Blacktop

By Terry Lloyd Vinson

Blacktop is a terror-filled road-trip atop the dark, isolated back-roads of West Texas. Equal parts action/thriller and sci-fi/horror whodunit, it guides readers through a shock-filled maze, beginning with the hijacking of a commercial bus and concluding with a furious battle royale pitting the ultimate in extraterrestrial evil versus the few survivors of that initial abduction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rogue Phoenix Press
• Release date: Sep 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781624203305

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Blacktop

Terry Lloyd Vinson

Published by Rogue Phoenix Press for Smashwords

Copyright © 2017

ISBN: 978-1-62420-330-5

Electronic rights reserved by Rogue Phoenix Press, all other rights reserved by the author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law. This is a work of fiction. People and locations, even those with real names, have been fictionalized for the purposes of this story.

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Dedication

To my wife, Liza

PROLOGUE

Paying Respects

There are countless locales in the U.S. Southeast and Midwest where one might successfully deep-fry an egg atop broiling pavement during the dog days of summer. However, only in Texas, West Texas, to be precise, may one prepare the equivalent of an entire breakfast buffet off the same stretch of boiling blacktop. It is, in fact, the only place I know where a sudden downpour on a steaming-hot July afternoon actually increases the misery of those melting within its oppressive, muggy grip. Personally speaking, I’d find it impossible to choose between the two evils—from sucking in air directly from a lit furnace or so damned humid it’s like inhaling over a bubbling caldron of swamp water.

In my fifty-eight years on God’s green earth, I’ve known bone-chilling cold, skull-scalding hot and everything in-between, but this was an altogether new level of discomfort, severely altered state be damned. Over the past three decades, I’ve learned that we…I tolerate the cold a hell of a lot better. No doubt the thick wool Windowpane suit coating my outer hide did little to cool the effect, my inner tee and dress shirt pasted on like skin-tight scuba gear. However regrettable my choice of wardrobe, it was after all, my only suit of clothes, having recently replaced a classic pinstripe outfit that had hung in various closets for several decades, the inevitable switch made mandatory by a gradually inflating midsection. Though it’s true we…I might appear a decade-plus younger than my actual age—one of the few perks of such a hellish existence—an overabundance of pure cane sugar in its many assorted guises trumps whatever fountain of youth one might’ve found.

As I recall, that old reliable, dark-blue striper hadn’t seen much use in all that time, as appropriate occasions rarely surfaced. If memory serves, this was to be just the third funeral I’d attended at all and the first since my older brother’s passing some thirty-three years previous. At the moment, I’d happily hand over the whole wretched, suffocating ensemble for a sleeveless tee and a frosty pitcher of Rocky Mountain spring water.

The nearly one hour drive to the burial site had been, pardon the expression, an insufferable death march whose duration felt three times longer. Despite a sparse caravan of no more than six or seven vehicles—the dusty, two-lane trail blazed by a vintage, rust-spotted, pock-marked hearse that had seen its better days, the best we could do on a shoestring budget—the absence of a clear radio station, my ride’s woeful lack of AC, and a flat, barren, lifeless landscape all added up to a less-than-pleasurable transection from civilization to isolated boneyard.

As for the chosen site, its ultra-secluded location and ancient, long-neglected headstones might, under close scrutiny, raise suspicion. Not that there had been a slew of options, as months of research had born out. You can only string bait along for so many miles before the drawing scent fades.

At least the brief squall and accompanying deluge served to mat down the dust, which I’d been hacking and sneezing up since waking in that fleabag motel at just before dawn. Less than forty-eight hours spent between the vast borders of the Lone Star state, and I was quickly reminded of why I’d hardly regretted pulling up roots all those years ago. Sure, like I’d had a choice.

Purposely distancing myself from the rest of the caravan, I parked on the far side of the cemetery, the lone representative near a triangle-shaped assortment of ruddy-gray, squared grave-markers that looked to have been erected sometime between the civil war and WWII.

As thunder commenced to boom overhead, I decided to take the high road and seek out a semblance of cover to avoid instant disintegration by a random lightning strike. Yeah, right. Too little, too late for such wishful thinking. There was a job to do, and I had a major role in seeing it done.

