Death Drive

Night had fallen, but Mark was not about to stop. All his runs were in, he had been away from home for a week, and he was tired of sleeping in the cab of his semi. The next time he lay down, he decided, it would be in his own bed. Granted, that meant driving all night, but after fifteen years of trucking, that was hardly new. If all went well, he might even make it home in time to see Anna, his youngest, off to kindergarten.

It didn't take long for his plans to unravel. Despite driving just above the speed limit, he was passed by another truck, a big red rig that honked angrily at him. Mark cursed, for this was a two-lane highway and there was nothing he could do to get out of the way.

The rig, emblazoned with the word “mortido” on the back, sped away at breakneck speed. Mark, experienced enough to tell when someone was looking for trouble, slowed down to create more distance between himself and the other trucker.

Three minutes later, he spotted the “mortido” truck again, far up the road, now trying to pass a double trailer. It failed and had to hurry back to its lane because a car was coming the other way. Stunned, Mark watched as the rig swerved to the shoulder and tried to pass the other truck from that side. It cut in before its trailer was completely through, and the two vehicles collided. The crash was so strong that both trucks went off the road.

Mark stopped a short distance from the accident and rushed to help. A couple of truckers did the same, but cars just kept driving by as if nothing had happened. There were no buildings nearby, just a ditch with the two trucks now at the bottom, and since neither had caught fire, there was little to be seen from the road in the dark.

The red rig had sustained more damage and had rolled over before coming to a stop. Mark was the first to reach it, and even before he climbed over the wreckage, he could see through the shattered windshield that the driver was dead. He had been decapitated by one of the logs his trailer was hauling.

In the end, it took more than an hour for Mark to resume his ride. First, he had to sit with the shaken survivor until the ambulance arrived. Then, the highway patrol shut down all traffic the moment the emergency crew arrived with a tow truck. Mark tried to argue with the troopers, but to no avail, and by the time the roadblock was lifted, a huge tailback had formed.

It was not the first fatal accident Mark had encountered on the road, but it was the most gruesome, and he regretted seeing the body. With the image still fresh in his mind, he was torn between driving all night, as planned, and stopping to sleep it off and get rid of the bad vibe. He cursed the dead trucker again, this time for putting him in this situation.

Unable to make up his mind, he decided to push on until midnight and then see what happened. Maybe the sour taste in his mouth would be gone by then. Either way, he vowed to be more careful the rest of the way and drive under the speed limit. There was no point in pushing his luck on a night like this.

Despite his promise, it wasn't long before Mark was speeding again. Every time he checked the meter, he forced himself to slow down, only to hit the gas again when another vehicle tried to overtake him. He lit a cigarette, followed by another, then turned to chewing gum, but he could not relax.

His phone rang and he picked it up without slowing down, one hand on the wheel. It was his wife, who always called at this hour when he was out.

“Hi,” she said. “Where are you?”

“I, uh, I don't know,” he grumbled, getting irritated without knowing why. “I'm not going to make it before you leave with the girls in the morning. There's been an accident. Some damn driver.”

“An accident?” she asked, sounding worried. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. It had nothing to do with me.” He was already anxious to end the call. There was an old van in front of him, driving very slowly up the hill, and he wanted to pass it.

“Are you sure, hun? You sound a little, I don't know, antsy.”

He snapped at her, which was not like him, “I already told you I'm fine.”

There was a short pause before she continued, “Anna wanted to say good night to you, but I'm afraid she just fell asleep. Do you want me to wake her?”

“No, let her rest.” She started to say more, but he cut her off, “Listen, I gotta go. Talk to you later.”

He hung up as soon as she said goodbye and began to pass the van, even though there were double solid yellow lines. He realized halfway through that he could not see if a car was coming because of a curve, but as luck would have it, none did before he finished the pass. He could not remember the last time he, who prided himself on being an excellent driver, had been so careless.

“Pull yourself together, you idiot,” he muttered to himself. His hands were sweaty on the steering wheel, even though the night was cold.

The effect of this self-reproach was fleeting, for he grew more restless by the minute. He kept talking to himself, but now the phrases coming out of his mouth were “Get out of the way, stupid,” “Move your ass,” and “What's wrong with this bum?” Twice he punched the dashboard in sheer exasperation at being stuck behind a slower vehicle. He felt like everyone was trying to pick on him.

As the highway rolled through another town, Mark was changing lanes to make another pass when he heard frantic honking. He checked his rearview mirror and saw nothing, but the sound continued. He looked out the window and there was a compact car hugging his cab, a split second away from being run off the road by Mark's truck. He quickly swerved to the other side and the car was able to pull away to safety, but not before Mark saw the terrified look on the face of a woman in the passenger seat. She didn't seem angry, but genuinely afraid for her life.

