The hill came into view. It was steep, like a wall of mud in front of us. And the top of it was lost in the rain. Brown water streamed down the face of it.
“We shouldn’t risk both of us,” Harmony said. “You should get out and walk up.”
“It’s wet out there,” I said. “And besides, you’d probably run over me.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Do it!”
Harmony adjusted her grip on the steering wheel. She jammed her foot down on the ‘go’ pedal. The back wheels spun and the Trekker shot forwards. We were pushed back in our seats and it felt like we were driving up the side of a house. About halfway up the Trekker slowed and the wheels began to slip. The back end went sideways and then came back in line as the Trekker’s traction system braked a spinning wheel to let those with grip pull us up. If we slowed too much we’d start sliding backwards on the slippery slope.
“You’re doing great, keep going,” Skeet’s voice said. And then, “Turn! Turn! Turn!”
As we reached the top, Harmony turned the steering wheel hard. The back-end swung out but we kept going, sliding around the bend and missing the ditch.
“On the downslope, use your motors to slow you, try and stay off the brake pedal,” Skeet said. “And watch out for the tree.”
“Downslope?” Harmony said. “Already?”
We barrelled down the other side of the hill. If Harmony could see where we were going, she had better eyes than I did.
“Oh, Scracking Hill!” Harmony shouted – or something like that. And that’s how it earned its name, I thought. This was certainly no lovers’ lane.
I hoped Harmony was doing what Skeet said. If she braked suddenly she might flip us and send us rolling down the hill in a more barrel-like fashion.
There was a loud rumbling sound from the tyres.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Just the side of the road,” I said.
Harmony over-compensated, sending us towards the bank on the opposite side. We rebounded off it and flew back the other way. The front wheels bounced up the grassy verge and then the Trekker dipped suddenly downwards. And stopped. Harmony killed the motors.
“I think we found the ditch,” Harmony said.
We were at right-angles to the road, front wheels in the ditch and the body of the Trekker tilted nose-down at about forty-five degrees.
“You should put your hazard flashers on,” I said, “to warn other road users.”
“How do we get out of this?” she asked. “Use the winch?”
“We’ll get the truck to pull us out.”
The truck was still down at the bottom of Scracking Hill on the other side. Floyd and Skeet seemed to be having an argument about who should be driving.
“Have you ever driven uphill on ice?” Skeet asked. “Because that’s what this is like.”
Beside me, Harmony was nodding. I nodded too – it was definitely a cold fear I’d felt.
“This is not your truck,” Floyd said. “I’m responsible for it and its cargo.”
Skeet sighed loudly. “You get two runs at it – after that, I take the wheel. Deal?”
“Deal,” Floyd said. He probably thought he’d only need one attempt.
He was wrong. I listened as the two of them swapped places.
“Third time’s the charm,” Skeet said. “Hold on to whatever you’ve got that’s loose.”
Skeet’s years of experience gave him knowledge you couldn’t get from a book or a video. He held it in muscle memory or something. He instinctively knew when to go slow and when to put his foot down and take a run at it. And every inch of this road was logged in his memory where even the booze couldn’t erase it.
“Do we go and watch?” Harmony asked.
I hesitated too long in answering and we missed most of it. We climbed out of the Trekker and I could hear the bleeping of the truck reversing. Wheels spun, motors whined, and the tractor and trailer sounded like they were being shaken by an earthquake. It thundered up the slope.
Harmony and I watched the top of the hill, anticipating the appearance of the truck.
“You might have to get out and push,” Skeet’s voice said as they slowed at the halfway point.
“If I fire a rocket behind us, will that help?” Floyd asked.
“That works better in space,” Skeet said.
When the truck appeared it was like watching a speeded-up video. The cab was visible first, leaning right over to starboard, and I thought it had lost the trailer. It straightened and the trailer appeared behind it. The back wheels were sliding. Maybe this was deliberate. As the weight of the truck shifted from the rear end to the front, Skeet began braking, venting the energy from the motors as heat and creating clouds of steam as the rain vaporised. It looked like thick white smoke was coming from the exhausts on either side of the cab.
The truck passed us at a moderate speed and Skeet brought it to a stop where the road levelled out. I heard the parking brake come on.
“Not bad for a drunk has-been,” I said. I’d forgotten that my microphone was still open.
“Nothing to it,” Skeet said. “You just have to keep it between the ditches.”
This might have been a dig at Harmony but she chose not to recognise it as such. Beyond that, nobody said anything about having to drag the Trekker out of the ditch. We all knew that it might only be a matter of time before we’d have to use the Trekker to pull the truck out of a hole. I just hoped it wouldn’t be a deep hole.
“Let’s get a chain attached to that buggy and pull you out of there,” Skeet said.
As the truck pulled us out there were some scraping noises underneath the Trekker that I didn’t like the sound of, but we were soon back on the road and facing the right way. I looked underneath but couldn’t see anything that looked like obvious damage. Just a few scrapes on the armoured underside.