Ducking between a rather flimsy-looking portable awning just as the storm seemed to let up a degree, rainwater having soaked through my socks to fill my penny loafers, I marveled that the rickety structure had withstood the burnt. Attendance is, not at all surprisingly, fairly sparse. The shock would’ve been if the opposite had been true, considering the circumstances. There was a palpable relief in the knowledge that, so far anyhow, there wasn’t a single face present that wasn’t at least vaguely familiar from past travels.

I was just about to pull a smoke from my inner suit pocket—its condition hopefully unaffected from the sudden saturation due to it being of the vapor, e-cigarette variety—when a quick peek over the top edge of rain-spattered bifocals instantly ceased all movement, not to mention the power to breathe. Damn. Instant paralysis at the mere sight; every nerve-ending on fire, lit up and revved to the red line by a single vision that wouldn’t have meant beans to anyone save the congregation on hand.

As it is, I felt a cold chill override the stifling heat, sliding the length of and attaching itself to the whole of my spine like some reptilian icicle. For all intents and purposes, I might as well have been standing knee-deep in a snowdrift with blowing sleet and hail slapping all exposed flesh instead of lukewarm rain. Removing the spectacles with a noticeably shaking hand, I found myself helpless to steady, I used a semi-dry hanky pulled from a rear pants pocket to wipe the wetness from each lens, all the while entranced by the source as if half-expecting it to vanish between blinks. A half-dozen such orbital flutters later, and it did not. It was as genuine as the cloudburst that had proceeded its arrival, as if magically teleported on site by same. I found no humor in the outlandish possibility, as I’d witnessed stranger. Oh, hell yes, I surely had, as the man accompanying the sealed coffin could similarly attest.

The subject of this sudden, overpowering, full-body paralysis had either A: Not noticed or recognized me as of yet, B: Had achieved both but didn’t give a good damn, or most disturbing of all C: Had achieved both and was presently strategizing my impending destruction.

I felt my limbs begin to rejuvenate with the help of simple logic. First off, in the many moons since our last meeting, roughly thirty-two years, the chances of being recognized were remote at best, despite the dramatically reduced aging process. Still, there had been some less-than-subtle alternations. For one, I’d lost the majority of the stringy, shoulder-length mop I’d sported in those days. That, and the twenty to twenty-five pounds of extra padding and a dramatic shift in overall body shape, and I hardly resembled that wiry, shaggy-doo scallywag of my reckless youth. Moreover, even if proper identification were somehow achieved, why would it even matter anymore? It wasn’t as if I could be viewed as a viable threat. Despised perhaps as most traitors are but surely not feared.

With that, I managed to free the rust from both knees, pocketing the specs—really just part of what was an admittedly pathetic disguise—blowing out a sigh of pure relief while side-stepping over to a back row of lined, mostly vacated patio-type chairs and taking up position in the center seat.

Glancing casually around, I counted a grand total of thirteen attendees of assorted shapes, sizes and ages. Lucky thirteen, or at least I…we hoped.

The torrential rains had subsided to a light sprinkle, the blustery monsoon-like winds reduced to nothing more than a mild but unbearably humid breeze that was anything but refreshing. Maintaining as bland an expression as possible, I took note of the wide swatch allowed the entity by my fellow attendees, the entire front row conspicuously vacant save that lone stranger. We all understood the potential hazards of being found out too soon. I could only speak for myself, but the tension in the air weighed like a blanket of lead.

Four men, all several decades younger than the majority of those present and decked out in matching, plain brown suits and suitably grim, downtrodden expressions, carefully extracted a slick, dark-stained mahogany coffin from the back of the aged hearse and sauntered gradually over with heads slightly bowed. I, of course, was privy to their true identities, though was damn near reduced to guffawing aloud at the very sight. Two sets of identical twins they were, each pair resembling a present-day American actor of prominent fame. Of course, we’d received no forewarning of such bone-headed disguises, and it was far too late to backtrack. We could only hope such a blatantly reckless fuck-up went unnoticed for as long as it took for the Hollywood look-a-likes to do what they’d been trained to do.

The pastor, white-haired and similarly dour, followed a few steps behind. The mortician, rail-thin and bug-eyed, his shiny, bald dome the color of a ripe radish beneath a newly birthed sun, brought up the rear in a shambling gait I couldn’t help but identify with every living dead flick I’d ever seen.

