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The Devil's Freight

The two men barely spoke during the ride back to the shopping center, Buddy spending the time altering his spending plans to accommodate the additional windfall. He even toyed with the idea of using it as a down payment on a rig of his own so he could haul exclusively for Isaac and no longer be bothered with that crappy company he worked for.

“Good luck, Buddy, and thanks again for everything. I’ll be in touch, perhaps sooner than you think,” Isaac said as he pulled next to the semi, not offering to shake hands, still wearing the latex gloves. Buddy offered a salute as the silver Ford sped out to the highway.

As he climbed into the rig he paused, wondering if he had remembered to lock the doors. Maybe Matt had went out to pee and had forgotten to lock the door behind himself. The matter was quickly dismissed as he withdrew the money from the envelope while sitting behind the wheel, anxious to count it again, to fondle it lovingly, fanning it out before him like a massive hand of playing cards, each bill an ace of diamonds.

A blur of movement from the periphery of his vision was all the warning he had before a firm pressure enveloped his entire head. There was no pain, but rather a warmth as if his cranium had been snared by an organic pouch.

The pain came a second later when he made an effort to twist away. He brought up his hands, grasping a wrist of unfathomable diameter. He might as well have been trying to twist a length of an iron railroad track for all the good it did.

The blinding pressure seemed to originate from several points at once, spanning from behind his ears to his temples. It dawned on him that his head was being squeezed by a giant human hand, which was an absurd notion until he recalled the huge man in the warehouse not two hours ago. He’s a bigun ain’t he? Even bigger up close and not a mute either.

“I wouldn’t try that again, mister. I’m barely squeezing right now. You have no idea how bad it can get and I’m sure you don’t want to find out. Now, it’s best if you just relax and keep them arms in your lap.” The voice was not as Buddy expected. Not high pitched, but no Shaquille O’Neal either.

“Where’s Matt? What have you done with my son?”

“The boy is fine, I promise.”

That seemed to relax Buddy somewhat. Whether or not it was true was another matter but he wanted to believe it. Had to believe it.

The bright green pit viper Samson withdrew from the burlap sack was a native of Sri Lanka but could survive in North America if placed in the right conditions. Although quite different in appearance, the viper was a direct relative of the North American rattlesnake. Aside from its brilliant color, its chief difference was its size, which varied from twelve to eighteen inches in length; tiny compared to the big timber rattlers in the southeastern United States.

This particular specimen was barely a foot long, perfectly suited for occasions such as this. Perhaps due to their size, which so often determined the pecking order of nature’s creatures, this species of pit viper was not particularly aggressive and would generally only strike out when threatened or cornered in a confined space. But when it decided to strike, it released a venom few ever survived, for if an antidote were even available, any treatment would be ineffective after only fifteen minutes.

Buddy felt the coolness of the reptile against his flesh as Samson fed the viper head first inside the driver’s shirt collar. Buddy flinched, which earned him another squeeze of the cranium; this one sending bright white flashes of pain across his field of vision, causing him to forget, for the moment, the creature that had invaded the underneath of his clothing.

“Be still,” Samson whispered in his ear. “If your soul is pure, your body will be calm. God sees through the eyes of the serpent, just as in Eden. If your heart is dark, He will know, and you will be punished.”

This guy is a total nutcase thought Buddy. But he’s right about one thing. If I stay perfectly still the snake will leave me alone and crawl right on out of my sleeve.
Buddy’s lower back was against the seat back, causing the restless serpent to find its way into an arm pit opening, pausing momentarily. It resumed motion when Buddy shivered, genuinely frightened now, frightened as he had never been in his life.

The snake turned at the right elbow, following the arm from inside the long sleeved shirt. That’s when Buddy lost his resolve to remain absolutely still, demonstrating one reason why he never qualified for Marine sniper training. The other reason was that he just wouldn’t listen to a #### thing anybody tried to tell him.

He struck out with his left hand, slapping at the viper through the cloth. He never even felt the pair of fangs as they sunk into his flesh on his inner forearm, six inches above his wrist.