After we’d done this, Skeet climbed out of the cab.
“I’m going to need a minute,” he said, his expression serious.
Skeet walked back up the muddy slope towards the tree he’d warned us about. It was bare and black and twisted. It had to be dead. I thought at first that he wanted to take a swazz, but he seemed to be talking to the tree.
“Maybe it’s some sort of trucker ritual,” Harmony said.
“Maybe,” I said, but I didn’t think so. This wasn’t some superstition that made you give thanks to the tree spirit for allowing you to survive Scracking Hill. Skeet wasn’t giving thanks. His body language was equal parts angry and sad. I saw him reach into his shirt and pull out a half-pint bottle of tequila.
“Dammit!” Harmony said, reaching for her gun. I put out a hand to stop her.
Skeet pulled the cork from the bottle, raised it in toast, and took a small sip from it. He poured the rest of the liquor onto the ground a little way from the tree. He tossed the empty bottle away.
“I told you it was a ritual,” Harmony said.
“Something like that,” I said.
“Do you want a protein bar?” she asked.
“Sure. Find me a grape one.”
“They all taste the same.” Harmony climbed back into the Trekker.
I stood in the rain and waited for Skeet to come back down the hill. He slipped once but didn’t fall. Less than a day ago he couldn’t even stand upright.
“Okay?” I asked.
Skeet nodded. “A drink for an old friend. I buried a few of them along the swamp road – but she was special.” He glanced back towards the tree. “Best trucker I ever met. Better than me. When she didn’t make it – that’s when I decided I couldn’t drive anymore.”
I put my arm around his shoulders and squeezed. “She’d be proud of you today,” I said.
Skeet thought about this and nodded. “This trip’s for her,” he said. There was a clearness and determination in his eyes that had probably been missing for a long time. Maybe since the last time he passed this way.
“What was her name?�
� I asked.
“Lily,” he said. His voice cracked as he said it and I held on to him while he cried.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“We’re stuck,” Skeet said over the commlink.
Floyd had insisted on taking the wheel again after Scracking Hill and Skeet hadn’t objected. I couldn’t tell from his voice if he blamed Floyd’s driving for their current predicament. Probably not, it was just that sort of road.
“We’re on our way back,” I told him.
The truck wouldn’t move forwards or backwards, the wheels were just spinning, digging deeper into the muck.
I pulled on my already wet boots and stepped out into the mud. I sank up to my knees. I should have put on the wet jeans too. Walking was difficult – each step was accompanied by wet sucking noises.
“Do we try and pull it out with the Trekker?” I asked.
“Only as a last resort,” Skeet said. “Look around and see if you can find some sticks or rocks that we can put under the tyres. That might be enough to give us some grip.”
Skeet and I scouted around. We brought back all the loose debris we could find and placed it in front of the truck’s tyres.
“Give it a try,” Skeet called up to Floyd. “If you start moving, don’t stop or you may never get going again.”
If Skeet got left behind he could ride with us in the Trekker until we caught up with Floyd later.
Floyd gave a thumbs up and turned on the motors. Their whining rose very slowly as he gently applied pressure to the ‘go’ pedal. The wheels began to turn, crushing the rocks and sticks into the mud.
“Stand back in case one of those rocks fires out sideways,” Skeet warned.
Individual wheels slipped and were automatically braked but the truck kept crawling forwards. The front bumper was down in the dirt acting like the blade of a bulldozer pushing mud forwards. Whether this helped or hindered the truck’s progress I can’t say.
Seeing the truck advancing towards her, Harmony moved the Trekker down the road a ways.
“We’re both going to end up walking,” I said.
“We’ll soon overtake them,” Skeet said.
He was probably right – the truck was crawling along at less than five miles an hour.
“Was it always like this?” I asked.
“The mud?” Skeet said. “I’ve seen it a lot worse. I’ve been stuck in it overnight, waiting for someone to come along and help me out.”
“Were you always a trucker?”
“Pretty much. I was married for a while, tried a different job then. But it didn’t work out,” he said.
“The job or the marriage?”
“Both,” he said.
“We have to be past the worst part now,” I said.
Skeet shook his head. “Not yet. Wait ‘til you see the bridge.”
What could be so bad about a bridge? I wondered.
“You’d better catch up with Harmony before she takes off again.” Skeet handed me an empty trash sack. “Sit with your boots in this – until we know we’re out of the squit.”
“I’m never out of the squit,” I said.
“I hear you, my friend.”
Skeet jogged and caught up with the truck, grabbing on and pulling himself up so he could stand on the side step. I ran towards the Trekker. I expected Harmony to pull away just as I got there but she didn’t. Maybe she didn’t see me in time.
*
Our second day in the Badlands was day seven of our cross-country journey. We were almost halfway through time-wise. I didn’t look at the map too closely in case it depressed me. I hoped we were now more than halfway towards New Grimsby.
