Reign in Hell

Chapter One: June 12 The dusty RV wailed along the flat interstate, its tires whining on the hot pavement. Behind the wheel was a gaunt, reed-thin driver, his thinning black hair whipping in the furnace of hot air that streamed through the open window. He sucked on a bottle of water to keep from dozing, arcs of sweat staining his white shirt. It had been unmercifully hot since they left Omaha, heading south and then due west on Interstate 80, with towns and small cities--Kearney, Cozad, Gothenburg--blurring past them as they paralleled the river. He drove straight into the sun, into the hot June afternoon, whizzing past the Nebraska farms and fields, uncluttered, lonely, and dull in their sameness. As was his wont, he bitched to himself as he drove. What's the use havin' air-conditionin' if he don't let me turn it on? A few miles later. Shaking his head. Never knew nobody loved the heat like this one. Must be a hunerd-ten out there, he wants the damn window open. Another couple of miles. Nobody t'talk to. Won't let me play the radio when he's sleepin'. One of these days I'm gonna just doze off ... Nodding to himself. ... bug off the road, we'll both end up wrapped in this RV in the middle of godforsakennowhere ... Tapping the flat of his hand on the steering wheel. ... damn buzzards eatin' our eyes out. Brother T was stretched out on a futon spread across two seats.He was uncomfortable sleeping in the main suite, as he called it, while the RV was on the highway, preferring instead the double seat behind the driver. He was napping, getting his strength together for the confront. That's what he called the meetings, confronts. "What we're doin', Mordie, we're confrontin' the devil," he would say. "Gonna whip that fire-scald, son-bitch to his knees again t'night," he would say. "Praise God, praise JEE-sus." Like they were going to war or somedamnthing. But the driver wasn't complaining. It was the best job he ever had, even though he hated driving the flat plains where you could close your eyes for ten minutes then open them and appear to be in the same place you were when you shut them. Suddenly he perked up. "Shhhew," he said under his breath. There was a sign far ahead, dancing among dervish heat monkeys. He squinted through his sunglasses: "Brady two miles." "Thank you Jay-sus," he said aloud, mimicking his boss in his own rolled-out south Georgia accent. Behind him, Brother T stirred. He leaned up on one elbow and craned and twisted his neck, popping the muscles, a husky man with long blond hair that hung down to his shoulders and a heavy beard. "Where we at?" he asked in a voice that was low as a whisper and harsh as a file. "Smack dab in the middle of the Lord's oven." Brother T cupped the palms of both hands under his jaws, raised his eyebrows, and very lightly rubbed the sleep from the corners of his eyes with the forefinger of each hand. "Sometimes I think Gawd jes' took ten square acres of Kansas, Xeroxed 'em, and laid 'em out end on end all over the whole damn middle of the country." "Sounds like you're flirtin' with blasphemy there, Mordie." "Flirtin' with the truth, what I'm doin'," Mordachai answered, coming to a stop and turning right onto a narrow two-lane blacktop. "What's the name of this place again?" "Brady. 'Bout twenty miles this side a North Platte." "That doesn't tell me a thing." "We've driven a little over two hunerd miles. Over halfway 'cross Nebraska since we left Omaha. It's flat, hot, and I ain't seen another car for at least an hour." Brother T opened his eyes and stared through orbs the color of milk.Diehl, William is the author of 'Reign in Hell' with ISBN 9780345395061 and ISBN 0345395069.