Weary Traveler
Chapter 5

Rosenfell’s neon glow dwindled to a faint rainbow blur in Mitch’s rearview mirror. His truck chugged along a dirt road, headlights beaming through a thick layer of dust spewing from the ground.

Black smoke squeezed out of pipes and vents that grew from the earth like synthetic roots. The toxic remnants from the Crawlers at CorpoMax in their underground compound. Creeping and slithering in their tunnels beneath the ground. Beyond the strangling grip of poisonous, all-consuming darkness of the surface city trapped beneath the black steel sky of eternal night.

Rusted, abandoned cars populated the sides of the road. Some were overturned and robbed of their parts, metal frames bare like gigantic skeleton skulls, stripped of paint from the toxic fumes that melted the acrylic. Other vehicles had exploded and spewed their bits and pieces across the murky ground, crushed by the cars seeking to escape the gravitational pull of one of Earth’s last, above ground smart cities.

Mitch scanned the area. His brown irises burned red from the flickering flames of random mounds of fiery debris that peppered the road like jumpstarted landmines. He glanced at the slingshot and baggie of pellets resting in his lap, within reach to pester any criminal bonzo runner at the CorpoMax warehouse with annoying, silver rocks.

“Fucking cops,” he muttered, shaking his head as the truck crept further away from the fluorescent warmth of the tech-city.

There was a dripping silence that permeated the outer rim. It was traced with a distant hum like an electric beehive built into an artificial tree downtown, housing its synthetic bees pollinating metallic flowers waving at the polluted wind with their plastic leaves. Casting out their inorganic scents to be immediately swallowed by the rotten stench of filth wafting up from dark alleys and noxious gas blowing from the clogged sewer.

Mitch leaned over the steering wheel and peeked out of the front window panel. He scanned the horizon, seeking out the buzzing hum. It grew louder, louder, combining with tiny shockwaves of energy that rippled through the air. Frantic vibrations rattled the truck and wriggled his body, tickled his eardrums, scratched his brain.

The rickety truck pushed through a veil of swirling gray dust. Just beyond that, an endless field of sparkling, blue-white bulbs floated in the air atop metallic towers. Columns upon columns, rows upon rows of electric light seemed to stretch beyond the curve of the earth like neon buds sprouted from the ground.

And then, in a flash of motion, the bulbs hyper-charged, multiplied, until the sparkling luminescence engulfed metallic domes. The blue-white fire exploded into the sky like blood through the veins of a bum high on bonzos, stretching out and grasping for the heavenly night.

An electric veil swallowed the badlands. An infinite field of energy danced in the dark sky, whipped in the frigid wind, turning the eternal night of Rosenfell’s outer rim into an electric day. Buzzing and humming with the power pulled from the air, yanked into the surface by these tendrils of steel and aluminum and copper. Metallic fingers clawing the ether, shredding the fabric, reaching and squeezing every last drop of electricity falling from the hidden galaxy above.

Then, like a switch had been flicked, the wriggling beams of energy sucked back into the top of each dome and dropped down the tower, disappeared beneath the surface, fired into Rosenfell to power implants and tech, neon bulbs and holographic advertisements.

Mitch rolled the rest of the way under the cover of darkness with only his faint headlights to illuminate the lonely path. The icy air blowing through the front panel stung his grimy skin, seeped deep into his bones, sending shivers through his body like a permanent frost had wrapped around his soul. Trapped in a steel jacket of cold, jittery, misery.

A jagged blob of shadows shone through the darkness at the edge of the truck’s headlights. Mitch stepped on the gas and closed in on the bonzo warehouse. White steam and black smoke shot from pipes and chimneys on the roof. Grinding gears and the steady hum of machinery crawled through the facility’s steel walls. A pit of lonely life in the emptiness of the barren badlands.

Mitch eased up on the gas, flung his hands against the wheel, turned right, off the main road, lurching over bumpy terrain up to the back of the warehouse. He parked the truck at a distance and peeked out of the front window towards the warehouse’s loading dock.

There were three enormous gates with vertical sliding doors flung wide open. Two of the gates were empty. The other had a small freight truck parked outside with its driver standing in the shadows next to the front left bumper. Every few seconds, his right hand lifted to his lips and a puff of white, chalky smoke spewed from his mouth, looking like a family of ghosts hovered around him.

Mitch licked his lips, eyed the man sucking on the chalky, inhaling the synthetic nicotine into his lungs, stripping the flesh off of his internal organs from the chemicals cooked into every poor man’s preferred bonzo.

He leaned back, rubbed his chin, analyzed the scene. The guard standing on top of the dock marked something on a holo-tab while a group of men loaded duffel bags into the back of the truck, weighing the vehicle down with each drop of the bonzo-filled sacks.

The guard with the tablet whistled loud, pelted a piercing ring that ruptured the silence.

Mitch blinked and shook the fog from his mind. He watched the driver as he marched over to the dock, scanned his device, and climbed back into his truck, drove off towards the main road.

