Skeet looked down at me and grinned. That meant ‘no’. “It gets different,” he said. “Wetter.”
What else could you expect in a swamp?
We passed occasional reminders of how dangerous this terrain could be. Mangled and rusted wreckage off the side of the road – an overturned trailer, a pick-up truck on its roof, the burned-out shell of a bus. None of us commented on these sights, we just regarded them with the silent respect you would give to grave markers.
“In the old days, you’d pass trucks coming the other way – flash your lights and wave at them, sound your horn. Made it so you didn’t feel so alone. I miss that,” Skeet said. “But on the plus side, there won’t be anyone broken down blocking our way.”
*
It was called the swamp road so I was expecting a road with swamp on either side of it. That was how it started out, but I think that was just a trick by the landscape to draw you in. Things got worse and worse, but it happened so gradually that you weren’t aware of it. First there were shallow puddles. These became wider and deeper until they stretched across the road and the water was axle-deep. And finally, the road disappeared and we were faced with a pond.
“It’s flooded,” I said.
“You should see it in the rainy season,” Skeet’s voice said over the comms link. “Then it looks like a mile-wide lake.”
“Do we try and go around it?” Harmony asked.
“I wouldn’t,” Skeet said. “If you leave the road you’re likely to find yourself sinking into the bog. That’s deep enough to swallow up this rig and everything in it. Best stick to the road.”
“There is no road,” Harmony protested.
“It’s there,” Skeet said. “We’ve just got to find it.”
“How do we do that?” I asked.
“Did you bring your waders?”
I hoped Skeet was joking. He wasn’t.
I tried to improvise something with two trash sacks and gaffer tape but quickly gave up. I’d just have to get wet.
Skeet, meanwhile, had wandered back along the road a little way. He took a swazz up the bank and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a large folding knife. He cut down a sickly-looking sapling and trimmed off the side branches.
Harmony got out of the Trekker and stretched. It reminded me of the way cats move. I wanted to slide my arm around her waist and pull her towards me, but we still weren’t in that place where this kind of thing is okay.
Skeet raised a bottle to his lips and took a long grateful swallow. Harmony drew her gun and shot the bottle whilst it was still up near his face.
“You could have killed me!” he shouted, wiping tequila and bits of glass from his face.
“Yes, but I didn’t,” Harmony said. Skeet wasn’t so drunk that he missed her meaning.
“Where did he get that?” she asked me. “We stripped him.”
“He must have stashed it somewhere in the truck before we left Daisy-Mae’s,” I said.
“Floyd and I will search the truck to see if there’s any more,” she said. “You distract him.”
“She’s feisty,” Skeet said as I walked towards him. He was still picking glass out of his hair.
“Yeah, best not mess with her,” I said.
Skeet stared at me. “I’ve seen that look before,” he said.
I shrugged. “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.”
“I’ll drink to that! Except I can’t, obviously.”
“I’m sorry, but we need you sober.”
“You might change your mind about that,” he said. “I need that stuff to function.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
“You don’t like a drink yourself?” he asked.
“I sometimes take a drink,” I said. “But I can’t afford to get drunk. I can’t do what I need to do if I’m drunk.”
Skeet nodded slowly. “I used to be like that. I had to live by my wits. We used to chew betel nuts to stay alert – didn’t dare stop in the Badlands. Drove all day without a break. All night too sometimes. Then when it came to sleep, I was so wired that I couldn’t. I’d take a drink to help me sleep. Then it was a couple of drinks. And after that I wasn’t in control of it anymore.”
There was more to this story than that, I was sure. Maybe he’d share it with us when he was ready. Skeet looked over towards the truck.
“Will there be a body cavity search as well?” he asked.
“Does there need to be?”
He looked at me and grinned, shook his head. “What are we carrying in this thing?” he asked.
“Medical supplies,” I lied.
“But not my kind of medicine,” he said sadly.
If only he knew, I thought.
