CHAPTER 4

 

The hunger had been growing since he'd started driving at dusk.

So had the weakness.

The hunger began in his throat; the very first hint that he would have to feed soon was a harsh dryness in the back of his throat. A bit later, his skin became sensitive and he began to tremble just a little. After a while, his eyes began to water and burn and he looked as if he'd been crying. Then the chill set in; his body always felt cold to the living, but if he went too long without feeding, he began to feel cold and was soon shivering. His lips swelled and cracked. His skin began to flake. He'd never gone beyond that, but he was sure that, if he did, he would lose consciousness and, eventually, die. 

Again and forever.

The weakness had started about four months ago. Actually, when he thought about it, he realized it had probably started before that, but he'd only noticed it four months ago. At first, he'd thought perhaps he was not feeding enough, or maybe he was doing something else wrong; his understanding of his condition was still limited. But even when he doubled his portions, the weakness persisted: a gradually growing heaviness in his arms and legs and a decrease in what had, for a while, been an amazing boost in his physical strength. Later, it had begun to show in his face. Added to the unhealthy pallor were heavy pockets of flesh that sagged beneath his deep set eyes; his cheeks sank in further and further beneath his cheekbones over time, as if his face were deflating. His hair began to fall out, just a little at first, then more and more as the months passed. A couple of his lower teeth slowly began to darken and even loosen in the gum. 

He had what he needed for his hunger in the back, but he couldn't drive while he was feeding and he couldn't afford the time to stop; it would sate his hunger for a while, but whatever else was wrong with him would only continue to worsen, slowly, steadily... 

His truck idled as he waited for those ahead to move into the parking lot of the Sierra Gold Pan. Once in the lot, he drove slowly up and down the aisles. Unlike the others around him, he was not looking for an empty slot; he knew he wouldn't find one. He was looking for something else. 

A black Peterbilt.

He knew it had to be there somewhere; the pass into Oregon was closed and no one was going past Yreka for a while.

It had to be there. He'd been looking for too long, following it too far to hit another dead end now. 

Up ahead and to the right, he spotted it and eased to a stop: CARSEY BROS. TRUCKING. And just beyond it, he saw what he had been afraid to hope for: another truck identical to the first. 

He'd heard about the second black truck about a week ago. He'd been asking around about the Carsey Bros, at a truck stop near Bakersfield; a young man on the gas island told him that not one but two trucks fitting his description had been through a couple days before. 

So there were two. And he'd found them both.

They stood dormant in the lot, dark and silent.

He looked around and saw a few truckers wandering through the snow, all men and none of them familiar. No pretty young girls with big eyes and milk-white skin. 

They were near by, though. Somewhere. Either hunting or feeding.

But with two trucks, there would be twice as many. And he was all alone.

Bill Ketter drove his truck out of the lot to look for a place to park...

Outside, Jon scanned the parking lot for the girl, but she was nowhere in sight. He walked along the front of the restaurant, hurrying by the window where his mother and sisters were seated and went around the corner. All he found were several cars illegally parked in a fire lane. 

Maybe she was looking in the window at someone else, he thought. But he knew that wasn't true; she'd looked directly at him, smiled at him, beckoned him outside. 

She'd looked about his age, maybe a little unhealthy, but... there was something about her... something exciting... something in her eyes that made him forget about his dad... that made him want nothing more than to rush outside and meet her. 

Now he felt like a dork.

Cold as he was, he didn't feel like going back in yet; it was nice being alone for a while. He walked to a row of shrubbery, now covered with sheets of snow, that separated the front parking lot from the truck lot's exit and stepped up on the concrete edge of the divider. In the distance, where the road curved away, the windows of the house still glowed like stationary fireflies, but the small figure that had stood in the upper story had not returned. Somehow, that made him feel even worse. 

Jon fished in his pocket and found a few stray quarters. Maybe there was an unoccupied video game or pinball machine in the arcade room. He turned and started back toward the front entrance when he heard the growl of a truck's engine beyond the row of shrubs. He stopped and looked back as the truck eased by, stopping at the edge of the road for a moment. 

Jon frowned.

It was a Ken worth. A blue Kenworth tractor with no trailer.

He went back to the divider, hopped up on the edge and pulled two of the shrubs apart for a better look, knocking clumps of snow to the ground. 

As the tractor pulled onto the road, Jon glimpsed the broad silver stripe that ran along the side of the cab and his breath caught sharply in his throat. 

He pushed through the shrubs and hurried toward the truck lot's exit as the Kenworth crossed the road and pulled into a vacant spot on the shoulder. 

Jon stood across from the tractor and watched, jaw slack, as the lights went off and the engine stopped. There was movement in the cab. Soft light came suddenly from behind the seats: the sleeper. 

Moving cautiously, Jon started across the road, eyes locked on the driver's window. He stood beside the truck and listened.

Faint sounds of movement, but nothing more.

Jon's insides seemed to tremble with anticipation. There was no doubt it was exactly like his dad's Kenworth. But was it his Kenworth? He could find out. 

Grabbing the handle beside the door, Jon stepped up on the running board carefully, quietly, and peered in the window.

It was there: the green rubber triceratops Dad had bought him on their trip. Jon had insisted Dad hang it from the truck's rearview mirror and it had been there ever since. 

"Dad," Jon whispered through a smile, opening the door quickly and repeating it, louder: "Dad! Hey, Dad!"

There was a cough from the sleeper, a wet sputtering sound and a shuffle of sudden movement. "Who's—what the hell's—" Someone stumbled down between the seats and turned. 

A man.

His hair was mussed and spiky. His long face was white. And a dark thick liquid was smeared around his mouth and dribbled from his chin. 

This man could not be Jon's father. But he was.

Jon fell out of the cab, screaming...