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  Then I understood, and understood good. Right there in the car I grabbed her, took her by the throat and cracked her head against the windshield, pressed her back, choked, released, choked, made it linger. By this time I was quite a pro. She coughed, choked, smiled. Her eyes swung from fear to love. God it was wonderful and beautiful and the finest experience we had ever shared.

  When she finally lay still there in the seat, I was trembling, happier than I had ever been. Gloria looked fine, her eyes rolled up, her lips stretched in a rictus smile.

  I kept her like that at my place for days, kept her in my bed until the neighbors started to complain about the smell.

  I've been talking to this guy and he's got some ideas. Says he thinks I'm one of the future generation, and the fact of that scares him all to hell. A social mutation, he says. Man's primitive nature at the height of the primal scream.

  Dog shit, we're all the same, so don't look at me like I'm some kind of freak. What does he do come Monday night? He's watching the football game, or the races or boxing matches, waiting for a car to overturn or for some guy to be carried out of the ring with nothing but mush left for brains. Oh, yeah, he and I are similar, quite alike. You see, it's in us all. A low pitch melody not often heard, but there just the same. In me it peaks and thuds, like drums and brass and strings. Don't fear it. Let it go. Give in to the beat and amplify. I tell you it's love of the finest kind.

  So I've said my piece and I'll just add this: when they fasten my arms and ankles down and tighten the cap, I hope I feel the pain and delight in it before my brain sizzles to bacon, and may I smell the frying of my very own flesh. . . .

  Author's Note on Pilots (Written with Dan Lowry)

  Dan Lowry came up with this story, talked about it forever, but he couldn't seem to get around to writing it. I listened to him tell me about it, and how he wanted to do it, and one day, at my house, I cornered him. I said, write it, man.

  He didn't.

  I said, want to write it together?

  He liked the idea.

  We worked on it together at my kitchen table, then he went home and worked on it on his own, and I did the same, and we took the best of what we were doing and made a story. I did a draft, gave it to Dan for the same. Then I did a polish.

  Sent it to Twilight Zone.

  I knew it was a sure sale.

  It wasn't. But T. E. D. Klein, the editor at TZ, thought it would make a great movie.

  We sent it out a few more places, but, no dice.

  I put it in a drawer and pretty much forgot about it until one day Ed Gorman asked if I had anything for a book he was putting together called Stalkers.

  I knew this was perfect for that book, but, my hopes weren't high. So far, no one had really shown any interest. Our best response was from Klein, about how it would make a neat movie.

  Ed liked it, bought it, and it appeared in Stalkers. Since that time it's been on audio, been reprinted a bit, and there's been a great comic book adaptation, and a new adaptation is in the works.

  There was even a bit of film interest, but, alas, it collapsed.

  I believe T. E. D. Klein, or Ted, as most everyone knows him, was right.

  It would make a neat film.

  Bottom line. It's a tribute to the pulps and was written during the height of the CB craze, which is why there's so much CB lingo.

  Pilots

  (Written with Dan Lowry)

  Micky was at it again. His screams echoed up the fuselage, blended with the wind roaring past the top gunner port. The Pilot released Sparks from his radio duty long enough to send him back to take care of and comfort Micky.

  The day had passed slowly and they had passed it in the hanger, listening to the radios, taking turns at watch from the tower, making battle plans. Just after sundown they got into their gear and took off, waited high up in cover over the well-traveled trade lanes. Waited for prey.

  Tonight they intended to go after a big convoy. Get as many kills as they could, then hit the smaller trade lanes later on, search out and destroy. With luck their craft would be covered with a horde of red kill marks before daybreak. At the thought of that, the Pilot formed the thing he used as a mouth into a smile. He was the one who painted the red slashes on the sides of their machine (war paint), and it was a joy to see them grow. It was his hope that someday they would turn the craft from black to red.

  Finally the Pilot saw the convoy. He called to Sparks.

  In the rear, Micky had settled down to sobs and moans, had pushed the pain in the stumps of his legs aside, tightened his will to the mission at hand.

  As Sparks came forward at a stoop, he reached down and patted Ted, the turret gunner, on the flight jacket, then settled back in with the radio.