A plan, years in the making, dozens upon dozens of secret rendezvous at the most desolate of locales, and there still remained a shadow of a doubt wide enough to cloak all of West Texas, even odds on events concluding in either giddy success or total, bend-over-and-grip your ankles disaster.

As the preordained date had neared, I’d tried like hell to replace all the fear and apprehension with positive vibes; the eternal optimist barricading all negativity. Finally, no longer able to stomach the self-delusion, I instead settled on finding a suitable middle ground in the relief of impending closure, be it bad or good. Just the mere prospect of that final curtain falling on a horror show that had long-since ran its course served to recharge some seriously drained batteries.

That in mind, I’d driven countless miles despite a budding case of hemorrhoids, disregarding a sense of foreboding so stout I’d hadn’t managed a decent night’s sleep in over a week. I could only pray this new, wholly bizarre, improbable and, hopefully, unexpected twist would allow a closing chapter to be added to that long-dormant manuscript; a musty, yellowed manuscript patiently awaiting a finale worthy of its proceeding chapters. Only then could the fictional book in question be closed on a non-fictional tale even the most open-minded reader would surely dismiss as, in keeping with the Midwest setting, a load of steaming cow manure.

The Hollywood pallbearers soon straddled the appointed gravesite and slowly lowered the box with grace and gentleness. In the aftermath, they stood with arms pinned tightly at their sides, staring straight ahead, impassive to a fault. Trained well, no doubt, to display the least amount of emotion possible, least they accidentally come off as either insincere in sympathy or jaded with indifference. Neutral is the new apathy, it seems, while donning the mask of deceit. The Four Horseman of the burial set had it down to a fine, stone-faced art. Ludicrous ID choices aside, their group act, suitably stoic and downtrodden, was a convincing-enough one.

The pastor, his pale, drooping jowls having grown rosy-red from the heat, bowed his head to lead us in prayer. I couldn’t help but peek around at the mid-prayer point. The entity’s head remained propped upright, its steely, emotionless eyes no doubt pulled wide and unblinking. Surely it didn’t suspect, or at least have a clue of the vastness of the charade, otherwise there would’ve been at least a trace of a hint. Either that or it was so damn smug, so confident in its power, that it just didn’t give a shit.

Devotion complete amid a muffled chorus of amens, there was a short pause as the pastor sidestepped away with a well-worn bible clutched to his chest. As my eyes remained glued to the back of the entity’s head, tunnel-vision by its truest definition, I was briefly unaware of any and all movement outside the narrow passageway between it and myself.

Due to this, I first heard before actually viewing the sudden commotion. It began as a series of primal grunts and growls, accompanied by hurried steps, a series of gasps and a stern yet openly panic-leaden shriek of dialogue whose source was easily identified as that of the pastor. So cool, calm and steely-eyed during our practice sessions, the bald shit was coming apart at the seams, folding under the pressure like an aluminum can in the jaws of an industrial vice.

"For g-god’s sake, disperse! DISPERSE! It knows! It k-knows!"

The entity stood, spreading its bare, spindly arms as if to receive a warm embrace while simultaneously releasing a low, hissing sound—a bizarre hybrid of leaking tire and rustling rattler—that I found nauseatingly familiar. As a sudden wave of dizziness took hold, I found that the internal time machine beckoned. It had sights to show me, a long-repressed reboot of a rainy summer night long ago…far away, and its hypnotic pull grew increasingly stout.

Having apparently left their assigned posts, the Tinsel-Town pallbearers rushed forward with legs and arms pumping. Donning similar masks of sneering, wild-eyed rage, their youthful faces so weirdly contorted they seemed to have instantly aged a decade or more, the target of the Four Horseman’s sudden charge was certainly no mystery. By default, it could only have been either myself or the more obvious choice, as the sparse crowd between had scattered in panic—apparently heeding that chicken-shit preachers screeching advice—as if from an approaching tsunami, tripping and flipping over the majority of the patio chairs in their wake.

Surreal is a word I’ve strongly avoided using over the past three decades, but I found no other description quite as apt at the moment. Déjà vu was also on the banned verbiage checklist, though in fairness the odds of experiencing a similar escapade as remotely bizarre as that certain night in the Year of Our Lord nineteen eighty-three had always been a long shot at best.

