Smack-dab, in the Middle of Nowhere (Waste Stories #1)

11. Meet the Farmers (Part 4)

Inside the truck, a radio crackled.

First thinhssh first ya gotta put your gloves onhssshause this could get real messy.

Like this, Bobhsssh?

Yeah you got it. It's a bit of a hashhsle, but safety's imporhssshant.

The figure driving, a skinny bandit known as Ernest, peered out through the dusty windshield. He hunched forwards in his seat as the truck bounced and rocked on the cracked asphalt, eyes squinting as the wind sneezed dust across his field of vision. Something was smudging into view ahead.

Now what, Bob?

Hssshkay, grab the salad by the bottohssh, but keep your hand away from the stalks hssssssssh.

That's the deadly part.

Aye, Hilary, hsssshat's the deadly part.

Something was there, by the side of the road. And as dilapidated as it might look from the outside, it most assuredly wasn't another Old World ruin. This building had some love in it. Which, from what Ernest could determine, meant that it had more than three walls and at least the better part of a roof. It looked a little ... slanty, though. Like the building was drunk. Ernest glanced to his left to check if the man, no, the Being, in the passenger seat was awake.

It was, and its titanic head, crammed like the rest of its giant form inside the small cabin, was staring at the same structure Ernest was.

Now what hsshwe'll do is turn it upside down to point the stalks away, then with one swifhssh motion, cut it in half with our machete.

Right. I'm grabbing it hsssh the bottom.

Good, that's it.

I'm lifting it up, slowly.

Yes, hssheep going.

And - ARGH! Oh sweet hsshercy, it's all over me. hssssssh I'm burning! I'm fucking meltinhssh

hsssssssh

My arm, argh! My arm fell off. Somebody call the docthssh, the fucking doctor!

"Turn it off," the Being rumbled.

Ernest reached for the truck's centre panel and pressed a switch next to some pick 'n' mix dials. He didn't know what half of them did, but the mechanic had at least shown him which one was the radio. Pity there was only ever one broadcast at a time. And true to its Old World heritage, it was always talking or ad breaks.

He tightened his grip on the steering wrench as the truck tumbled through another particularly deep crack in the road. The building ahead was clearly visible, having coalesced from a vague brown lump into a less vague brown lump. It was a two-storey wooden structure, technically, with a statue out the front. There were big wooden letters on the roof, one of which looked to be peering over the edge and contemplating its existence.

The Being leaned forwards as best it physically could, and Ernest felt the weight of the truck tip forwards.

"This th' place?" it asked, vibrating the cabin.

Ernest nodded. "Um, yessir. Right where 'e told us."

"Good," it said, leaning back. With a hand the size of two hands mashed together, it plucked a small metal box from the cabin roof. A wire cord connected the box to the truck. The Being lifted it up to his gargantuan lips and pressed in a small button on the side.

"This is Brown," he spoke, slow and clear, his voice transmitting to an Old World shipping container hinged to the back of the truck. "Prepare to dismount. We're here."