  "It's going to be a good night for hunting," Sparks said to the Pilot. "I've been intercepting enemy communiqués. There must be a hundred in our operational area. There are twelve in the present enemy convoy, sir. Most of the state escorts are to the north, around the scene of last night's sortie."

  The Pilot nodded, painfully formed the words that came out of his fire-gutted throat. "It'll be a good night, Sparks. I can feel it."

  "Death to the enemy," Sparks said. And the words were repeated as one by the crew.

  So they sat high up, on the overpass, waiting for the convoy of trucks to pass below.

  "This is the Tulsa Tramp. You got the Tulsa Tramp. Have I got a copy there? Come back."

  "That's a big 10-4, Tramp. You got the L.A. Flash here."

  "What's your 20, L.A.?"

  "East bound and pounded down on this I-20, coming up on that 450 marker. How 'bout yourself, Tramp?"

  "West bound for Dallas town with a truck load of cakes. What's the Smokey situation? Come back?"

  "Got one at the Garland exit. Big ole bear. How's it look over your shoulder?"

  "Got it clear, L.A., clear back to that Hallsville town. You got a couple County Mounties up there at the Owentown exit. Where's all the super troopers?"

  "Haven't you heard, Tramp?"

  "Heard what, L. A.? Come back."

  "Up around I-30, that Mount Pleasant town. Didn't you know about Banana Peel?"

  "Don't know Banana Peel. Come back with it."

  "Black Bird got him."

  "Black Bird?"

  "You have been out of it."

  "Been up New York way for a while, just pulled down and loaded up at Birmingham, heading out to the West Coast."

  "Some psycho's knocking off truckers. Banana Peel was the last one. Someone's been nailing us right and left. Banana Peel's cab was shot to pieces, just like the rest. Someone claims he saw the car that got Banana Peel. A black Thunderbird, all cut down and rigged special. Over-long looking. Truckers have got to calling it the Black Bird. There's even rumor it's a ghost. Watch out for it."

  "Ghosts don't chop down and rerig Thunderbirds. But I'll sure watch for it."

  "10-4 on that. All we need is some nut case messing with us. Business is hard enough as it is."

  "A big 10-4 there. Starting to fade, catch you on the flip-flop."

  "10-4."

  "10-4. Puffin' the pedal to the metal and gone."

  The Tramp, driving a White Freight Liner equipped with shrunken head dangling from the cigarette lighter knob and a men's magazine fold-out taped to the cab ceiling, popped a Ronny Milsap tape into the deck, sang along with three songs and drowned Milsap out.

  It was dead out there on the highway. Not a truck or car in sight. No stars above. Just a thick, black cloud cover with a moon hidden behind it.

  Milsap wasn't cutting it. Tramp pulled out the tape and turned on the stereo, found a snappy little tune he could whistle along with. For some reason he felt like whistling, like making noise. He wondered if it had something to do with the business L.A. had told him about. The Black Bird.

  Or perhaps it was just the night. Certainly it was unusual for the Interstate to be this desolate, this dead. It was as if his were the only vehicle left in the world
. . . .

  He saw something. It seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, had flicked beneath the orangish glow of the upcoming underpass lights. It looked like a car running fast without lights.

  Tramp blinked. Had he imagined it? It had been so quick. Certainly only a madman would be crazy enough to drive that fast on the Interstate without lights.

  A feeling washed over him that was akin to pulling out of a dive; like when he was in Nam and he flew down close to the foliage to deliver flaming death, then at the last moment he would lift his chopper skyward and leave the earth behind him in a burst of red-yellow flame. Then, cruising the Vietnamese skies, he could only feel relief that his hands had responded and he had not been peppered and salted all over Nam.

  Tramp turned off the stereo and considered. A bead of sweat balled on his upper lip. Perhaps he had just seen the Black Bird.

  ". . . ought to be safe in a convoy this size . . ." the words filtered out of Tramp's CB. He had been so lost in thought, he had missed the first part of the transmission. He turned it up. The chatter was furious. It was a convoy and its members were exchanging thoughts, stories, and good time rattle like a bunch of kids swapping baseball cards.

