The Last Haul

It was 3:30 in the morning, and I was rolling through the empty stretch of Interstate 80 between Elko and Winnemucca, Nevada. My rig was light, just an empty flatbed, and I was heading to Reno to pick up a load of timber. The desert was moonless, and the only lights were the stars and my high beams cutting through the black. I’d passed maybe two cars in the last hour, both heading the opposite way, their headlights flickering like distant ghosts.

I reached down to fiddle with my CB radio, hoping to catch some chatter to keep me awake. Instead of voices, I got static—a low, crackling hiss that seemed to pulse in and out. I fiddled with the squelch knob, but the static wouldn’t go away. Then, through the noise, I heard a voice: ‘Breaker 1-9.’ I grabbed the mic and keyed it. ‘Go ahead.’

The voice came through clear, smooth as polished stone. ‘You got a copy there, good buddy? This is Iron Hide, rolling north on 33 with a load of cattle for Amarillo.’ I told him my handle, ‘Dust Devil,’ and asked how the road was north. We talked about the usual stuff—fuel prices, bad dispatchers, the best greasy spoons off the interstate. His voice had a slow, easy drawl, like he had all the time in the world.

About an hour into our chat, Iron Hide said, ‘Well, I’m gonna have to cut you loose here. I’m turning off onto 54 going north. It’s a quieter road, but it’s home.’ I wished him a safe trip, and just before he signed off, he said something that made my skin prickle: ‘I used to love driving down this road. Be careful on it, and God bless you, son.’ I keyed the mic to ask what he meant, but the channel went dead, leaving only static.

Ten minutes later, I saw the glow of Winnemucca in the distance. I needed to stretch my legs, so I pulled into a truck stop off the 54 exit. There was a small diner attached, all neon and chrome, glowing like a beacon. I went in, ordered coffee, and sat at the counter. The only other patron was an old man in a stained trucker cap, nursing a cup of black coffee. He turned to me with rheumy eyes.

‘You just come down from the north?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘See any other trucks on the road?’ I told him about Iron Hide. The old man’s face went pale, and his coffee cup trembled in his hand. He set it down and leaned close, his voice a rasp. ‘Iron Hide, you say? He used to run this route regular, maybe forty years back. One night, he was hauling cattle down from the high desert, and he hit a patch of black ice just north of here. The rig went off the road, rolled down an embankment, and when they found him, he was pinned in the cab. He didn’t make it.’

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. ‘That couldn’t be him,’ I said. ‘He was clear on the radio, just talking to me.’ The old man shook his head. ‘Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. But a lot of drivers report hearing him on those dark mornings, especially on the 54. They say he’s still out there, warning folks about the road. He was a good man, always looked out for others.’

The coffee suddenly tasted bitter. I paid my tab and walked back to my rig, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. As I climbed into the cab, I looked in the mirror and saw a faint silhouette standing near the edge of the parking lot, just beyond the reach of the lights. It was tall, hat pulled low, and it gave a slow wave before dissolving into the darkness.

I started the engine and pulled back onto the highway, my hands tight on the wheel. The road stretched ahead, empty and silent. I glanced at my CB, but the static was gone. In its place, just for a moment, I thought I heard a familiar voice whispering, ‘Be careful on it.’ A shiver ran down my spine as I pressed the accelerator, the desert swallowing me whole, and I realized I’d never felt more alone.