Ghost Fleet by R. Warren Smith Paul Beerman climbed back into the seat of his rig, preparing himself for the final twelve-hour sprint to his destination. He had fixed a leaking hydraulic line in his braking system during the time it had taken to fill up his gas tanks. Beerman was grateful that he didn't have to pick up the tab for the gas on this run. “Damn oil companies.” he muttered. Walking down the side of his refrigerated trailer, Beerman took a moment to check the temperatures, and noted that everything was in the green. He banged the side of the rig in disgust. He was a bull-hauler for Christ's sake, not a frozen dinner delivery man! He continued on down to the driver's door and looked up, vainly trying to see any stars in the electric glow of the truck stop. Failing in that, he reached up, opened the door and climbed in. Easing his creaking frame into the air-cushioned driver's seat, Paul moved it back a notch from the steering wheel. Far too many beers and greasy foods, combined with years of non-stop driving had made his gut bigger and bigger. His handle wasn't ‘Beernuts' for nothing. Starting his rig up, Paul took a moment to enjoy the rumble of the mighty machine that was wrapped around him. All of the proper shakes and rattles were as they should be. With a smile, he flipped on the lights that lit up his home-on-wheels. He knew that the array of lights that enshrouded his cab was flashy, even by trucker standards, but, by God, they were his and that was enough. Looking at the dashboard, he watched the fuel gauge climb to ‘Full' and chose not to look at the large, red button that sat above all the other switches. On runs like this, it was the bane of his existence. He'd never had to use it, and the old trucker prayed that he'd never have to. Before buckling, he stopped to look at his cell phone before tossing it onto the passenger's seat with a soft curse. He had started to call his wife after he had eaten dinner, and was tempted to do so now, but, as was more and more common these days, he had found a reason to avoid it. With a belch, he shifted into gear, checked his watch, and quipped “To hell with it! She's got her past times, and I've got mine.” Beerman eased his way onto I-70 and watched the lights of Columbia fade. He'd been driving non-stop for thirty-six hours when the leak had occurred in one of his brake lines. Reluctantly, he had pulled off at the Hi Flyin' Express and taken care of his rig and filled his own stomach. He still hadn't slept for over two days and knew that the pills would only last so much longer, but the call had come in and he couldn't say no. “Well, Kansas City is only a short bounce from here, and then the fun begins.”
Nearly an hour-and-a-half later, or four Gilligan's Islands later according to his nieces, he was powering through Kansas City, following I-70 through the metropolitan maze to the open spaces on the other side of town. “I Fall to Pieces” was just fading out as Beerman began thinking about his destination. He only knew that he was heading to somewhere in Colorado. That was what he had been told when he picked up this load. Such obscure travel plans were the norm for Beerman when he was hauling for Quality Systems National Security Firm. Sometimes he hauled exotic materials that ranged from inflammable liquids to warheads that were rumored to be much more powerful than most people thought possible. Often, he never truly knew what he dragged along the highways of the country. This shipment was a bit different in that he'd never had to haul anything refrigerated before. Also, there were several official-looking types with fancy suits and high-priced haircuts fidgeting around as he had hooked up, and that was very unusual. Normally, such men never wanted to be seen and it had set Beerman to wondering. Shrugging, he figured that the pay was good, it kept him on the road, and it kept the law off his back. That was partly how he had been roped into hauling for Quality Systems in the first place. An abundance of outstanding tickets, a reputation for bar-fighting, and the discovery of his two logbooks had been the leverage that made him their man. Paul Beerman was a trucker, and he would do whatever it took to stay a trucker. Hence, he hauled