Cargo

Puckers

An hour passes as I navigate through the winding terrain. Finally, just as the day reaches its apex, I see a glimmer of light in the distance. It is a small town; a beacon of hope in an otherwise desolate landscape. With renewed energy, I push on towards the town until finally reaching it, realising it is only a service station outpost.

Shit, I fume, there is nowhere to escape to, here.

"We have arrived at the Solaria Recharge Station," announces Avocado as the Cyberstar eases to a stop. As luck would have it, the charging station is closed; the sign at the glass sliding door trolling me.

A sense of disappointment washes over me. The facility stood there, eerily deserted, its usual bustling atmosphere replaced by an eerie silence. The glass doors are locked, and the charging portals sit vacant, devoid of life. The surrounding area is marked by traces of abandonment; a few discarded wrappers dancing in the wind and a faded signage screen that hangs devoid of content. It is a stark reminder of the unforgiving nature of the desert, where even the most promising oases could fade away, leaving behind only a haunting emptiness.

"How far is the next town?" I whisper, not wanting to provoke the beast.

"Forty kilometres," blared the AutoMIND, insensitive to the situation. "Due east."

My hunger and thirst take over. I jump out of the truck and approach the window panel. Looking inside, I see the empty shelves. I walk over to the side and search for a tap, hoping the water is still pumped to this place. There is a garage complex with three bays, one has its door half open.

I rush over and check.

It looks like the roller door was forced open.

I'm resistant to the idea of entering, not wanting to add burglary to my problems, but I'm facing an emergency, and my brain agrees the threat is existential.

Inside the dimly lit garage workshop, I navigate through the clutter of tools and machinery. The hum of electrical equipment fills the air as I locate the lighting control panel, a series of switches on the weathered concrete wall. With a flick of a switch, the overhead lights buzz to life, casting a harsh, fluorescent glow over the space. The illumination reveals the workshop's dishevelled state, with tools strewn haphazardly across workbenches and shelves.

Ransacked.

My boots echo on the concrete floor as I make my way to the bathroom, a small but welcome sanctuary within this rugged setting. Stepping inside, I am greeted by a cool, calming atmosphere that offers respite from the dry heat. The soft lighting and relative cleanliness envelop me, inviting me to take a moment for myself.

I drink straight from the tap, the outside world fading away, replaced by a sense of tranquillity. But the knowledge of the thing residing in the Cyberstar eventually returns to haunt me.

Heading back to the centre bay, I study the half-open roller door. The sun is about to set, and I feel my eyes droop and my head weighing on my neck. I have been in a state of fear for hours and am exhausted. Realizing that I can't bear another instant inside my truck, I understood the imperativeness to stop and rest overnight. The weariness in my bones demands respite, and the cramped confines of the vehicle feel suffocating. The decision is clear—I needed a break from the road, a chance to stretch my legs, and an opportunity to rejuvenate myself before continuing the journey. The bonus is now a distant insignificant pipe dream.

Contemplating my next move, I conclude calling the cops remains out of the question. What does remain is delivering the cargo. Failure would see my stats plummet and my job redundant. Surreal, yes, yet it is as pragmatic as it can get. Getting another job without implants will prove difficult if not futile.