There was no need for Samson to increase pressure on his skull for the venom acted rapidly, working its magic on the central nervous system in short order. Within seconds Buddy experienced blurriness of vision and disorientation. He retained enough self-awareness to know he was in trouble, serious trouble.

Drool ran from his mouth and dripped from his chin as his fingers clenched and unclenched of their own volition.

Samson recognized the signs and released his grip of the dying man’s head. He knew he could leave now as his job was essentially done here, but never one to disobey Isaac, he waited until the man took his final breath, leaving no doubt whatsoever.
 
Isaac was standing in front of the unlit house, having just lowered the garage door for the final time, when Samson entered the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires of the Expedition.

“How is he?” Isaac asked as Samson lowered the widow and turned off the ignition.

“He’s fine, Brother Isaac. Sleeping and dreaming; good dreams I think. I didn’t use too much. I did just like you said.”

Matt’s slumber had been induced by a drug not available from any pharmacy or hospital and officially didn’t exist. According to those with knowledge of such matters, it was developed during the seventies by order of the old Soviet KGB as an interrogation tool. Rather than rendering totally unconscious, this drug puts the subject into a dreamlike state of semi-consciousness, reportedly unable to differentiate between conversation with interrogators and figures sharing his dream, supposedly resulting in truthful answers to any questions posed.

The legend goes on to say the CIA obtained the formula during the Reagan era either by stealing or buying it from a turncoat Soviet agent. The latest rumors had the drug being used at Guantanamo Bay but these stories come and go like the wind.

Isaac wasn’t concerned with the drug’s history, only its effectiveness. He was impressed with the fact that it seemed safe for use on children and had yet to observe any adverse side effects. His reputation for delivering his precious cargo was impeccable and he intended to keep it that way.

“And your little friend?”

“In the crate, Brother Isaac.”

“You know we must release him into the forest.”

“Will he survive the cold?”

“The Lord will provide for him,” Isaac said. In reality he had no concern for the well being of the freaky little snake from Sri Lanka. His concern was to not be in possession of any more evidence than necessary that would tie him to any of the mayhem he was responsible for. Having to answer questions about that God forsaken critter during a random traffic stop was a headache he could do without.

As Samson carried the crate containing the pit viper Isaac inventoried the other items from the truck in the shopping bag on the passenger seat as he slid behind the steering wheel.

Buddy’s wallet was the first thing he pulled from the bag. The investigators would discover the victim’s identity by contacting the trucking company but it never hurts to throw annoying little obstacles into the path of one’s would be pursuers.

The envelope containing the one hundred and forty hundred dollar bills was accounted for, but the most prized item of them all was the transmitter that had been discreetly attached to the underside of the cab of the red Freightliner.

As with the sleep drug, the origin of this handy little device was debatable but its performance was not. The titanium encased unit tracked Buddy’s movements in real time, relaying the information to Isaac’s smartphone, or laptop if he chose.

The GPS capability was nothing new but Isaac found the phone signal interception feature to be quite impressive. Anytime a phone was within range of the unit, in this case Buddy’s, the number of the phone was displayed, along with the numbers of any incoming or outgoing calls. Additionally, conversations could be monitored in real time with the option of recording them.

The same person that installed the nifty little device under Buddy’s floorboard also inserted the discreet cameras in the air conditioning vents on the dash. These things were accomplished while Isaac kept Matt and Buddy occupied in the diner.

“Is everything okay, Brother Isaac?” Samson asked as he sat in the modified passenger seat. The seat had been lowered and mounted an additional distance rearward, not only for the big man’s comfort, but in an effort to attract less attention from other motorists whenever the dark tinted window happened to be lowered.

Isaac had wanted Samson to obtain the shipping papers for the now missing load of whiskey. As with the deceased driver’s identity, it would serve as a minor stumbling block for the cops to wonder where the rig had last picked up or delivered. With the disabled Quallcom unit, he hoped the comings and goings of the big rig in the final hours of Buddy’s life to forever remain a mystery.

