What Came After

by Sam Winston

  The very first truck to come along stopped to pick them up. Weller holding his daughter in the crook of his elbow and sticking out a thumb the old way. That big white cat showing on the back of her pack. The truck was barreling south toward the Mason-Dixon line, loaded up and sealed tight. A National Motors truck on a National Motors highway. The driver threw open the passenger door and called down, “Jump in quick, buddy. I’m on a schedule, in case you ain’t heard.”

  His name was Joe and he’d aspired to this job all his life and he loved to talk, which is why he picked them up in the first place. Risking it. Born into a Management family in Queens. His father a doorman in a Manhattan apartment building and his mother a housekeeper and he and his brother both aspiring to hit the road at the first opportunity. Get out. He checked his watch and compared it against a readout on the dashboard and did a quick calculation on his fingers. Stepped on the gas. Watched the speedometer rise, the arrow pointing a few notches past one marker that was bigger than the rest and flagged in bright red. He squinted into the distance and asked Penny if she saw any trucks ahead of them and she smiled and shrugged. Shy and half blind. Weller answered for her. Said no. Nothing as far as he could see and he could see a long way from up here in the cab.

  The driver said fine. That was all right by him. He didn’t want to be gaining on somebody who was sticking to the rules. Fifty miles an hour come hell or high water, if they’d excuse his French.

  Weller tilted his head and looked over at the speedometer. Sixty-five. He said it felt like they were flying. Flying up here in this high cab at this high speed. Flying at any speed, come to that.

  The driver laughed and said aww, you’ll get used to it. He kept it pegged right where it was and checked his watch again and looked at some readouts on the dash. Drove with his tongue between his teeth, concentrating. Counting down after a while and then easing off the pedal and letting the truck slow back down to fifty on its own. Tapping the brakes just once when it got close. Checking everything one last time.

  “How about that,” he said. “Looks like we’ll hit Stamford right on the button. When the time comes I’ll give you two the word and you can climb back into the bunk and nobody’ll be the wiser.” Grinning like he’d gotten away with something, which he had.

  He said they used to do this with GPS but the satellites were down half the time now so that was the end of that. Sunspots or whatever. Maybe they were just wearing out. Did things wear out in space? It didn’t seem possible. It wasn’t like there was weather up there or anything to bump into. As he understood it, there wasn’t even any air. It was a vacuum, like the vacuum inside a can. A vacuum preserved things, didn’t it? A week from now this load right here would be divided up into a million vacuum cans and it would last forever.

  Like he said, he loved to talk.

  Anyway, security just timed you now that they couldn’t trust the satellites. Fifty miles in between checkpoints at fifty miles an hour and you’d best be there on the dot. Show up late without a flat tire or something else on that order to show for it, and there’d be hell to pay. Excuse his French.

  Weller asked about the truck. A great sleek red Peterbilt as big as a mountain and moving. More than moving. Lapping up the miles. The driver said it was a 387 and it had come off the line in oh-eight, which made it barely broken in, considering. Compared against the other rolling stock out here. Junk on wheels. Antiques held together with bailing twine and chewing gum. This baby had a sleeper in the back and a Cummins engine under the hood with 450 horses pulling. Eighteen forward speeds.

  He’d been assigned to her for a long time. It was all about seniority. You minded your business and you rose up through the ranks and your working conditions improved. This truck right here for example. This interior. They called it Prestige Gray. How about that. Some of these young guys out there starting now, he didn’t know how they’d ever make it. How they’d stand the conditions day after day and how they’d earn their minimums given the amount of time they spent broken down by the side of the road. Waiting for a tow or whatever.

  Penny said her father could help. Her father could fix anything.

  The driver said sure. Gave her a pat on the head. Said man oh man I pity the younger generation. Said you two ought to count yourselves lucky for getting a ride with me. Asked where were they going, anyhow?

  “New York,” said Weller.

  The driver shook his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Everybody wants to see New York. Like I said, I grew up around there. Believe me, it ain’t worth the trouble.”

  “In our case, I think it is.” Not sure how much he wanted to say.

  The driver glanced from the road to Weller. “By the looks of it, you been chased out of nicer places already.” Pointing at his own neck to indicate the cut in Weller’s. “It ain’t none of my business,” he said, “but without ID you won’t get very far.”

  “I’ve never had ID. Born and raised in the Zone.”

  If the driver was surprised he didn’t show it. He didn’t recoil the way some might have. He just drove on. “Worse luck for you,” he said after a minute. “If I had time to slow down again between here and Stamford I’d let you off. Send you back home before you get yourself shot or something.”

  Penny’s eyes got big.

  “Not shot. I didn’t mean shot. That’s a figure of speech.” He put out a hand and Penny retreated into her father’s arms. “You know what a figure of speech is, honey?”