He was shaking all over. He had seen houses and people on the other side of the road. If that car had been hit by his truck, those people could have been killed. He wasn't sure if he could live with himself if he caused a deadly accident.

“His fault,” said a hoarse voice in the cab.

Mark dismissed the words as babble coming from the radio. The more he thought about them, however, the more they began to ring true. What had happened could not have been his fault. He was sure that he had checked his mirror, just as he was sure now that he had used the blinker. Clearly, the other driver was guilty of cutting through when everyone could see that Mark had the right of way.

“Screw him,” Mark said. “And screw that woman, too.”

Venting his outrage did little to ease his tension, however, and he knew he couldn't go on like this. He had eight solid hours of driving ahead of him. If he didn't calm down, something worse than a near-miss was bound to happen. But now the idea of stopping somewhere and spending the night near this highway seemed worse than ever. He had a gut feeling that something would catch up with him if he slowed down.

Rationally, he knew it was all just crazy thinking, but he couldn't help it. He had to put off sleep, but he also needed something to relieve the stress, and he needed it fast. So when he saw that he was approaching a truck stop he'd visited on other trips, where a friend of a friend sold the odd booster to truckers on the side, he didn't think twice before pulling over.

The parking lot behind the station was almost empty, but the man he was looking for was there, braving the cold in a chair near the showers. Mark even recognized his car from the last time, a nondescript silver sedan, no doubt stocked with Adderall, Modafinil, Ephedrine, speed, and who knows what else.

Mark jumped out of his truck and gasped when he saw the word “Mortido” written in red letters on the side of the trailer. It took him a second to realize that it was just his nerves playing tricks on him, because it actually said, “Morales Trucking,” as it should have. His pulse was racing so fast he thought he was having a heart attack.

The drug smuggler acted nonchalant as Mark walked over to him, as if he was there at this hour of the night just to pass the time. But when he finally raised his eyes to Mark, his expression changed to one of mixed curiosity.

“Hey, buddy,” Mark said in a rush. “Buddy, I need something to, uh, keep my shit together, you know. To relax a bit, but I can't lose it, no, I have to keep going. I got a lot of miles to go, man. You got any of that?”

“Jesus, take it easy, will you?” the dealer said. “Do I even know you?”

“Sure you do,” Mark replied. “We did business last year, right? No, the year before that. My name is Mark. Come on, you must remember me.”

“Well, your face looks kind of familiar,” the man said uncertainly, “but what about your friend? Why is he hiding over there?”

“What friend?” Mark asked, turning to face the parking lot. There was no one else around but the two of them. “I'm traveling alone.”

“What's that?” the dealer blurted out. He took a closer look at Mark's truck, searching for something. After a few seconds he said, “I could have sworn ... Well, never mind. What the hell do you want?”

“I already told you,” Mark said, growing annoyed. “I just want something to keep me going, but that can take the edge off a bit. You know what I mean?”

The man studied Mark for a moment, noticing the trembling hands, before saying, “Listen, son, don't you think you've had enough of that stuff? You look kind of jumpy.”

“No, I'm not,” Mark replied indignantly. “I haven't had any, I swear. Besides, what is it to you? Are you going to sell me one or not?”

“Look, some scumbags out there will sell anything to anyone,” the dealer said, “even if it means killing the customer. To me, that's just bad business. My work here is to help people. So I'll tell you what we're going to do. I'm going to stick around for another hour, okay, and you are going to go back to your truck and take a little nap. No, no, believe me, you need it. If you still want it when you wake up, I'll see what I can do.”

“But I need it now!” Mark said, almost shouting.

“Son, you can either do what I say,” the man said indifferently, “or you can pack up and leave. It's all the same to me.” Without waiting for an answer, he took a nail clipper from his pocket and began to trim his nails.

Mark stood in front of the dealer for a few moments, but when he saw that it was no use, he turned to leave. He couldn't decide whether to take the man's advice or not. After taking only a couple steps, he heard someone say, “Piece of shit.”

Mark spun around sharply. There was no one else in sight, so it must have been the dealer who said it. He retraced his steps and yelled, “What did you just call me?”

Caught off guard, the dealer tried to pull something out of his coat. But since he had dropped the nail clippers, he was not fast enough. Mark punched him in the face, knocking him off his chair.

Before the man could recover, Mark kicked him in the stomach, again and again. He didn't let go even when the dealer stopped trying to defend himself and lay motionless. Mark couldn't hold it in, his fear and resentment boiling over as he began to cry.

There was the sound of a door opening at the back of the gas station. Someone cried out, “Hey, what's going on down there?”

Mark stumbled back but couldn't see who was shouting, his vision was blurred. Without waiting to find out, he ran back to his truck. He drove out of the parking lot in less than a minute and never heard the dealer's calls for help.