Samson returned with the truck’s registration instead. Samson never learned to read, despite Isaac’s patient teaching since they left their home town on that fateful Easter Sunday all those years ago. He could distinguish letters from numbers and apparently mistaken the serial numbers and dollar amounts on the registration for weights and quantities.

Isaac saw the hurt in his brother’s eyes when he realized, merely by the way Isaac looked at the paper, that he had made an error that had the potential to disappoint his older brother. But Isaac strived with his utmost will to never scold or to act the least bit displeased with anything Samson did.

Their father did enough of that to last a hundred lifetimes. The raised welt like scars that wrapped around Samson’s neck and ribcage from the braided leather bullwhip were a testament to the man’s suffering. The steel manacles that kept him secured to the wooden railing in the barn overnight for not meeting his daily work quota left their own set of scars as well.

“You did good, little brother. Did you make sure to get all of Matt’s belongings?”

“I did, Brother Isaac. Everything is in the suitcase with the blue bear on it. I even looked under the mattress to be sure nothing was left behind, just like you said.”

“Very well, little brother. That’s good enough for me,” Isaac said as they drove away into the night with Matt talking softly about a beautiful young Angel.
 
SIX

Jeremiah Hill had an older brother named Elijah. Just as Jeremiah had a flock putting money in the offering plate on Sunday, Elijah had a flock of his own putting money in his pocket on Saturday night. These were sometimes the same people.

Jeremiah considered his brother an unwitting tool of Satan and did not allow his name to be spoken in his presence by anyone, especially by his own family. But Isaac loved his Uncle Eli and would often spend his days at his isolated cabin when he should have been at school. He looked at him as a rogue, willing to ignore the rules of society for his personal gain.

More than a rogue he thought of him as a business man; not wealthy by most standards but not signing a time card at the railroad for seventy hours a week or descending into the dark abyss of the mines either.

Isaac learned to pilot a tractor-trailer when he was eighteen years old by hijacking an old White Road Commander out of Knoxville, Tennessee. He held an unloaded .32 caliber revolver to the driver’s head as the man was unlocking his door at the old K-Town Truck Plaza east of the city. It just so happened to be a load of whiskey on board destined for Montgomery, Alabama.

After observing everything the driver did for a few hours, Isaac felt confident he could handle the rig as good as anybody. He put out the unfortunate driver along a barren stretch of US Highway 41 south of Chattanooga, Tennessee, down on the Georgia state line, leaving the man enough money for a meal and keeping the rest for fuel.

He had heard there were quite a few dry counties in Georgia, with the Southern Babtists still maintaining a strong foothold. What better place to unload his illicit freight than somewhere that craved the forbidden fruit?

The small town of Elijay seemed as good a place as any to start and his hunch paid off. The three men sitting on the steps of the old general store had a brown bag resting by their feet. He had seen them passing it around from a distance and now one of them attempted to hide it behind his leg when he parked the truck and began walking over to them.

Seeing him get out of the rig, the men knew Isaac wasn’t a cop but they were still apprehensive of a stranger in these parts, especially under the circumstances.

After a few minutes of some meaningless ****-chat Isaac said “Well, I’m hurt that you boys ain’t offered me a swig of that ‘shine. I ain’t no stranger to it, being from Harlan County, Kentucky, and I #### sure ain’t no cop.”

A look passed between the three men and the brown back containing the Mason jar of Georgia’s finest corn liquor was passed to Isaac. He hated the stuff but bravely took down a swallow with nary a wince. After some more meaningful conversation and a second swallow he seemed to build some rapport with the fellows. He declined a third hit, explaining he had miles to drive overnight and didn’t want a confrontation with the police. They nodded silently in agreement.

Isaac finally got down to it, explaining bluntly what he wanted to do, though not mentioning exactly how much liquor he had in his possession. After what seemed like an eternity one of the men rose to his feet wordlessly and entered the store. He apparently left through a back door, for he returned an hour later riding in the passenger seat of an old black Plymouth sedan. The car rode on stiff springs and the dual exhaust pipes gave off an authoritative rumble, even at idle.
 
