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Writer's pictureJ. Joseph

Providing Transportation Services for the End Times

Things are always a bit more complex than they seem. Look at this job. It was supposed to be an easy way to keep my life amoving. As well as other things flowing around. But then my world, the roads, the trains, the stations, the cities, erupted in flames. Left me stranded, in the middle of nowhere, at a no-tell motel somewhere around Iowa. Looking out over the fires, many would’ve seen it as a sign. Heck, at first I thought it was a sign. What I’d been doing, it was less than great for the communities I could have been a part of. The thought crept into my head that maybe the explosions were meant as a wakeup call. It only peeks in for a moment, though, because I know better. The world doesn’t change this drastically, not for one man. And this was an attack unrelated to me. If anything, the world wanted to help me out. Because, while the major roads shattered and the bridges burst out, I kept away from those thoroughfares outside of cities. And, with that realization, also came the beginnings of a business model.

There are certain things that are wanted in great quantities by many cities around what’s left of the country. But those things are only produced in large quantities in specific regions. Which lends itself to somewhat poor but consistent work, keeping me moving, just as I had been before. But it wouldn’t have been enough to make the lifestyle work. Not with all the driving consuming so much gas. Fortunately, there’s also independent transport gigs, and given that there aren’t exactly too many other options, I can overcharge the shit out of them.

That said, the regular job is important for maintaining a sense of order in this life, this strange world. And so, I’m on my normal job. Driving a large trailer on wheels through the rural roads of the country, towards one of the cities that I least like visiting. The District. It is a truly awful combination of constant conflict and rigid, controlling structure. The worst of both worlds. Not for the people who pay me to transport the trailers, and the goods in return. They probably like getting to negotiate with set people and against one another. But I outright refuse to go into the city at all. So on this run, we agreed to meet outside the city. At a former strip mall parking lot in Maryland. Clear sightlines, vaguely unsettling environment, open area, not in any of the idiots I’m trading with’s “domains”.

I arrive early, as is custom. Park my truck, hop out, and check the area for traps. I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to trap the meet, but you never know with some of these groups. Or the ones that aren’t a part of the city buy. It’s clear, so I head back into my truck’s bed, lying down flat posted up against the lip, glancing over the edge occasionally to keep an eye out, mostly out of paranoia. After about ten minutes, the reps begin to show up, each with their own way of transporting goods back to their territories.

“I don’t like this,” mutters the second arrival, a newbie in some kind of makeshift military uniform.

“What happened to Megan?” Lawrence, a tall, muscular gentleman in a suit, asks the new guy.

“She got hit in our latest skirmish with the Comish. And you are?”

“Lawrence Newsom, Aide to the Staffer’s Union Vice President. You?”

The new guy looks shifty. “None of your business.”

I roll up over the edge, gun visible but not at the ready. It’s the only visible gun here thus far. “Don’t know how much Meg or the General has told you, but we use names.”

Lawrence looks wryly up at me. “What’s this ‘we’?”

I keep my eyes trained on the new makeshift soldier, though I do break a slight smile. Eventually, he speaks up. “Colonel Nathan Jones, sir,” he says, clearly uncomfortable.

“Lovely to meet you, Nate,” I say, then turn to Lawrence. “Larry, your turn.”

Lawrence groans. “Yeah, yeah, great to meet you or whatever.”

Next Elizabeth and Deon show up shortly thereafter. Nothing abnormal as of yet. They introduce themselves to Nathan, and ask about Megan. Then another newcomer, one of Scourge’s. Not too worried, they change out every couple times. “Hellion told me you need names. Name’s Raze,” she informs everyone as she approaches, but, like all Scourgers, when they try to introduce themselves, she ignores them. Then another pair of newbies. Too many to feel comfortable. The first, obviously a Bulldog, calls himself Steve. The other says he’s Jalen Cordon, but refuses to give affiliation. Instead, he says he represents a “group of aligned interests”. So the gangs have allied together for the moment. Usually the former gangs send a few different reps. They’re planning something big, if they only send one. Not towards any of these groups, they’re not idiots. Likely the Overlord or the Commish. Both have territory bordering a bunch of the gangs and are pretty power hungry, from how my normal contacts describe them.

“Great, now that everyone’s here,” I say as I head towards the back of the trailer, and the representatives follow, “You guys can inspect the goods.” I open up the trailer to reveal a factory farm level of live animal packing. The people look at the animals, Elizabeth and Lawrence examining them closely. “Just a heads up, one of our primary suppliers got hit by someone, so our next few shipments are going to be a bit more expensive.”

“Come on, man,” Deon half jokingly complains. He can afford to pay, and the bar needs the fresh meat more than everyone else, “The price already went up like, two months ago.”

“Hey, I don’t set prices, I just drive,” I reply with another wry smile.

“The fuck you don’t,” that Bulldog, Steve, shouts at me, walking up closer.

