Hell Truckers
> AUDIO FILE // NARRATION
Listen to Hell Truckers
He turned another card. A dog-eared Jack of hearts with a shit-eating grin pencilled crudely onto the vellum. That was a problem, because he already had a Jack of hearts, and he liked the look of that one much better.
“You gotta stop mixing these fucking decks,” he said. He turned another card. A five of spades. His second five of spades. Sam pushed the chair back and stood. He walked to where two black boots protruded from beneath the truck. He knocked hard on the chassis.
“I said you gotta quit mixing these decks. What good’s a deck of cards if a man can’t play a hand of solitaire?” No response, save the sound of oil draining into the pan. Sam gave the boots a friendly kick before setting down again. He poured another cup of black coffee.
Some time later Grayson emerged on the creeper, rolling out from beneath the truck.
“Like wiping a fish’s ass. Oil’s as fresh as the day I changed it, which come to think of it, may have been yesterday.”
Sam studied his cards. “You take the paycheque just fine.”
“Hell, don’t take me for a complaining man. Simply an observation. This rig’ll survive the end of the world.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Grayson peeled his oil-stained gloves off. “I’m making more coffee, your friend want any?”
Sam looked at the nondescript soldier stationed at the garage entrance. “I’m sure he does, but he can’t take any.”
“Pity.”
“You got any pity going spare, you save it for me.”
“That goes without saying, sad, desperate case such as yourself. I saw you reading your book at the bar last night. All those pretty young things swanning about, cold beer flowing, and you sitting in the corner reading some pulp detective story. Nothing but pity for you, my friend.”
“Ain’t much to do in a bar when you can’t drink.”
“Amen to that. You need a new job.”
“You don’t want that. If I get a new job, you need a new job.”
“You want a sandwich?”
“What did I just say about pity?”
“That’s the spirit. One baloney and mustard, coming right up.”
They ate in silence. Eventually Sam laboured from his chair to take a piss. When he came back from the tiny restroom the soldier had his rifle raised and pointed at Grayson.
“Christ,” Sam called, “stand down you halfwit.”
“Your watchdog’s mighty jumpy,” Grayson said.
“Stand down, he ain’t doing no harm,” Sam repeated.
The soldier ignored Sam. He watched Grayson a while longer, pointing the rifle straight at the mechanic’s chest. Eventually, of his own volition, he lowered his gun and paced back to the entrance.
“What in the fuck did you do?” Sam asked Grayson.
“Left my work light under the truck.”
“Christ, you should know better than that.” Sam called to the soldier as he sat down. “He’s a fucking idiot, but he’s harmless.”
“Just getting my damn work light.”
“Leave it next time. You know they don’t listen to me, I’m just the driver. That coulda been you finished.”
“Over a fucking work light?”
“Over a fucking work light.”
Grayson hesitated before speaking. “Listen, I don’t ask many questions, but a man has his limits. You can’t keep me in the dark and feed me shit every day and not expect me to get tired—”
“You get paid a king’s random to babysit this rig and keep her oil changed and tyres pumped. You don’t need to know shit, and you should sure as hell know better than to bring this up just after the hired help had his M4 levelled at your chest. Don’t push your luck.”
“Bullshit.” Grayson slammed a cupboard door and sent a loaf of stale Wonder Bread falling to the shop floor.
“Hey now, I didn’t mean no harm.” Sam stood and walked to the percolator. “Let me get you a cup of coffee and we can play a few rounds of rummy, take your mind off it. Besides, I got some questions that need answers. I may be a sad, desperate case, but at least I didn’t leave the bar last night in the claws of that damn cougar. How old’s she, ninety, a hundred?”
Grayson’s expression softened, a faint smirk appearing. “You saw that, huh?”
“Like you said, ain’t no damn thing to do in a bar when you can’t drink. Just sit and watch other people make a fool of themselves mostly.”
Grayson turned the chair backwards and sat down, leaning conspiratorially towards Sam. “She makes a great breakfast, thickest gravy and fattest biscuits I’ve had since leaving home.”
Sam laughed. “You sick son of a bitch. I’ll never understand your twisted predilections.”
“Ain’t something you can understand, it has to be experienced.”
“I’ll stick to my book.”
From inside the truck’s cab came a soft double chime. At the same moment, the soldier’s radio chirruped to announce an incoming message. Then a voice came over the truck’s radio.
“HELLFIRE Units, HELLFIRE Units. FLASH traffic follows.”
Sam turned to the soldier. The soldier stared back. Grayson’s coffee had been knocked to the floor. Sam didn’t even remember standing.
The radio spoke again. “Authenticate Victor-Seven-Kilo. Execute LONG ROAD. Do not await personnel or equipment. Acknowledge.”
“Jesus.” Sam pushed the chair aside and ran to the cab. He climbed inside and pressed a button on the radio. He hesitated before speaking. He thought of the soldier. No choice. “HELLFIRE Three, acknowledged.” He looked at the dashboard before climbing out of the cab. “You finished the oil change?”
Grayson nodded. “HELLFIRE,” the mechanic repeated. “That’s quite a callsign.”
Sam looked down at him from the running board. The soldier opened the passenger door on the cab’s far side. Sam nodded mutely to Grayson in acknowledgement. They looked at each other for a moment.
“I don’t suppose there’s room for one more in that cab,” Grayson said, more of a statement than a question. Sam shook his head. He climbed back into the cabin and shut the door. The oil light cleared. He started the engine.
“Wait!” Grayson called, moving from the table. The soldier lifted his rifle, trying to find a clear line of sight from the cab to the shop floor, but not fast enough. Grayson threw something through the open window. It landed on Sam’s lap.
“Your book.”
Sam raised the armoured windows and started reversing out of the garage, Grayson simply staring and watching the huge rig depart. As he backed into the parking lot and angled the truck for departure, the mechanic raised a hand in farewell. Sam did the same. As the truck joined the road and got up to speed, the soldier finally thumbed the safety on his rifle.
“Shit,” Sam said aloud. The soldier raised a questioning eyebrow, but Sam kept quiet, staring ahead at the long, uncertain road before them. Grayson’s work light was still under the truck, clamped to the chassis. He’d miss that.
As they rolled into the badlands and hit top speed, four fighter jets and a bomber screamed overhead, flying out of the desert and back towards the city. Sam didn’t look in the rearview mirror. He was afraid of what he would see.