by Peter Ackers
Bobby said nothing. He looked in the mirror again, watched the trailer feeding into the fog. Then the tractor unit's rear wheels, just like before. Danny stopped the vehicle, spun the wheel to the right, ready to move forward.
"Danny, go back further," Bobby said. "My half keeps going in the fog when we pull out and it freaks me out."
Danny laughed at him, but obliged. Started to reverse a few more feet. The fuel tank disappeared next. The fog was right up against the back of the cab. Bobby leaned forward, away from the small window in the back, just in case.
"Happy, girl?" Danny said, throwing the gearstick into first. He hit the accelerator.
The truck jerked and moved back six inches.
"What the hell?" Danny said, angry. He shook the gearstick and tried first again. "Still in reverse." He hit the gas and the truck moved forward, but sluggishly. Both men looked at each other. Danny pressed his foot harder on the pedal. Both men heard and felt the wheels spin, catch, spin, catch.
"Shit, Danny, the blood on the fuel tank. It's human blood. It's the fucking blood."
Then the truck jerked as if in an earthquake and started to move backwards, tyres screaming now, engine screaming. Truckers screaming.
***
Drums slowed to a stop, still forty metres out. He knew he could have made that distance and leaped up into the cabin before the truck completed its forward turn and got up any real speed. But he also knew he didn't have to. Something was taking care of his problem for him.
He rushed forward, closed the gap to five metres, and watched the show. Something in the fog was playing tug-of-war with the truck, slowly hauling it in, winning the battle against the big diesel engine. The truck slipped into the fog slowly, like some big creature in quicksand. The driver flung open his door, but it only opened so far. No room to swing between the edge of the door and the fog.
The door started to sink into the fog. Drums walked forward, stood in front of the truck. There was plenty of space, with just a few feet of the big rig left exposed. Both truckers were pressing up against the window, trying to break it, fighting to be as far forward as possible.
In his panic, there came just one fleeting moment when the trucker locked eyes with Drums. Drums returned his earlier salute. Then the fog closed over him, pressed up against the windscreen from inside, and slipped around the front of it. The fog seemed to erode the face of the truck from the outside corners inwards, like fire eating a sheet of paper. The grimy teddy was the last part to go.
Drums watched for a few seconds more. There was no noise of any kind, not screams, not tearing metal. Nothing.
He looked left, looked right. Eight miles to his left, an unknown distance to his right. He didn't fancy either trek, so sat right in the road. He would wait for a car, try to grab a lift. He lay back, put his head on the tarmac. Stared at the black line of night way above.
The next thing he knew, a truck's horn was blaring. He jerked, his head swimming. Fell asleep, he realised. He scrambled to his feet, fearing the trucker was back. But the truck waiting in the lane was different, the guy leaning out the window was different. The light was different - it was morning.
The trucker said something about how silly it was to sleep in the middle of a road. But Drums wasn't fully hearing, because his eyes were registering something he couldn't grasp. He was seeing fields, hills, all around him. The fog had gone and the world just looked normal again. He rubbed his eyes them just to make sure. He scanned for a wrecked truck, a wrecked van, but there was nothing. But he could see churned grass, where the big rig's wheels had spun.
"You need a lift, mate?" the trucker said. "Or you waiting for someone?"
Drums thought for a moment. Then he said, "Yes. I mean the lift. It's just me."
