The Friday night Reba walked out on Daniel, there wasn't a cloud in the sky and stars were scattered about like fat, yellow jewels, fighting with the nearly full moon for dominance over the blackness. It was the new pickup that did it. She'd worked overtime at the hospital--weeks and weeks of it--to make the down payment on a new trailer. And then he'd gone out and bought a new Chevy pickup! It was the last straw.

"I didn't sign on that thing," she told him as she packed. "You can pay for it yourself."

"No problem, Babe," he answered right back. But she knew he was bluffing. He didn't really think she'd stay away for good. They'd only been married two years and mostly they still liked each other pretty much.

And, she told herself, as she drove off in her beat up Honda, he was probably right. She might come back. But not right off.

She stopped at a diner and called her sister in El Paso. Told Melanie she was on her way, invited herself for the weekend. She didn't want to give up her job as an aide. Not for Daniel's sake.

It was some drive from Roswell, where she had lived these past two years, and she was too mad to check the gas tank. She was thinking about her things she had packed--more than one weekend's worth--and what Daniel was doing right now--probably drinking and driving around in the new pickup. Maybe he'd get a DUI. She thought about that, smiling a fierce little smile and, about six miles from Carlesbad, she ran out of gas.

She said a word her mother wouldn't have liked, and coasted the car to the side of the road. She'd have to wait for a cop or something, she guessed, and reached back to make sure all the doors were locked.

But no cop came. The moon shone steady and without concern and, no doubt, the constellations moved on their busy way across the sky, but only a couple cars went by and nobody stopped. She wasn't sure she wanted them to.

She was just resolving to get a cell phone as soon as she got to her sister's when a semi pulled up behind her. Weird. She hadn't heard a thing, hadn't seen the lights in her mirror. But it had lights. She saw them for a moment before they were turned off.

Her father had been a truck driver and she had no illusions about knights of the road stuff. He had beat her mom, cussed at the neighbors and finally jackknifed a semi in the middle of Atlanta, killing himself and doing in a load of chickens along with a sports car and part of a street sign.

Still, maybe this guy would be okay. After all, he worked for a company and he would want to keep his job. He wouldn't try anything funny--or if he did, it would be the sort of funny stuff she could handle. In fact, she thought, maybe a bit of funny stuff was just what she needed. She waited for her rescuer to get out of the truck.

But nothing happened. The semi sat there, seemingly parked for the night, lights off, black against the radiant sky, like a big rectangle cut out of the world. She grew more and more impatient. If only someone else would drive along! But no one did and she was growing downright chilly in her shorts and belly shirt. It'd been hot earlier that day and she'd been--well, that didn't much matter now. At least Daniel'd gotten a hint of what he'd be missing out on. Tentatively, she opened her door, wincing as the dome light came on. Surely the driver could see it from the truck. He would know that someone was in the car.

Of course that was why he had not come out to check on her, she thought with a surge of relief. He probably thought it was an abandoned car. But now--she stepped out onto the gravel, hearing for the first time how loud the crickets sang. She smelled the strong scent of the cooling air. Too early for snow. Too warm, still anyway, though she cursed herself for not thinking to put on jeans before making her big exit. She peered at the cab, but nothing moved.

"Hello!" she called, moving closer. She could not make out a logo on the truck. It was dark, dark paint. She had an impression that the shape was--not wrong exactly, but not usual. It was an older model, she decided. An old truck. She had reached the door.

"Anyone there?" she called, hesitating to step up and look inside. What if something had happened to the driver? What if he were dead? What if she opened the door and a body spilled out onto the road?

But that was silly. He had just pulled up. Probably he was rummaging around in his berth for some tools.

But what if he was dead? What if she took hold of the door and--and what if he was right there, watching her?

She had almost decided to go back to her own car. But the thought of the semi parked behind her, silently cutting its chunk from the sky, was in some strange way even more frightening than opening the door. She reached up for the handle and pulled herself up level with the window.

The handle turned in her hand.

It was then she knew she had done the wrong thing. If only someone else had come--she prayed for someone else. A cop. Even a car full of good old boys. Anyone.

The crickets fairly screamed their shrill and mindless song, the scent of the honeysuckle was overpowering. But it wasn't strong enough to hide another smell, a dark earthy smell. A smell of death mellowed by long usage.

The door opened.

Reba froze, clutching the handle, balancing there with the driver's seat in front of her. She tried to speak, to call, but nothing would come out. She hung there, thinking of death, while the night passed and the stars moved and the moon looked in over her shoulder. Finally, she climbed into the truck.

"Daniel," she whimpered. She was ready to forgive the new pickup, but it was too late. Something moved in the back and she turned and saw a pale face, caught in the moonlight, eyes gleaming. She had an impression of lank hair, grizzled beard. And then two hands reached up to take her shoulders and she saw the mouth open.

She screamed at last, drowning the noise of the crickets, drowning the beating of her heart, the wrenching sounds of her own dislocating joints as something drank its fill, savaging its prey, ripping--

When she knew she was dying, she ceased to scream. For one awful moment, she looked into eternity and then, remembering some scraps of childhood religion, she tried to pray. With a final snarling rip, the thing tore out her throat and cast her body out onto the road.

Suddenly, a loud blaring, like a tortured water buffalo, followed by a whoosh! that shook even his fully loaded rig, jarred him out of his happy daydream. "Jerk!' he yelled at the taillights of the aged 18-wheeler that had just passed him. "What's your hurry?"

