Said To Contain

This particular truck stop was your typical Bumfuck Egypt middle-of-nowhere joint -- not a big name operation like Flying J or Pilot. That was fine by me; I figured the fewer people I had to deal with, the less likely it was that I would run in to a purple-eyed bandit.

  Everyone seemed to freeze when I walked into the small shop... under normal circumstances, it would've qualified as the strangest thing that had ever happened to me. I might as well have marched in with a shotgun and recited my favorite line from They Live... for the unenlightened among you, that line was I have come here to kick ass and chew bubblegum; and I'm all out of bubblegum.

  Come to think of it, Roddy Piper's character in that flick was faced with something a lot like what I was going through; except he needed sunglasses to see the nasty alien folk... they seemed to just come right out at me, no visual aid needed.

  Thinking about what happened to him didn't make me feel any better about things... he basically sacrificed himself to destroy a satellite dish, disrupting the signal that allowed his aliens to go undetected to the general public. I'll never forget the last shot of that picture... big blonde '80's chick is riding some dude when she looks down to see that he's all blue and ugly -- she looks scared half to death, and dude says What's wrong, baby? If you haven't seen it, hit it up on Netflix or something... definitely worth the ninety-minute investment.

  Back in my world, though, there I was; standing in the middle of this shop with all kinds of deep south hillbillies staring at me like they'd seen the visage of Jesus Christ himself. I tried to pay no mind, power walking back to the restroom and taking a load off while I thought about what I was gonna do next.

  Afterwards, I grabbed myself a nice big bottle of Gatorade and marched it up to the checkout -- everyone still looking at me like I had the plague. I looked each of them over, checking to see that their eyes still showed in colors that were natural and otherwise indistinct. Putting the drink down on the counter, I looked up at the female attendant, wondering if she could pick her jaw off the floor long enough to ring me out.

  "Something wrong?" I asked after a few awkward seconds of us staring blankly at each other.

  She didn't speak a word; simply scanned my bottle and put her hand out for payment. I gave her two bucks (Gatorade clearly isn't made in China) and waited equally as long for my change as I had for a greeting.

  When she finally handed me my receipt, I turned to leave -- returning the favor by not saying a damned thing. That's when I saw it; a flyer posted prominently on the exit door... there was one on the entrance door too, I don't know how I had missed it.

  Wanted, it said, For Questioning In Multiple Homicides... Randy Johnston, last seen headed East on I-10 out of Oceanside, California. Presumed destination: Cape Canaveral, Florida. If you see this man, please contact General Richard Tomlinson, United States Army.

  There was a phone number, and the ugliest damn picture of myself that I'd ever seen. It wasn't unfamiliar; it was on my driver's license. I tried to forget it existed, though, because I looked like David Lee Roth on a bad hair day after diving lessons in The Great Shit Sea. It was definitely me, though -- that's probably what had these people so spooked.

  "Don't worry!" I said as I peeled the copy off of the exit. "I'm callin' on myself here in just a minute!"

  Tomlinson, I thought... that's the big wig himself! Hughes could give a hell of a pep talk, but maybe this big-bad General could answer a few questions for me that might make my choice a little easier; like how we could hope to save Sammy from The Phloxans if I decided to press on for Florida.

  There was a payphone just outside the door, so I picked up the receiver and dialed the number listed. It rang for a good long time -- I nearly hung up. Eventually, a man answered.

  "This is Butler, have you seen Randy Johnston?" He said rather quickly -- must faster than us southerners are used to.

  "I'll do ya' one better, I am Randy Johnston!" I replied.

  There was a long pause before he continued, apparently I'd caught him off guard. "Is this a prank call? Listen, this phone number belongs to the Federal Government, I wouldn't be playing these games if I --"

  "This is no game, sir!" I said firmly. "I need to talk to General Tomlinson right away, could you get me in touch with him please?"

  "General Tomlinson?" He returned, sounding like I'd just asked for President Kennedy. "General Tomlinson is dead! Now who is this?"

