Seven deals to mortals doomed,
Seven souls by Hell consumed.
Seven sins to seal their fate,
Seven riders at the gate.
One to summon, one to bind,
One to leave all hope behind.
Seven servants, black and tall,
And the Devil owns them all."

Sam voice responds, "Oh... so they're diversity hires. Damned souls, not demons. After my time, Drags."

“Roger that.”  Drags replies. "So at least six more of them out there," he thinks to himself. “Johnny anything else we might need to know about tall, dark, and hateful on the bike and his buddies?”

Johnny leaned back in his seat, the microphone still in his weathered hand.
"Well, now, I ain't never laid eyes on one before today, but I heard tell of 'em."

He paused, gathering his thoughts.

"Seven of 'em, just like the song says. All musicians once. Fiddlers, guitar pickers, singers, whatever. Every last one made himself a deal with the Devil. Traded his soul for talent."

Johnny glanced out the windshield.

"Now, most folks who make that kinda bargain just wind up in Hell when their time comes. But these seven? They got theyselves another job."

He shook his head. "Each one's supposed to carry one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Pride, Greed, Wrath, Envy, Lust, Gluttony, and Sloth. Each one's got some kinda power all his own. Don't rightly know what those powers are, though."

The old fiddler shifted in his seat.

"There's somethin' else. They say just bein' near one of 'em can put the fear of God into a man. Don't matter how brave you are."

He paused.

"And they can't be killed. Leastways, not by anything I ever heard tell of. Shoot 'em, stab 'em, run 'em over with a truck..."

Johnny looked toward Xaden.

"Don't make no difference. They'll keep comin'."

He released the microphone button for a moment, then pressed it again.

"That's about all I know, Drags. Stories and old songs. Never figured I'd live long enough to find out whether they was true. I jus' know, I don' wanna be one."

Xaden shrugged. "Maybe a truck and a water tower won't kill 'em, but it sure as hell slowed that one down. Bought us some time, and that's what matters."

He glanced toward Johnny before returning his attention to the road.

"At least we all got out of there in one piece."

He reached into his bag of squirrel jerky, pulled out a fistful, and stuffed it into his mouth.

Sam scoffed into his handset, "So they're the Boy Band of Sin. Never saw the point in themed servants. Where's the originality? Where's the craftsmanship? Where's the panache?"

Four hours later, the convoy rolled into Cabool, Missouri. While the semis still had plenty of fuel in their tanks, the Screamin' Demon and the Final Ride were getting by on fumes and momentum.

The little town had seen better days, although that could be said of just about everywhere in the Worstlands. Most of the buildings along the main road were abandoned, their windows boarded up or broken. Weeds grew through cracks in the pavement, and faded advertisements clung to the sides of brick storefronts.

A battered sign beside the road announced:

GAS • DIESEL • SUPPLIES

CASH • BARTER • TRADE

The filling station itself was a squat, single-story building with peeling white paint and a corrugated metal roof. Two old-fashioned gasoline pumps stood beneath a rusting canopy. Their electronic displays had long since been replaced with mechanical counters, and hand cranks protruded from their sides.

Sam pulled the Screamin' Demon alongside the first pump.

The others found places to park, and the station's front door creaked open as the group entered.

Inside, the air smelled of dust, old motor oil, and something faintly medicinal.

Rows of dusty shelves held an assortment of canned goods, batteries, ammunition, motor oil, and other necessities. A wire rack near the door displayed faded postcards and bumper stickers advertising attractions that probably hadn't existed for decades. A few bags of potato chips sat beside a jar of individually wrapped candies whose expiration dates were best left unexamined.

Behind the counter stood a man in a yellow radiation-protection suit.

The suit was old and faded, patched in several places with duct tape. Thick rubber gloves covered his hands, and a full-face respirator concealed his features. Two circular filters protruded from either side of the mask.

A handwritten name tag had been stuck to his chest.

HI! MY NAME IS WALT

Beside the cash register sat a little brass service bell.

A handwritten sign stood behind it.

RING FOR SERVICE

Sam approached the counter. "Hey, buddy, fill up on pump number one."

Walt said nothing. He merely raised one rubber-gloved hand and pointed toward the sign.

Sam looked at the sign. Then at Walt. Then back at the sign.

He groaned.

Ding!

The bell rang.

Walt immediately straightened. "What can I do for you fine gentlemen today?" he asked, his voice muffled by the respirator.

Sam stared at him. "Fill up on pump number one?"

"Comin' right up! Lemme get that pump started for ya!"

Walt turned toward a doorway behind the counter. "JEREMY! FILL UP ON ONE! GET OFF YER DEAD A** AND GET TO WORK!"

Something shuffled in the back room.
A moment later, a zombie emerged through the doorway.

He wore a grease-stained service station uniform with a faded "JEREMY" name patch sewn above the breast pocket. A battered baseball cap sat crookedly on his head. His grayish skin hung loosely around his jaw, and one eye seemed to be looking in a slightly different direction from the other.

Jeremy regarded the customers for a moment. "Uhhhhhhhhhh."

"Pump one!" Walt repeated, pointing toward the front door.

Jeremy shuffled past the group and outside.

Through the dusty plate-glass window, they watched him make his way toward the Trans Am. He removed the nozzle from the pump, inserted it into the car's fuel tank, and began turning the hand crank.

Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk.

The mechanical counter slowly began advancing.

Walt turned back toward his customers. "Anything else I can get for you gentlemen?"

After a quick restroom visit, Mac inspected the Last Cathedral for damage.

A close examination revealed some fresh scratches along the front bumper and grille, along with a few new dents. There were also several bits of wood and other debris lodged around the undercarriage.

Fortunately, nothing appeared seriously damaged. The radiator wasn't leaking, the tires were intact, and the suspension appeared to have survived the impact. As far as Mac could determine, the Last Cathedral was still perfectly roadworthy.

Meanwhile, Marrow decided to investigate the surroundings.

Climbing onto one of the parked rigs, the werecoyote found himself a reasonably high vantage point overlooking the little filling station. He raised his nose to the wind. Dust. Hot asphalt. Diesel exhaust. Old motor oil.

And, most importantly, no Rider.

Marrow climbed down and wandered around behind the station.

A collection of battered trash cans stood beside the building, along with several wooden crates and a rusting metal dumpster.

The crates contained an assortment of discarded automotive parts, empty oil containers, and other odds and ends. Marrow discovered several empty tin cans, a dented metal bucket, and two partially filled bottles of household cleaning solution. Their labels were faded but still legible.

There was also a broken broom, a length of rubber hose, and a small collection of mismatched nuts, bolts, and washers.

From the front of the station came the steady rhythm of Jeremy operating the hand pump and then Walt's muffled voice: "JEREMY! DON'T FORGET TO CHECK THE OIL!"

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