"You see him? You see what kind of rig he had?"
"A definite shit-no negative on that, I was fighting to keep the road. The man aint human."
"Ah, maybe not, Toby Trucker, maybe not. Never copied him myself, but I talked with a dozen guys who have in the last couple weeks."
"Ahh, maybe you'll catch him tonight."
"Long as he don't catch me."
"Got a point there, Alabama Rebel. Ahhhh, I seem to be losing you here — "
"io-4. Coming up to that Lincoln town, buddy, I thank you kindly for the information and ah, I hope you stay out of trouble in that big 0 town and maybe we'll modulate again some night. This is that Alabama Rebel, over and out."
"This is Toby Trucker, eastbound, night now."
Westbound on 8o is a light-stream, ruby-strung big rigs rolling straight into the heart of Nebraska. Up close they are a river in breakaway flood, bouncing and pitching and yawing, while a mile distant they are slow-oozing lava. To their left is the eastbound stream, up ahead the static glare of Lincoln. Lights. The world in black and white and red, broken only by an occasional blue flasher strobing the ranger hat of a state policeman. Smokey the Bear's campfire. Westbound 8o is an insomniac world of lights passing lights to the music of the Citizens Band.
"This-that Arkansas Traveler, this that Arkansas Traveler, do you copy?"
"How bout that Scorpio Ascending, how bout that Scorpio Ascending, you out there, buddy?"
"This is Chromedome at that 425 marker, who's that circus wagon up ahead? Who's that old boy in the Mrs. Smith's piepusher?"
They own the highway at night, the big rigs, slip-streaming in caravans, hopscotching to take turns making the draft, strutting the thousands of dollars they've paid in road taxes on their back ends. The men feel at home out here, they leave their cross-eyed headlights eating whiteline, forget their oily-aired, kidney-jamming cabs to talk out in the black air, to live on the Band.
"This is Roadrunner, westbound at 420, any you eastbound people fill me in on the Smokies up ahead?"
"Ahh, copy you, Roadrunner, she's been dean all the way from that Grand Island town, so motormotor."
(A moving van accelerates.)
"How bout that Roadrunner, this is Overload up to 424, that you behind me?"
(The van's headlights blink up and down.)
"Well come on up, buddy, let's put the hammer down on this thing."
The voices are nasal and tinny, broken by squawks, something human squeezed through wire. A decade of televised astronauts gives them their style and self-importance.
"Ahh, breaker, Overload, we got us a code blue here. There's a four-wheeler coming up fast behind me, might be a Bear wants to give us some green stamps."
"Breaker break, Roadrunner. Good to have you at the back door. We'll hold her back awhile, let you check out that four-wheeler."
(The big rigs slow and the passenger car pulls alongside of them.)
"Ahh, negative on that Bear, Overload, it's just a civilian. Fella hasn't heard bout that five-five limit."
"10-4 and motormotor."
(Up front now, the car is nearly whooshed off the road when the big rigs blow past. It wavers a moment, then accelerates to try and take them, but can only make it alongside before they speed up. The car falls back, then tries again.)
"Ah, look like we got us a problem, Roadrunner. This uh, Vega — whatever it is, some piece of Detroit shit, wants to play games."
"Looks like it, Overload."
"Don't know what a four-wheeler is doing on the Innerstate this time of night anyhow. Shunt be allowed out with us working people. You want to give me a hand on this, Roadrunner?"
"10-4. I'll be the trapper, you be the sweeper. What we got ahead?"
"There's an exit up to the 402 marker. This fucker gets off the ride at Beaver Crossing."
(The trucks slow and the car passes them, honking, cutting sharp to the inside lane. They let it cruise for a moment, then the lead rig pulls alongside of it and the second closes up behind, inches from the car's rear fender. The car tries to run but they stay with it, boxing it, then pushing it faster and faster till the sign appears ahead on the right and the lead truck bulls to the inside, forcing the car to squeal off onto the exit ramp.)
"Mission accomplished there, Roadrunner."
"Roger."
They have their own rules, the big rigs, their own road and radio etiquette that is tougher in its way than the Smokies' law. You join the club, you learn the rules, and woe to the man who breaks them.
"All you westbound! All you westbound! Keep your ears peeled up ahead for that you-know-who! He's on the loose again tonight! Ryder P. Moses!"
There is a crowding of channels, a buzzing on the airwaves. Ryder P. Mosesl
"Who?"
"Ryder P. Moses! Where you been, trucker?"
"Who is he?"
"Ryder -1"
"crazy — "
"weird — "
/.P. -l„
"dangerous — "
"probly a cop — "
"Moses!"
"He's out there tonightl"
"I copied him going eastbound."
"I copied him westbound."
"I copied him standing still on an overpass."
Ryder P. Moses!
On 8o tonight. Out there somewhere. Which set of lights, which channel, is he listening? Does he know we know?
What do we know?
Only.that he's been copied on and around 8o every night for a couple weeks now and that he's a terminal case of the heebie-jeebs, he's an overdose of strange. He's been getting worse and worse, wilder and wilder, breaking every trucker commandment and getting away with it. Ryder P. Moses, he says, no handle, no Gutslinger or Green Monster or Oklahoma Crude, just Ryder P. Moses. No games with the Smokies, no hide-and-seek, just an open challenge. This is Ryder P. Moses eastbound at 260, going ninety per, he says. Catch me if you can. But the Smokies can't, and it bugs the piss out of them, so they're thick as flies along Nebraska 8o, hunting for the crazy son, nailing poor innocent everyday truckers poking at seventy-five. Ryder P. Moses. Memorizes your license, your make, and your handle, then describes you from miles away, when you can't see another light on the entire plain, and tells you he's right behind you, watch out, here he comes right up your ass, watch out watch out! Modulating from what must be an illegal amount of wattage, coming on sometimes with "Ici Radio Canada" and gibbering phony frog over the CB, warning of ten-truck pileups and collapsed overpasses that never appear, leading truckers to put the hammer down right into a Smokey with a picture machine till nobody knows who to believe over the Band anymore. Till conversations start with "I am not now nor have I ever been Ryder P. Moses." A truck driver's gremlin that everyone has either heard or heard about, but no one has ever seen.
"Who is this Ryder P. Moses? Int that name familiar?"
"Wunt he that crazy independent got hisself shot up during the Troubles?"
"Wunt he a leg-breaker for the Teamsters?"
"Dint he use to be with P.I.E.?"
"Allied?"
"Continental Freightways?"
"drive a 25oo-gallon oil tanker?"
run liquor during Prohibition?"
"run nylons during the War?"
"run turkeys during Christmas?"
"Int that the guy? Sure it is."
"Short fella."
"Tall guy."
"Scar on his forehead, walks with a limp, left-hand index finger is missing."
"Sure, right, wears a leather jacket."
"and a down vest."
"and a lumber jacket and a Hawaiian shirt and a crucifix round his neck."
"Sure, that's the fella, medium height, always dressed in black. Ryder P. Moses."
"Dint he die a couple years back?"
"Sheeit, they aint no such person an never was."