“Here we go,” Mitch said, pressing on the gas. He eased the truck forward, gave the other driver a nod and salute as he passed. Then crept up to the edge of the dock and turned the wheel so that the truck bed squared up with the middle gate.

“Shit,” he muttered, staring at the lever sticking out from the floorboard.

He placed his hand over the top and gave it a single tug until it clicked into the next gear, eased up on the brake and pressed the gas pedal. The engine revved, spit smoke from its tailpipe.

He glanced at the rearview mirror. The guard was occupied with his tablet, blue light shining upon his stoic face.

Mitch grabbed the lever, pulled it into the next slot and stepped on the gas. The truck shot backwards in a sudden jolt of acceleration. Too fast. His veiny hands tightened over the steering wheel, his right foot stomped on the brake, throwing his chest against the wheel, honking the horn.

“Ooof!” Mitch grunted like he had been smacked in the stomach with the lid of a trash barrel. His watery eyes stared into the rearview. The guard still stared at his holo-tab, unfazed by the spectacle.

He eased off of the brake and let the vehicle roll backwards at a leisure pace until the truck bed rested flush against the dock. Then turned the engine off, climbed out of the side opening and crept over to the dock, stopped beneath the guard.

“Name?” the guard asked without looking up from the rectangular sliver of holographic light.

Mitch prodded the depths of his shriveled brain.

“Marty Johnson,” he said, coughing on a chunk of dirt caught in his throat.

“Marty Johnson with what distributor?” the guard asked.

Mitch dove back into the darkness.

“Marty Johnson with Rotech,” Mitch said, wide eyes glaring at the light rifle slung across the guard’s torso.

The guard scanned his sheet.

“Alright, there you are,” he said, tapping something on the tablet.

Mitch’s jaw dropped, heart skipped.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled under his breath, releasing an almost inaudible chuckle. His eyes looked like they had been zapped by a bolt of lightning.

“What’s that?” the guard asked, peeking from his tablet, scowling at Mitch from beneath his scrunched forehead.

“Just ready to get’a move on,” Mitch said. “Been a long drive.”

“Got five-hundred kilos of jellies, snappers, blasters, and jawbreakers. It’ll take a few minutes to load up. You can wait by your- what the hell is this rusted chunk of shit?”

Mitch glanced over his shoulder like he wasn’t sure what the guard was talking about.

“Oh, yeah,” Mitch said, scratching the back of his head, “cargo trucks were already in use.”

“Rotech sent you all the way out here in this?”

“Sure did.”

The guard clamped his lips and shook his head.

“Those rich bastards are always screwing us low-levelers.”

Mitch peeked over his right shoulder. A cargo truck turned off the main road. Its headlights shined bright, reflected off of his expanding eyes. He pinched and lifted his coat, aired out the sweat that gathered on his hairy chest.

“Must be a mistake,” the guard said, following the truck. He tapped his metallic thumb and index finger together, powered up the holo-tab.

Every sliver of hair on Mitch’s skin rose, tingled. He coughed into his hand, peeked over his left shoulder at the approaching cargo truck, close enough now to hear the crunch of its tires on the gravel.

“How we looking up there, fellas?” Mitch asked the workers loading the truck.

Two of the workers dropped bags onto the truck bed, turned, and stomped back into the warehouse without acknowledging Mitch. A third and fourth dropped two bags each and walked through the gate.

“All good, boss,” the forth worker said, joining the others inside.

“Alright, Johnson,” the guard said, “ten duffel bags, fifty kilos each, makes five-hundred kilos of bonzos.”

Mitch looked over his shoulder and made eye contact with the incoming driver. They glared at each other all the way until the driver whipped his truck around and reversed it into the spot on Mitch’s right.

“Thanks!” Mitch shouted, jumping through the gaping hole in the side of his car.

“Need to scan your load slip,” the guard said, raising his holo-tab.

“Keep it!”

The dock boss turned towards the approaching driver.

“Don’t got no more pickups tonight,” he said. “Got the wrong warehouse.”

“What’re you talking about?” the driver said, climbing out of his truck. His forearms were thick like small tree trunks, covered with a dense layer of brown hair like a coat of fur. “I’ve got five-hundred kilos of blasters, jellies, snappers, and jawbreakers.”

Mitch jabbed the key into the ignition, turned it, and yanked on the lever. He peeked over his left shoulder.

“Who you with?” the guard asked.

Mitch’s eyes stretched wide, drifted towards the sling shot and baggie of silver pellets nestled in the passenger seat. His heart pounded against his chest, pumped fiery blood through his body so fast that it tickled the tips of his fingers.

“Rotech,” the burly driver said.

“Rotech?” the guard asked. “Now wait a damn minute.”

Mitch jabbed his right hand into the baggie, pulled out a handful of the ball bearings and loaded one up in the leather pocket of the slingshot.

“What’s your name?” the guard asked.

Mitch fired off a pellet. It rocketed from the sling in a blur of faint, silvery light. Shot off like a miniature, iron ball from a makeshift canon.

“Name’s Mar-”

The driver’s head snapped sideways.

