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

Deepwater (population - just over 200)

The Armadillo in overalls sidled up to the Screamin' Demon and asked, "What kin I do ya for? Just a fill-up? Check the oil and tires?"

He turned and called over his shoulder, "MA! Git out here, woman!"

A moment later, a second Armadillo, this one with a faded floral dress and a pair of eyeglasses perched atop her head, emerged from the store. She looked at the Trans Am and then the line of rigs pulling in behind it. "Howdy, boys! Dodge! Earl Jr! Come on out here and help your daddy! See if them drivers want anythin' besides gas!"

Two half-sized Armadillos, both barefoot in raggedy denim overalls, poked their heads out of the door.

Sam climbed out of the Screamin' Demon, dropped the considerable distance to the pavement, and adjusted his black cowboy hat. "Just gas, coffee. A cigar if you got one."

The Armadillo nodded. "Go on in. Natalie-Joy got a pot on."

The older boy got his first good look at Sam. His eyes widened. "Hey! Lookit that!"

The smaller one looked. For a moment, both boys stared at the eighteen-inch demon standing beside the Trans Am.

Sam put his hands on his hips. "What? Never seen a handsome devil before?"

The younger armadillo burst into giggles. "Yer LITTLE!"

Sam looked down at himself. "Well, I'll be. Fourteen billion years old, and nobody ever bothered to tell me."

Dodge crouched to get a better look. "Are you a real demon?"

"Nope. I'm a garden gnome. Lost my fishing pole."

Earl Jr. laughed so hard he nearly fell over.

"What's yer name?" the older boy asked.

"Samael. But my friends call me Sam."

"I'm Dodge! That's Earl Jr.!"

"Pleasure to meet you gentlemen."

From beside the fuel pumps, Mama Armadillo called out. "BOYS! QUIT PESTERIN' THAT LITTLE MAN!"

Mac chimed in on the radio. "Head on a swivel, boys. Over."

Drags added, “You know it.” He checked the rearview mirrors as he pulled in behind Mac and waited to get fuel.

There was nothing in the rearview except for the highway and the rows of abandoned cars, weeds, and heat reflecting off of the blacktop.

Dragula turned his head and looked around. There was a pair of Gill-Folk mending a fishing net while a third was tying lures. A handful of zombies were about a block away, working in the patchy garden he had spotted on his way in. The raggedy windmill was turning, providing power to the fuel pump where Sam had pulled up.

He relaxed a little and stepped down to see what the little armadillo kids were up to.

Earl Jr.'s eyes went wide as he saw the Electric Warlock. He stared at the huge chrome face on the grille and reached out one tentative hand to touch it. His fingers made contact and he shrieked with delight and ran back to his brother who was approaching more slowly.

The younger armadillo came back for another look at the enormous Frankenstein face. He reached up to touch one of the bolts protruding from the grille.

His older brother caught his wrist.

"Earl Jr.! Mama told you not to go pokin' at strangers' trucks!"

"But Dodge! It's got a FACE!"

"I got eyes, dummy."

The second boy looked up at Dragula.  "Mama's got pulled possum in the crackpot if'n yer hungry, mister. Enough for everybody if ya want some. Only a nickel!"

Earl Jr. immediately piped up. "It's a crockpot, Dodge!"

"That's what I said!"

"Nuh-uh! You said crackpot!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

Dodge turned toward his little brother. "You wanna get cracked upside the head?"

Earl Jr. grinned. "See? Now yer a crackpot, too!"

From the store, their mother hollered. "BOYS! QUIT YER ARGUIN' AND HELP THEM CUSTOMERS!"

Both armadillos straightened immediately.
"YES'M!"

A moment later, Dodge looked back up at Dragula. "Mister, you want some crackpot possum?"

Earl Jr. reached up and touched one of the chrome bolts. "Does it bite?"

Dragula grinned. "Nah. Don't bite none. Makes smash burgers."

The boys stared at him.