  The twangy, scratchy voices were suddenly very comfortable; forced memories of Nam back deep in his head, kept that black memory-bat from fluttering.

  He thought again of what he might have seen. But now he had passed beneath the underpass and there was nothing. No car. No shape in the night. Nothing.

  Imagination, he told himself. He drove on, listening to the CB.

  The bead of sweat rolled cold across his lips and down his chin.

  Tramp wasn't the only one who had seen something in the shadows, something like a car without lights. Sloppy Joe, the convoy's back door, had glimpsed an odd shape in his side view mirror, something coming out of the glare of the overpass lights, something as sleek and deadly looking as a hungry barracuda.

  "Breaker 1-9, this is Sloppy Joe, your back door."

  "Ah, come ahead, back door, this is Pistol Pete, your front door. Join the conversation."

  "Think I might have something here. Not sure. Thought I saw something in the side view, passing under those overpass lights."

  Moment of silence.

  "You say, think you saw? Come back."

  "Not sure. If I did, it was running without lights."

  "Smokey?" another trucker asked.

  "Don't think so . . . Now wait a minute. I see something now. A pair of dim, red lights."

  "Uh oh, cop cherries," a new trucker's voice added.

  "No. Not like that."

  Another moment of silence.

  Sloppy Joe again: "Looks a little like a truck using nothing but its running lights . . . but they're hung too far down for that . . . and they're shaped like eyes."

  "Eyes! This is Pistol Pete, come back."

  "Infrared lights, Pistol Pete, that's what I'm seeing."

  "Have . . . have we got the Black Bird here?"

  Tramp, listening to the CB, felt that pulling-out-of-a-dive sensation again. He started to reach for his mike, tell them he was their back door, but he clenched the wheel harder instead. No. He was going to stay clear of this. What could a lone car—if in fact it was a car—do to a convoy of big trucks anyway?

  The CB chattered.

  "This is Sloppy Joe. Those lights are moving up fast."

  "The Black Bird?" asked Pistol Pete.

  "Believe we got a big positive on that."

  "What can he do to a convoy of trucks anyway," said another trucker.

  My sentiments exactly, thought Tramp.

  "Pick you off one by one," came a voice made of smoke and hot gravel.

  "What, back door?"

  "Not me, Pistol Pete."

  "Who? Bear Britches? Slipped Disk? Merry—"

  "None of them. It's me, the Black Bird."

  "This is Sloppy Joe. It's the Black Bird, all right. Closing on my tail, pulling alongside."

  "Watch yerself!"

  "I can see it now . . . running alongside . . . I can make out some slash marks—"

  "Confirmed kills," said the Pilot. "If I were an artist, I'd paint little trucks."

  "Back door, back door! This is Pistol Pete. Come in."

  "Sloppy Joe here . . . There's a man with a gun in the sunroof."

  "Run him off the road, Sloppy Joe! Ram him!"

  Tramp, his window down, cool breeze blowing against his face, heard three quick, flat snaps. Over the whine of the wind and the roar of the engine, they sounded not unlike the rifle fire he had heard over the wind and the rotor blades of his copter in Nam. And he thought he had seen the muzzle blast of at least one of those shots. Certainly he had seen something light up the night.

  "I'm hit! Hit!" Sloppy Joe said.

  "What's happening? Come back, Sloppy Joe. This is Pistol Pete. What's happening?"

  "Hit . . . can't keep on the road."

  "Shut down!"

  Tramp saw an arc of flame fly high and wide from the dark T-bird—which looked like little more than an elongated shadow racing along the highway—and strike Sloppy Joe's truck. The fire boomed suddenly, licked the length of the truck, blossomed in the wind. A Molotov, thought Tramp.

  Tramp pulled over, tried to gear down. Cold sweat popped on his face like measles, his hands shook on the wheel.

  Sloppy Joe's Mack had become a quivering, red flower of flame. It whipped its tail, jackknifed and flipped, rolled like a toy truck across the concrete highway divider. When it stopped rolling, it was wrapped in fire and black smoke, had transformed from glass and metal to heat and wreckage.