I shrug. “I really don’t. Sorry, but the price’s the price. You can always wait for it to go down again, not have anything fresh for the next few months.” As I talk, I can see some of the other people getting nervous. Deon is backing up, Nathan seems to be moving towards me. Jalen is standing more rigid. Raze is also backing off, but I know better than to think a Scourger is at all afraid.

“Fuck that,” he says, even louder this time. Then he goes and does the really stupid move of drawing his concealed gun on me.

I don’t even need to react. Raze, Nathan, and Jalen all pull their weapons. “Gun down,” Nathan commands, aiming his concealed pistol at the Bulldog. Jalen pulls the submachine gun from his jacket, too, adding a quick, “Try something,” as he points it at the offending representative. Together, their loud existence draws Steve’s attention away from the actual threat. Because Jalen might be a gang member, and Nathan is a theoretically trained soldier, but Raze is a Scourger. And Scourgers are fucking insane. Silently, from behind the Bulldog, while the man was slowly lowering his gun, Raze slides a full machete-sized knife, that she’s had hidden god knows where on her, through his neck, then through his chest, then through his mouth, then through somewhere that makes all four of the men paying close attention to what’s going down with Steve very uncomfortable. Seven or eight stabs in, Steve wasn’t just dead, he was mutilated. “A bit much?” Nathan said, his intonation feeling a bit like a question from his own surprise and confusion.

“Eh, Scourge trains ‘em good,” Jalen answers Nathan.

Deon looks up at me. “Sorry about our neighbors.”

“Not your fault,” I reply, and in my little journal I add a note that the Bulldogs will have to pay double the higher price if they want any of my shipments in the future. “Whoever brings them their share, tell the powers that be there that their next shipment cost is double.”

They take the animals out from the trailer, and replace them with their payments, in bullets, gas, canned goods, alcohol, and various other useful goodies. Then, after a game of rock-paper-scissors deciding on Deon being in charge of the Bulldog’s share, the group all leave. I check over the amounts, and they all look about right. Closing my trailer’s doors, I lock it. Heading back towards the cab, I’m stopped by a different woman in uniform. “Hannah,” I greet the “cop” with a smile.

“Driver,” she replies with her own smile.

“Comish hasn’t bought our meats in a while,” I remind her, “So what brings you here.”

She shakes her head. “You know why he hasn’t. He’s got a problem with some of your…other activities.”

“But?”

“But we want to pay you for those other activities,” she says, then adds, “Please.”

I look at her face. It’s desperate. Something’s seriously wrong. “We, you, or he?” I ask.

Hannah pauses in thought, then sighs. “We want it,” she begins, “I need it. And he doesn’t need to know the details.”

She means it. I nod. “For you,” I reply, then with yet another sly smile, I add, “And my fee, of course.”

Still on the verge of panic, she chuckles. “Of course.” She heads into the abandoned stores of the strip mall, and comes out with a small trailer, as well as a pallet of gas cans and bullets.

I shake my head and, trying to lighten the mood, tell Hannah, “Great, now I need to remember to check the mall’s interior every time.”

Something else is clearly on her mind, as she doesn’t even crack a smile. She’s focusing on the job at hand. “This should cover your half up front, once you get the trailer to Denver, the High Grounders will pay the other half.” As she maneuvers it around and attaches her small trailer to the back of my trailer, I begin to use the pallet’s gas cans to fill up my truck’s tank. It’s more than enough. She comes back around, and tosses me one of the bullets out of the pallet’s boxes. It looks good. Loading it into my gun, I do a quick test fire. The shot echoes around the parking lot. So they work. “Alright, seems good,” I say as we load up the bullets into the bed of the truck.

“Thank you,” she says with a pleasant smile.

I shrug. “It’s my job. What’s the time frame for the drop?”

“Within the month. Sooner the better,” she replies.

I nod. “Got it.” She’s only a little more relieved now that I’ve taken the job. “Is everything alright? Are you okay?”

She shrugs, smiles, and says, “No, and no. But I’ll manage.”

I get that. Nodding, I reply, “You know that if you need some help…”

She gets the implications of my trailing off. “Yeah, I know. And it’s appreciated, trust me.”

“Always,” I say with a smile. She walks to the back of her trailer, so I go to its connection point and check the hitch, mostly to give her a moment of privacy to collect herself. It seems sturdy enough and well oiled. Should be fine. I hear a loud sigh from Hannah before she walks away. I walk around and, only slightly paranoid, check the back of the trailer. It’s still locked, nothing new seems to have been added. Checking the bottom, no trackers on the outside, nothing suspicious looking. Knowing what’s inside isn’t my business. I walk back to the front and hop into the driver’s seat of my truck. Taking a moment to breathe, I turn on the engine and peel away from the parking lot. Heading west and slightly north. I’m going to stop off with my connect, see if they have any business in the Denver region for me to handle at the moment. Then I’ll head to the meet up with the Grounders. Should only add a couple days to the trip, which should be fine for a month long timeframe.

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