That proclaimed, Webster’s abridged possessed no more appropriate description and/or vibe to be claimed. Especially when, just as the Four Horseman dived forth as one towards the entity’s prone, statuesque form, linked arm in arm like a segmented battering ram, I heard both the funeral director and pastor cry out in mortified unison.

Squinting past the impending brawl less than a dozen feet to my north, I saw the coffin lid splinter in two as if fractured from within by some inner detonation. The mortician and pastor had, respectively, sprinted in opposite directions, the latter having tossed the good book aside as to perhaps achieve better aerodynamics for his wind-milling arms. So much for planning. Spineless bastards. Good riddance. They’d have surely hindered or, worst case, completely sabotaged the mission with their jelly-kneed presence.

Thirty-one years is what people of my generation and cultural background might refer to as a lengthy spell. A virtual lifetime of faintly recalled or completely voided memories.

As of that moment, the clear, detail-laden flashback that ensued reduced said timespan to one of the more vintage clichés in the book. It made it truly seem like only yesterday.

ONE

Stowaway

May 11, 1983

The Road-Kill Grill—Halfway between Lubbock and Amarillo, Texas on Interstate Twenty-Seven

It was creeping slowly towards the witching hour when I first took note of the revving motor and approaching headlights scaling the lot from the north end, lifting my forehead from the countertop with much greater effort than shouldn’t been necessary. Still, considering the brain-splintering scope of my latest hangover, it’s a damn wonder I could move at all.

The big guy was a half-hour early, probably due to lighter than expected traffic out of Lubbock. Hoping to butter him up for a hitch into Plainview, I forced rubbery limbs to go mobile and cranked up the grille before tossing a threesome of well-beaten eggs, several cuts of sausage and two thick slabs of bacon onto her well-greased surface. This was taking for granted he was without cargo, which was usually the case on his middle of the week run, Wednesday being the barest.

Black Top Incorporated wasn’t exactly Greyhound, but there was always the outside chance I’d be asked to crack a few more eggs, brew up a pot or two of fresh Java or crack the seal on a new pouch of hash-browns. No sweat whatsoever, long as I could thumb a ride on the way out. As things stood, options were decidedly limited. Hitch a ride of some sort, be it motorized, skateboard or on the ass-end of a mule, or hoof it the thirteen remaining miles to Plainview. Such are the choices when one’s ride craps out, which my usually reliable Monte Carlo had done this night. Overheating like a Vegas hooker—tossing broiling mist like Old Faithful from the radiator once I’d raised the hood—the old girl had barely made it to the lot before blowing her lid something fierce. More than likely, she was going to require a new thermostat, which I’d foolishly neglected to stash in my wallet. Regardless, I’d already phoned old man Gentry and he’d agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to close up shop an hour early.

Once an early shareholder in the Whataburger franchises, Lamar Gentry had branched out with his own creation, deemed the Road-Kill Grill—designed specifically for one-employee and ran from a cheaply constructed structure not much larger than your basic lunch-catering truck—and began shopping them to truck-stops all over the state and soon after a large chunk of the Midwest. Simplicity in itself. Phone-booth cafes that held two small tables and four chairs, though the majority of the business was done strictly from a tiny drive-through window with a slew of precooked breakfast burritos serving as the main draw.

Since the first ground-breaking just outside Fort Worth in the summer of seventy-eight, nearly two-dozen RKG’s now spotted the landscape in not only Texas but New Mexico, Oklahoma, and Arizona. Despite claiming lone CEO status, Gentry still insisted on playing general manager and immediate supervisor of all whose checks he signed. Damned old skinflint was surely gonna be clutching his last penny in a death-grip whenever the reaper came to collect his chintzy hide.

Given the green light to shut ‘er down at midnight, I rang Norma over at the truck stop to let her and Cliff know not to panic if they noticed the lights out before the usual one AM power-down. Nice folks, the Henrys. Salt of the Earth. Retired from the hotel biz a few years earlier and relocated all the way from Florida to manage The Last Outpost, a combination convenience store, gas station and twelve-unit motel. Other than a couple of part-time clerks and a few kin assisting from time to time, they pretty much ran the whole shebang themselves. As was typical at midweek, I noted only a single parked semi taking up one of a dozen open spaces. Similarly deserted was the motel with nary a single occupant. At its busiest, usually weekends, the ‘Post Inn’s no vacancy sign would light up the gloom while the truck-stop would host nothing short of a full house of over-the-road big-rig pilots, meaning yours truly was normally forced to assume the identity of his spatula-swinging, yolk-cracking alter-ego, swaying and sweating over a smoldering grill ‘til way past the usual Friday and Saturday closing time of two AM. No doubt if old faithful had blown her thermostat on either of these nights, Gentry wouldn’t have been nearly as understanding of my plight.