For a moment, he considered increasing his own speed; any Smokeys in the area would no doubt get old leadfoot first, giving him time to slow to legal speed, but he decided against it. Sometimes, troopers here worked in pairs, and the chance of a delay and a ticket wasn't worth the time he might save. Besides, he suddenly didn't want to get a closer look at that truck. Something -- something about its swift passage wasn't right. Not anything he could put a finger on.

He didn't have much time to dwell on it. Here came more trouble--maybe a mile ahead, emergency vehicles were parked along the shoulder, their lights flashing. Traffic on both sides was stopped as a tow truck backed up to an old Honda. Jay slowed to a stop, taking the opportunity to check things out without rubbernecking. He watched as a couple of guys in faded jeans attached chains to the Honda's front axel. The ambulance had its lights off, and as he watched, the attendants lifted a gurney up onto the street behind the ambulance's open doors. A woman lay on it. He could tell it by her ample figure, but her face was covered by the sheet. Jay shook his head sadly. Funny, though. The Honda looked shabby, but not battered.

A knock on his driver's side door interrupted his thoughts, and he opened it. "Hey, Dale," he greeted his friend. "Long time no see. What's going on here?"

Officer Dale Keun smiled slightly in greeting, but his eyes looked tired and the smile faded quickly. "Murder." He didn't seem to want to say any more, so Jay changed the subject.

"Wow. Uh, say, did you happen to catch that hunk of junk that flew by earlier?"

"What hunk of junk?"

"Oh, come on. He flew by me--must have been doing 90. It was--" He stopped as he realized that he couldn't even remember the color of the truck. "It was just a couple of miles back," he finished lamely.

"I must have missed him." He grimaced and looked away, but Jay didn't need him to explain. Dale was still looking a little green.

Jay whistled. "That bad?"

"Worse. I won't be sleeping well for a while. Listen, there's a real sicko out there, and it's possible he's targeting people alone on the road. You pull in for the night, you find a nice crowded truck stop, or better yet, spring for a hotel, got it?"

Jay's thoughts flashed back to that creepy truck. "Hey, I'm always careful. I've got no illusions of being a tough guy."

"Good."

It had taken an hour to get the traffic moving again and a lot of vehicles had backed up on the road. The highway patrol had called in some special investigators and they kept taking pictures and scraping blood off the highway until Jay was ready to tear out what hair he had left. Dale hadn't given any details, but the radio was full of them: a vivid description of the murdered girl, how the person who'd found her had had to be sedated, guesses that the murderer was southbound. Jay kept waiting for his strange truck to be mentioned, but no one had noticed it, apparently.

After listening to the news with a horrified fascination, he'd managed to switch the station, which wasn't much better. Some oldie country station kept playing stuff like Ghost Riders. He wasn't ready to start driving again, though he'd be glad enough to get away from the area.

The girl who took his order looked like something from the menu herself. Her short-skirted uniform strained over her mighty hams. You could tell she'd been living on fried baloney and cornbread with plenty of butter. She waddled over to his table and gave him a big, gap-toothed smile. "What'll it be, hon?"

No beer, he decided regretfully. You didn't do that when you were driving a semi. He ordered a coke and a barbecue sandwich. He could take the food along, he guessed. But he kept remembering his friend's face as Dale had told him about the murder.

"Sure 'nuff," the waitress said, giving him a porcine simper.

He thought he recognized a couple of people he had seen standing by the road-- ambulance watchers. A lady in sunglasses kept telling her friend how awful it was as she ate French fries with plenty of ketchup. Jay looked away. Things were becoming surreal.

At the next table, a bearded black man looked back at Jay soberly. He was obviously listening to the conversation at his back and not liking it.

His order had come and he was sipping the coke when the young guy came in. He looked like a refugee from a war. And when he ordered a beer, Jay knew right away he'd already had enough. He was, he told everyone at large, looking for the man who killed his wife. He had just been to identify the body. He drew an interested crowd right away.

Jay glanced at the black man who shook his head slightly. "They gonna run him in if he does any drivin' after this," the man said and Jay nodded.

"They might run him in even if he doesn't do any driving," he said. Then, "Were you stuck in the traffic too?"

The other man shook his head. "I live up the road. Just came in to meet a guy about sellin' some steers."

"But you heard about the murder I guess," Jay said. "They're saying her throat was all tore out--that she looked like a piece of meat."

"Yeah, I heard that. I heard that before."

Jay gave the man a sharp look. "What do you mean? Are you saying it's happened before?"

"I heard something before," the other man said. "Friend of mine--my cousin, in fact--told me about a murder down near El Paso. It was a few months back and they didn't make so much fuss over it. I guess there was reasons."

Jay digested this. He didn't quite believe this guy, he decided. At the other end of the room, things were getting lively. If that other fellow really was the victim's husband, he might have shown more decency. He was very drunk. "I'm gonna park out there tonight," he vowed. "I got me a shotgun in the truck and the first bastard pulls up had better have a good reason for doin' it!"

"Uh-oh," Jay said. "Sounds like someone's going to get his head blown off."

"If he don't shoot hisself by accident," the other man said. "But lead won't hurt that semi--"

For one vertiginous moment Jay seemed to see again the truck that passed him on the road just before he came onto the accident scene. He shook his head. "What semi?" he demanded.

Deep brown eyes met his own. "You know," the other man whispered. "I seen it on you that you knew."

Jay sat back, shaken. "I don't know what you mean," he said hoarsely. "What are you talking about?"

"You saw that truck. You just ask if anyone else saw it--you just ask!"

