II. The Devil's Work

Officers Mike O'Malley and Tom Kacinzki arrived on the scene with a man who identified himself as Reverend John Hathorne around five thirty. The parked the squad car by the side of Route 66 and went down through the gap in the foliage made by the careening big rig. The truck itself lay on its side at the end of the trail.

"Well, we'd best see if there's any survivors." said Kacinzki, switching on his flashlight. "Looks like we'll have to climb up on top of the cab to be sure."

"Hang on a second, Tom." said O'Malley. "Look at this."

The driver's side door of the rig's trailer lay flat to the ground. Inside was a pile of glass, paper, and needles.

"Shine your light in there." said O'Malley.

The flashlight's beam revealed piles of medicine stacked on top of each other, many of them shattered when the trailer tipped over. Or at least, it was in medicinal containers. All of the visible liquid was thick and black, more like motor oil than any sort of tonic or injection.

"What the hell is that? Uh, pardon my language, Reverend."

"You are forgiven, Officer." said Hathorne. "It looks like medicine, but not like any I've ever seen. Let me get a little closer."

Hathorne poked his head inside the trailer and immediately pulled it back out again. He coughed three, four times. "There is no way on God's green earth that whatever's in there will cure anything. Stinks like...well, like motor oil and manure mixed together. Just like I thought."

"What?" asked O'Malley.

"I've seen this before. Not exactly the same, but close enough. You're gonna want to burn all this. It'll kill just about anything it comes in contact with. And I don't think we're gonna find any survivors, I'll tell you that right now."

"You say you've seen this before? Medicine turning into--whatever this sh--garbage is?"

"I haven't seen medicine before; so far it's been food, wine, even a bargeload of Coca-Cola. Medicine's new."

"Wait, you're saying this stuff used to be medicine? How could it--?"

"I think it's the Devil's work, but that's just me."

There was silence for several seconds before Kacinski spoked up. "We'd better check the cab. It's gonna be dark soon."

"Right." said O'Malley.

Kacinski gave O'Malley and then Hathorne a boost up onto the cab. Hathorne pulled the door open and O'Malley shone the flashlight inside.

"Dear God..." said O'Malley.

Hathorne scowled. "Just as I suspected."

"Shit, how long has he been here?"

"Probably not as long as it looks." said Hathorne.

"What's up there? Is he all right?" yelled Kacinski.

Hathorne knelt above the open door and began saying a prayer.

"Hell no!" yelled O'Malley. "Hell no!"

I. The Man With Two Crosses

At around five in the evening a night later, a man walked into the town of Points Corners, Kansas. He wore a faded green trench coat with a captain's insignia beneath beneath a dull red cross. Another cross, this one made of silver, hung around his neck. He wore a preacher's collar at his neck and a Colt 1911 .45 caliber at his belt. He had a pale, broad brimmed cap on his head with long, light brown hair coming out from beneath, streaked with gray. He looked to be about forty-five, fifty on the outside. He carried a big corduroy bag around his neck by one strap--the same color as his coat--but didn't seem to mind.

A light drizzle was falling as he walked down Main Street (actually still Route 66, but the locals called it Main Street). He looked up and down the road, and walked up the steps to the police station and up to the front desk.

"Evening, officer." he said. His voice was deep and throaty, cured to perfection by years of smoking.

"Good evening, Father." said the officer on duty, noticing the cross and the collar.

"Reverend, Officer." said the stranger. The officer noticed the name "Hathorne" stitched into the man's coat on the left breast.

"Apologies, Reverend. What can I do for you?"

"I just got into town off 66, coming out of the east. There's a nasty wreck back there, three, maybe four miles out of town. Somebody's rig went clean off the road, through maybe thirty feet of brush before it tipped over. It's a downhill skid with lots of overgrowth, so I don't think it'd be noticeable for anybody who's not on foot. Just figured I'd check if you folks had a report of it yet."

The officer's eyebrow rose. "No, actually. We ain't heard about that. Anybody injured?"
"I don't know. The thing tipped at some point, driver's side down, so the Lord only knows if anyone's inside. If you got a car to spare, I can go show you the spot before it gets dark."

"I think that'd be a good idea, Reverend. Come with me. By the way, the name's O'Malley."

Prologue: The Hitchhiker

The year of Our Lord, One Thousand, Nine Hundred and Thirty-Seven.

It was a dreary day in late September, about twenty miles outside of Wichita, Kansas. It wasn't raining, but the sky suggested that was up for review. Jonesy's truck was hauling a trailer full of medicine to a town in Arizona called Spearfish. He brought the rig to a slow stop beside a man at the side of the rode with his finger out. Jonesy opened the passenger's door.

"Evening, stranger." he said. "Where you heading?"

"West." said the hitchhiker. He was a strange looking fellow--real tall, skinny as a rail. He was wearing a brown trench coat and had a scarf of the same color around his neck, beneath a broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses. The scarf and coat made sense--it was chilly out there, especially for Kansas. The sunglasses were a mystery, though--it had been overcast all day.

"Any place in particular?"

"I reckon I'll figure that out when I get there." said the hitchhiker. He looked to be smiling beneath his scarf. Jonesy had never heard a voice quite like this before--it was scratchy and oily at the same time, a busted up tenor. There was something about that voice...he shouldn't have liked the sound of it, but he did anyway.

"Well, I'm heading out to Spearfish, Arizona. You can come with me some of the way, stranger."

"I thank you kindly, sir." said the hitchhiker, climbing into the truck.

Jonesy put the rig in gear. "Aw, call my Jonesy, don't nobody call me sir."

"Well, thanks for the ride, Jonesy. I appreciate it something fierce."

"So, what do they call you?"

The hitchhiker coughed. "Bill." It came out with a hint of twang, sounding like "Bee Al."

"Nice to meet you Bill. You lookin' for a job out west?"

"Yeah, sounds like there's still work out there for someone of my skills." said Bill.

"Well, don't be holdin' your breath on that one, Bill. From what I hear most of the work out there's been dried up since Hoover--may he burn in hell--was in Washington. You got some professional trainin' or something?"

"Yep. I'm a doctor."

"Well, Dr. Bill! Yeah, you'll find work out there. 'Sanother matter if you'll find people can pay you for work, but you'll find it."

"Eh, I plan on doing some charity work out there, anyhow. Doing some stuff for free."

"Well, that's awful nice of you. I tell you what, Bill, I'm haulin' me a load of meds right now. You want that some of them should fall offa this here truck and into your little black bag?"

"Why, I'd like that very much Jonesy." said Bill. "What a courteous gesture."

"Aw, 'tweren't nothing."

The rig kept moving down Route 66, toward the setting sun.