  The Bird moved on, slicing through the smoke, avoiding debris, blending with the night like a dark ghost.

  As Tramp passed the wrecked truck he glimpsed something moving in the cab, a blackened, writhing thing that had once been human. But it moved only for an instant and was still.

  Almost in a whisper, came: "This is Bear Britches. I'm the back door now. Sloppy Joe's in flames . . . Gone . . ."

  Those flames, that burnt-to-a-crisp body, sent Tramp back in time, back to Davy Cluey that hot-as-hell afternoon in Nam. Back to when God gave Tramp his personal demon.

  They had been returning from a routine support mission, staying high enough to avoid small arms fire. Their rockets and most of their M-60 ammo were used up. The two choppers were scurrying back to base when they picked up the urgent call. The battered remains of a platoon were pinned down on a small hill off Highway One. If the stragglers didn't get a dust-off in a hurry, the Cong were going to dust them off for good.

  He and Davy had turned back to aid the platoon, and soon they were twisting and turning in the air like great dragonflies performing a sky ballet. The Cong's fire buzzed around them.

  Davy sat down first and the stranded Marines rushed the copter. That's when the Cong hit.

  Why they hadn't waited until he too was on the ground he'd never know. Perhaps the sight of all those Marines—far too many to cram into the already heavily manned copter—was just too tempting for patience. The Cong sent a stream of liquid fire rolling lazily out of the jungle, and it had entered Davy's whirling rotors. When it hit the blades it suddenly transformed into a spinning parasol of flames.

  That was his last sight of the copter and Davy. He had lifted upward and flown away. To this day, the image of that machine being showered by flames came back to him in vivid detail. Sometimes it seemed he was no longer driving on the highway, but flying in Nam, the rhythmic beat of the tires rolling over tar strips in the highway would pick up tempo until they became the twisting chopper blades, and soon, out beyond the windshield, the highway would fade and the cement would become the lush jungles of Nam.

  Sometimes, the feeling was so intense he'd have to pull over until it passed.

  A CB voice tossed Nam out of Tramp's head.

  "This is Bear Britches. The Bird is moving in on me."

  "Pistol Pete here. Get away, get away."

  "He's
alongside me now. Can't shake him. Something sticking out of a hole in the trunk—a rifle barrel!"

  A shot could be heard clearly over the open airwaves, then the communications button was released and there was silence. Ahead of him Tramp could see the convoy and he could see the eighteen wheeler that was its back door. The truck suddenly swerved, as if to ram the Black Bird, but Tramp saw a red burst leap from the Bird's trunk, and instantly the eighteen wheeler was swerving back, losing control. It crossed the meridian, whipping its rear end like a crocodile's tail, plowed through a barbwire fence and smacked a row of pine trees with a sound like a thunderclap. The cab smashed up flat as a pancake. Tramp knew no one could have lived through that. And now ahead of him, Tramp saw another Molotov flipping through the air, and in an instant, another truck was out of commission, wearing flames and flipping in a frenzy along the side of the road. Tramp's last memory of the blazing truck was its tires, burning brightly, spinning wildly around and around like little inflamed Ferris wheels.

  "Closing on me," came a trucker's voice. "The sonofabitch is closing on me. Help me! God, someone help me here."

  Tramp remembered a similar communication from Davy that day in Nam; the day he had lifted up to the sky and flown his bird away and left Davy there beneath that parasol of fire.

  Excited chatter sounded over the airwaves as the truckers tried to summon the highway boys, tried to call for help.

  Tramp saw a sign for a farm road exit, half a mile away. The stones settled in his gut again, his hands filmed with sweat. It was like that day in Nam, when he had the choice to turn back and help or run like hell.

  No trucks took the exit. Perhaps their speed was up too much to attempt it. But he was well back of them and the Bird. What reason did he have to close in on the Bird? What could he do? As it was, the Bird could see his lights now and they might pop a shot at him any second.

  Tramp swallowed. It was him or them.

  He slowed, took the exit at fifty, which was almost too fast, and the relief that first washed over him turned sour less than a second later. He felt just like he had that day in Nam when he had lifted up and away, saved himself from Death at the expense of Davy.