Jay gaped at him. "Black," he said. "Or maybe not. Maybe no color at all. It was speeding. I told the patrolman but he hadn't seen it. It would have gone right by him! Right by where they had the road blocked off!"

The black man nodded. "I reckon she saw it too," he said.

For a long moment, Jay just sat there. "You're crazy," he said at last. "You're as drunk as that guy up front yelling!"

The other man continued to watch him. "Leroy Bartlett," he said, extending one hand. "And I'm not drunk."

After a moment, Jay took the proffered hand. "Jay Carlson," he said. "And no, I guess you're not."

The drunk husband was finally convinced to sit quietly and drink his beer. Feeling the man's bleary and suspicious eyes on him, Jay got his sandwich to go and paid his tab quickly. He was afraid the guy might decide not to wait at the side of the road after all, but pick out some poor sap to shoot right now. But maybe things were okay--the huge waitress had leaned over the counter and was talking to the husband in sympathetic tones while he gazed blearily down the opening of her shirt.

Once he was well away from the restaurant, Jay got on the CB and managed to get a hold of Dale, who was still on duty and kept a CB in his patrol car to keep track of Smokey reports that might give his position away. Jay told him about the guy in the restaurant. The drunk husband, that is; he didn't even want to think about the other guy. Gave him the creeps as bad as that weird truck.

"Great," Dale hissed in exasperation, static giving his voice a funny squelch. "That's the last thing we need. Thanks, Jay. I'll check up on him."

There wasn't much traffic on the CB, so he turned on the radio. Big mistake. The local station was fielding calls about the murder. Somebody--that Leroy fellah, maybe--had called in to warn people about a mysterious old semi, which had stirred some ire among the legitimate truckers who lived in the area. In an attempt to diffuse the time bomb he'd started, the DJ pulled out a song called "Truck Driving Vampire."** It was a catchy tune and would have been funny, in other circumstances. As it was, Jay snapped off the radio, wishing he'd sprung to have the CD player fixed before he'd left.

Then there was nothing but the road and his thoughts. He reached for the sandwich, but the mangled beef in the rusty red sauce made his stomach lurch, and he tossed it out the window, littering laws be damned. In fact, he'd have welcomed a cop right then, even if it cost him a fine. He hadn't seen another car for over an hour. Taking Interstate 10 into San Antonio, then I-35 to Laredo was beginning to sound like a good idea, even if it did add to his drive time. He'd lost a lot of time in New Mexico, but nonetheless would welcome the noise and distraction of heavy traffic.

Once he'd put some distance between himself and the diner, however, things seemed better. He tried the radio and found a Classic Rock station with funny commercials and no talk of mysterious killings. When he stopped at a gas station, he lingered a while talking with the pretty lady at the counter as she got him a couple of hot dogs and a Slushee. He tossed chips and a couple of candy bars on the counter next to a liter bottle of Coke, promising to eat better tomorrow. Unlike a lot of attendants, she knew the area well and was full of light chatter about events. She was married with two kids, judging by the photo taped to the register, but she was friendly and he found himself basking in her warm smile.

Her smile faded, however, when he asked her if she was driving home alone tonight. "Why do you ask?" she asked suspiciously.

"It's just that there was a murder last night, 'round Carlesbad. Woman alone on the road at night--"

"Oh!" She brightened. "Oh, you're so sweet. No, I'll be fine. My shift is done before sundown and my husband comes to get me 'cause we've only got the one car. And Jerry has the place at night, and no one's gonna mess with him. Besides, that's in New Mexico. What are the chances he'll come around here?"

Her optimism was infectious and when he got to the turnoff for 10, he blew right by it. She was right; what were the chances the murderer would stay on the same highway this far? Besides, he couldn't afford the extra hours of driving through San Antonio. The gas lady had warned him that there was a big air show in Del Rio, and to be prepared for a lot of traffic.

True to her word, he hit Del Rio just at rush hour, with the highways full of tourists, military, and family in for the show. Even the drive through at Arby's was backed up, but the crowds had succeeded in erasing the last of his earlier concerns. He even had a friendly argument with his swinging alien. "Hey, it's a sandwich!" he told it indignantly. "Turkey, lettuce--it's healthy!"

He went on, stopping only for bathroom breaks and gas until the sun had set and the world was lit only by a waning moon and the lights of his rig. Earlier that day, he would have been freaked at the thought of driving alone at this time of night. Now, he could chuckle as "Hotel California" came on the radio just as he was thinking about pulling in for the night. He'd only been on the road nine hours, but the events of the day had drained him. He didn't have to deliver his load until late tomorrow morning, and besides, he was running low on fuel. He could turn in early, gas up, and get in as the warehouse opened. He rolled his eyes as the Eagles sang "Such a lovely place…" and pulled in to a truck stop just outside Eagle Pass. Still, he was oddly relieved to find the place was called "Lazy T." He laughed at himself as he stuck his keys in his pocket and opened up the cab door.

His laughter died in his throat.

There was the truck, parked just outside the glow of the lights. But he knew it was the same truck. All the horror of the morning came rushing back, making him take great gulps of air, like someone had hit him in the solar plexus.

Had it followed him? Ridiculous. It was already here when he pulled in. What reason did he have for thinking it was -- after him?

Just call the cops, let them handle it, he thought. But what would he say? He had nothing to connect this truck with anything wrong, let alone a murder. Screw it. Just put in an anonymous tip. Who knows? If that Leroy character had heard something about it, maybe the authorities had, too.