"Smash burgers?" Dodge asked.

Dragula planted his feet apart, gripped an imaginary steering wheel, and leaned forward. He mimed honking the horn with his fist.

BWAAAAAAAH!

Then he jerked the imaginary steering wheel to one side, bounced his shoulders as though the truck were barreling down a bumpy road, and made a tremendous crunching noise.

"SMASH!"

He followed it with a dramatic grinding sound, twisting his hands as though he were working the gears of a massive truck. "Freshly made, too!"

For half a second, the boys just stared at him. Then they absolutely lost it.

Earl Jr. doubled over, laughing so hard he could barely stand. Dodge slapped his brother on the back, howling with laughter.

Once he caught his breath, Earl Jr. pointed at the chrome Frankenstein face. "Can I honk the horn?"

“Just once each. And don’t touch anything else.” Drags said, “Come on, Earl Jr, is it? I think I will call you E.J.”

The newly-dubbed E.J. climbed up and pulled the chain on the air horn.

HOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNK!

The Electric Warlock's air horn shattered the afternoon quiet.

Earl Jr. practically jumped out of his overalls. He clapped both hands over his mouth, his eyes wide with astonishment, before bursting into delighted laughter. "THAT WAS ME! DODGE! DIDJA HEAR THAT? THAT WAS ME!"

Dodge took his turn, gripping the horn cord with both hands.

HOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNK!

A flock of birds exploded from the roof of the abandoned building across the street. Somewhere down the road, a dog began barking.

"BOYS!" Mama Armadillo hollered from the store. "QUIT MAKIN' ALL THAT RACKET!"

"WE'RE DONE, MA!" Dodge shouted back.

"YOU BETTER BE!"

The boys scrambled down from the cab, still laughing.

Dragula looked down at the two armadillo kids. "Okay fellas, your turn. Show me around.”

The boys started down the sidewalk, with Dodge taking the lead.

"That's the old post office," he announced, pointing toward a weather-beaten cinderblock building. "Mr. Wilkins still delivers the mail, but mostly it's just stuff folks send each other."

An elderly zombie in a faded postal uniform was sorting envelopes beside a bicycle.

"Hi, Mr. Wilkins!"

The zombie raised a hand and moaned, "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" in response.

E.J. pushed his way in front. "And this is the main street, and that's our pa's filling station."

Dodge looked around. "That way's the lake... and um... that's our pa's filling station.... Sorry, mister. That's pretty much it. We don't have much town."

“Thanks for the tour fellas, but it’s time for me to fill up the rig,” Drags told the kids.  He made small talk with them as they walked back to his rig.

Xaden pulled into the line for fuel behind Dragula. He hopped down from the Last Cathedral. He looked back at Johnny, "Want anything to eat?"

Johnny looked toward the little store, "Naw, son. I'm good."

He climbed down from the passenger side of the rig with his battered violin case. "Think Imma jus' stretch my legs some."

He looked around and spotted an old wooden bench in front of a boarded up store. He nodded toward it. "I'll be right yonder when ya'll ready."

He walked over and sat, reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and shook one loose. A lighter appeared in his other hand.

He cupped the flame against the breeze and lit the cigarette.

For a while, he simply sat there, watching Deepwater go about its business. When he finished his smoke, he dropped the butt in a tin can beside the bench and lit another.

Xaden stepped into the little convenience store as Sam walked out with a cup of coffee and a cigar as long as his forearm. A bell above the door gave a tired jingle as he entered.

"Howdy, sugar!" Natalie-Joy called from behind the counter. "Help yerself! Coffee's fresh, and there's plenty of pulled possum if'n you're hungry!"

The selection was modest, but there was enough to satisfy a hungry traveler. Xaden picked out a beef stick wrapped in wax paper, a bag of chips, and a cup of coffee.

The beef stick turned out to be squirrel jerky. The chips were pieces of tortilla, cut into triangles and dried in the sun until they were crisp.