The bacon and eggs smelled damn good, though my gut rocked and rolled at the prospect of indulging, and not in a good way. Oppositely, a semi-fresh cup of steaming joe was slowly whittling the King Kong of all hangovers to nothing more bothersome than a level-three migraine. Handfuls of Bayer Extra-Strength aside, a heapin’ helpin’ of Columbia’s finest ground java would have to serve, at least ‘til I could get my mitts on the leafy version of their second-most popular crop. I’d just put on a fresh pot of liquid gold, adding an extra scoop for medicinal purposes, when the double-door glass entrance bent inward with a familiar squeal.

What say, Sticks? I heard the big guy growl, the fatigue in his voice more pronounced than usual, as if he’d just walked in off the pavement instead of wheeling in.

SSDD, big guy. Same old song and dance.

I hear you. Personally, this old dude’s hind end is dragging like a strip of shit-paper on a boot-heel. Still...

The nickname Sticks I’d garnered since my late teens, near about the time the art of percussion graduated from mere hobby to full-blown obsession. As far as the given name, well, let’s just say Adam didn’t quite cut it for said profession. Moon-faced kid actor perhaps, but hardcore rock and blues drummer, um, no. Let’s face it, young guys get into music, rock ‘n roll in particular, for a single, solitary reason, and some skinny-as-a-rail kid with overactive acne, long since dissipated, named Adam Perkins ain’t exactly destined for chick-magnet status without some seriously dramatic alterations in both title and appearance.

…could be worse, I reckon. Hell, we could be in Beirut.

I replied without turning from the grill, where the sausage links were blackening just a touch and the bacon neared crispy perfection.

Yep, there is that. You do sound thoroughly beat down. Got some fresh lid-lifter brewing in both our honors.

The sound of a stool being pushed back from the counter and a resounding sigh.

Just what the sawbones ordered. Damn, son, but that is one sweet-smelling buffet you’re whipping up. Got an extra plate nearby?

Sonny my man, that is not a problem. Fact is, consider me your personal chef.

I spun about on a heel and peeked briefly over Sonny’s broad left shoulder towards the bus before whirling back about to resume grill-sentinel duties, the impromptu dance routine doing little to sooth my throbbing noggin.

Any stragglers incoming?

Nope. That is, unless the scent of the grub wakes ‘im, he replied, soon followed by the sound of a flicked Bic and wafting scent of a freshly lit Marlboro, "Believe me, it’s better that one remain comatose."

Bacon and sausage cooked to perfection and successfully exported from grill to waiting plate, I commenced mixing the potatoes and eggs, as was Sonny’s preference.

Real gum-bumper, is he?

Sticks, as far as I could tell, the boy didn’t suck in a single breath since the outskirts of Snyder. Believe my ears started leaking blood about the time we rolled into Lubbock.

Sliding the plate between his propped elbows, I couldn’t help but laugh aloud at the pronounced snarl creasing his normally stoic mug. Not exactly a man of infinite jest was big Sonny Atkins; nor the most animated in terms of expression, facial or otherwise. Whoever this lone passenger was, it was obvious he’d dug deep beneath the big fella’s thick, leathery hide. In the eight or nine months we’d been replaying this twice-weekly late-night ritual, I’d rarely witnessed him string together such a grouping of words in a single take.

I’d best make this quick, before Gabby sniffs out its heavenly scent, he continued, forking a heaping helping of the hash-brown/egg mix while pinching a trio of bacon strips in his free hand. Boxer’s mitts, I instantly thought, and I had little doubt he’d utilized their potential on more than one occasion.

O.J? I inquired while filling a pair of cups with steaming black coffee.

He waved me off while chewing, having freed one hand of its crispy cargo, the bacon snapping and crunching like dried leaves beneath a descending boot.