“Used to pull three of those things sometimes,” he said, nodding towards the container. “Daisy-chained into a road-train. Communities used to rely on us for supplies. Not so many aircraft back then.”
“Were you here during the war?” I asked.
“Came just after,” he said. “I was younger than you. Fresh out of the academy. The war ended and they decided they didn’t need us. I ended up here.”
“You ever hear about the battleship Celestia?” I asked.
Skeet grinned. “That’s a myth.”
“Maybe.”
Harmony stomped back towards us. She scowled at Skeet. “Nothing,” she said.
“We should get moving,” Skeet said. “Cover as many miles as we can while the road’s still good.”
“Let’s go,” I said.
Skeet handed me the pole he had cut.
“Isn’t that a bit long?” I asked. It was a foot longer than I am tall.
“Let’s hope so,” Skeet said. “Keep it in front of you at all times and test the ground before you take a step. You need to check for anything that could damage the vehicles – deep holes, submerged rocks or fallen trees.”
I eyed the muddy water, not wanting to step into it. I’d used the tape to seal up the bottoms of my jeans and the tops of my boots – for protection against snakes and leeches, I hoped. I took a first tentative step, testing the ground ahead of me with the pole.
“Watch out for floating logs,” Skeet called. He was safely back up in the cab now. “Some of them aren’t logs.”
“You can tell the ones that aren’t logs,” I muttered to myself, “they have teeth.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
I waded through the pond and the truck and the Trekker followed slowly after me. Progress became slower as the water went from knee-high to waist-high.
“At what point do we decide it’s too deep?” I asked.
“If the water gets more than halfway up the windshield, we’re in trouble,” Skeet said cheerfully.
I glanced back at the truck. Halfway up its windshield was way over the top of my head.
I should have paid more attention to what I was doing. Before I knew what happened the road surface wasn’t under my feet anymore and I went under. Sludgy brown water closed over my head. I panicked, flapping my arms and trying to get back to the surface.
“Keep to the left,” I heard Skeet telling Floyd as I came up and spat out a gallon of filthy water.
“That’s why I told you to always keep the pole in front of you,” he said when I’d finished gasping for breath.
The feed to my earbud went dead for a couple of minutes. They didn’t want me to hear them laughing in case I got all upset about it. I was soaked from head to foot and could feel the mud starting to dry on my skin. I retrieved my pole with as much dignity as I could manage.
“Did you swallow any of the water?” Harmony asked. She was trying to sound concerned but her voice sounded hoarse – she would have been laughing the loudest.
I’d swallowed it and inhaled it and it had gone in my ears and up my ass for all I knew. I wanted a shower and I needed to chew a couple of tablets to protect me from whatever nasties were breeding in the water. But all of that would have to wait until we’d crossed the pond.
/>
“It gets deeper here,” Skeet warned.
“How can you tell?” I asked.
“See those poles sticking out of the water? They’re seven or eight feet tall,” he said, pointing.
There were two lines of dark shapes rising about six inches out of the water. If these were the tops of eight-foot poles, the water was indeed deeper.
“The road surface should be better here,” Skeet said. “All we need to do is stay between the poles that mark the two sides of it.”
The two lines of poles marked the outline of a path through the water. And the poles seemed to get taller further on, which hopefully meant that the water got shallower again.
“I’m going to sit on top of the Trekker for a while,” I said. I wasn’t going to get inside it while I was soaking wet and didn’t want to change into clean clothes until I knew my wading duties were done for good. I stashed the pole beside the Trekker’s roof rail in case we needed it again.
“We’ll go first,” Harmony said.
“Take it slow,” Skeet cautioned. “Too fast and you’ll have a wave washing over the top of you.”
“Yeah, take it slow,” I said, trying to get comfortable on top of the Trekker.
Harmony drove forwards slowly. The Trekker rocked gently but it did seem that the hidden road surface was relatively smooth. A muddy bow wave rolled in front of us and occasionally washed over the bonnet and wet the windshield. The wipers flicked it away.
