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

EPISODE TWO: JOHNNY (PART ONE)

Depending on your point of view, it was either late at night or early in the morning at the Waffle House. The grill still sizzled, coffee still poured, jacks still flapped. The old jukebox crackled and hissed like it was thinking about working again.

Mirrie moved between tables with practiced ease, a coffee pot in each hand. An old werewolf couple were seated in one corner, sharing a slice of pie.

A family of Goblins sat in a booth. Mommy Goblin, Daddy Goblin, three Goblin kids. The children were perfectly behaved. They said "please", "thank you", and referred to Mirrie as "Ma'am".

Ralph, the werewolf security guard from the warehouse, sat at the bar with a mummy mechanic. Both were drinking coffee.

Dragula, Xaden and Mac had already ordered and were most of the way through their meals. Drags was wearing headphones and singing along, badly, to music no one else could hear.

🎶 🎵  “Last Night I met a dancer. She came dancing through my door.”  🎶 🎵

Sam was sitting in his booster seat with a bible, not a modern printing or a children's version, this was a heavy, leather-bound tome that looked like it belonged at the Vatican. He had a ballpoint pen in his other hand.

A tiny red finger traced a line. "No, no, no. That's not what happened."

Scratch.

"Technically correct, but misleading."

Scratch.

"That's not even close."

Scratch.

Scratch.

"Whoever wrote this translation has clearly never met a cherub."

"Do I even want to know how old that Bible is?" Xaden asked.

Sam raised an eyebrow, never looking up from the page. "Why would its age matter?"

"Depending on how old it is, I was gonna ask to read it. And see what you've crossed out." he sipped his coffee.

"Just the parts they got wrong," Sam replied.

The bell over the door rattled. Everyone looked up. The man standing in the doorway looked old, like someone who had been around when the world was younger. His clothes belonged in a photograph, faded jacket, worn trousers, a battered fedora that sat low over his face, and a pair of dust-covered boots that looked like they had walked a thousand miles. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, smoke curling upward. And in one hand, he carried a violin case.

Mirrie smiled, "What can I get you, handsome?"

The old man removed his hat. "Coffee. And do you know anyone headed east?

"East is a pretty big direction, sugar."

The old man wrapped both hands around the cup. "Georgia."

"Georgia is a long way from here."

The man nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Family?"

The man looked down. "No... not anymore."

Mirrie glanced toward the group, "I might know a couple of fellas."

She lead the man over to the table where Dragula, Mac, and Xaden were sitting with Sam. "This gentleman needs a ride to Georgia, boys. Can you help him out?"

Drags reached into his jacket and pulled out a small silver cylinder, a metal pill bottle. He opened it and took out a large red and white capsule and put it in his mouth. There was a crunch and he chased it down with OJ.

It crunched like gravel.

“We can be having peaches together in fourteen hours, thirteen if we shake and bake. Eastbound and Down anyone?”

Mac plugged a charger into the outlet under the table and looked at the man, "I'm Mac." He indicated the others, "That's Dragula, Xaden, and Sam. Soooooo... Can you pay? Gas Not cheap?"

The old man took a long drag off his cigarette and chuckled softly, "I got plenty. Been savin' up a long time." He tapped his violin case. "Only fair ta warn you boys, some folks don't want me to make this trip."

Sam put his pen down and looked up from the Bible he was correcting. He started to open his mouth when the bell over the door rang again.

The door swung open again and a werewolf, or more accurately, a werecoyote, walked in.

The rain blew in for a moment before the door swung closed behind him. He was small, but still twice Sam's height. Patched coveralls hung loosely on his slight frame. He sniffed the air, inhaling the miasma of old coffee, hot pancakes, and the stink of too many bodies in too small of a space.

Mirrie leaned over the counter, eyeing the second newcomer. "Go sit with the big boys, sweetheart. I'll be there in a minute."

The coyote looked around. "Big boys?" Then he saw them - two huge Zippers and a massive Hunchback seated in a booth beside a tiny red demon. They looked like a trio of bodyguards around a miniature, infernal mob boss. They were talking with an old man in an older suit. He made his way over and slipped into a seat.

Sam glanced at the small lycanthrope and back to the musician. "Where in Georgia?"

"Just a set o' crossroads." He tapped the case again, "Lookin' to return something I got no use for anymore."

Xaden downed the last of his coffee. He raised the mug high and called out to Mirrie, "May I get a refill, please?"  Then he looked back at the old man, "So, what kind of people don't want you to make this trip?"