I sipped cautiously, having earlier torched my top lip with a similarly blistering beverage, staring through the relative darkness at the silver and black Blue Bird parked at the lot’s northern edge, the T in Top having lost a majority of its previously dark maroon shading.

He headed to Amarillo? I asked off-handedly, not yet able to work up the courage to inquire about possibly bumming a ride.

Affirmative, he grunted between mountainous forkfuls, Though I’m seriously considering dumping him off on Cliff and Norma. Maybe duck-tape his ass to a toilet seat. Creased brow intact, he paused between chews while pointing the fork my way. "I lie to you not, that one’s a cut above your average tongue-clucker, or maybe I should say cut below. Funny, I can usually tone ‘em out without undue strain. I dunno, maybe it’s the humidity or this damn stomach bug I’m been fighting. Either way, scrawny little jabber-jaws is about one more ‘tale of female conquest’ away from forced eviction. I’ll gladly eat the cost of the fare."

Swell, I thought, alternating sips and grimaces as the next minute passed in silence. The big guy had not only exhausted what was usually a week’s worth of dialogue, but did so in an ireful rant that spoke volumes to his present mood. As was par course of late, my timing was impeccable. Head aching and stomach churning anew, I’d pretty much resigned to sacking out in the stockroom for the night and thumbing a ride at dawn’s early light when Sonny spoke up between noisy slurps, his offhand inquiry peeking my curiosity concerning the possibility of his possessing the power of telepathy.

So, noticed the hood propped on your beast. Need a ride into Plainview?

Um, well…yeah, if it’s not a bother, I babbled, damn near spilling the remainder of my coffee onto the countertop.

The Beast still has twenty-nine available seats, he replied with characteristic aplomb before shoveling in a final, massive bite, Take your pick. There is a condition, though…

You name it, I countered with great curiosity, reaching over to retrieve his plate as he leaned back with the coffee cup balanced atop a heavily-tattooed forearm.

That blabbermouth idiot comes to, you keep ‘im company, he grinned, flashing a set of well-polished, perfectly square choppers so meticulously spaced I couldn’t help but ponder their genuineness.

I paused cleaning just long enough to flash a thumb’s up gesture.

Dude can chew my ear to jerky as long as I’m able to sack out in my own bed tonight.

Toothpick protruding from between gritted teeth, Sonny pushed away from the counter and turned towards the front glass.

"Fact is, I’m taking the Beast in for repairs once we hit Lubbock. Preventive maintenance only, but hey, once they reach a certain age the nuts and bolts don’t just stick, they meld. She’s way past due, and I swear I been hearing the tranny slip every now and again.

So, how you planning on getting back here tomorrow with your ride outta commission?

I’ll manage. Besides, I won’t be slinging hash again ‘til next Thursday anyhow. Plenty of time to map out a plan.

He turned, hands on hips, eyebrow cocked. With his short-cropped hair, granite visage, Durango saddle boots and tar-black, ankle length duster, he resembled a Johnny Cash impersonator gone slightly Vegas strip.

Scooping up a pair of soup spoons, I executed a short, spastic air-drum session.

Oh, yeah. Got a gig lined up?

A trio of ‘em, in fact, I replied with faux modesty, having powered down the grill. I then piled the remaining dishes and side-stepped from behind the counter, circling around to the kitchen, where I stacked them in one of two colossal sinks. Checking the twin fridges to ensure they were adequately sealed, I switched off the lights and practically sprinted back out front, where Sonny stood with arms crossed, a shiny black boot propped atop one of only four available vertical slat chairs.

Mini-tour, you might say. One-nighters in Abilene, Waco and Wichita Falls. Six-hundred miles, give or take, for just enough bread to pay for the grub and gas to get us there and back. Such is the art of paying one’s dues.

Hey, good for you, he said with a playful wink, the toothpick sliding expertly from one side of his mouth to another, a skill no doubt enhanced by decades of experience, I’m thinking one of these nights I’ll be taking my midnight meal from a different chef.

Here’s hoping, big guy.

I gave the place a final visual once-over, not exactly mission impossible considering its less-than-overwhelming dimensions were equal to that of your basic jail-cell. Counter wiped…check. Unused ingredients tucked back into the fridge…check. Utensils clean or at least soaking…check. Grill powered down…check.