I wondered when the marker poles had been erected. It must have been years ago. And then I wondered whether someone might have moved the poles – to trap unsuspecting travellers or just for a joke. I quickly squashed that thought. There were enough dangers here without imagining any more.
Floyd and Skeet were hanging back, waiting to see whether we got through safely. If one vehicle got stuck, the other could help pull it free. If both got stuck we were in trouble – there was no one we could call to come and help us.
“When trucks came through here regularly, there used to be guys standing by with tractors and caterpillar trucks,” Skeet said. “Independents who’d pull you out for a fee. And we were glad to have them there. But now we’re on our own.”
There was an old ‘pedestrians crossing’ sign nailed to the top of one of the poles. I think it was a joke.
“It’s shallower here,” Harmony said.
Ahead of us, the poles were getting longer and longer – and then they were gone altogether. We were almost at the other side of the pond.
“There’s asphalt ahead,” I said, pointing. Before I came to Saphira, I used to take hardtop for granted. Not anymore. “Pull over so I can get changed.”
“We know the road’s good, so you can floor it if you want,” Skeet told Floyd.
The second vehicle often has it easier than the leader. The truck began its run. A wave of water was pushed in front of the cab and as they picked up speed it broke and flew out sideways looking like two big muddy wings.
I stripped off my wet clothes and boots and dropped them in a trash sack. I’d put them on again if there was any more wading to be done.
“Can you see any leeches?” I asked, turning so Harmony could check my skin. I’d been naked in front of her before so it didn’t bother either of us.
“Is that one?” she asked, pointing.
“No, honey, that’s a penis.”
“I remember it being bigger.”
“That water ain’t warm,” I said.
The truck slowed to a stop beside us. Skeet rolled down his window and leaned out.
“Nice ass,” he said.
I used a bunch of hand wipes to get as clean as I could. We were carrying limited water supplies in the truck’s tanks so showering would have to be rationed in the short-term. Pulling on dry clothes felt amazing. I fished a pair of old high-tops out of the trunk and laced them up.
“Are we past the worst of it?” I asked, looking back at the pond.
Skeet laughed. “Not even close. Make the most of this hardtop because we’re not going to see a lot more of it.”
I climbed back into the Trekker and we set off again. It wasn’t long before Skeet’s prediction came true. The asphalt faded away and we rumbled over packed down aggregate – the stuff that usually goes under the asphalt. And an hour later even that was gone and we were on a dirt road.
“I drove this road for more than twenty years,” Skeet said. “It was too long. The longer you drive, the more likely it is that something bad will happen. It’s just statistics.”
“There’s more water ahead,” Floyd said.
He wasn’t joking. We were on a slight downward slope and the road disappeared into the water. It wasn’t a pond this time. The road itself was transformed into a canal – a ribbon of water between two low banks.
“Nobody clears the ditches anymore,” Skeet said.
“Whose turn is it for wading?” I asked. I didn’t expect anyone to volunteer.
“No need,” Skeet said, much to my relief. “It’s not deep here.”
I peered through the Trekker’s dirty windshield. How could he tell how deep it was? There seemed to be lumps of dirt sticking out of the water. Possibly the tops of ridges in the submerged road surface.
“Try and keep a steady forward speed,” Skeet said. “It will get muddy from here on.”
“Get muddy?” Harmony muttered. “What was that back there?”
“Swamp dwellers probably have fifty different words for mud,” I said. “Want me to take the wheel for a bit?”
“I’m good,” she said.
“You’re saying that so I’m the one who has to get out and push if you get stuck in the mud.”
“Yes, I am,” she said. She flicked on the wipers as the mist became a warm drizzle. I rolled up my window.
“What did we bring to eat?” Skeet asked. “I’m starving.”
“There are protein bars in the cabinet above the bed,” Floyd said.