Mac, Xaden, Dragula, and the newcomer Marrow all ordered more food and coffee while Johnny pulled up a seat.

Xaden's question hung there. "What kind of people don't want you making this trip?"

The question hung there.
Not what happened?
Not what's in the case?
Not why Georgia?

But, "Who's stopping you?"

Johnny stared down into his coffee. For a moment, the tired old bluesman looked even older. "That's a complicated question."

"Usually means the answer is interesting," Mac said.

Johnny gave a faint smile. "Fair enough."

He took a drag from his cigarette. "The Devil."

Sam barely looked up. His pen didn't even stop. "Which one?"

Johnny blinked. "The... Devil."

Sam tilted his head. "That does not answer the question."

Johnny stared. "THE Devil. Capital T. Capital D. You know. The Devil."

Sam looked back down at the Bible. "He's a friend from work." The little demon continued editing his Bible. "Or at least used to be, back in the day. I taught him how to cheat at cards. We sort of lost touch over the last million years or so."

Mac shakes his head, "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny... sold your soul to the Devil, did ya? How long ago was this? And keep on smoking. You'll see him sooner than you think."

Johnny snorts, "Sold?! What?! I ain't sold a damn thing! I won this here fiddle fair and square! I beat him at his game and now? Now, he won't let me die. Imma live forever - can't get an endin' to my story."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Humans. How is that you ended up being His most favored creations? You have no concept of what eternity actually is."

"What's that s'posed to mean?" Johnny asked as he took another drag off of his cigarette.

Sam closed his Bible and pushed it aside. He climbed out of his booster seat and sat on the edge of the table. "Imagine a heartbeat." Sam tapped the table twice.

"Ba-bump."

He tapped it again, but only once. "Ba. The universe begins. The Big Bang. Creation. Everything that exists spreads outward. Space. Time. Matter. Energy. Stars. Planets. Life."

He spread his hands apart. "The universe expands."

Then slowly, he brought his hand back. "And eventually... Bump. The universe contracts. Everything comes back together. Every star. Every planet. Every atom. Then..."

Sam tapped the table again. "Ba. Another beginning. Another Big Bang. Different details. Different arrangements. Different stories."

He looked at Johnny. "But the heartbeat continues."

"What the hell is that even mean?"

Mac leaned toward Johnny and summed up with his usual aplomb, "What he's trying to say is, you're $^#^&#. Have another smoke and a pancake."

Sam slowly shook his head. "That is not what I said."

While everyone else was talking, Marrow had moved on to the important part - the food, specifically, the grease left behind on his plate. Once he had every last bit from his plate, he super-casually leaned toward the violin case.

The odor of old wood, dust, and leather filled his nostrils... cigarette smoke... Johnny's scent.

Then something else.

Something old. Something powerful. Something... dangerous?

Definitely something valuable.

Marrow glanced at the case, then at Johnny, then at the door. His hearse was parked right outside.

There was plenty of room in the back...

Marrow looked back at Johnny and saw Sam watching him.

Sam tilted his head. "Whatever it is you're thinking, I can tell you..." He pointed his pen at the violin case. "...it's 'eating an apple in the Garden' levels of bad."

Xaden sipped his coffee and looked at the old man. "How much, when by..." He paused. "And please don't let there be angel dust."

Johnny stared at the Hunchback. "The sooner, the better.

The table went quiet for half a second. Dragula snorted, "Yeah. Not dealing with freaky singers again."

Mac nodded, "What he said."

Marrow raised a hand, "What's Angel Dust?"

Sam slowly closed his Bible. "Don't even go there. That's the kind of thing that gets people cursed."

Marrow shrugged and nodded.

Johnny just looked at the group. Then, he chuckled. "I don't know nothin' 'bout no Angel Dust but given the looks o' you folks, I 'magine it's prob'ly as bad as it sounds."

"Pretty much," Xaden replied.

Johnny leaned back, "As fo' payment," he reached into his jacket while everyone suddenly became very interested in his hand, "I got this."

He dropped a stained leather sack on the table. It landed with the heavy clink of coins. "That enough?"

Sam glanced at the bag. "Gold?"

"An' some other things besides," Johnny answered.

The demon frowned, "That's not suspicious at all."

Johnny smiled faintly, "You have no idea."

Mac rose from his seat, stretching his enormous arms until something in his shoulders popped. "Well, guess I'm going to fuel up."