Natalie-Joy rang up his purchases.

"Y'all headed east?" she asked conversationally. "Don't get too many big convoys comin' through here."

Outside, Sam paused on the sidewalk, surveying the little town. Across the street, Johnny sat alone on a weather-beaten bench, smoking a cigarette. His battered violin case rested beside him.

Sam sighed. "Ah, hell."

He crossed the street, his little cowboy boots clicking against the cracked pavement.

Johnny watched him approach through a thin haze of cigarette smoke.

"Afternoon, Sam."

"Afternoon, Johnny."

Sam stopped beside the bench and looked up at it. He looked at Johnny and then back at the bench. "Ya mind?"

Johnny shifted his violin case a little farther along. "Help yourself."

Sam handed Johnny his coffee and cigar, climbed onto the bench, and settled beside him. He retrieved his purchases and took a cautious sip. "Not bad," he admitted.

For a while, neither spoke.

After a few minutes, Johnny turned. "I's wonderin' sumthin'."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah, what's that?"

"What kind o' music a fella like you lissens to..."

Sam took another sip of his coffee. "Motown. Smokey Robinson, the Temptations, the Spinners but they were on Atlantic... Elvis, Sinatra." A slow smile spread across his face. "Disney music, the Muppets. That Kermit can sing."

Johnny laughed until he choked. "I can't tell if ya'lls messin' wit me or not."

Sam shrugged. "You got free will. Believe what you want."

Marrow hopped down from the hearse with a handful of nickels clutched in his paw. "Yah got soup, I got nickels!"

He trotted toward the store, nose twitching furiously.

Marrow scurried toward the front door of the shop. Oh, the smells, smells, smells, smells! Diesel! Gasoline! Rust! Old rubber! Damp earth! And then - Possum Stew!!

Marrow stopped dead in his tracks. His ears perked up. He started to drool. His nostrils flared. His eyes widened. If there was one thing Marrow loved, it was all of the smells!

He sniffed the doorframe, then the welcome mat, an old oil drum by the door, the doorframe again (just in case).

Inside, the store was a veritable cornucopia of different scents. Coffee, canned vegetables, motor oil, old newspapers, several varieties of meat in various stages of preservation.

There was something that might have been a pickle once upon a time. There was jerky!

And somewhere in the back, something simmered in a pot.

As Natalie-Joy came around the counter, Marrow sniffed the hem of her flowered dress. "You smell like soup!"

"Well, thank you, honey. That might be the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a month of Sundays."

Mac twisted the cap on his fuel tank until it clicked and hung up the hose. He made his way into the store to look around for snacks. He selected a handful, paid Natalie-Joy, and headed back outside. Those Gill-Folk who were working on that net earlier had finished up and were carrying it toward a marshy-looking area at the edge of town.

The Last Cathedral was still at the pump. Mac sighed, eyeballing the Kenworth's massive fuel tanks. Earl's fuel pump was slow, being fed as much by gravity as the electricity that feeble windmill was capable of generating. The convoy would be sitting here for at least an hour while Xaden topped off his rig.

From somewhere down the street, Mac heard a clack-clack-skritch clack-clack-skritch sound. A battered wooden wheelbarrow piled high with rusted junk was wobbling up the street. There was a flat spot on the wheel that would catch and drag once each rotation, hence the skritch that followed the clack-clacks. Pushing it was a giant crawdad.

He was about five feet tall, with a reddish-brown shell, multi-jointed legs, and two enormous claws. A pair of sunglasses sat between his eyestalks. He stopped beside the service station. "Afternoon, Earl!"

Papa Armadillo looked up from the fuel pump. "Afternoon, Crab-Man! How's the junk fishin'?"

"Crabby."

Both burst out laughing.

Crab-Man gave one of his claws an enthusiastic CLACK! "That's a good one! Been savin' that all mornin'!"

Crab-Man looked around. "Well, dip me in butter and serve me with a side of hushpuppies! Look at all dem trucks! Got yerself a busy day there, Earl!"