The driver of the Plymouth was a hard looking man with a hand rolled cigarette planted into a corner of his mouth. The brim of a black felt hat was pulled low on his brow, his elbow hanging over the top of the door. He motioned with an abbreviated three fingered motion for Isaac to approach the sedan. As he neared, Isaac realized the man’s little finger was missing, as was most of his left ear.

The man motioned with a twist of his head for Isaac to get in the passenger side of the front seat as the fellow from the steps got out of the car.

“Look here, mister. I ain’t no dumb hillbilly here to play games and don’t be thinkin’ you gonna roll me neither,” Isaac told the man, pulling up the front of his shirt to reveal the handle of the pistol protruding from the waist of his trousers.

“I ain’t thought no such a thing, boy. Now git your skinny ### in the car and I think me and you will get along just fine.”

They never exchanged names. Isaac knew him from that point on as the man with the black hat and he thought of Isaac as the boy from Kentucky.

The man with the black hat paid fifteen cents on the dollar of the shelf price of the Jim Beam, cash money. After it was unloaded he took Isaac to another man who would paint the stolen rig, having it ready by sunrise. Over half of Isaac’s cash went to the paint job, but he considered himself way ahead of where he started.

The painter worked out of a faded red barn miles from anywhere. He was popular with the region’s moonshiners and Isaac could see why. He slept on a cot in the corner of the barn while the man worked through the night by the light of several kerosene lanterns.

The man woke Isaac at first light, offering him coffee in a ceramic cup from a battered tin pot on the ancient woodstove.

Isaac was astounded at the appearance of the stolen truck. The lackluster brown finish could have been painted half a dozen years ago. Nobody would give it a second glance. He understood immediately how this would be beneficial to a bootlegger who had been recently pursued by the law wanting a new look but not wanting to be obvious about it.

The man with the black hat and the boy from Kentucky developed a business relationship that lasted quite a few years. Isaac soon came off the road and generally had two or three drivers in his employ using variations of his initial heist. He had steady customers as far west as Mississippi and even ventured as far north as Pennsylvania.

But the law enforcement agencies picked up on patterns and began laying traps for the big rig bootleggers. Isaac shut down the operation when one of his men lost his life in a shootout with the Tennessee State Police. Ironically, this occurred at the K-Town Truck Plaza in Knoxville where Isaac initially launched his prosperous enterprise.
 
RR, you posted some other stories here, but I can't seem to find them. Did they get purged awhile back when the forum changed?
 
Jud Kowoski was Isaac’s senior driver. He was smart, ambitious, and trustworthy. Jud set up this deal himself and Isaac gave it his stamp of approval.

Not rushing things, Jud felt safe dealing with the driver he had known going on six months. The deal was simple, much like with Buddy decades later. The two men met at an abandoned tobacco warehouse in Tazewell, Tennessee and moved the cases from one trailer to the other using hand trucks. Jud was in a clean truck; one bought legitimately by Isaac with proper plates and registration. It had never been used before and would never be recognized.

But Jud was set up like a bowling pin. The other driver was a paid informant.

After paying for forty gallons of Hi-Test diesel Jud parked behind the diner before going in for a slice of apple pie washed down with black coffee.

His waitress, Karen, did not seem to be her usual self; not responding to his customary flirting, barely making eye contact. He finally asked her what was wrong. Rather than reply, she bit her lower lip as she turned her back on him.

Frustrated, Jud rose from his chair, left some money beside his plate, including his usual tip, and walked to the back door, giving him direct access to his truck.

“Watch yourself out there, Jud!” Karen yelled at his back as he opened the door. He turned around only to see her dart back into the kitchen. Shaking his head, he stepped out into the semi-darkness of the ongoing sunset.

As he approached the red Diamond Reo a man appeared from around the corner of his trailer to his right, a small revolver in one hand, while another showed himself from the corner of the diner bearing a bolt action rifle.

It was evident to Jud that nobody would be yelling “stop or I’ll shoot” and neither man was displaying a badge.