  I was shaken by this revelation... I didn't even know the man, but I was horrified at the concept that he had been taken out. He was supposed to be the big cheese... the key to any potential victory. "Dead? How?"

  "It's not important." He cut me off. "If this is Randy Johnston, could you give me your MC number, please?"

  "6324117." I replied, providing him with the ID issued to my company by the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration.

  "Your birth date, social security number, and mother's maiden name?"

  I answered, only to be barraged with another set of questions about myself that were so obscure I was barely sure I knew the answers myself. Apparently I got them right, though, because he was eventually satisfied that I was really me. We went in to a rapid-fire back-and-forth volley of questions and answers, any change in his emotion very difficult to detect throughout the monotone exchange.

  "Mister Johnston, what is your exact location?" He asked matter-of-factly.

  "I'm, ummm--" I began, looking around at the scenery of this little hole in the wall. "I'm out here... that's about as much as I want to tell you right now."

  "What is the state of your cargo, Mister Johnston?"

  "Melting!" I answered.

  "You're joking?"

  "Hell no! Something happened to my reefer! I don't know if it just happened, or if those purple-eyed fucks did it!"

  "What was the temperature in your box when you last checked?"

  "It was in the fifties, I think."

  "Has there been any --" He paused. "Movement, that you've noticed?"

  "Not yet."

  "You mentioned people with purple eyes -- have you encountered them?"

  "Encountered isn't the right word, sir!"

  "Are you injured?"

  "No."

  "Have they been trying to kill you?"

  "Not exactly."

  "What does that mean, Mister Johnston? I need a yes or no answer, please."

  "Well -- no, I guess. They've got my boy, though -- killed his mother and step-father."

  "Boys name"

  "Sammy Johnston."

  "Last known location?"

  "Tampa..."

  "How do you know they have him?"

  "A woman I know called me... said she would hurt him if I didn't do what she wanted me to. I could hear him in the background."

  "I won't lie to you, Randy, your son is in great danger -- and so are you."

  "I know! That's why I called, I was hoping that you could--"

  "Listen very closely, Mister Johnston." He interrupted. "The plans have changed, The Cape isn't a suitable drop location for your cargo; we've made new arrangements for unloading, at a facility just outside of Dallas."

  "What?"

  "Wherever you are, whatever you're doing -- for the safety of yourself and your son, I need you to head to Dallas immediately and take your load to the following address; are you ready to write it down?"

  "What the fuck is this?" I cried. "You're one of them?"

  "One of whom, Randy?"

  "You're a Phloxan! A God Damn Phloxan!"

  "How do you know that term, Mister Johnston? Who have you been speaking with?"

  "You've done it again!" I shouted. "You've gone and pissed me right off! Agent Hughes told me you were tricky fucks! I've got a surprise for you, though -- this load ain't goin' to Dallas!"

  "Agent who?"

  "We're gonna shove this giant right up your ass! Nobody threatens my son and lives, you filthy creep!" I slammed the phone back on
its hook, hearing the stranger carrying on until the line was cut off.

  My decision was made; I was pressing on for Cape Canaveral. Not because I'd thought it over and considered all of the options; but simply because I hated The Phloxans. Every interaction I had with them showed them to be the most underhanded, conniving, deceitful and downright evil sons of bitches I had ever come in contact with.

  I was raised on respect and integrity, and these creatures clearly had none of either. I realized that I just couldn't make a deal with the likes of them, regardless of what was at stake. They seemed like the types that would shake your hand, then stab you in the back as soon as you turned away. Randy Johnston doesn't play poker with The Devil; never had before, didn't plan to start now.

  Hughes seemed convinced that they were all powerful and all knowing, yet we were evading them at every turn! How? So far as I was concerned, it was the power of Almighty God! I'm not an overly religious man, but I believe in the name of The Lord, Jesus Christ -- he had seen me through some tough times before, and I was confident at this point that he would get me through this mess that I'd found my way in to.

