Entropic Apathy (4)

I remember I drove Dad’s truck while he followed me in Micko’s. I was only 16, and shouldn’t have been driving, but I’d been moving them around the yards for years—I was the only kid I knew who could reverse a prime mover around a corner. That is except for Dave; but he was 17.

When we stopped at the toll gates, my dad got out and walked up to talk to the guard. Both of them kept their glasses on; they spoke for a while, occasionally turning back to look at me. Eventually with a pat of solidarity on dad’s back, the guard waved me through.

‘I’ll see you at home,’ was what dad called out as I drove past.

I sat under the awning of Shed 1 with Dave, looking out at the yard and the eight remaining trucks sitting there silently, as if in mourning. Dave didn’t try to say anything, he’d found some beers, and we sat there watching the sun set, red through a haze of pollution, drinking and waiting.

It was about 8:00 when the police car arrived. Two officers got out said something to each other—the woman was shaking her head and wiping her face. They didn’t see me and Dave sitting in the darkness.

Together they walked up to the house and knocked on the door. My mum answered the door in her dressing gown. I couldn’t hear what was said, but I could see my mum shaking her head. The breeze switched direction and carried some words across to us. ‘No. No. That was Micko …’

The female cop put her hand on my mum’s shoulder while trying to wipe her own face.

‘No. No. NO!’

The hairs on my arms were standing up, and so was I. White spots flashed in front of my vision and I could hear my heart beating and my blood swirling. Dave had hold of my wrist, ‘Jim, don’t go over. Jim! Wait!’

‘Let go of me. Fucken let go of me! Dave, let go!’ With my free hand I swung and punched him square in the temple and he let go. And I let go, sprinting across the yard, sneakers slipping in the gravel, crunching and sliding I fell, tearing up my hands and knees, but I was on my feet again and running. My mum was silhouetted in the doorway and the two police turned around, and everyone’s face was wet with tears.

Entropic Apathy (3)

Close to the city now.

There was nothing to do except sit back and wait while the autodrive idled the truck forwards. This last half hour is even worse than that spooky part of the desert — at least then I could drive.

The convoy of trucks crept towards the city gates, one at a time pausing for the scan. Now it was the turn of the truck in front of me.

They scanned him. But still the truck did not move forward. A second sweep with the laser. Still no movement.

Wait a minute.

My truck, along with the others, started backing up.

What’s going on? This hasn’t happened before.

Then we stopped. The truck in front of me rolled forward again, pulling out of line, and coming to a halt. The procession of trucks started moving forward again.

I looked through the windows of the cab as I went by.  They were an electro-sensitive tint, but still I could make out the driver as he thrashed about, his feet making only the slightest vibration as they smashed against the passenger window. For a second I saw him, wide-eyed, shiny-faced, but that door wasn’t opening… Then the windows turned opaque.

That’s… unusual, I thought. But then I thought of how tired I was and how good a cold beer would taste.

A voice came through the truck intercom: ‘Driver, please prepare for scanning.’

I placed my hands on the dash and closed my eyes.

The light flickered green through my eyelids and my throat itched. I felt the truck move forwards into the tunnel and the itch in my throat made me cough.

What was I thinking about again?

Entropic Apathy (2)

The alarm was ringing. Lights were flashing. I blinked and looked at the road. The autodrive guidance signal was weak out here, the truck had woken me up to take control. I shook my head to clear it of sleep and put my hands on the wheel. Looking down at the trip meter, I saw the numbers click over 600. Yeah, this is about halfway.

I always seemed to have the bad dreams at about this point. And the truck always woke me up in the middle.

The highway was deserted. The radar told me there was another truck about seven Ks ahead, travelling in the same direction but I couldn’t see it. Outside the sun was about to rise, a red purple glow on the edge of the desert. Gradually, it made its way up over the edge of the sand and rocks. The mounds spaced intermittently along the side of the road cast shadows that flickered by underneath the wheels.

The road seemed flat but in fact was sloped ever so slightly upwards, I barrelled through at 170, the horizon creeping forward and then I was past those creepy mounds and cresting the rise. The sun broke over the crest and the windows of the truck darkened to compensate. I chastised myself to stop thinking what I had been thinking, took a deep breath and pushed the accelerator down further. The truck sucked itself down on the road and the speed grew. One-eighty, 190, 200—you could actually watch the trip meter tick over at this speed, every 17 seconds or so it clicked over one more kilometre. One more kilometre closer to home.

I don’t know why I was in such a hurry, there was no-one there waiting for me.

I kept up the pace for a good hour and a half, trying to catch the truck in front of me, but he must have had his foot down as well—I never caught sight of him. There we were, together alone; racing the sun as it arked up into the sky. Nobody liked this part of the run—it was too quiet; too much time to think.

The road got hotter. Then the tires got too hot, the computer took control and slowed the truck down. I was back in signal range now so I switched it back to autodrive and looked out the window.

Rocks and sandy red dirt. The occasional burnt-looking hill with withered, black-barked trees clustered in the more shaded gullies and furrows. Venturing a little further into the sun grew grass trees, hundreds of years old.

By now we had hit 10 o’clock. The road disappeared into a heat haze and a piercing blue sky. The temperature gauge told me it was 48 degrees outside. Computer-controlled valves in the wheels were absorbing the air in the tires as it expanded, keeping them at an even 80psi. And still it got hotter.

The photovoltaic skin on the truck provided power to keep the cargo space cool, to keep the heat from damaging whatever it was I was carrying—they never told me—to keep the airtight seals from rupturing like a can of beans in a fire. The PV skin generated power for the cabin systems too, driving the air conditioner, but looking at the land outside made me feel warm. I turned the thermostat down to 21.

Outside now it was 54 degrees. Imagine breaking down out here. Imagine the fear knowing how far you were from civilisation. If you survived long enough for someone to come along, would they even stop for you?

I would stop. Wouldn’t I?

But I had heard bad stories about people that stopped. I had heard that there were people living in hidden settlements outside the cities, underground. That they had no empathy, that they would rob you, even kill you. But nobody really did that anymore… did they?

The trip meter clicked over. Less than a 100 to go.

Do people still kill people? Do they?

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. I lay down and went to sleep.

Entropic Apathy (1)

The road rose up into the sky, a concrete hill reaching for the clouds and everything was up and happy. My father was driving, a grim expression set on his face. And then at the top, where the clouds met the concrete—80 metres above the river—we could see the rig parked ever so carefully at the top of the rise.

Dad set the park brake and the truck rocked back.

‘Stay here,’ he said, and I ignored him, flinging the door open and then wishing I hadn’t. It was quiet and still at the top of the bridge. Micko’s silver truck sat there parked with pride; it looked like it had just run out of fuel or something. I watched my dad, the toughest man I knew, take a deep breath and walk towards it.

Cars whistled by, up and over the crest, down towards the toll gate, but the drivers’ eyes were set, mind on the deadline or the kids that always needed something else.

Parked on the edge of the verge, almost the absolute top of the bridge, Micko’s truck sat silently.

Dad only got the call yesterday, it was his name on the rego—Micko always said he’d buy him out this year…

I stood in front of the truck, not knowing what to do, and slowly my father, the brick, walked forward. On the passenger side, next to the railing, a right footprint was clearly visible on the wheel arch. Above that, there was a left footprint on the bonnet. My dad climbed up. The windscreen showed rubber streaks where someone had scrambled up the windshield. And finally, on the top of the cab were a pair of footprints in the dust. Micko had stood here thinking god-knows-what, looking out over the industrial estate, and then he’d stepped off.

This was the only time I ever saw my father cry.