Keep 'er in the Road Read online

  KEEP ‘ER IN THE ROAD

  by Allen Kuzara

  The gears screeched angrily as Joe O’Malley downshifted deep in the curve. He squinted, wishing the Peterbilt’s high beams would turn in anticipation of his heading. Instead they shone brightly into the mountainside, forcing him to hope his big rig wasn’t about to run upon a stranded vehicle or a rockslide ahead.

  As the two-lane poor-excuse-for-a-highway straightened out, Joe reached his hand up to the dash. He felt Sharon’s picture there. Though it was too dark in the cab to see it, the photo lit up in his mind. It was from their last trip together in the Florida Keys, fifteen years ago and three weeks before she’d been diagnosed.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “I’m too old for this.”

  Joe was surprised by how much Sharon kept him company. Sure, he talked to her every day, but it wasn’t until he got behind the wheel this morning that she started talking back. He wasn’t hallucinating; hers was an inaudible voice. Just thoughts and, especially, concerns he ordinarily wouldn’t have. Sharon watched over him now, he was sure.

  Another S-curve lied ahead. Joe let off the gas, trying to save the brakes. His ragged rig had sat in his driveway for the last six years, its brakes only one of a half-dozen parts that needed replacing. He wasn’t even sure it would start up when he first got the job.

  As he pulled out of the bend, he heard the unmistakable clank of the transmission dropping a gear. That sound gave truckers bad dreams. It used to, that is. He doubted those tin-can truck bots could care less about their vehicles now days.

  As he found a lower gear that worked, the engine revved high to match and Joe felt the truck shimmy and the gear shifter shake his hand.

  Just then, his navigation system in the dash changed screens. The map that was on it disappeared, and an electronic voice came over his radio. “Signal lost. Unable to reach destination.”

  “That’s what you think,” Joe said. He glanced over in his passenger seat where his paper copy of the directions lay. He didn’t need those either; he’d memorized every instruction, every detail of this itinerary—searching for reasons why it wasn’t legitimate. Who pays thirty-thousand New American Dollars for a ten-hour drive, treacherous mountain passes or not?

  He was close, less than ten miles from what the directions called Silver City. Joe had driven every major highway and interstate in North America, and though it had been some time since he’d been through the Dragon—that’s what locals called this stretch of curves in Western North Carolina—he’d never seen any place called Silver City. Robbinsville was the closest town here, but it was down in the valley. His directions put Silver City in the middle of the Dragon, near its highest point.

  The blue glow of the navigation system interfered with his night vision. At least, when it was on map mode, it wasn’t so bright. He wished he could turn it off, but it was one of the many drive-techs that was entirely automated, a vestige of that final phase when people still drove the trucks.

  Maybe that was it, he thought. Maybe dispatch had trouble with bots not knowing how to finish the job without GPS. That’s why he got the job.

  Joe grinned, realizing he’d found, perhaps, the last place in North America without a cell or satellite signal.

  “Did you do that?” he asked Sharon. “One last job for old Joe before I head to the Keys?” The extra money would certainly help. Who knows? he thought, maybe this payout would last him until he kicked the bucket.

  He shivered. He was technically in the South, but it was January and he was in the mountains. At his age, any place north of Miami was too cold during the winter. He figured it was okay to grow old and die, but only if he died someplace warm.

  Up ahead, lights danced on the clouded sky. “Must be close,” he said. Circling the ridgetop, the highway took a long left-turn. When Joe came out of it, he was surprised by what he saw. A massive city with tightly packed skyscrapers had been built right on top the mountain. He shook his head at the wonder, knowing it would take untold millions to build such an extravagance. He could imagine how the city got its name; if the sun was out, these buildings would shine and glimmer, a breathtaking marvel of the modern world.

  He slowed to exit and was stunned to see another truck coming his direction. He’d been alone on the road for the last hour-and-a-half. As the truck exited, he recognized by its compressed size and lack of rear cab that it was bot driven. Maybe the GPS works on the other side of the mountain, Joe guessed.

  Joe stomped the clutch and hit the brakes hard. “Who cares now?” he told Sharon. “We’re in the home stretch.”

  He pulled onto the exit, following the bot truck. He was excited but nervous. This part of his directions was fuzzy. They simply said to pull into the docking bay. That was pretty vague, especially considering the size of this place.

  He spotted a green sign over head:

  LEFT TO MURPHY, TURTLE CREEK, HANGING DOG

  RIGHT TO TRANSPORT DELIVERIES

  Well, that was that, he thought. Joe kept the truck to the right. The bot truck didn’t take the delivery turn-off. If it had been the old days, Joe would have said the trucker had already finished her job and was headed home. But bots didn’t have homes, and truckers didn’t own trucks anymore. No one except Joe, anyway.