He cursed himself for leaving his piece in the truck but he had always thought of the old diner as a safe haven. The two men weren’t playing around and began closing in fast. Jud broke into a sprint, covering the last nine feet to the truck’s step in two strides. He counted four shots, a habit he picked up in Korea, by the time he grabbed the chrome door handle. One of the rounds tore through his right calf, while another nicked his left elbow before shattering the door glass.

Jud scooped up the Army issue .45 from between the twin shifters in a smooth motion, racking the slide as he fell backwards, tucking himself into a ball as he hit the ground, rolling toward the diner’s wall, desperately seeking cover but there was none.

Knowing his fate was sealed, Jud was doing all the damage he could on the way out. A blur from his peripheral vision told him the guy with the little revolver was standing over him. A man with limited options takes the one most available.

The first fat slug to leave the pistol tore into the assailants gut. Jud made no effort to modulate his rate of fire or control barrel rise. He merely squeezed the trigger as rapidly as he could, each shot finding a higher target. The soft point rounds decimated lungs, heart, and throat before number six entered the right nostril at an upward trajectory, exited the top of the skull, spraying blood and brain matter across the red brick of the diner’s back wall.

Bullet number seven was still in the chamber when a .30 caliber round from the bolt action rifle slammed into Jud’s left temple from a distance of three feet.

*
 
Last edited by a moderator:
RacerX69 said:
RR, you posted some other stories here, but I can't seem to find them. Did they get purged awhile back when the forum changed?
Click to expand...
I'm sure they evaporated into the ethernet, which would explain my post count going from 5000 to 500. It seems only posts in certain forums survived.
 
Isaac was at his home in Corbin, Kentucky having iced tea on his front porch with another of his drivers, Billy Banks, when the local sheriff turned into his driveway from the state road.

Billy was one of several men on Isaac’s tobacco account. They hauled tobacco from various farms to the cigarette factory in Louisville and got the occasional load of the finished products to distributors in the southeast. It gave Isaac the cover of legitimacy and a way to launder the cash from his more lucrative enterprises.

The sheriff adjusted his western style hat after unfolding his six feet, three inch frame from the late model Chevrolet Impala, glossy from being waxed and polished by inmates at the county jail.

He didn’t remove his mirrored sunglasses until he was within the shade of the house, the pre noon sun having yet to crest the roofline.

“Howdy, Sheriff,” Isaac said. “Care for some sweet tea?” He didn’t know the sheriff well but knew the look of a man on the reluctant mission of delivering bad news.

“No, sir, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Billy here hasn’t been coming off Raccoon Pass runnin’ ninety miles an hour again has he?”

“No, sir, I ain’t got any bad reports on Billy in a good while. It’s about another of your drivers. Jud Kowoski.”

Isaac fought the panic he felt upon hearing that name emanating from the sheriff’s lips. This can’t be good.

“I’ll get right to it. He was killed in a gunfight with the police after he got caught with a batch of stolen whiskey. They said it was the damnedest thing. Said they told him to come out of the truck with his hands up and he just come out blazing. He shot a deputy in cold blood, so it didn’t leave them much choice but to put him down. I understand he was in Korea and I know all about that God forsaken hell hole. Who knows? Maybe the fella just snapped. It happens.”

Isaac was trying to absorb what he was hearing. It didn’t add up. Jed was the most rational person he knew. He would fight if cornered but he wasn’t suicidal.

“This is terrible news. He sure had me fooled. You always take a chance hiring drivers off the street, the way some folks lie about their past. I sent him down to Georgia to pick up a load of peanuts. How in the world could I expect something like this to happen?”

“I promise nobody around here would hold it against you, Mr. Isaac. You’re a respected business man in these parts and had no way of predicting something like this could happen.”

“I appreciate that, Sheriff. This whole thing comes as a shock to me. I just don’t know what to say.”

“I understand. I really do. I have a telegram here from the Sheriffs Office in Knoxville. It has the address of where your truck is and who you need to see down there.”