Papa Armadillo nodded. "Sure do! Natalie-Joy got pulled possum on if'n ya want some."

"Thanks, Earl. Imma drop this at my place and be back in a bit."

Crab-Man had just started pushing his wheelbarrow down the street when Marrow emerged from the filling station, carrying a bowl of possum stew.

"Hey! Crab fella!"

The enormous crawdad stopped. His eyestalks swiveled toward the werecoyote. "Well, howdy there, little fella!"

Marrow trotted over, sniffing enthusiastically at the contents of the wheelbarrow. Between spoonfuls of stew, he gestured toward the collection of rusted metal, broken tools, and assorted odds and ends. "I've got time while that big thing fills up."

Crab-Man followed his gaze toward the Last Cathedral, then looked back at the werecoyote. "Well, shoot! You lookin' to do a little tradin'?"

He set the wheelbarrow down with a tremendous CLANK. "Name's Darnell. Folks around here call me Crab-man on account of bein' a crab."

He paused.

"Well, crawdad, technically. But Crawdad-Man don't exactly roll off the tongue, now does it?"

He chuckled at his own joke. "Anyhow, let's see what we got here."

Crab-Man began rummaging through his collection, producing a series of metallic clanks and rattles. "Got me some copper wire. Couple spark plugs. Fishhooks. Half a bicycle chain. This here wrench ain't bad, except somebody used it for a hammer."

He held up a battered adjustable wrench. "Still works, though!"

He tossed it back into the wheelbarrow. "Got some other stuff back at my place, too. Mostly things folks dropped in the lake or left lyin' around. I find it, clean it up, and see if anybody wants it."

He regarded Marrow with renewed interest. "Now, what kinda junk you got to trade, little buddy?"

Crab-Man followed Marrow over to the Final Ride, his eyestalks swiveling with interest. When Marrow opened the rear hatch, a nearly visible cloud of foul-smelling air rolled out.

Crab-Man stopped dead. His antennae went rigid. "WHOOOOO-WEEEEE!"

He took two steps backward, waving one enormous claw in front of his face. "Good gravy, son! What'd you do, run over a skunk and leave it in there to ferment?"

Marrow rummaged happily through the heap, producing an assortment of objects whose original purposes were not immediately apparent.

Crab-Man listened to the werecoyote's enthusiastic sales pitch, nodding thoughtfully. "Copper wire, wrench, spark plugs. Sure, sure. Them's useful things."

Then Marrow mentioned the lead sinkers. Crab-Man's eyestalks tilted toward one another. "Help me go down fast?"

He looked down at his own substantial shell, then back at Marrow.

"Little buddy, I weigh near two hundred pounds and spend half my day at the bottom of the lake. Sinkin' ain't exactly somethin' I need help with!"

He chuckled and gave his claws a little clack-clack.

Then Marrow produced the turtle shell wax.

Crab-Man went very still. "Now, hold on a minute."

He leaned closer, examining the container. "Torti-Shell Wax?"

He took it delicately between the tips of his smaller claw and turned it over. "Huh."

He rubbed his chin with the other claw. "Well, I reckon a shell's a shell..."

He glanced down at his own carapace, which bore several scratches and patches of dull, weathered brown. "Been meanin' to polish up a little. Might make me look downright handsome!"

He set the container aside.

Then Marrow mentioned the bones. "Still got some juice in 'em, huh?"

Crab-Man regarded the collection of questionable skeletal remains. He picked up one particularly discolored bone, held it at arm's length, and gave it an experimental sniff.

He hastily dropped it back into the hearse. "Son, I don't know what that used to belong to, and I ain't altogether sure I wanna find out!"

"Tell ya what. That shell wax looks interestin', and I might could use some of them sinkers for my fishin' lines. Not for me, mind ya. For the fish."

He tapped the side of the wheelbarrow with one claw.