  I said a little prayer as I turned back towards Big Red with conviction in my heart, asking the good Lord for his guidance and protection in the hours to come. With General Tomlinson dead and a filthy Phloxan filling the shoes of this Butler that had taken over for him, Evander Hughes and I were the only hope that Mankind had. All the while, my little boy was being held over the breach by those monsters.

  Damn them, I prayed... damn them for what they are, for what they've done! God, give me the strength to stand in the face of this evil! Give my Sammy the courage to face whatever might come with his eyes open wide! Should he be alive when I reach Cape Canaveral, walk at my side and give me the power to overcome these demons that would seek to harm such an innocent child!

  I slammed the door behind me when I climbed back behind the wheel of Big Red. Hughes was looking over at me ominously in the blue glow of the cab, his brown eyes as determined as mine while he no-doubt wondered what I had decided to do.

  "So --" He began. "What's it gonna be? Make sure you've chosen the right side to support, brother."

  "We're going to Florida, damn it!" I announced as I slammed against the grinding gears in preparation to roll. "Let's get these motherfuckers!"

  "Great, Randy!" He cheered. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear!"

  I pushed in the valves to release the parking brakes and started my old girl rolling. She moved through the gears like butter, apparently on our side as well in this bold venture. I turned her hard towards the exit, racing towards destiny and all that awaited on the road beyond.

  That's when it happened... there was a deep pothole, obscured in the darkness, just beyond the sloped concrete that led us onto the I-10 service drive. This was one of those ridiculous rim-bending holes that could just about swallow a small car, if it were to drive in just right.

  Rolling as fast as we were, we got quite a jolt out of it... my seat bounced up and down on its cushion of air violently as I was tossed around like the crew of the USS Enterprise in a brutal battle with their nemesis, Khan. Everything in my truck that wasn't bolted in place slid and jumped around, making a hell of a racket in the process.

  Hughes wasn't immune to the chaos; his seat was bolted right to the floor, without an air-ride rig, so the shock tossed him into the air for a moment before slamming him back down unceremoniously.

  Just as he landed on his second bounce, a distinct pop sounded out suddenly. In the midst of the wild ride, I saw a missile erupt from my dash in the corner of my eye... it was little blue Jesus, its fiery blue heart fading to black as it flew towards my passenger seat, just as it had when I ran over The Phloxans at The Booby Trap. Of course, there hadn't been anyone riding shotgun, the first time...

  The pop was followed quickly by a whap, as the plastic Messiah struck Hughes right in the face. I had my foot over the clutch when we hit, the tossing of my body causing me to step on it as I simultaneously pulled the gear shift into neutral while trying to hold on. I quickly stomped on the brake to keep the weight of the now-inclined load from pushing us right across the road and on to the far shoulder. I brought the rig to a dead stop so that I could regain control.

  When the dust settled, I looked over at Hughes; holding his hand over his left cheek in shock at the assault he had endured. He lifted his foot high and slammed it down to the floor, crushing Jesus underneath his fancy loafers with a crunch.

  "You okay?" I asked as he rubbed at his eye.

  I noticed there was something on his knee; the left one, closest to me. It was a small, transparent half-sphere that looked concave and moist... what was it? By God, it looked -- like a contact lens.

  "It didn't have to be this hard, Randy." He said, still tending to his eye. "We wouldn't have hurt your son -- not yet, at least!"

  Dropping his hand, he looked directly at me -- bringing about the most devastating turn of events that I could've ever imagined... his right eye was still brown; as it had been since we met -- but his left was not... it was purple -- fucking purple!

  "That asshole Tomlinson had to get himself involved!" He barked, his voice taking on an almost demonic tone as spittle flew from his mouth. "You see what it got him, Randy? What standing in our way caused to happen to him? We won't be stopped!"

  Then, he swung... the world went black. He was a powerful man -- put me out like a light.

  Chapter 22