Sam looked at Johnny. His tail swished back and forth. "You got luggage besides that fiddle?"

Johnny shook his head and patted the violin case, "Everything I own's right there."

The demon looked at the battered case for a moment. "That's either remarkably convenient or profoundly depressing."

"Bit a both, I s'pose," replied Johnny as he took another drag off of his cigarette.

Xaden downed the last of his refill. "Well, I suppose it's time to hit the road." He stood and walked over to pay the tab, "Thank you, Miss Mirrie." He went back to the table, "Johnny, you can ride with me."

They headed outside. The rain had stopped.

Drags checked with Mac and once everything was secured and ready to roll he climbed aboard his rig and fired it up. He looked at the others in front and behind him before rolling out onto the blacktop once again. 

"Anyone need weird fuel?" Marrow says. Looking around for unattended things.

Sam took a deep breath, "I just know that I'm going to regret asking this but, what do you mean by 'weird fuel?'"

"What? I dunno. I take normal stuff. Just checkin'," the werecoyote replies as he walks between the rigs outside, looking at each in turn before climbing behind the seat of his Cadillac Hearse and turning the key. The engine coughed once, fired, and then settled down to an almost silent purr as the Last Ride idled. Marrow tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel for a moment and then reached over, popped the glove box, and pulled out a greasy paper bag. He sniffed it once before beginning to eat whatever dead thing had been stored inside.

Fluffy Bunny and the Electric Warlock roared to life a few seconds later.

Mac's voice crackled through the speaker. "Fluffy Bunny's good to go. Tanks full, batteries charged, sandwiches secured."

Dragula answered. "Electric Warlock's ready."

Samael adjusted his hat, checked himself in the mirror and turned the key. The Screamin' Demon started up. "Good here. Xaden?"

Inside the Last Cathedral, Johnny settled into the passenger seat with a long, weary sigh. He placed his battered violin case carefully between his feet.

Xaden climbed behind the wheel, adjusted his mirrors, and glanced toward his passenger. "Comfortable?"

Johnny shifted slightly. "More comfortable than I've been in a while."

"Good." Xaden reached for the ignition.

Johnny looked around the cab, taking in the stained-glass windows, the polished fittings, and the peculiar collection of religious decorations. "Quite a rig you got here. Used to be a church?"

"Worked in one, maintenance. Pipes out back came from the organ." Xaden replied.

He turned the key. The Kenworth's diesel engine rumbled to life.

Johnny leaned back, listening to the steady mechanical heartbeat. "That's a mighty fine sound."

Xaden glanced over. "Truck engines?"

"Oh, yes. Engines. Trains. Rivers. Wind through the trees." Johnny looked out the windshield. "After a while, you learn to appreciate things that keep movin'."

Xaden nodded and pressed down on the mic, "Last Cathedral, ready to roll."

Xaden put the truck into gear and got ready to follow the lead car. "So, what makes you appreciate the sounds so much other than time?"

Johnny closed his eyes and pulled his hat down low, "The rhythm. You can feel it. The cycling of the fan, the rise and fall of the pistons - they the same as a beating heart. You kin... you kin jus' get lost in it. Let it carry ya o'er more than jus' th' road. Same with th' wind, or a river o'er rocks. It's music if'n ya know how t' lissen."

Sam took the Screamin' Demon out onto the road. "Rest of you boys fall in behind me. I’m going to watch the road ahead. Marrow, bring up the rear."

The black Trans Am accelerated, picking up speed as the sun crested the horizon. The demon decal on the hood blazed gloriously in the light as Sam merged onto what was once Interstate-29. Electric Warlock, the Last Cathedral, and Fluffy Bunny pulled onto the highway behind him with the Last Ride bringing up the tail end of the convoy.

"Yehyehyeah" Marrow says his mouth a little full of... bird? The werecoyote's eyes scanned the shoulders of the road, keeping a look out for good loot or a viable pre-roadkill target.

A few miles down the highway, Sam spotted something moving in a field to the right. At least a dozen cattle, grazing among the weeds and waist-high grass surrounding an abandoned farmhouse. Or, at least, they appeared to be grazing.

Sam slowed the Trans Am slightly. He reached for the CB. "Screamin' Demon to convoy. We've got livestock on the right. Everybody keep your eyes open."