"Reckon we could work somethin' out for the wire and the wrench. Might even throw in them spark plugs if you've got somethin' else worth lookin' at. Preferably somethin' that ain't been dead."

Earl continued tending the pump beside the Last Cathedral. The old mechanical counter ticked steadily upward as Ultra-Diesel trickled into the Kenworth's enormous tanks.

It took a while.

The windmill continued turning on the hill, its weathered blades creaking with each revolution. Every so often, the pump's motor changed pitch as the breeze strengthened or weakened.

Eventually, the tanks were full.

Earl replaced the nozzle and wiped his hands on a rag. "There ya go, mister. All topped off."

He gave the enormous Kenworth an appreciative look. "That's one heck of a truck ya got there."

With his purchases in hand and the Last Cathedral fueled, Xaden climbed back into the cab.

Across the street, Johnny sat beside Sam on the weather-beaten bench, smoking and occasionally chuckling at something the little demon said. His battered violin case rested between them.

Xaden had just fully settled into his seat and was reaching for his coffee when he sensed something was wrong. His brow furrowed as he peered out through the windshield.

He glanced at the trees lining the main drag. They were still swaying in the breeze but the creak of the windmill had slowed considerably. He leaned out of the driver-side window and looked up. The weathered blades had been spinning steadily the entire time the convoy had been stopped. One final, reluctant turn brought the blades to a complete halt.

Then Xaden noticed something else. The birds had stopped singing. The insects, too. The steady buzz of marsh flies and mosquitoes, the drone of honeybees, and the chirping of the grasshoppers had vanished.

Across the street, Sam stopped talking. He stood up on the bench and turned to face the highway, his cigar temporarily forgotten.

From somewhere beyond the highway bridge came the low rumble of a motorcycle engine.

Marrow paused in his negotiations with the Crab-man, his hackles rising as an odd feeling washed over him.

A solitary rider appeared, approaching from the west.

The motorcycle was all black, its engine producing an uneven rumble. There was nothing hurried about his approach. He rolled along the nearly abandoned highway at a crawl, moving barely faster than a grown man could walk. He slowly rolled past the line of derelict automobiles parked on the shoulder.

Mac turned toward the rider. Dragula felt something was wrong and looked his way as well.

The rider was tall and dressed in a long, weather-beaten leather duster, heavy boots, and black gloves. A featureless black helmet hid his face. Something about his proportions seemed ... wrong, like his arms were too long or his shoulders were too narrow.

The motorcycle crossed the highway bridge over Deepwater Creek.

Its tires rolled slowly across cracked asphalt. The rider turned onto Main Street and continued toward the service station.

Dodge was the first of the boys to see him. The little armadillo stopped talking in mid-sentence. His ears flattened against his head, and his eyes grew wide. "E.J.?"

His younger brother turned.

For a moment, both boys stared at the approaching motorcycle.

Then E.J.'s lower lip began to tremble. "Mama?"

Dodge started crying. E.J. joined him a heartbeat later.

Natalie-Joy emerged from the service station, wiping her hands on her apron. "What's all this fuss about?"

She saw the rider and the color seemed to drain from her face. "BOYS. Git inside. Right now."

"But, Mama—"

"NOW!"

The boys scrambled through the door, sobbing. Natalie-Joy hurried after them, pulling the door shut behind her.

Across the street, Mr. Wilkins had stopped beside his bicycle. The elderly zombie stared at the motorcycle. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaa..."

His mournful groan trailed off into silence. He abandoned his bicycle and shuffled hurriedly toward a telephone pole, squeezing himself behind it. The pole was nowhere near wide enough to conceal him, but he pressed himself against it anyway.

At the fuel pumps, Earl stood motionless. The armadillo watched the rider approach, his grease-stained rag dangling from one hand. "Now, hold on there, mister..."

He took a step forward. "This here's a peaceful town. We don't want no—"

Earl's hands began trembling. He tried to straighten his back, tried to stand his ground. Then something older and stronger than courage took over. His head ducked. His limbs folded inward. With a frightened squeak, Earl rolled himself into a tight ball beside the fuel pump.

