Cargo

Vipers

I wake up in fright, staring at the orange light glaring past the shades.

My racing heartbeat gradually slows as I realize the gravity of my decision. My anxiety begins to dissipate, replaced by a sense of relief knowing that my instinct to stay put was the right one. Avoiding entanglement with any potential police investigation is a weight lifted off my shoulders. I grab my boots and socks, but when I go to put them on, I notice dried blood under my feet.

Holy shit.

I feel panic rising again.

The first thing I do is wash my feet in the bathroom. I don't even dry them, sliding on my socks and shoving my feet into my Desarado leather square toes. I gather what little belongings I have and head out the door.

Daylight paints a different picture. I don't recognise the motel or its layout. Everything seems to be spread further apart than it did at night. The lustre of the pools of blood is gone, replaced by dry patches of dark red cordoned off by yellow tape. Three police vehicles remain, parked in front of the office entrance. I see no officers, so I head straight for my truck. Before I climb in, I stop and decide to check the rear. I walk to the back and assess the doors.

The locks are broken!

I freeze, unable to garner the incentive to open and check the cargo inside. Two cops appear, stepping out from the back of the motel. I make sure the doors are shut and rush to the front. I climb into the driver's seat and power the truck's system up, checking whether I've attracted the attention of the two officers.

Nope.

"Avocado, it's time to go." I wait for it to respond. It doesn't. "Avocado, we need to hit the road soon if we want to stay ahead of any potential trouble."

The familiar voice says, "Power levels are at eight per cent. Please charge."

"There's no charging station here."

"There is a level one Maxicharge located twenty-two metre northeast from here."

I glance out towards the glaring sun and spot the green and red Max Energy logo. "It's a slow charge dock. We can't stay here forever. We've got to keep moving if we want to stay safe. You know we can't afford to draw attention to ourselves."

"The next level three dock is forty-eight kilometres away."

"Eight per cent is plenty."

"I am afraid I can't let you take the risk."

I run my fingers across the dash, implementing the override sequence, and keeping an eye out for the cops.

"I advise against your action," says Avocado, "I cite section thirteen on the Safety and Maintenance Protocol.

I power up the truck. "Is there any level one or two docks closer?"

"Yes," responds Avocado, "there is a level two station twenty-one kilometres away."

"Then help me get me to it, for fuck's sake."

"What is the difference between..."

"Just get me to it." With a gentle touch on the accelerator, I ease the pedal down, feeling the satisfying resistance of the transmission as it engages. The multiple motors hum with readiness, the road vibrating the steering wheel. As the vehicle glides forward, the motion is smooth and controlled. The sounds of the wheels grinding on the pavement intensify as I navigate the twists and turns of the parking lot.

Gaining momentum, I gently increase the pressure on the accelerator, allowing the truck to pick up speed as it gracefully exits the parking lot. The settlement outside unfolds before me, the scenery passing by. I navigate the streets with precision, my hands firmly on the steering wheel, feeling the road beneath my tires.