  The towering buildings grew smaller in his side-view mirror as he left Silver City’s downtown area. The road narrowed and became a straight shot through an open gate connected to what looked like miles of fencing with three strands of barbed wire on top. “Good grief,” Joe said. “What are they protecting?” Then he thought, what am I transporting? That was another oddity of this contract; he wasn’t allowed to look at the cargo. “No questions, no problems,” he had said. Now he wondered if he’d made a mistake.

  Inside the lot, there was more action. A city’s delivery and distribution center was the heartbeat that kept working night or day. That’s how Joe liked to think of it. A bot truck left heading the other direction and Joe couldn’t help but think he saw the bot wave a friendly goodbye, though it was too dark to be sure.

  Joe slowed the heavy beast as bots crossed his path. They carried pallets stacked high, doing the work that used to employ countless men and women. Joe looked toward the warehouse for some kind of indication where to dock. A decade ago, these places were giant drive-throughs, each driver finding an open lane and simply pulling in. But now, in this city, things were different. The bot trucks all lined up side-by-side, pulling in backwards to unload.

  “They’re just showing off,” Joe spat. Backing up an eighteen-wheeler was the hardest maneuver for any driver, seasoned or not. These bots, or the warehouse designer, had made it a principle design feature.

  “This old dog still knows a few tricks,” Joe snapped, pushing aside his self-doubt.

  He rolled his rig in front of the parked trucks. He eyed the empty spot, his spot. He knew he could get it close, but this aging rig wasn’t wired for the trailer’s back-up cameras.

  As his trailer squeezed between the bot trucks, Joe turned the wheel rapidly, trying to straighten up so he didn’t blow the angle. This was the hard part, he knew, the part when you could make a royal mess out of things.

  Now able to see the loading dock behind him in both side-view mirrors, Joe waited for someone to appear and guide him the rest of the way. When no one did, Joe used the truck bots on either side of him as benchmarks. Sans any living space, their cabs were much shorter than his, so Joe stopped when his side door were even with their front grills.

  He took a deep breath, looked himself in the mirror and then looked at Sharon’s picture. She was smiling. She was always smiling, but this time it seemed she knew what he’d done, that she was proud. He touched her
picture again and said, “We made it.”

  Joe stepped out of his truck and felt the hard ground beneath him. That last step down keeps getting lower, he thought. He smiled, remembering this old trucker was working his last job.

  “Hello. Anybody here?” he shouted as he walked to the rear of the trailer. No one answered. He put a foot on the rear bumper of the trailer and grabbed the handle above. With a great deal of effort and pain, he pulled himself up and stepped onto the loading bay, level with the truck bed. He clenched his teeth and tried with only partial success to straighten his old back.

  He heard the whirl and hum of several cargo bots, the same kind he’d seen crossing his path, approach from both sides. He didn’t like the looks of them. It wasn’t personal for them, he knew, but they were the job killers. They and their millions of mindless, thoughtless brothers and sisters.

  “I’ve got a delivery from Camp Tipton. ID code is 1411-B,” Joe said. He didn’t have to look at his papers or instructions. He’d whispered that code to himself over and over in wonder, as if it was some golden ticket fallen from heaven. The bots didn’t respond.

  “Say boys,” Joe pretended to say congenially, “where’s the closest men’s room. Gotta see a man about a dog.” He knew the last part would really make their gears spin. Still no answer, and none of them moved to unload the trailer.

  Joe stepped aside, thinking he was in their way. “Have at it,” he said raising a hand toward the truck.

  Nothing.

  “Do I have to do everything myself?” he asked. He meant it rhetorically, but then the thought came to him: maybe he needed to open the trailer. Maybe they were too dumb to open doors, only programmed to pick up pallets.

  “I guess for thirty thousand New Americans, I’d give each of you a bubble bath,” he chuckled. “The least I can do is open a door.”

  He reached the latch and unlocked it, then pulled up hard. The sliding door responded, tucking itself away in the ceiling.

  Joe squinted into the dark trailer, trying to make out shapes. There weren’t any. There wasn’t anything. The trailer was empty.

  Thoughts rushed through his mind: maybe, he’d picked up the wrong trailer. Maybe they’d forgotten to load it. Would he still get paid? Would he have to drive back and haul another load? Would they blame him? Would he be financially liable for the missing cargo?

