saline

five

Jackson tugged at his shirt. His sweat was making it stick to his skin. He shielded his eyes from the beating sun, searching.

Out of the corner of his eye he glanced that blue plastic cooler sitting in front of an old department store. He crossed the road, not bothering to glance for traffic, and hurried towards the building. The walls were crumbling — it had definitely seen better days.

The cooler was lighter than he expected. Too light. He groaned as he lifted that box — not from strain or effort, but rather from the lack of it. The amount he'd been given had fluctuated, though it ultimately dwindled. This was a new low.

He reluctantly slipped a small pouch of money through a hole in the door before turning, all too eager to leave the pitiful sight behind him. He loaded the cooler into the back of the truck alongside all the other pitifully small deposits. His overseers glared at him out of the corners of their eyes. He bit back defensive remarks.

"Nice haul," grinned one of Jackson's coworkers.

"Oh, shut up. It isn't my fault," he grumbled. He hopped into the truck. Jackson made an effort to exaggerate him scooting away from his coworker.

The truck was slammed shut with such great force that Jackson couldn't help but liken the sound to that of a church bell's toll during a rainy funeral. Jackson struggled to find his weapons among the sudden flood of darkness.

The truck bounced along the endless road, each flying rock sounding like a bullet on the truck's worn-out exterior. The poor thing desperately needed to be retired. But Jackson knew none of the men in his company could afford it. So instead, he clutched his gun to his chest, closed his eyes tightly — as if his vision could become darker still — and began to wait out the relentless roughness of the road.