Well, if he was going to call it in, he had better be able to describe it. The dim lighting made that harder than he'd expected, however. He couldn't tell the color, even if it was dark or light. He circled toward the back; the license plate was so dirty he couldn't even tell what state it was at this distance. Oddly, he could see the mud flaps on the back wheels, which seemed to shine with an unearthly light. They had those silver silhouettes of a buxom woman reclining suggestively, but whether from shadows or road grime, their throats looked oddly incomplete.

That's sick, he thought, yet he found himself walking closer, as if compelled to examine them more closely.

He suddenly realized he was angling toward the cab and not the back, remembered what Dale said about being alone after dark, and made a beeline for the truck stop entrance. As he approached the doors, his eyes fell on a little Mexican guy who was sitting on the bench. He looked like he was praying. For a minute, Jay wanted to warn him to get inside. But he didn't.

The place smelled like grilled food and overused bleach. The sign said, "Please wait to be seated," but no one was at the counter. The pay phone was out of order, so he caught a busboy and asked him if they had a phone he could use.

"Sorry."

"Listen," Jay spoke quietly, just in case the owner of the rig was in there eating. "I need to call the cops and report that old truck out there!"

"What? The red one? Hey, anyone own a big red semi?!"

"That's mine," Jay hissed. Couldn't this kid keep his voice down? "The old one, over in the corner, just beyond the lights."

The boy made a big show of peering out the double glass doors. "I don't see no truck out there."

Jay looked. It was gone. "But-- All right, who just left here?"

"Nobody."

"Don't give me that. Whoever was in that truck must have come in here--why else stop? Now I want to know who it was!"

The busboy stared at him. So did some of the other customers. It was suddenly very quiet, the sizzle of the grill ominously loud. For a moment, he remembered the drunk husband back at the barbeque joint. I probably sound as crazy as he did. "Never mind," he mumbled and slunk out into the twilight.

And looked up. The damn truck was back! And it was turned around, so that the windshield now faced the restaurant. He caught a flicker of movement. Despite the distance, he thought someone was watching him.

Without thinking, he headed toward the truck, rolling up his sleeves as he went, his mind numb but for a sudden anger. He's laughing at me! When I get over there, I'll--

A hand caught him by the elbow. "Don' do it, mister."

Jay whirled. The moment he took his eyes off the windshield, his anger vanished, leaving a sudden panicked confusion. What was he doing? He never started fights, and he wanted to take on a murderer? He sank onto the bench beside the little Mexican who'd stopped him. What had happened to him? Why had he thought there was someone in that truck laughing at him? He looked up at the truck again.

"I would not look too closely," the man beside him warned.

"You see it?!"

"Si. It has been here since you arrived."

"But when I asked in the restaurant, no one else could see it. Even I didn't for a minute."

The other man shrugged. His eyes regarded Jay steadily. "It is evil," he said. "Old evil."

Jay gaped at him.

"No, no," the man said. "That is not what I mean. It's--como se dice?-- ancient. It is an ancient evil. You must stay away from it. Here." He kissed the rosary he had been holding and placed it in Jay's hands. "Take it. It will keep you safe."

"Uh, right." Jay glanced down at what he held. He'd been raised Southern Baptist, with a minister who had strong words about Catholics and their idols of the crucified Christ. Suddenly, things were getting surreal again. He glanced back at the truck stop. Better find something further down the road, he decided. He wasn't tired any more.

He rose, again trying to look casual while feeling conspicuous. "O.K. Thanks. Listen, I need to be moving on. It was nice talking to you," he added, hoping he didn't sound like he thought the guy was crazy. Still--ancient evils and beads of protection?

He could tell by the man's look that he suspected what Jay was thinking. Nonetheless, he spoke seriously. "Keep those near you. And keep away from the truck. I will pray for you."

"Yeah, thanks." He headed back to his rig without looking at the man or the battered old truck, though it continued to lurk on the edge of his vision. He reached into his pocket for his keys, unlocked the door, stepped inside and immediately locked the door behind him. It wasn't until he moved to put the keys in the ignition that he noticed he still held the beads in that same hand. He shook his head and tossed them on the seat beside him. He pulled out of the parking lot resolving to find the next truck stop and get a good night's sleep. In the meantime, put all of this craziness out of your mind, Jay. This ain't some stupid horror movie where the monster is gonna jump out and eat you.

Still, it was several miles before he could steel himself enough to look in the rear-view mirror.

Empty road, silvery in the moonlight, dark-edged with just that highway ribbon. It couldn't have been much past ten, but it felt later.

Jay looked down at the dash in front of him, lit palely, showing him all the dials, the radio, everything he might want to know about the safe little island that was his truck. He wondered what he would do if one of the warning lights came on. Check engine. Overheat. Gas--oh, shit! What in the name of God would he do? A cold sweat broke out on him and his hands trembled on the wheel. He felt the truck slowing down as he unconsciously eased up on the gas.

He glanced once more into the mirror and there, far back but coming up steadily were twin headlights. There was something ghastly about those lights, something cold and twisted - like phosphorescence on the waves of some dark ocean, where fishes nibbled at the flesh of the newly dead and lost sailors clung to spars, past praying, waiting for the dawn they would not see. He almost put on the brake.

And how old was that truck, anyway? And what was its story? How long since it had carried its last cargo--or did it carry something now? Coffins, he thought and laughed a little at himself. He had to watch that laugh. It was the kind that might not stop once it got started.