“Don’t we have any chocolate?”
“You should go easy on the sugar,” Floyd said.
“He’s got the munchies,” Harmony muttered.
“Swazz stop!” Skeet announced.
“Again?” Harmony said. “He must have a bladder the size of a pea.”
“His body is flushing the alcohol out of his system,” Floyd said. “It’s one of the first stages.”
“What comes next?” I asked.
“Headache, nausea and vomiting,” he said.
“Sounds like a firm of lawyers,” Harmony said.
“Please don’t let him puke in the bed,” I said. “Do we have a bucket?”
“No. I’ll give him your cap,” Floyd said. He’d never liked the cap. I’d had the badge embroidered specially. Q & F Trucking. He probably thought it should say F & Q.
We heard the door slam as Skeet got back in the cab. Then a loud rustling sound.
“He’s eating again,” Floyd said.
“Make sure he drinks plenty of water,” I said. “And keep him off the candy – otherwise he’ll be coming down from a sugar high too.”
“Is that really a thing?” Harmony asked.
“Sugar doesn’t make you hyper?”
She shook her head. Maybe it’s just a guy thing.
“That’s not good,” Harmony said. She was watching the truck in the rear-view mirror.
I looked back and saw what she meant. The front of the truck was heading towards us but the trailer was starting to slide out sideways. At least I wasn’t on top of it this time.
Under Skeet’s direction, Floyd was steering the truck and trying to get the trailer back in line. It was touch and go for a couple of minutes, but the trailer was eventually persuaded that it should follow and not try to lead.
The truck stopped moving. The wheels were still turning but there was no traction to pull the rig forwards. I thought the tyres at the back of the trailer were smoking but realised it must be steam.
When you have water sitting on top of a hard road surface
, your main concern is the water. When it’s sitting on a dirt road, the problem becomes stickier. The truck’s wheels were mixing earth and water and making something that looked like cake batter.
“Back it up a little, have another go at it,” Skeet said.
The warning bleeper started as the truck went into reverse. Harmony and I watched. The first attempt didn’t get them any further forward. Skeet opened the door of the cab and leaned out to get a better look. It took several attempts, backwards and forwards, before the wheels gained enough traction to pull the truck free.
“Nice work,” I said.
“I’ve lost all the cameras and sensors,” Floyd said, “they’re caked in mud.”
“You don’t need them,” Skeet said, “you’ve got me.”
To my relief, Floyd said nothing.
After that the truck ground along slowly through the thick mud. The Trekker was lighter and coped better with it. We tried not to get too far ahead of them.
“It used to be much worse than this,” Skeet told us. “Imagine half-a-dozen trucks a day coming through here churning this up. Of course, back then you could follow the tyre tracks of someone who’d already made it through.”
The drizzle became rain and even in daylight we couldn’t see too far ahead.
“It seems to be running down towards us,” Harmony said. She was gripping the steering wheel hard and pulling herself forward to peer through the smeary glass.
“We’re almost at the fun part,” Skeet said.
Harmony and I looked at each other. Neither of us liked the sound of that. She slowed the Trekker to a stop.
“Fun part?” she asked.
“We’re coming up to Scracking Hill,” Skeet answered.
“Dare I ask?” Harmony said.
“It’s steep and it’s slippery – but that’s not the fun part,” he said. “The fun part is the tight turn at the top.”
“That does sound like fun,” Harmony said. She pulled a face.
“The only way to get up there is to take a good run at it,” Skeet said. “When you get near the top, start turning to the right before you think you need to. That should keep you out of the ditch.”
Skeet’s experience on this route was a bit like having a clairvoyant on the team. He could tell us what was coming up next, giving us time to prepare for it. Bringing him along was proving to be the right choice. For him too, I was sure. With the alcohol leaving his system he was much better able to function. And our journey was distracting him from the cravings – for now at least. There were bad times to come, for sure, but we’d tackle those when they happened.
Road Rage Page 20