The Reincarnation

Rob Berridge was fascinated by the guy’s watch more than anything. The hands of it were shaped like Christ on the cross. The minute hand was the bottom of the cross, and the hour hand was the top. Rob was only twelve years old, but he quickly deduced that come six o’clock, that crucifix would be upside down.

And instead of numbers around the perimeter of the watch, there were tiny pictures of the Twelve Apostles. One of them was moving. Rob realized that this was the second hand. As it counted out the seconds, the tiny image of Judas held its knife and sliced through the other Apostles’ heads, killing them all every minute, or at least that’s the way it looked to Rob.

“Cool watch, man,” he said to the man in the driver’s seat.

“Thanks, I had it made special. It’s one of a kind.”

“I’ll say. And where’d you get the leathers?”

“Second hand shops – they don’t even make ’em anymore. Animal rights, y’know.”

“Yeah, I know. But they’re cool anyway.”

“Thanks. Listen, if I start nodding off, be ready to take the wheel. And sometimes I lose control of my hands – just watch me, and take over if I start fuckin’ up. Okay?”

Rob hesitated. “I’ll give it a shot, but I’m in pretty bad shape myself.” Embarrassed, he added, “I pissed my pants awhile back, and it was all bloody.”

The driver had noticed this when he had seen Rob on the side of the road. It was the reason he had picked him up. The driver had stained his leathers with more than a little blood himself just hours before. “Do you want to listen to some music?”

“That’d be cool,” Rob answered, suddenly realizing hitchhiking wasn’t so bad – not as bad as his parents made it out to be anyway. Once Rob had walked to the interstate highway, he didn’t know what to expect. But then this guy came along, sure as shit, and picked him right up. Sure, the guy was pretty scary looking, with that beard, and that horrible tattoo on his forehead, but he was giving him a ride. That was what he wanted ever since he got up this morning. Plus this guy listened to cool music – the kind his parents wouldn’t let him buy.

The guy didn’t even ask Rob where he wanted to go, not that Rob could have told him. They just drove along, both of them happy with the direction they were headed.

Rob thought hitchhiking was cool.

Frank F. Feldman was wondering just what the hell he was hauling. Biotechnology had gone too far this time. How was he supposed to train that thing? Train it seven times, teaching each head to cooperate? Or just train it once, and hope its heads could somehow communicate with one another? Shit, he guessed the Church knew best. He hoped.

Being more of a trainer than a driver, Frank wasn’t prepared for the bulk he was hauling. The Beast wasn’t happy watching the world go by at sixty miles an hour, and it registered its complaints by rattling its cage. This swayed the truck from side to side, and it took all of Frank’s attention just to keep the vehicle on the right side of the double yellow line.

One of the Beast’s heads noticed how distracted Frank was at the same time that another head realized how close its thrashing about had slid the cage to the cab of the truck. The back of Frank’s head was literally inches from the bars.

A third head, the one blessed – or cursed – with the longest of the creature’s ten horns decided to do something about the situation it found itself in.