He turned up the radio and it was oldies. He didn't remember putting on that particular station, but then maybe he had outrun the station he had on earlier.

The lights were gaining.

He couldn't, he told himself, go any faster. You didn't speed a truck on a two-lane. Only a fool took those curves at seventy-five. A song ended, something about dead boyfriends, car wrecks, wailing laments from the dead. An announcer came on--or maybe it was just part of the song. He seemed to be reciting poetry.

Both hands on the wheel, Jay gave his attention to the road. Behind him, something big was gaining on him. Each time he rounded a curve, he lost sight of it and then as it came into view, it was closer. Closer--

--and in the dark, moonlight is all, stars gleam above the clotted earth of opened graves, and we go down into the frigid dark, cold blood, cold kisses--

With a squeal of brakes he dragged the truck away from the verge. What a time to fall asleep! And how long had he been listening to that drivel on the radio? It was almost--he shuddered--hypnotic!

Freeing one hand from the wheel, Jay reached over and switched off the voice. It's that guy, something shouted in his brain. It's him talking! He's on the radio! He stared at the dial with something like horror. This could not be happening!

This is crazy, he told himself. Get a grip! It's only a truck. He decided to speed up a little. Time was money, he told himself crazily. Time--TIME!

Behind him, the truck had matched speeds. It was playing with him, waiting for him to stop of his own accord. Then it would pull up behind, park quietly, waiting for him to open his door and--boots crunching on gravel--watching as the cab loomed up in front of him, beside him--his hand on the door handle--

"No!" He said it out loud. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, clenched like the hands of a corpse gripped in rigor mortis. He felt the presence behind him, calling on him to pull over.

In one last effort, he reached for the CB. "Mayday," he croaked. "Anyone there?"

"Ahead," a husky voice answered. "Keep comin', son. Don't stop. Just keep comin'--" It was the voice of Leroy Bartlett, the man he had met at the barbecue place.

He didn't even ask what the guy was doing, 400 or more miles south of Carlesbad, New Mexico, didn't ask what he thought he could do to help. He just set the mike down, put his hand back on the wheel and prayed he could get to the friendly voice in time. Without thinking about it, his foot pressed a little harder on the accelerator. He took a turn a little too fast, felt the rig sway. The string of beads slid to rest against his thigh.

The engine sputtered.

"No!" He glanced at the gas gage. The red arrow hovered for a moment on the E, then sagged against the peg below it. "No!"

His truck slowed to a stop and all hope of escape faltered with it.

He started to reach for his CB--

Lights glared then faded in the rear mirror as the truck pulled up beside him. Without meaning to, Jay glanced out his side window, at the darkness of the cab beside him. Something watched him from the shadows. He could just sense it turn toward him--

And his mind went blank.

"Jay!" a voice squawked from his CB. "What's going on!?"

A part of him wanted to answer, wanted to scream, but he couldn't make himself do either. Instead, his hands slowly fell from their death-grip on the steering wheel to his sides. His fingers brushed against the chain of beads.

And his mind cleared a little. Was it his panic or his lack of faith that kept him rooted to his seat as the truck pulled up, blocking the way forward. Its door opened with a dismal metallic scrape. Jay shut his eyes. This was it.

"Jay! Answer me! Where are you?" a voice called.

Using the hand that held the beads, he picked up the mike. "Help," he whispered.

He thought he heard something scraping over the gravel.

"Lock the doors, Jay. Don't let him in. He can't come in if you don't let him. I'm on my way."

What did he mean, it wouldn't come in? A crowbar to the window was all it would take. Jay could almost see it happening, hear the crashing glass. Of course it could get in.

Of course I can get in…

The sounds had stopped. Did he hear another car, or was it the roar of blood in his ears? Why couldn't he move? The CB was silent now, just a steady hiss. He was trembling so hard, he dropped the mike. The beads fell from his clutch, but hung loosely from one finger. He couldn't take this.

You don't have to…

Any minute now, a crowbar--or maybe a shotgun. Our Father who art in heaven…

Of course I can get in…

The thing was right by his door. Jay could feel it. What was he waiting for? Now I lay me down to sleep…

Why prolong this? Of course, I can get in…

I'll open the door, fast-like. Make a run for it. Jay felt his hand moving toward the door lock--the driver's side. A part of him shouted, "No!"

Yes, unlock the door. Make a run for it. You can outrun me… Yes…

No! Clutching the beads again, he fought to stop his other hand. He was dimly aware of headlights reflected in the rear-view mirror lighting up his cab.

Better to run, a voice urged in his mind. Its voice. Better to open the door yourself and flee…

His right hand pressed on the latch. His left hand punched it locked.

Open the Door! The voice commanded. His right hand obeyed.

A sudden dull thud, an inhuman screech of anger and pain, and the squeal of brakes.

Suddenly, whatever had a hold of Jay's will released him and he sagged against the door, gasping. He screamed as the door was flung open and he fell into someone's arms. He struggled, pulled back a hand--the one with the beads--to punch--

"Wake up! It's me! I'm on your side!"

He stopped and blinked. The little Mexican from the truck stop was clutching his shoulders, shaking him.

"What? How?"

"Get in! I explain later!" With a surprisingly powerful push, he shoved Jay into his car, slammed the door, then ran to the driver's side and flung himself in. The engine was still running, and he threw it into gear and tore down the highway. Jay risked a glance at the trucks stopped only halfway on the shoulder. The old one was illuminated only by the lights of his rig, yet somehow it didn't seem so sinister anymore, just old and junky.