*
 
RickyRicardo said:
I'm glad you are enjoying it. I

Long dumb story but I did have that post on here twice. I don't know how to completely delete so had to type at least 10 characters.
Click to expand...

You have to go into advanced edit to get to the delete post option.

Well at least that is how it used to work. Looks like that option is no longer available.

Used to be though.

I just tried it and it no longer exists.
 
When I saw The Devil's Freight I thought for sure this thread was gonna be about Sunsetter retractable awnings
 
“Come on, Billy. You always wanted to drive that Ford coupe, so now’s your chance,” Isaac told his driver, handing him a set of keys. “I need to get something out of the house. I’ll meet you up here.”

Isaac first walked out to the stables where Samson was tending to the horses, his favorite activity. It seemed to Isaac that his brother felt comfortable around the large creatures in part because their size made him feel less out of place then he did around people.

“Baby brother, I’m going on an errand and taking Billy Banks with me. We may not be back before sunrise tomorrow so don’t worry over us. I’m leaving you in charge.”
The last statement brought a rare smile, albeit small, from Samson.

“Okay Brother Isaac. Be careful. I love you.”

Isaac went through the back door of the house to meet Billy out front, stopping in his bedroom for two firearms; a polished .44 Magnum Colt with a seven inch barrel and a cut down Remington 12 gauge with pistol grip.

Billy was idling the black coupe where the Sheriff was parked barely minutes earlier after bringing the car up from the garage.

“Whoa, boss, are we going off to war?” Billy asked, upon seeing the armaments Isaac brought into the vehicle.

“We’re just going to get a truck, providing it’s not too shot up to drive back. They got the drop on poor old Jud but I guarantee them son of a ####### ain’t getting the drop on us. You need not come with me if you’re not prepared for what might happen. I’ll not hold it against you if that’s your choice.”

“There ain’t no choice but to go, boss. Jud was my friend. Something else and I hope I ain’t speaking out of line but I could smell the horse #### coming off the sheriff’s story.”

“I could smell it too, Billy. I lied to the sheriff about not knowing anything about Jud. The man was a certified hero. He earned a Silver Star, two Bronze Stars, and a Purple Heart when that shrapnel blew his eyeball out and he refused to come home. He’s credited with seventy-six confirmed kills, North Korean and Red Chinese troops both, some with a bayonet or his bare hands when he ran out of ammo.

“Now what’s that tell you? It tells me he wasn’t dumb enough to do something as stupid as what they claimed he did. And I know no two-bit Tennessee cops would last two seconds against that man in a firefight. I’ll never prove it but he was ambushed pure and simple.”

Billy was in awe of Jud’s war record. In spite of their friendship, Jud had never shared this information. Isaac only discovered it by accident when Jud asked him to sign a letter from the Veterans Administration concerning employment when he was applying for medical benefits.

“I think we should bring him back and bury him proper at the Veterans cemetery. I don’t think he has any family, none I know about anyway.”

“We can do that, Billy. He would be proud to know what kind of friend you were for him.”

Billy set his jaw and narrowed his eyes as he revved the motor, preparing to take off, then looked over at Isaac for approval.

“Go ahead son. Drive it like you own it, just get us to Knoxville in one piece.”

The V-8 Ford engine was bored out to accommodate oversized pistons and dual four barrel carburetors nestled beneath the air cleaner. The transmission was a rare four speed unit with a floor mounted shifter. The gun metal gray paint was believed to be stealthier than black for night time running for it reflected less ambient light.

Isaac bought the car from an associate in Black Mountain, North Carolina. The old moonshiner hated to part with it but he feared it was becoming too familiar in the area and turned his old friend loose.

Billy nearly got the car sideways as he accelerated on the blacktop. Embarrassed, he kept a lighter foot on the throttle as he familiarized himself with power he had never at his disposal. He soon found his stride and set sail down US Highway 25 south, passing everything in sight, the Ford’s large diameter exhaust pipes echoing their sweet song against the mountain walls.

It took just under two hours to cover over a hundred miles of two lane mountain roads, including a stop for gas in Jellico, Tennessee.

*
 
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