THE LONG HAUL

I pulled into that rest area outside New Orleans just after midnight. The place was empty, which suited me fine. I parked the rig at the far end where the lights did not reach, shut down the engine, and sat there listening to the diesel ticking as it cooled. My back ached from the long haul out of Texas, but I had work to do before I tried to sleep.

I reached behind the seat for the old notebook I kept for this purpose. The pages were already filled with my handwriting from earlier stops, but I had more to add. I clicked on the small reading light above the sleeper and opened to a fresh page. The pen felt steady in my hand even though the rest of me was tired. I had been meaning to write this down for years, and now it seemed more important than ever.

I like to drive. No, I love to drive. I guess I have always loved being on the road, and that is why I have been driving a big rig since well, as long as I can remember. I decided to write this because I cannot honestly say how much longer I will be around.

Some people might call me sick, twisted, maybe even evil. Those that do have no clue about me. It might sound cliché, me being a truck driver who travels around the US highways killing people. I remember a few years back there was that sicko they called the Smiley Face Killer that picked up women in his rig and raped and killed them all across the country. I have never killed a single person that the good Lord did not want me to kill. As a matter of fact, my doing the Lord's work probably saved a few lives.

I am taking the time to write this so hopefully someone will understand. I am, or was, I guess that depends on when you are reading this, a man who only killed to keep the innocent safe. I truly believe my time is getting short and I need to tell my story before it is too late. You see, I think the last one the Lord sent me, I call him The Kid, has somehow come back and I do not think there is any stopping him from taking me. Maybe this is just God's plan, or maybe I am a fool. I will let you be the one to decide after reading this.

Growing up was interesting. My father was a pipefitter and my mother was a nurse. We traveled a lot for my father's job. We were kind of like gypsies, traveling all along the Gulf of Mexico to wherever my father's next job would land us. Highway 90 ran right along the water in those days, and I remember how the salt air mixed with the diesel fumes from the old Chevy C10. The road stretched on forever past Biloxi and into Louisiana, and I never got tired of watching the water on one side and the trees on the other.

For those that do not know, a pipefitter works in the oil and gas industry installing and repairing the pipes that keep the oil and gas flowing into the US. The oil and gas jobs are dangerous, and my father never had a problem getting work for my mom as a nurse. She would patch up the guys who got cut or burned on the rigs, and sometimes she would come back to the trailer with stories that made my father shake his head and tell her to be careful.

When she was not busy patching up guys she was busy homeschooling me. When I say homeschool I mean it was in our travel trailer. Dad had a 1972 Chevy C10 pickup and an Airstream travel trailer, the kind of trailer that looks like a big silver Twinkie. We would park that trailer at whatever site Dad was working, and Mom would set up the little table with our books right there between the bunks.

I guess I should tell you a little bit about my folks. My father was a giant of a man, easily standing six foot four and weighing in at two hundred sixty pounds. He had a thick beard and calloused hands from years of hard work. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke you listened. He was also a man of deep faith, and he instilled that faith in me from a very young age. When we drove, he would point out the beauty of the land the Lord had made and remind me that we were all just passing through on our way to something bigger.

My mother was the opposite of my father. She was small and delicate, with a soft voice and a kind heart. She was a nurse, but she was also a healer in more ways than one. She had a way of making you feel better just by being in the same room as her. She was the one who taught me how to read and write, and she was the one who taught me the importance of compassion and empathy. Between pipefitting jobs she would sit with me in the trailer and go over my lessons while Dad worked on the truck outside.

We spent most of our time on the road, traveling from one job site to another. I loved the feeling of the wind in my hair and the sound of the engine humming beneath me. I loved the way the landscape would change as we moved from one state to another, from the flat plains of Texas to the rolling hills of Louisiana. The endless stretches of Highway 90 became my classroom and my playground all at once.

I remember one time when I was about ten years old, we were driving through the mountains of New Mexico. The sun was setting, and the sky was a brilliant orange and purple. My father pulled the truck over to the side of the road, and we all got out to look at the view. I remember feeling so small and insignificant in the face of such beauty. Dad stood there with his hands on his hips, just watching the colors fade, and Mom put her arm around my shoulders. None of us said much. We did not need to.

Now I am an older man, and I still feel the weight of those years behind the wheel. The burden of the killings I believe were God's work sits heavy on my shoulders some nights. I have tried to avoid the fate of the Smiley Face Killer, who targeted women for his own sick pleasure. My victims were always chosen by the Lord, and I believe I was saving others by removing them from this world. That belief has kept me going all these years, but lately it feels harder to hold onto.

The night grew quiet except for the hum of passing trucks on the highway. I sat in the cab with my notebook open, the small light casting a yellow glow on the pages. My eyes kept drifting to the tree line beyond the rest area. Something felt off about the place. It was unnaturally empty, like someone had cleared everyone out before I arrived. The usual trucks and RVs were missing, and even the wind seemed to move differently through the pines.

I wrote a few more lines about the road and my parents before I stopped to listen again. The only sounds were the distant rumble of an eighteen wheeler and the occasional creak of my own rig settling. My mind wandered back to the last job I had done, and I wondered if The Kid really was out there somewhere. I had thought he was gone for good, but the feeling that he had come back would not leave me. It sat in my gut like a stone.

I closed the notebook for a moment and rubbed my eyes. The rest area lights flickered once and then stayed steady. I told myself I was just tired from the drive, but part of me knew better. The Kid had been my last job, and I had been sure the Lord was finished with me after that one. Now I was not so sure. Maybe the Lord had one more task for me, or maybe The Kid had other plans.

I opened the notebook again and kept writing. The words came easier once I got past the fear that always tried to creep in. I described the way the Airstream looked parked beside the old Chevy, how the aluminum sides caught the morning sun and threw it back like a mirror. I wrote about my father's quiet strength and my mother's gentle lessons. I wrote about the road that never seemed to end, no matter how many miles I put behind me.

Outside the cab the darkness pressed close. I could not see much beyond the reach of the rest area lights, but I kept glancing at the trees anyway. The feeling of being watched had grown stronger since I parked. I told myself it was nothing, just the mind playing tricks on a lonely night, but I could not shake it. The Kid was out there, or maybe he was not. Either way, I needed to finish this story while I still could.

I wrote until my hand started to cramp. The pages now held more of my life than I had ever put down before. I closed the notebook and tucked it back behind the seat. Sleep would not come easy, but I needed to try. The road would be waiting in the morning, and I had a long haul ahead of me still. I turned off the reading light and stretched out in the sleeper, listening to the quiet hum of the highway in the distance.

The rest area remained empty. No other trucks pulled in, and no doors slammed in the darkness. It was just me and the rig and whatever waited in the trees. I pulled the curtain shut and tried to rest, but my mind kept circling back to the same thought. The Kid was coming. I could feel it in my bones. Whether he was alive or something else, I did not know. All I knew was that my time felt shorter than it ever had before.