  Nothing.

  “All I mean is it’s a tough town. Tough on strangers. Tough on generics.”

  Weller opened his pack and dug around. Located the Polaroid picture and showed it. He said they weren’t entirely strangers. Not to everybody in New York.

  “Jesus,” said the trucker. “That was you?”

  “Yes sir, it was.”

  “Honest? Holy shit. I mean holy shit. That was all over the news.”

  “Really.”

  “Everywhere. The TV news. That was a close call, buddy.”

  “It wasn’t such a big deal. A bent sway bar. A couple of loose bolts.”

  “Not for them. I mean a close call for you. They’d scrambled Black Rose, for Christ’s sake. They were in the air.”

  “I guess.”

  “Oh, yeah. They were on their way, and those old boys don’t leave much behind when they’re finished, if you get my drift.” Tilting his head toward Penny. Emphasizing what he wasn’t saying.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Man oh man. You’re one lucky guy.”

  “Let’s hope it holds.” Looking at the Polaroid one more time and then sliding it into his pocket. “Carmichael said he owes me one.”

  “He said that, did he?”

  “He did.”

  “Well.”

  “I mean to call in the favor. Get her some help with her eyes.” Penny on his lap, settling back.

  The driver nodded, noncommittal. “That’d sure be nice,” he said. “Those boys do have all the good doctors sewn up. In a manner of speaking.” Fingering his neck. “Did you know they keep all their records on board these days? Right here? It’s the latest thing. Myself, I’ve just got the regular financial chip. Company issued. ID, banking and like that. I’ve been saving for an upgrade, but you know how that goes.”

  “I guess I do.”

  “Money’s always tight.”

  “If you’ve got any at all.”

  “Them what has, gets.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Bouncing Penny a little. “That’s why we’re going to see that Mr. Carmichael, isn’t it, honey? Because he’s the one who can help if anybody can. And he made us a promise.”

  The driver studied the road. “One thing you learn growing up Management,” he said after a little.

  “What’s that?”

  “Ownership’s got a real short memory.”

  They rode along quietly for a while. The driver lighting up a cigarette and opening the window. The occasional crackle of a voice ove
r the CB radio until he turned it off. Weller taking Penny’s head softly between his hands and turning it to point out landmarks along the highway. That’s the mouth of a river emptying into the sound. That used to be a railroad bridge. Those big towers marching along one after another used to carry electricity. Electricity in cables strung from one to the next like a cat’s cradle.

  They drew near a bridge with a double row of red lights blinking overhead as if somebody had won a jackpot. The driver nodded toward it, his face reflecting the red lights. “Security breach,” he said. “They know you’re in here. Not you exactly. But they know somebody’s in here who shouldn’t be.” Nodding like it gave him satisfaction. Like he took a little pride in it. The truck passing under the bridge now and the lights gone.

  Weller tightened his grip on Penny. “So what’s next.” Thinking how he’d cut that electrical fence. That was it. That was how they knew.

  “Next? Nothing. Nothing’s next. People keep an eye out is all.” Looking straight ahead. Driving. Checking his mirrors with the lights fading behind. “You’ll be on your own after the GWB,” he said after a while. “I go west and you go east.”

  “The GWB.”

  “The bridge. The George Washington Bridge. They closed all the tunnels down a few years back and there’s just the two bridges anymore. Brooklyn and the GWB. I’ll drop you on the Jersey side, and after that you’re on your own.”

  “We’ll take our chances.”

  “I guess you will,” he said. And then, as if he’d just woken up to it, “Next stop, Stamford. Everybody into the back.”

  * * *

  There was a narrow closet alongside the bunk and they barely fit into it. Shoved their packs into a compartment overhead and squeezed themselves into the little closet at an angle, Weller first and Penny after. Penny acting like it was a game but a serious one. Weller realizing as he pulled the door shut that whatever happened next was going to be up to the driver and the driver alone. Wondering what he’d gotten himself into.

  The truck went over some kind of grating and just about shook itself to pieces. The driver turned on the CB radio again and they heard a few stuttering bursts of a voice they couldn’t make out. Just barking. They passed over some more grates and then slowed to a stop and then everything was quiet for the longest time. Only the engine idling and some kind of regular beeping noise coming muffled through the window. Now and then the idle rising and the truck bumping forward and stopping again. Air brakes.

  They moved a little and the engine noise got louder without getting faster and Weller figured they’d gone under some kind of portico. Everything sounded closer. He could hear something from under the hood knocking in a metallic way he hadn’t heard before, as if the sound were bouncing off a wall and being clarified. Bouncing off concrete or tile or something else hard. Penny turned and started talking in his ear and he hushed her. Wait. This is where things happen. Bad things maybe if we’re not quiet. The sound of the engine getting louder yet as the driver opened his window and then a short conversation made entirely of shouting. Pleasantries if you could shout pleasantries. Two professionals going back and forth and then they were done and the window went up and the sound died back and the driver began working the gears.