“What the hell?” he shouted, turning towards Mitch.

“Fuck you!” Mitch screamed out of his side panel, throwing up two filthy middle fingers. He stepped on the gas, kicked up dust and gravel, and sped off back towards the main road.

The truck chugged ahead, weighed down by the full bed of bonzos in the back. Mitch’s eyes were glued to the rearview mirror. His pupils shriveled as the guard and driver were reduced to small specks, obscured by the dust cloud left in the truck’s wake.

And then, an ear-grating siren exploded through the badlands. Mitch flinched, stared at the flashing red and white lights spinning along the walls and roof of the warehouse.

“Shit!” he shouted. He leaned in, hugged the steering wheel, and pressed on the gas until the pressure shooting through his toes numbed his entire right foot.

A shallow ditch approached. Too close to evade, so he aimed straight for it.

The front tires cleared the gap, back tires smacked into the lip. The truck jolted from the sudden impact, threw Mitch against the steering wheel, lungs choking on the air sucked into his gaping mouth.

He twisted the steering wheel right, left, steadied the truck just before the front tries transferred onto the main dirt road. Then flexed his jaw and shook the flashing, white bulbs from his vision.

“Yes!” Mitch howled, rocking in the chair and bashing the horn. But the sound was overtaken by an ear-splitting screech of grating metal against pavement like claws on a chalkboard.

He leaned his head out of the driver-side door. Yellow sparks sprayed into the hazy air like a group of hoodlums fired a collection of firecrackers beneath the chassis.

He tilted his head inside the truck, spun the wheel right, left… right, left… dislodged the chunk of bumper and drove over it like a speed bump.

The truck zipped down the road. Its engine rattled, shook the metallic frame, wriggled up Mitch’s body, and jittered his deteriorated teeth. Thin plumes of smoke spewed scalding fumes out of the side of the hood, filled the air of the badlands with the eye-watering, mechanical stench of burnt oil and expired engine grease.

A trail of metal scattered across the middle of the road in the truck’s wake. He leaned closer to the mirror, watched as a cloud of yellow-gray dust burst from a convoy of cars and trucks speeding across the field outside of the warehouse.

Mitch pushed his toes through the gas pedal, leaned forward. The truck’s headlights pierced the fog, brightening his path just enough to see about twenty feet in front of him.

The blue tendrils of electric energy were tucked away for a moment’s rest. A temporary slumber like a graveyard of mummified tech-towers. Beyond that, growing in the distance, the neon lights of the electric forest of Rosenfell loomed within the gray-black veil of polluted night.

He peeked at the electric towers from the corner of his eyes. Specks of blue started to sparkle at the top of the domes. Burned brighter, brighter as they gathered energy from the sky, spread their sharp fingers high into the ether, swayed back and forth. Danced to and fro. Illuminating the scars and pockmarks on the right side of Mitch’s face, coating his eyeballs with an electric tinge like a deranged alchemist.

The buzzing hum consumed Mitch’s mind like a billion mechanical bees had descended upon the place, truck blazing a dusty trail past the electric grid of silver structures.

The rearview mirror reflected the approaching cloud of black soot and brown dust that lined the abandoned road. Chasing… racing… like an angry hare after the plotting tortoise had tricked them at their own game.

“Those idiots!” Mitch shouted, slapping the steering wheel, honking the horn.

A symphony of pops like a dozen bricks clapped together echoed through the air, followed by metallic clashes that dinged into the back of the truck. Mitch ducked below the top of the seat, shrugged his shoulders, and tucked his head to protect himself from the onslaught of bullets pelting the vehicle’s frame.

He stared through the front panel. Rosenfell’s neon light show punctured the thick veil of smog like a stellar nebula swallowed by stardust.

The highway approached.

Mitch gazed through the rearview mirror. The cloud closed in fast, headlights now visible. The convoy was about the same distance to Mitch as he was to the edge of the city.

He swallowed hard, tried to press his foot through the floor bed, sending a series of hiccups through the engine that rattled the chassis and slithered through his bones.

“C’mon, Bertha! Don’tchu quit on me.”

The traffic signal above the highway blazed solid red. Traffic on Synapse Circle swirled in a blur of light from autonomous cars zipping right, zooming left.

Mitch’s heart pounded against his chest. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. Palms perspired, rolled down the wheel and collected in a puddle on his lap.

The solid red light started to flash. Traffic on the highway stopped. And then, the light turned solid green. Bertha burst onto the open road. A thousand headlights stopped on the left, illuminating Mitch’s crazed eyes and feral grin.

He passed the midpoint, now illuminated by cars on his right, until he plowed onto the other side of the road and drove across the rough blacktop of Pearl District.

Mitch peeked at the rearview mirror. The traffic light now burned bright red. His assailants trapped on the other side of Synapse Circle, thousands of speeding electric vehicles blocking their assault into Rosenfell.

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He eased up on the gas pedal with his numb right foot and whistled a sweet tune as Bertha rolled through the neon lights of the smart city.

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