"Where's the guy? What happened to the guy?"

"Don't know," the man answered, "and I don' want to hang around to find out."

"But what if he comes after us?"

"He's not getting in this car. Es consagrado--you know, holy? He cannot come in, and as long as we stay in it, we're safe." Nonetheless, his savior kept a close eye on the rear-view mirror.

Jay groaned and buried his head in his hands for a moment. Had he traded one lunacy for another? At least this one wasn't going to get him killed. Not yet-- He glanced up. "Look out!"

The little man turned his attention to the front just in time to swerve back into his own lane, narrowly avoiding the oncoming pickup. It made a sharp U-turn, flashed its lights and laid on the horn.

"Don' look at it!" the little man warned, but Jay thought he'd recognized the driver.

"No, it's okay. It's Leroy--he's, well, he was coming to help me! You got a CB?" Answering his own question with a glance, he turned the radio to the right channel and keyed the mike. "Leroy!"

"Jay? Is that you in that El Camino? What the hell happened? Never mind. It can't be safe here. Follow me." And he pulled ahead.

They drove on in silence. After a few minutes, Jay was able to calm down enough to think about his rig. Should he call the state patrol and report it? On the one hand, he didn't want it tagged as abandoned and towed; on the other, he didn't want to do anything that might encourage someone to investigate it in the night. In the end, he decided to wait. Maybe this Leroy could help him decide what to do.

One thing was for sure. He wasn't going anywhere near there until it was daylight.

Mile markers flashed green in the glare of the headlights. Jay became aware that his right hand was sore. He held it up to realize he was still clutching the beads, the crucifix making a dull impression in his palm. The little man glanced his way. "El Rosario, it helped."

"I'm not sure. Maybe I didn't believe enough--"

"He believed. He was concentrating so hard on making you let him in, he never saw me." Jay saw him smile grimly in the light of the dashboard.

"I, uh, I don't even know your name."

"Miguel Felipe Eduardo Guiseppe de Aguilar."

"Miguel--thanks. You saved me life back there."

Miguel just nodded, but his smile softened.

They were silent again until Leroy's voice came over the CB again, instructing them to take a left. They pulled into a church parking lot. It was a small, adobe church, Catholic, Jay guessed, and he had only a moment to wonder why they hadn't gone to the police when Leroy parked right up against the side of the building, dashed out, opened a door, and motioned them to follow him in. Miguel had parked right behind him, inches off his bumper, so it was a short dash. Nonetheless, Jay's heart hammered in his chest, and judging from how the others were leaned against the wall catching their breath, he wasn't the only one scared.

Leroy turned around and hit the light switch. The cheap, low-wattage bulbs filled the church with a low light. Behind the old worn pews were rows of plastic and metal chairs, and Leroy turned one around and sat in it, motioning them to do the same. "This is a mission church now, gets used once a month. Priest's a friend of mine," he explained tersely. "Now what happened?"

Jay didn't know where to start, so Miguel answered for them both, starting with how he'd followed the old truck when it pulled out of the Lazy T and ending with ramming el vampiro with his car.

"I don't get it," Leroy interrupted. "A car shouldn't have hurt it."

"Ah, but my car is special. Es consegrado. And I have a crucifix on the bumper."

Leroy exploded into laughter. After a moment, Miguel joined him.

Jay looked at them with horror. Lunatics, he thought, I'm stuck with a murderer out there and lunatics in here.

"You are one crazy little Mexican!" Leroy shook his head admiringly. "But that couldn't have stopped it permanently."

The other man shrugged.

"Will someone tell me what's going on?!" Jay finally exploded. "What're we doing here? Shouldn't we be going to the police?"

"The police can't help us," Miguel spoke reasonably, but Jay wasn't feeling reasonable. Nothing in this situation was reasonable--why should he be?

"For God's sake, what is going on?!" he screamed. It echoed in the empty church.

"Do you believe in the supernatural?" Leroy asked grimly.

"No!"

"You do." Miguel said and for one crazy minute, Jay was remembering something he'd heard somewhere about how there were no atheists in fox holes. How true, he told himself sententiously, and wondered how he'd fallen into this one. Again that laugh threatened. The one he wouldn't be able to stop.

"Yes," Leroy said softly. "You believe in evil, don't you, Jay? It's easier to believe evil than good. The evil that folks do when they's alive and the evil they leave after them--left over, you might say. Pure spite sometimes, like they can't just die and rest in peace." He shook his head. "That's it, I reckon. They don't always rest."

Jay shuddered. "You're spookin' me, man. I don't know what was out there, but you're makin' it worse."

Miguel gave him a sympathetic nod. "He's no trying to scare you," he said. "He just starts where you are. You have seen what men should not have to see. It is real to you."

"Yeah," Leroy took him up. "You believe in evil. But there's good out there too. Miguel here, I can see he's a Catholic. He believes in stuff like praying the Rosary and hidin' in a Church. And I sure can't say he's not right."

"You bring us here," Miguel offered.

"Did, didn't I? I don't know...maybe you can throw a Baptist Bible at that guy out there. Been kind of scared to try--maybe he can't read, hey?"

Miguel smiled a little. "You have hunted too, I think," he said. "You have had dealing with this vampire before, no?"

Leroy gave a grim nod.

"And maybe you learned that the old things, the old ways, they--they draw the lightning of God! True?"

For answer, Leroy opened his shirtfront, revealing a crucifix and a medal both tied on the same string.

Jay turned his chair, looked up at the altar with its crucifix and statues and the large stained glass portrait of Jesus. "He's afraid of stuff like this?"