  Weller didn’t open the closet door until they were back up to speed. Penny squeezed out and threw herself down on the unmade bed and made angels in the sheets. Weller had her get up. Took her bag down and pushed it through and sent her after it and came himself. Saying it had occurred to him at the last minute that they might get weighed and what then. With these trailers sealed up the way they were somebody must know every load down to the ounce and they could calculate the weight of the diesel fuel and the consumption rate of it and that would mean his own weight would show up. What then. What then, with those flashing red lights and all.

  The driver laughed and put the radio back on low. He said there was a time when they used to weigh everything, but not now. Half the scales were broken and the other half didn’t work. It didn’t matter anyway. These trailers were sealed up so tight that you couldn’t get anything in or out if you tried, and as he’d seen they kept the drivers on a short rope. Punching that clock. You’d have to work pretty hard to try anything funny, and there’d have to be a pretty big payoff. Rubbing his fingers together indicating cash money, even though Management didn’t have any legal use for it these days. Everything went onto your brand. That old data stream. Some things died hard, though, and rubbing your fingers together still said money.

  Weller had U.S. cash in his pocket from when he’d left home and he sat there now thinking how useless it was here on this road. Pretty much foreign currency anywhere but in the Zone. Not even that. He had half of everything he owned in the whole world folded up right here, and it wasn’t enough to reward this driver for giving them a lift. For keeping his mouth shut instead of handing them over to security back at the Stamford checkpoint. He bet there’d been a reward in that. Those flashing lights and all. People keeping their eyes open. There’d been a reward and the truck driver had foregone it out of kindness. It was a debt that he could never repay, and he said so.

  The driver said oh, don’t worry about that. The reward wasn’t all that much anyhow. Plus it was his pleasure to break the rules every now and then, as long as it was for a good cause. That old cowboy ethic that lived on in the hearts of truck drivers everywhere. He lit up another cigarette and cracked the window. Why, it was practically a tradition.

  Weller watched him smoke and got an idea. The tobacco. He dug in his pack and located the bundle and worked it open. Peeled the top couple of leaves free. Don’t spend it all in one place, she’d said. Good advice. He pulled those two fragile leaves out and sealed the bundle back up again and closed his pack down tight over it. Caught the driver’s eye with the flash of the aluminum foil but hadn’t meant to. He lifted the tobacco up into the light. “Hey,” he said. “I brought you a little present.”

  Even if the driver was a man who’d seen it all, he hadn’t seen this. Not by the look on his face. Shock and fear and greed all mingled together. He shook his head. “I thought it was all about the girl,” he said. “I thought you were doing it for her.”

  “I am. Just like I said.”

  “Then what’s with this?”

  “It was a gift.”

  “A gift.”

  “That’s right. And now I’m giving it to you.”

  “Nobody gives that stuff away.”

  “I’m giving it to you.”

  The driver checked his mirrors as if somebody might be gaining on him. Reached over and switched off the radio as if somebody might be listening in. “I can’t take it,” he said. “I appreciate it, but I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t.”

  “Won’t.”

  “They tell me it’s first-rate.” Running the leaves between his thumb and his forefinger. “I wouldn’t know anything about it myself, but that’s what they tell me.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “The real thing. Disengineered. It’s worth a fortune.”

  “You’re not kidding about that.” The driver tilted his head to the right. The backpack. “How much you got in there?”

  “Some. I didn’t ask. A couple of pounds maybe.” Smoothing the leaves on his knee. “They just gave it to me.”

  “How come? How come they gave it to you? How come who gave it to you?”

  “Some people. Some people I did a little bit of work for.” Thinking maybe he ought to leave it at that.

  “Look here,” the driver said. Poking at the red National Motors star on his blue overalls. “If I didn’t work for who I work for, I might think about it. God knows I could use the dough. But they look at us awful close. Blood samples. Urine samples. Those full-body scanners from the airports? Guess who bought them when the FAA shut down.”

  Weller was already opening his pack, starting to put the tobacco away. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I’m telling you.
My uniform comes in with so much as smoke from that stuff on it, the guys in the laundry’ll turn me in. I’ve seen it happen.”

  “I had no idea,” Weller said.

  “National Motors does a whole lot of business with PharmAgra. And one thing PharmAgra hates it’s competition.”

  “I didn’t mean any harm. I’ve made a mistake.”

  “You sure have.” His breath coming hard.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it. Just close that up now and forget it. We’ll be all right.”

  Weller finished putting the tobacco away and strapped the pack shut again, and the driver took his eyes off the road for a long time to watch it go.

  * * *