We could only travel safely during daylight so we’d stopped on relatively firm ground for the night. We let Skeet take the bunk in the truck – he now looked like a man with a bad fever. Harmony and I slept in the Trekker as best we could. Floyd kept watch over Skeet and made sure that monsters and mutants didn’t creep up on us while we rested.
“I wet myself!” Skeet wailed.
“He what?” Harmony asked.
“He spilled his water,” Floyd said. “His hands are shaking.”
“I think I’m dying,” Skeet wailed. “My head is pounding and my stomach is churning like a washing machine.”
“It’s a hangover,” Harmony said, “deal with it.”
“I never get hangovers,” Skeet said, “because I just keep drinking.”
“We’ve got nothing for you to drink.” I didn’t feel bad about lying to him. It was for his own good. And ours.
“We had a deal,” Skeet whined. “I get you through the Badlands and you supply me with alcohol.”
“That wasn’t the deal,” Floyd said. “We agreed to pay you money if you got us through the Badlands.”
“How about an advance? Just a sip.”
“I told you, we don’t have any liquor,” I said.
“You make me sick!” Skeet shouted. To prove his point he leaned out of the window of the truck and vomited.
“I need a drink,” Skeet said. He was starting to sound desperate.
“What will happen if you don’t get one?” Floyd asked. “What are you afraid of?”
It sounded like he’d been dipping into his human psychology textbook again.
“I think he’s really sick,” Harmony said.
“This isn’t a good place to get sick,” I said.
“He’s going to be scrack-all use to us in this state,” Harmony said.
“What do you suggest we do?” I asked.
“Give him a drink.”
“We need him sober,” I insisted. “We have no idea what we’ll be facing on the swamp road. He does.”
“I agree with Quincy,” Floyd said.
“Of course you do,” Harmony muttered.
“Skeet’s symptoms will get worse – but they should peak tomorrow,” Floyd said. “After that he’ll start feeling better. Unless he doesn’t.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Harmony asked.
“A small number of people go on to suffer delirium tremens, which can be life-threatening,” Floyd said.
“Then what do we do?” I asked.
“Less than five per cent of people suffer from it,” Floyd said.
“But what if he does?” I wanted to know.
“In around forty per cent of cases, death results,” Floyd said.
“How do you treat it?”
“In a clinical setting, high doses of sedatives plus antipsychotics.”
“And what could we do out here?” I asked.
“Our only option will be to give him alcohol – and hope it works.”
“I don’t like this,” I said. I wished I’d looked into this more before we’d left Daisy-Mae’s.
“I will monitor him closely,” Floyd said. “His blood pressure and other vital signs will tell us if he’s going downhill.”
“Maybe we should just let him drink,” Harmony said.
“You saw the state he was in,” I said. “How much longer do you think he’ll live if he carries on like that?”
I knew I was right, but it didn’t make the decision any easier. No one likes to see another person suffer. But if Skeet was dead or just dead drunk, the rest of us might not make it out of the Badlands.
“Twenty-four-hour monitoring,” I said. “At the first sign that something is wrong, we let him fall off the wagon.”
“Very well,” Floyd said.
I looked at Harmony and she nodded.
*
“The bridge is out,” Harmony said.
We were looking at the rusty framework lying in the mud at the side of the road.
“That’s the new bridge,” Skeet’s voice said. “We’ll use the old one.”
If the collapsed wreckage we were looking at was ‘new’, I hated to think what ‘old’ looked like. When we reached it, it lived up to my worst fears.
“That’s not a bridge,” Harmony said.
It may have been. Once. It look
ed like the wooden structure had collapsed into the gap it was supposed to span. Logs had been added to shore up the sides and various mismatched boards had been piled on top to level it up with the road surface. More or less. Some of the planks were roped together but others were loose. It didn’t look like something an engineer would design. It looked like it had been built by beavers. Beavers that were high on something. It was a flat wooden platform with no side walls or railings to stop you going over the edge. And there were a hundred and twenty feet of it, give or take.
“During the rainy season there’s water flowing under it,” Skeet said. “Right now the mud down there is deep enough to swallow this truck and leave nothing to show for it.”
That was reassuring.
“It won’t take the truck’s weight,” I said.
“Sure it will,” Skeet said. “I’ve driven across it hundreds of times.”
“And it never collapsed?” Harmony asked.
“I never said that now, did I?” Skeet said, chuckling. “We’ll send the Trekker across first.”
“You want me to drive across that thing?” Harmony said.
“You could ask Floyd to do it,” I said. “But then you’d have to explain to him why you think a human life is more valuable than his.”
“How about I ask you to do it?”
“I would, but my boots are muddy. My foot might slip off the pedal.”
“Hmph!” Harmony said. She got out of the Trekker and walked over to the bridge. She turned almost immediately and hurried back. “It’s better than I don’t look at that thing,” she said, slamming the door as she got back in.
Skeet helped her line up the Trekker so its wheels would be over the strongest parts of the bridge.
“Keep the steering wheel straight and you’ll be fine,” he said.
“Do I go fast or slow?” Harmony asked.
Skeet shrugged.
Road Rage Page 21