Farther down the street, Crab-Man had stopped rummaging through his wheelbarrow. His eyestalks were fixed on the rider. He took one slow step backward. Then another. His claws hung motionless at his sides as he retreated toward the marsh. He backed into the shallow water, never taking his eyes off the approaching motorcycle. The water rose past his knees, then his waist. With barely a ripple, Crab-Man slipped beneath the surface.

His motorcycle rolled slowly past the abandoned post office, past the empty storefronts, past the bicycle Mr. Wilkins had left lying in the street.

The engine's low rumble was the only sound in Deepwater. The black helmet turned slightly toward the line of trucks.

Xaden watched the black motorcycle roll slowly down Main Street. "$%@*," he muttered under his breath.

He glanced toward the bench where Johnny and Sam were sitting and made a small gesture, trying to attract their attention without drawing the rider's.

Johnny saw the Hunchback waving from the window of the Last Cathedral and nodded slowly. Sweat ran down his brow and into his eyes. His left hand drifted slowly toward his violin case.

Mac had no such reservations. "LET'S PACK IT UP AND GO! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE! NOW!" His shout broke the unnatural silence hanging over Deepwater.

Drags took a cautious step back towards his truck and some firepower. He stopped as his blood ran cold. He knew he would not make it in time. Best to be cool and see how this played out.

The rider remained motionless.

Sam rose to his feet and, without climbing down from the bench, took a long draw from his cigar.

Then he leaned forward and blew a cloud of smoke toward the featureless black helmet. "So, do you keep that faceplate down because you're shy? Or just ugly?"

For several seconds, nothing happened.

The motorcycle's engine continued its low, uneven rumble. Then, very slowly, the rider turned his helmet toward the eighteen-inch demon.

He said nothing.

Xaden readied himself to drive towards the Rider. "The odds should be in my favor," he thought to himself.

From his seat in the Last Cathedral, Xaden had a clear view down Main Street.
Beyond the Rider, beyond the old post office, a rusting water tower rose above the rooftops. The town's name, DEEPWATER, was barely visible beneath decades of peeling paint.
The enormous steel tank rested on four narrow legs. One of them had been reinforced with a makeshift brace, and several others showed considerable corrosion around their joints.

The street sloped gently downhill from the tower toward the bridge. From the cab of the Last Cathedral, Xaden could see the rusted supports clearly.

Marrow, for his part, quietly loaded his treasures back into the Last Ride and quietly closed the back door. He slipped alongside the hearse, crawled into the driver seat, and turned the key. The engine turned over reluctantly, as if it was exhausted from the day's drive and resented having its nap interrupted.

From behind the wheel, Marrow breathed deeply trying to catch the Rider's scent. And he had to work for it for even the faintest trace.

There was old leather, cold iron, and the faintest trace of sulfur. Beneath those scents lay something harder to identify. Not decay, exactly. More like the smell of a room that had been sealed for a hundred years. There was no scent of sweat. No breath. Nothing living beneath the leather and with every passing moment, the werecoyote had to work harder just to break even.

Marrow double taps the radio to send static through it and then turns it off while he slowly creeps out of town in the Final Ride. When he was well out of town and facing the direction the convoy intended to go, he turned it back on.

Xaden doesn't take his eyes off of Sam or Johnny and hopes they start moving soon.

Drags shakes it off and steps up onto his truck and swings the door open so he can grab some hardware if needed.

Back in town, Sam took another big drag off of cigar and started walking toward the Rider. He waved his tail at Johnny and motioned for him to get his tail in gear.

Sam stopped a few feet away and looked up at him. "Cat got your tongue, or are you as dumb as you are ugly?"

The motorcycle continued to idle.

Behind Sam, Johnny carefully picked up his violin case and slid sideways off of the bench.

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 reached 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 called out.

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

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