"He is," Leroy said. "He's got the faith, that old boy."

Miguel chuckled. "And you," he said to Leroy.

"Maybe," the other man said reluctantly. "Maybe. The jury's out on that one. My daddy would turn over in his grave if he ever thought his son would end up a Catholic."

"Mine too," Jay said, his eyes on the crucifix.

"It would be better," Miguel told him, "if this were a regular church. The Sacrament is not here."

"Priest bring it when he comes," Leroy offered. "Gave me the key 'cause I clean up before monthly Mass. Doesn't know I use it for other reasons. Probably have me locked up f I told him about vampires."

"Too many do not believe," Miguel lamented. "Too many would make a new religion, they--como se dice?--water down the old. At least we have the images of the saints. They will protect us."

"Okay," Jay interrupted, "so you're both vampire hunters. I'm in good company. But why me? Why's he after me?"

"We can't know that," Leroy told him. "Why any of his victims? But you seen the truck --"

"So did you -- both of you!"

"And yet we live?" Miguel asked his unasked question. "God has permitted that we live to right this wrong."

"Reckon that's it," Leroy agreed. "And now you too, Jay, whether you believe in Him or not."

Miguel was looking at the floor. "I hope I do His Will. I hope I hunt this creature because it is evil and not because I hate--"

Jay looked at Miguel questioningly.

"My sister," he answered, seeming smaller and older, though his eyes burned clearly in the dim light. "She married a gringo, moved to El Paso. They divorced but she didn't feel she could come home. Stopped going to Church. She worked in a truck stop. She wrote me about a truck no one could see, how it frightened her. She called me one night, said she felt like it was waiting for her. Said she knew it was a vampiro, and that it knew she knew. She thought it was coming after her because she'd sinned. I thought she'd gone crazy. Loca. I told her come home." He let out a shaky sigh. "They found her body just across the border. They said it was a hate crime, but I knew. I've been looking for it ever since."

There was silence as Jay digested their words. He wanted to tell them they were wrong, wanted them to be wrong, but he couldn't. He'd seen too much, experienced too much that could not be explained. "So what do we do?"

"He'll be coming for us," Leroy said grimly. "Crucifix or no, hitting him with a car isn't going to stop him for long. And when he comes after us, he'll be pissed. Might affect his thinking. Three against one. I say we stop him here and now."

Three? Jay's inner voice squeaked, but he didn't say anything aloud. What else could he do--take off on his own in the dark?

"There is no Sacrament," Miguel lamented.

"But there's other stuff. Holy water. Icons. The Crucifix. Thank God the Bishop wouldn't let Fr. Tom replace it with a modern cross."

"Si, gracias de Dios."

"What are you suggesting? A trap?" Suddenly Jay had a clear image of himself as the bait, like Shaggy in the old Scooby Doo cartoons. Only this time, he was sure there was no man in a creepy mask. Zoinks.

Leroy slapped his hands against his thighs, the sharp crack of skin on denim echoing in the church. "Let's get moving. We got a couple of hours if we're lucky."

They set to work turning the neglected little church into a makeshift vampire trap. The legs of a couple of rickety tables in the vestibule were quickly and roughly carved into stakes. Each man stuffed one into his belt and the rest were set upon the altar. Pews were moved to barricade doors and create a path toward the altar. There were no Missalettes--LeRoy said it was cheaper to just print the readings once a month--so they opened the music books to the Psalms and laid them face up on the seats. LeRoy moved icons into protective positions while Miguel filled a chalice with holy water from the silver tank at the front of the church and poured it along the edges of their path. Jay was given the priest's holy water pot and sprinkler and told to sprinkle holy water everywhere outside the path.

"This really works?" he asked doubtfully as he worked his way along the right side of the church. He glanced fearfully at the stained glass windows. The faces of the saints were still dark from the night. Only behind the altar, at the window bearing the image of Jesus who had rays coming from his heart like shafts of sunlight, was there any light, but Jay knew it had to be the moon. But the moon had been waning, hadn't it? Would they survive until daylight?

"It'll burn him, even through his shoes. Won't stop him cold, but it'll discourage him."

Jay's hands trembled, nearly slopping the water. He tried to joke to cover his terror. "Maybe we should fill up some squirt guns."

Miguel gave him a shocked look, but Leroy grunted. "There's an idea." He paused from where he had just dragged a chipped but very sturdy statue of St. Joseph into position on the left side of their trap. "Jay, help me with the Holy Family."

Jay set down the pot and stepped over the pews.

Suddenly, the window behind Leroy shattered inward and a long piece of metal flew in. Its tip had been pulled and twisted like Jay's mother used to pull and twist yarn to thread a needle and like that yarn, it went through Leroy's shoulder. Its momentum pulled him to the floor and pinned him there.

He gasped and fell silent.

The improvised spear was followed by the vampire itself.

Jay shrieked and backpedaled, but Miguel ran between it and the unconscious Leroy, shouting prayers in Spanish and flinging his chalice of holy water in the creature's face. It gave a scream like a cross between a mountain lion and failing brakes and clawed at its face. Miguel yanked the stake from his belt and stabbed hard, but the vampire twisted and the sharpened wood scraped against ribs. The vampire swung out with one arm and sent the smaller man flying. He slammed against a pew, stunned, yet somehow still managing to murmur desperately under his breath, "Ave Maria--"

"Shut yer trap!" the vampire hissed with an incongruous Midwestern accent, but Miguel paused only long enough to say, "Jay! To the altar! Corre!" before turning his attention back to the advancing vampire.