How goes the lyrical aspect?

Outside fellow musicians and a close-knit circle of friends, Sonny was one of few I’d told of my songwriting aspirations. I dunno, the dude was just easy to talk to. He had that bartender with the easy-to-bend ear aspect about him.

Best thing about this gig, actually. Gives a man ample time to pursue his hobbies.

I hear that. Steering the Beast there across mostly deserted blacktop five nights a week serves a similar purpose. Better than a toilet seat in a private john for mulling over one’s lot in life.

Ditto the fast-food trade, yes sir. Next best thing.

We exchanged a knowing glance, a pair of blue collar dudes—age difference aside—that got it.

Huffing, hangover temporarily forgotten, I checked my watch, which read eleven fifty-eight PM.

Well, we’re just about set to blow the coop, Mister Atkins. Let me just give Cliff and Norma a buzz over at the Outpost to let ‘em know my ride will be setting down roots for a spell.

He nodded, first removing and then vigorously shaking a sizable set of keys that jingled like wind-chimes in a stout gust.

No rush at all, Mister Perkins. Hell, as things currently set, I’m an hour ahead of schedule.

~ * ~

Once I’d locked up, Sonny assisted in pushing my comatose ride into a parking spot on the Outpost side of the lot. Norma insisted we park her as close to the front entrance as possible so they might better keep an eye on her welfare. Considerate and thoughtful as that kind offer might’ve been, I declined taking up valuable space with a vehicle no one in their right mind would even consider breaking into or procuring parts from.

For early May, it was unusually cool for West Texas, and even stranger, practically breezeless. Strange, since the local weather-jockeys had been calling for high humidity and non-stop rain for at least the next twenty-four hours.

As foreboding vibes go, I should’ve been tingling from head to toe. Maybe it was simply a case of hangover kicking spider-sense squarely in the butt-cheeks. Still, if not the weather, what we discovered upon reaching the Beast should’ve stood out as an obvious omen for events to come. Not surprisingly, Sonny was no more of the superstitious type than yours truly, doing little more than cocking a brow and grunting upon finding the folds-inward entrance door sitting slightly ajar.

"Hope you don’t mind sharing space with whatever fly and/or mosquito swarm that made themselves at home in my absence, he grumbled, Maybe even a stray prairie dog or two."

I stared over and past his left shoulder as we prepped to enter the great, slumbering brute, the air thick with the smell of recently extracted exhaust.

With any luck, your lone passenger has talked ‘em to death already.

The Blue Bird special’s lightly-tinted windows were especially murky in the surrounding darkness, so any effort in spotting its sole occupant were fruitless at best, though natural curiosity on my part begged the effort.

Don’t mind the smell, Sonny whispered behind a raised palm while using the other hand to force the door completely inward, Romeo back there mounted Big Bird smelling like a week-old gym sock soaked in gouda cheese. I’ll light up a smoke soon as we get situated just to offset the stench.

Appreciate the heads up, I countered, checking an inner vest pocket for my own pack of cancer-sticks while developing a palpable sense of dread about meeting this guy.

The Blue Bird under Sonny’s care was indeed a retro marvel of public transportation. Forty-plus feet long, a dozen wide and, unlike most of its ilk coming off the assembly line these days, possessing a mostly steel outer shell in lieu of fiberglass, it was truly one of the last of a rusting breed.

So, how long you figure before they put her out to pasture? I asked off-handedly and almost instantly regretting both the subject matter and choice of words. Sonny had been the old girl’s exclusive pilot for several years and wasn’t exactly a vocal proponent of change, positive or otherwise.

Painfully soon if I’m to believe recent scuttlebutt, he replied wearily and, thankfully, without even a tinge of irritation, Would’ve already happened if the corporation had the budget for fleet replacement. I’ve heard the Dallas-Fort Worth routes are already being replaced.

A decade old if it were a day and seemingly without a smudge of fresh paint added in all that time to disguise said fact, the old silver bird defined the term iron warhorse. I recalled Sonny mentioning during one of our midnight chow sessions she’d rolled up something along the line of four-hundred thousand miles in her lifetime. Being as that equates to five-hundred round trips across the lone star state, I’d say the fact that the old steel dinosaur was still serviceable