The animals were enormous, with shaggy, matted hides and heavy shoulders. Their horns were long, crooked, and stained a dark reddish brown. One lifted its head from the grass, revealing a broad muzzle covered in something considerably darker than mud. Its jaws worked slowly. Something dangled from its mouth.

An arm.

A human arm.

The cow tilted its head back and swallowed. Its neck bulged as the meal slid down its throat.

Xaden gets on the CB, "I don't want to be the hand that satisfies that rumbly in the tumbly."

There was a moment of silence.

Then Sam's voice crackled over the radio. "Caaaaaaaaarl!"

Back at the Waffle House

The morning air was cool, carrying the smell of damp pavement, diesel exhaust, and fresh coffee.

Ralph stood outside the Waffle House, leaning against the wall beside the entrance. He'd finished his breakfast, had three cups of Mirrie's coffee, and was having one last cigarette before heading over to the warehouse for his shift. It had been an interesting night. That bunch of truckers had certainly livened things up. Especially the little red demon. Ralph had seen plenty of strange things in the Worstlands, but an eighteen-inch demon arguing with a Bible was a new one.

And then there was the old man with the fiddle.

Ralph shook his head, smiling faintly. "Never a dull moment."

He took another drag.

Somewhere down the highway, a motorcycle engine growled.

Ralph barely noticed it at first. Motorcycles weren't unusual, even out here. But as the sound grew closer, something began to feel wrong. The hair along his spine stood up. His ears flattened as a terrible, irrational fear washed over him, so sudden and overwhelming that his knees nearly buckled.

He turned toward the highway.

A black motorcycle was approaching. It was a long, low chopper with exaggerated front forks and a narrow front wheel. Its engine produced a deep, uneven rumble, occasionally punctuated by a peculiar metallic whine. Thick black smoke poured from its exhaust pipes.

The rider wore battered black motorcycle leathers beneath a long, oil-stained duster. Heavy boots rested on the forward pegs. A featureless black helmet concealed his face completely. The motorcycle turned into the parking lot.

Ralph's instincts screamed at him to run. His legs wouldn't obey.

The rider brought the chopper to a stop a few yards away, planted one boot on the pavement, and turned his helmet toward the werewolf.

For several seconds, neither moved. Then the rider spoke. "Johnny."

The word was quiet, almost conversational. Ralph felt his stomach drop.

He knew exactly who the rider meant.
The old man. The battered violin case. The truckers heading east. But whatever this thing was, Ralph had no intention of telling it anything.

"Johnny?" he repeated, forcing a puzzled expression. "Can't say I know anybody by that name."

The rider remained motionless.

Ralph took another drag from his cigarette. His hand trembled badly enough that he nearly dropped it. "Sorry, pal. Can't help you."

The rider slowly tilted his helmet. The faint sound of a violin drifted across the parking lot.

Just a few notes, thin and distant, as though someone were playing in another room. Ralph looked around. There was nobody else outside.

The rider raised one gloved hand and pointed toward the Waffle House. "Johnny."

Ralph swallowed. "Look, mister, I told you. I don't know anybody named Johnny."

The violin grew louder.

Ralph's heart hammered against his ribs. He wanted to run. He wanted to crawl under something and hide. He wanted to be anywhere in the world except standing in front of this thing.

Then the Waffle House door opened.

"Ralph?" Mirrie stepped outside carrying a fresh cup of coffee. "Thought you might want one for the road, sugar."

She stopped beside the werewolf and looked at the motorcycle. Then at its rider. Then back at Ralph. "Well, now. You got company."

Ralph managed a strangled whisper. "Mirrie. Go back inside."

She ignored him.The faint violin music stopped.

Mirrie looked him up and down over the tops of her glasses. "Morning."

The rider said nothing.

"You looking for breakfast? "Coffee?"

The rider's helmet tilted. "Johnny."

Mirrie nodded thoughtfully. "Johnny. Well, that's a nice name."

The motorcycle's engine changed pitch. A low, mournful violin note rose from somewhere inside it.

Ralph flinched. Mirrie didn't.

Instead, she frowned. "Now, you mind keeping that thing down? I've got customers trying to eat."

The Rider slowly straightened. For the first time, he seemed uncertain.

Mirrie stepped forward.

Ralph reached for her arm. "Mirrie, please—"

She gently brushed his hand aside. "Now, Ralph, don't be rude."

She stopped a few feet from the motorcycle. "Listen here, sugar. I don't know what business you've got with Johnny, and frankly, I don't much care."

