Night-Owl Trucking

Wednesday, Sometime Around 1am

The starlight-drenched view from the Divide had been the high-point of the evening*. Amity had caught a glimpse of something vast and quiet, something far older than anything she had ever known. But they could not tarry there, atop the world; time continued to march forward and Hooty followed suit. Luz guided the big rig down through the misty sea of clouds, and soon the ageless lights in the sky had been swallowed by a slow, heavy drizzle.

Amity felt that old, familiar fear coil up her spine at the sound of raindrops pattering and pinging off the cabin, and she clamped her fingers around the arms of her seat in a white-knuckle dread. The windshield wipers flicked a steady tempo as the rain drummed harder. Just— just breathe, just— Amity swallowed, her stomach twisting itself into recursive Gordian Knots with every passing moment, breathe like you've read about, in and out, slow and—

Luz watched her mirrors, waiting for her opening, her fingers tap-tap-tapping on the steering wheel in time with the radio. She swung into the passing lane when a U-Haul box truck whooshed past in a spray of moisture from its tires, thin streamers of damp air trailing its squared-off edges. Hooty gave a throaty growl as Luz accelerated; they passed truck after truck, skirting a long line of rain-dripping trailers with flashing red tail lights as the drivers rode their brakes, managing their speed as they tumbled downhill behind a mud-caked red minivan.

Amity turned her head to watch while they passed the shaky old vehicle, the decrepit Aerostar's windshield wipers swinging like mad, flinging water left and right in a largely futile effort. She turned back to Luz, about to point out who they had passed, when they rounded a bend. The midnight sky had been consumed by a thunderhead, a black mountainous void blotting the stars beyond the steep hills rising on either side of the Interstate. The words froze on her tongue as lightning splintered the sky ahead, then a brilliant bolt of electricity stabbed into the land below.

Cold rain pummeled her skin.
No one was looking for her.
Howling winds knocked her to the ground.

She couldn't move.
She couldn't breathe.
She stared at the storm in horror.

A muffled, distant part of herself counted. Numbers were safe, they were familiar. Six... Seven... Eight... Nine... Ten... Elev— Distant thunder, barely audible over the steady rumble of the engine at her feet, but she heard it all the same. Eleven seconds. Two-point-two miles away. She felt kind brown eyes notice her distress, but she was— she had to— just take a breath, and— Another flash. She still couldn't breathe. Her body felt heavy, like stone. Her chest weighed too much. She was frozen still as ice.

There was a thin, warbling sound from just to her left, but her heart was hammering loud enough to drown out everything else. A fierce warmth bloomed across the skin on her arm as tanned fingers touched her wrist. The panic bubbling in her chest broke loose at that soft touch, and she was clinging, clawing, she was desperate, she was—

~

She was seven years old when her class studied the weather cycle. "Learning about things that scare us can make it not so scary!" her teacher had promised when they began the bugs and insects chapter, but she didn't mind spiders or millipedes. Loud, sudden noises bothered her, like car horns and thunder. They made her feel funny, like her body was filled with the echoing sound of jangling metal—like when she disturbed the empty hangers in the large coat closet while hiding in her father's old overcoats. Thunder made her head buzz, it made her want to run away. Now she could learn why it made her afraid! She read the chapter in her science book over and over while the teacher spoke to her classmates.