anything that Quality Systems told him to, no questions asked. They got things moved and he kept on trucking. It was several hours later when the laptop in the passenger seat began to buzz. “Great.” Pulling over to the side of the road, he switched off his lights and let the laptop buzz for a moment as he stared out into the darkness. The stars were thick in the clear night air above the flat, deserted stretch of Kansas highway and the mountains were beginning to loom on the western horizon. Reaching over to grab the incessantly buzzing computer, Beerman ripped a long, juicy one. “Ah, Budweiser and burritos work every time.” Flipping open the laptop, he hit the ‘Enter' button, which activated his screen. Immediately, a clean-cut, well-manicured, condescending face appeared. The trucker kept his expression flat, and no hint of the disdain that he felt toward the man appeared on his face. “Good morning, Beerman.” “I suppose.” A look of amusement rose in the other man's visage. “Now, Beerman, is that any way to talk to me? I figured that you'd be appreciative of some company way out there in the boondocks.” “Who said I was alone, Grassfeld?” “You'd better be alone, Beerman!” came Grassfeld's surprised response. “You work for us and you drive alone! There'd better not be another whore in there with you!” Chuckling, Beerman responded “Relax, she's way too old for you; she's just a voice inside my head.” “What?” Reaching over to turn up the disc-player, the old trucker stated “Patsy Cline is my driving buddy.” “Cute.” “Just ‘cute'? Have you started puberty yet?” “Shut up, trucker.” Beerman cleared his throat and stared back at Grassfeld's angered face. He had checked in just before gassing up in Missouri, and he wasn't due for another face-to-face until six in the morning, which was a good four hours away. Grassfeld had called him, so he could make the first move. “Beerman, you're running about forty-five minutes late. You've got to make up the time.” “Why?” “The refrigerated trailer you're hauling is losing its coolant at a faster rate than expected.” “It was fine just a bit ago. Switch over to the reserve tank then. You've got all of those fancy buttons on your end. All I've got is my red panic button and the street-sweeper on my bunk.” It was true. All that he had on his end was that fancy, red button and the Mossberg shotgun and its shells that Quality Systems had issued him. “The reserve unit does not seem to be responding to our signals.” “What do you mean ‘seems'?” “It's not responding, ok? You need to check it out.” “Great! I suppose that I'm not carrying a load of ice cream back there, am I? Beerman felt a prickly, cold sensation travel along his spine. He had never really worried about what he was hauling, but the look on Grassfeld's face was beginning to alarm him. “No, not ice cream, Beerman.” “Then what?” “Never mind. You will need to
go to the trailer and activate the reserve coolant tank that is in the
container strapped to the bottom, just in front of the rear wheels.”
Grassfeld's face was looking very pale, and Beerman knew that something was wrong; his spine never lied. There would be time for questions later. “Well, do I just turn the knob, or what?” “Yes. Unlock the container with your extra key, punch the green button, wait for the pressure to stabilize, then get your ass in gear!” Beerman felt the extra key that he had strapped around his neck. It jingled softly against his dog-tags, a reminder of his time spent in the Marines many years before. Leaving Grassfeld's anxious face on the passenger's seat, Beerman reached around for the shotgun. It was already loaded, and he thumbed the safety off. “Hurry, Beerman.” He tried to ignore the note of fear that he heard in Grassfeld's voice. Opening the door, Beerman noticed that it was now 2:05. He always noticed little things like the time when the pressure was on. Jumping to the cool pavement, he hardly noticed his knees crack in protest as his cowboy boots hit. “Beerman! Take your mike!” Swearing, Beerman reached under his seat, extracting a belt-clipped receiver/transmitter and the microphone that went with it. Not stopping, he clipped the radio to his belt and inserted the connected earpiece/microphone into his left ear.