He hurtled down the highway, his foot on the accelerator the whole way. “That's right,” he thought, choking for breath, “they're going to get me for this. What if I killed that man? I'll go to jail, they'll take my truck. Oh God, I won't see my daughters again.”

Another truck, moving much slower, entered the road in front of him. Mark had to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision, and the smell of burnt rubber filled the cab. He honked furiously, determined to get the other vehicle to yield.

“He's in it too,” came a voice. It sounded like metal against metal.

“Damn right!” Mark readily agreed and honked the horn again. A small part of him that was no longer in charge hoped it was just the radio again. “He's trying to get me busted. They're all in this together!”

He was sure the troopers were right behind him, even though he couldn't see them in the mirror. He started to pass the semi in front of him, but then he saw headlights, a third truck from the looks of it, approaching in the opposite direction. He didn't get back into his lane. He stepped on the gas as hard as he could.

The approaching vehicle, still far away, flashed its lights to get his attention, and now Mark was right next to the truck he was passing. He could see the driver in the lit cab waving and yelling at him, even though he couldn't hear him. Mark didn't care. They were all against him, but if they were going to take him down, he might as well take some of them with him.

The truck he was trying to pass braked and disappeared from his side, but Mark still didn't change lanes. It was too late for that, he decided. Let the other lorry get off the road, let them all fall back. No one could stop him now, he was going all the way, no matter what.

There was a new sound in the cab, not a voice, not metal scraping. It was his cell phone; someone had just sent him a message. He picked it up and slammed it against the windshield to silence it, even as the headlights in front of him grew larger and refused to move out of the way. But his fingers must have skimmed the phone's screen, because a voice message began to play.

“Honey, I'm sorry to call you at this hour,” he heard his wife say, “The girls and I miss you, but if you need to sleep on the road tonight, please do.” “Don't listen to her,” the metallic voice told him, “she's trying to slow you down.” He was seconds away from a head-on collision.

“Be careful. We love you,” the message ended.

Mark swung the wheel hard to the left at the last moment. His truck narrowly missed the other vehicle, which had come to a complete stop. He skidded off the road and saw trees flying toward him, then nothing.

He awoke to find two men carrying him in the dark. His chest hurt badly, but his right leg was much worse. He let out a cry of pain and the man holding his arms said, “He's coming to. Let's put him down.”

The man who had carried his legs stood over Mark and yelled, “You crazy son of a bitch, you almost got us both killed. What the hell were you thinking?”

“My leg,” Mark wailed, biting his lip. He could breathe, albeit with difficulty, but he couldn't move without the excruciating pain in his leg threatening to render him unconscious again.

The first man turned on a flashlight and shined it down on Mark. After a quick inspection, he said, “Leg's pretty badly broken, all right. Some ribs too, I reckon. All in all, you are one lucky bastard, you know that? A wreck this bad, I figured we would just find a stiff in there.”

“He deserves a beating, he does,” said the second, angrier driver, who sounded much younger than the first. Mark tried to pull away from him and felt as if he had been stabbed with a white-hot poker.

“We'll let the cops deal with him, you hear?” the older truck driver said. “It's their damn business. Now, you got a phone with you? I guess I left mine in the truck.”

“Same here,” the young man said.

“All right then. You better stay and keep an eye on him while I go get help.” The young trucker mumbled a reply, then the other handed him the flashlight and left.

The first man was gone less than a minute before the young truck driver came up to Mark. He held the torch in Mark's eyes and said, “I don't care what that old fart thinks. You owe it to me to get that leg of yours stomped ... Hey, what's that?” The beam left Mark's face and shone where he could not see, not without him stirring and feeling that terrible pain again.

“Who's there?” the man said, his voice anxious, but after a moment he added more easily, “Where did you come from, mister? Hey, were you in that truck?”

Mark could not see to whom the trucker was speaking. He heard no approaching footsteps and no response, yet the young man said, “Really? Yeah, well, whatever. Listen, while you're here, why don't you check out this asshole for me? I'm running late, my boss will kick my butt if I miss the next delivery.”

There was a pause, and then Mark saw the truck driver walk away, taking the flashlight with him. Mark tried to scream, “Wait, don't leave me,” but the pain was too intense. Only a grunt escaped his lips.

Now shrouded in darkness, he did not hear a single footstep, yet he sensed someone standing right next to him. It was so close that he should have been able to hear breathing. A sound like metal scraping against metal carried the words, “Catch you next time, sport.” Powerless to defend himself, he braced for what was to come.

A full minute passed, but nothing happened. Mark cocked his head to the side and could just make out the truck driver in the distance. Without paying attention to the big red letters painted on the door, the young man climbed into his truck and sped off.

BIO: David August lives in São Paulo, Brazil, and works in human rights advocacy. His stories have appeared in 3:AM Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, and The Rumen, among others.