The rider's gloved fingers tightened around the handlebars.

"But this here's a Waffle House."

She pointed toward the building. "Folks come here to eat, drink coffee, and get a little peace and quiet before going back out into whatever mess is waiting for 'em."

The Rider said nothing.

"And I don't allow anybody to come onto my property and scare my customers."

The motorcycle's engine began to growl.

Mirrie folded her arms. "That includes you."

For a moment, the air seemed to darken. Ralph felt the fear intensify. His vision blurred, and his legs threatened to give way beneath him.

The Rider slowly raised one hand. Long, black-gloved fingers curled around the hilt of something beneath his coat - a violin bow.

Mirrie's expression hardened. "Don't."

Her voice was quiet and firm.

The Rider stopped. The engine sputtered.

Then, very slowly, the gloved hand withdrew.

Mirrie nodded. "That's better."

She glanced at the motorcycle. "And you're leaking oil."

The Rider looked down. A thick, black puddle had formed beneath the engine.

Mirrie sighed. "Wonderful. Now I've gotta get somebody out here with a bag of kitty litter."

The rider turned his helmet toward the highway. Then back toward Mirrie. "Johnny."

Mirrie shook her head.

Then the Rider turned the handlebars, lifted his boot, and eased the motorcycle around. The engine roared. A cloud of oily black smoke rolled across the parking lot as the chopper accelerated toward the highway.

Within seconds, it was gone. The terrible fear vanished.

Ralph staggered backward against the wall, gasping. His cigarette fell from his fingers.

Mirrie watched the motorcycle disappear into the distance. Then she turned toward Ralph. "Well, that was unpleasant."

Ralph stared at her. She handed him the coffee. "Here you go, sugar."

"Mirrie, what the hell was that?"

She shrugged. "Somebody with bad manners."

"Bad manners? Mirrie, I thought I was gonna die!"

"Well, you didn't." She bent down, picked up Ralph's fallen cigarette, and dropped it into the ashtray beside the door.

"Now, you'd best get yourself to work. You're gonna be late."

Ralph looked toward the highway. "How come you weren't scared?"

"Ralph, honey, I've been working the graveyard shift for sixty years."

She opened the door. "You think that's the first jerk on a motorcycle I've had to deal with?"

The door swung shut behind her. Ralph stood alone in the parking lot, holding his coffee. He looked toward the highway one last time. Then at the Waffle House. "Wait... sixty years?"

The Convoy...

The old Interstate had run out in Kansas City. The convoy had threaded its way through city streets and county roads until finally reaching what had once been Highway 13, turning south toward Memphis.

Four hours and almost 300 miles after leaving the Waffle House, the convoy passed an old roadside sign leaning drunkenly beside the pavement.

NEXT SERVICES — 47 MILES

Sam glanced down at his fuel gauge before picking up the mic, "Breaker, breaker, tank's getting thirsty up here. I'm making that stop ahead."

Mac, Xaden, and Dragula all chime in with an assortment of affirmative responses and a little over thirty minutes later the convoy is pulling off of what was once MO-13 into a what was left of a town that was once named Deepwater.

Cars stood abandoned along the highway, their tires long since rotted away. Some had been stripped down to their frames. Others had become planters, their interiors filled with weeds and wildflowers.

The town was mostly silent. A couple buildings showed signs of life - laundry hanging on a line, a thin plume of smoke rising from a chimney, a small plot of vegetables struggling to grow in what was once a parking lot. A handful of zombies shuffled around. Some smiled and waved as the drivers passed by.

Before the war, nearly four-hundred souls had called the quiet little town home. The old service station stood at the edge of town, beneath a sun-bleached sign advertising gasoline at prices that hadn't been accurate in decades. Two battered pumps occupied the concrete island beneath a corrugated metal canopy. Their original electronic displays had been replaced with mechanical counters, and thick rubber hoses hung from their sides.

A sign painted on the side of the building read

FUEL AVAILABLE
CASH • BARTER • TRADE
NO CREDIT

An enormous storage tank sat just partway up the hill behind the store. A motley collection of pipes and hoses ran from the tank down to the pump. A windmill with mismatched blades made of plywood and salvaged scrap metal slowly turned in the wind.

An upright armadillo in battered overalls shuffled out of the store. He watched the arriving convoy with keen interest. He called over his shoulder as Samael's Trans Am rolled up to the pump. "MA! We got us some customers!"

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