Beerman was fumbling with the key around his neck when the lights of an approaching car could be seen approaching. Looking up, Beerman closed his shooting eye and saw a dark sedan speeding toward him. Suddenly, its high beams came on and nearly blinded the truck driver. Cursing, Beerman rolled under the trailer, gritting his teeth as rocks struck his back and his head smacked the rough pavement. The shotgun was up and pointed at the lights that were nearly to the tail end of his trailer. With a screeching of tires, the sedan came to a fast stop beside the control box and four men in black business suits jumped out. Beerman opened his good eye and saw that all were packing some nasty pieces of hardware. Without hesitation, the trucker fired his shotgun, sending several sprays of double aught into the two nearest mens' legs. Both fell screaming to the ground as the other two spread out into the darkness. Rolling to his left, Beerman fired nearly point blank into the nearest downed man's face, leaving his body to twitch as the cursing trucker rolled back to the left. Frantically, he reloaded his weapon. He had just put the first two rounds in when a spray of submachine gun fire tore up the pavement beside him, causing him to move and drop the rounds that he had in his hand. He felt a sharp pain in his right calf even as he chambered one round only to drop the shotgun as searing agony walked up his left arm. He felt the puckering of his flesh and tasted the salty mist showering from his arm. Desperately, he grabbed his shotgun with his right hand and rolled from under the trailer into the darkness of the ditch. Another controlled burst of rounds walked the pavement behind him as he fell three or four feet into the washed out ditch. Holding his left arm tight against his body, Beerman tucked his shotgun between his legs and pushed six more rounds into the magazine tube. Quickly, he felt his leg. It wasn't broken and it felt like the round had gone completely through his calf. He kept his left arm tucked tightly against his body and knew that he didn't have much time before he bled out. He stumbled several yards to his right, placing himself just off the rear of the trailer. Cautiously, he peered over the rim of the ditch and saw one of the men standing just on the other side of the trailer. He was partly concealed by the far corner of the rig and was putting on a pair of what looked like sunglasses. Beerman threw the business end of his shotgun onto the rim of the ditch and aimed. The man turned to look directly at Beerman as he sent a round down range. The shot caught the man in the chest as he was trying to jump behind the trailer. With a cry Beerman's target fell back on the ground to roll and kick. Looking around, Beerman couldn't see the fourth man. Struggling out of the ditch, he stumbled to the rear of the trailer. He jumped away from it as something banged heavily against the rear doors. Whatever it was in there was raining blow after blow against the doors, which were quickly buckling. “Damn you, Grassfeld! What the hell am I hauling?” The third man had stopped kicking as Beerman turned to look around the corner of the trailer. The fourth man was standing by the locked control box, looking directly at him. He held only a pistol that was by his side. His other arm hung in ruins, having taken several double aught pellets. He wore sunglasses. “Come out, trucker.” he stated in a dry voice. “Who are you?” The trailer began to bounce up and down as something large and powerful began to kick around inside. “There's not much time. You need
to get the coolant going again.” “At this moment, does it really matter? Look, I'm going to lay down my weapon.” The man laid the pistol down and stood back up, never taking his eyes off of Beerman. The sides of the trailer groaned and several rivets flew from its seams. “We don't have much time. Please, reset the refrigerant.” “Back away from the box.” Beerman ordered as he stepped around the corner of the trailer. “You even blink funny and I'll drop you. Put you arms straight out at your sides, palms facing me!” “I can't lift my left arm.” “Then raise your right one!” The man raised his right arm up and stepped backwards toward the cab. Beerman came forward, trying to ignore the pain in his arm and leg. Most of all, he tried to ignore the increasing violence with which the trailer was being shook. He increased his stumbling walk. Spitting mad and in great pain, Beerman painfully raised his left arm up and pulled the key up out of his shirt. He was trying to pull it over his head when two explosions of heat erupted in his chest and a third, vivid flash of light extinguished all thought. Running up to Beerman's body, the fourth man pushed the small derringer back up the sleeve of his left arm. Wincing, he moved the arm and was thankful that the trucker had bought the deception that it was ruined. As it was, it still hurt like hell.
Pulling out a radio, he said “The containment has been breached. The coolant in back in effect but will not hold for long. I am requesting a special weapons strike to ensure that no spores have been loosed. Again, I am requesting . . .” The shotgun blast tore through the man's back, throwing his lifeless husk against the side of the trailer. A second round tore through his ribs and demolished the control panel with the green button. Beerman fell back, lifeless. Within a minute, the trailer completely buckled and a ravenously questing carpet of moldy, green matter engulfed first the trailer, then the bodies of the men and, finally, the sedan before spreading out into the surrounding countryside. It was 2:15 am. |