Run. Great advice, yet somewhere between Jay's ears and his feet, something had short-circuited. He stood still, not even shaking, as his mind fought to resolve the conflicting images.

These things could not be. Here was this guy -- he was balding, and, and he wore a stained white t-shirt and Levis that hung too low. His boots were old and there was a crack in one sole. He was wearing socks for pity's sake! Who ever heard of a truck-driving vampire?

Yet he'd made a javelin out of a crowbar, jumped at least eight feet through broken glass. And Miguel had hit him with a car!

Again that inhuman screech. Miguel must have stuck him with his rosary.

With trembling hands, Jay pulled out his stake and shoved it with all his strength into the creature's back.

The vampire spun and Jay knew once and for all if the thing ever been human, he was not so now. Its face had melted where the holy water hit it, like a wax doll in a fire. Too much of the bloodshot eyes were exposed. The nostrils were elongated. The lips curved abnormally around vicious pointed canines. The front of its shirt was ripped and the skin beneath it, but the blood was wrong-- pink and congealing. Dead man's blood.

Again the command to run surged through Jay's body. He managed a few stumbling steps back toward the altar.

He was going to die.

"Or not," the vampire answered his thoughts, its voice incongruously ordinary, coming from that ruined face.

"What?"

"You don't have to die. You know that?"

The vampire advanced a step, and if it hadn't been for the melted face and the fangs, it could have been just a guy. It even stuffed its hands into its pockets. Jay looked at those hands, then the chest wound. then its teeth. He stepped back some more, another step.

The creature tried to catch his eye with it's own, but Jay looked down. "You can leave. Right now. Go back to your truck. Live."

It continued to advance, its movements casual, but clearly staying in the middle of the path. It stepped carefully over a hymnal that had fallen to the floor.

Jay's feet bumped against a step, then another. "What about them?" He backed into the altar, slid around it, terrified the entire time that the sideways motion would somehow break the spell and cause the vampire to lunge at his neck. He saw the stakes in front of him, but his hands were shaking so hard he knew he'd never be able to pick one up, much less shove it accurately. He thought of the others. He prayed the creature would say he'd let them go, too, and give him an easy out.

"Not your problem."

"No." The denial seemed to come from someone else -- someone who might have stood in this very spot and did whatever priests did. The altar was bathed in colored light from the stained glass window, moonlight, yet it was too bright for that. Jay shook his head, protracting his denial.

The vampire's mouth twisted into a smile. "You don't believe," it said. "Not like these others. Why should I drink your watered down blood?"

"What are you saying?" Jay mumbled, still looking aside. The thing smelled bad.

"You ain't like them. You don't matter."

Jay looked down at the altar, his eyes burning. The thing was right. He didn't have a lot of faith. Never did.

The vampire took the first step of the sacristy. It's hands wriggled in its pockets.

Jay grasped a stake in both hands. It was red and blue and gold in the light.

The vampire took the second step. "Get out of here," it said. "Get out, faithless one. You and your truck and your CB. You and your beers and ball games. Go back where you belong." Those hands were wriggling free of the denim.

"No!" Jay shouted. "You're a liar!"

The vampire snarled an animal snarl as it sprang.

Jay barely managed to lift the stake as the vampire flew at him over the altar, hands freed at last, fingers curved like claws.

A shaft of light, suddenly bright and clear, shot from the heart of the stained glass Jesus and illuminated the altar. The vampire flew right into it.

There was sudden flare of light, a mighty flash as purifying as it was brilliant. The vampire's scream cut off abruptly. Then there was only the sound of human screaming.

After a moment, Jay realized it was him. Nonetheless, it took a moment longer before embarrassment overcame terror and he was able to close his mouth and open his eyes.

He had flung himself backward into a throne-like chair and curled into it. A drift of ashes marred the steps and the sanctuary floor. The brilliant light was gone, replaced with the soft dimness of pre-dawn.

Jay staggered to his feet. Leroy was in bad shape, but the spear had missed the artery and he was alive. He snatched up the holy water pot and sprinkler, and flung water over Miguel. His eyes flickered open, fixing first on Jay's face and then moving toward the altar. "Over?"

"Looks like it." Jay was surprised how steady his voice was.

Miguel sighed. "We will dissolve as much of the ash as we can in holy water, scatter whatever we cannot."

Jay helped him to his feet. "Leroy needs a doctor."

"I will take care of that. You have done enough for us this night."

Jay looked over at the mess on the steps. "Me?" he murmured. "I didn't do anything. What sort of fool do you take me for?"

Miguel smiled. "A wiser fool than you were."

He glanced at the rosary curled around the base of his swinging alien.

Yes, as soon as he got things squared away, he had some lost time to make up for. A life to start living.

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Note: ** "Truck Driving vampire" by Michael Longcor

Author Bio

Colleen Drippe' has two stories in Infinite Space, Infinite God, an anthology of science fiction with Catholic themes now out by Twilight Times Books. She has had one science fiction novel published and several books for children. Some of her science fiction and fantasy stories can be found on the Internet.

Karina Fabian is an author of SF and fantasy. Her works have appeared in Hereditas, The Sword Review, Eternal Night and Samsara. She edited Infinite Space, Infinite God, an anthology of science fiction with Catholic themes now out by Twilight Times Books. She has a second anthology, Leaps of Faith and a fantasy comedy, Magic, Mensa and Mayhem coming out in 2008.

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