  Before he could decide what to say or do next, a dull, heavy sensation, emanated from the back of his head and reverberated down his body to his feet. He barely felt himself hit the concrete floor before he lost consciousness.

  When Joe opened his eyes, it was as if he’d been somewhere for a long time, like he’d returned home from a ten-day haul and was waking up the next morning in bed at home. The sensation was that familiar.

  He wasn’t home, though. Not his first home, anyway. In the back of his truck cab, Joe pulled himself up from the single-mattress bed. He spotted his usual surroundings: a mini fridge, tv, laptop, some moldering paperbacks in the corner he’d never finished, and a small chifforobe he used to keep extra clothes in.

  He stood. Correction—he tried to stand. His back made it about eighty-percent of the way before something caught, shot sharp twinges up and down his spine and reminded him his body, like his truck, had over a million miles on it.

  His mind was empty, washed clean. And it was some time as he stood there looking at his travel den before any real thoughts arose. When they did, they were from biological impetus. Joe’s bladder was so swollen it felt like someone had shoved a cantaloupe down his pants.

  Joints cracked as Joe moved to the front of the cab. Immediately, his attention turned to the passenger-side door. This wasn’t his truck. Or, at least, someone had changed it.

  When did he drive last? He couldn’t remember. But that problem could wait, and so could his bladder. Right now, brand new equipment that he didn’t remember stared at him from where his passenger door and seat used to be. In place of the door was sheet metal that appeared to be welded in place. There was a horizontal seam in the middle with hinges and a handle.

  Joe recognized the object that replaced the passenger seat, but he couldn’t believe his eyes. He reached over to the metallic lid of the new seat and lifted. Beneath it, dyed blue water greeted Joe with its distinct antiseptic aroma.

  “A toilet?” Joe said. He didn’t ask for a john in his truck. And even if he had, he wouldn’t put it in the front where everyone could see him do his business.

  Confused, he looked out the front windshield and realized he didn’t know where he was. It looked like he’d parked inside some kind of warehouse. But how he’d gotten there, he had no idea.

  There was a sound, a thump from the metal covering where the passenger side window used to be. Joe stretched over the toilet, being careful not to touch it. Who knew who’d used it last?

  He grabbed the handle on the sheet metal and lifted. It swung open wide, revealing a black rectangular compartment. Inside was a Benny’s Burger bag and a thirty-two-ounce drink. He stared. Benny’s was his favorite fast-food chain, but how had it gotten here? Where was here?

  Joe sat the food and drink on the center console and moved behind the steering wheel. He needed answers. He grabbed the door handle and pulled.

  Nothing happened.

  There wasn’t even any resistance. Instead, it was as if the handle assembly had been disconnected. Joe felt a rush of panic as he realized he was locked inside.

  There had to be someone who could help him. He pressed against the side window, looking for another trucker, anyone that could get him out.

  He saw only bots scurrying about doing who-knows-what. “Hey! Over here!” he yelled at the closest one.

  Then he noticed he wasn’t on ground level. Or, more accurately, his truck wasn’t sitting at the right height. It was like his rig had been chopped, six feet lower.

  He tried to peer down the side, but the angle kept him from seeing what had been done. Maybe he was in a repair station, he hoped. Like the instant-oil-change places but recessed down into the grease pit.

  Even if that was true, it didn’t explain the additions to his cab or why he couldn’t open the door.

  Instinctively, Joe pulled on the horn. But it too was disabled. Someone had taken the bark from the beast.

  Joe slumped in his seat, and his head mashed up against the side window. He knew Sharon’s picture was on the dash, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Not like this. Not until he knew what world he was in.

  Just then, the glint of freshly polished steel and aluminum caught his attention outside the cab. A group of bots, four small ones and two larger models, approached his truck.

  “Hey, get me out of here, will ya?” His feeble voice revealed the truth: he didn’t think they would help. And they didn’t.

  They came near the side window and stopped. Joe heard a voice sounding like the GPS sim:

  “In the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, the North American continent was a thriving network of trade and distribution, all of which necessitated the transfer of goods via trains, planes, and trucks just like the one you see here.”

  The voice continued, but Joe withdrew inside himself, not hearing the words anymore. He gazed blankly out at the bots until an image in his view took on meaning.

  One of the small bots closest to him was especially shiny. In its alloy chest, Joe could make out the reflection of his truck’s side door. On it was a brass colored plaque with letters he tried to read in mirror image.

  He focused on them, using the last bit of will that was still inside. It read:

  NEW EXHIBIT: JOE O’MALLEY- LAST AMERICAN TRUCKER

  END

 

 

  Allen Kuzara, Keep 'er in the Road

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