Shepherd

ONE

Traffic. Solid, unending lines of cars and motorcycles and trailers, all snaking their way down the freeway like some ugly funeral cortège for a long-dead hill-billy. Every wheel on the asphalt ribbon was stopped just as the sky above burned with the kind of angry sunset only the States seemed to notice. It promised a hot, humid night. It promised a damp, uncompromising sleep in the bunk behind the driver's seat. It promised misery for the families and the loners, the survivalists and the desperate all clawing their way up the freeway just to make it across the state line into another prison, another cage, all the while believing that if they could just make it there, things would be better, things might not be as bad as the radio and the social media was telling them.

Shepherd, leaning back in the memory-foam padding of the truck's seat, let out a long sigh and scratched his beard. He wanted a piss. He wanted another coffee but he'd managed to drink six already and that didn't include the ones before lunch. The I-25 used to be a clear run into Denver but that was before things had gone south. The dusty scrub on either side of Canam had once told him a tale of the old country, the time of truck stops and eggs easy-over, of mountains on the rise and Famous Dave's pineapple rage which had turned his tongue to lava with the spice. Of loose women he never met and fat-bellied Yankee drivers who wanted to be left alone. He'd hated those days almost as much as he'd loved them and right now, facing another military road-block, he longed for them like a first-love. Not once did he consider his native land, some few thousand miles away, now a ruin after The Panic had swept away his history. All those days were gone and, like the road before him, only a bleak future remained to vanish into an unknown horizon.

The a/c unit in the cab coughed out another lungful of cold air just as the cars in front shuffled forward a few feet. Easing off the clutch, he let the enormous rig crawl after them before yanking on the brake. The lever croaked into place and he got up, clambering into the rear compartment where the kitchenette was. He filled the kettle from the trickling tap and plugged it back into the socket where it began to warm. Then, opening the fridge, he looked about for something to eat. There were still three corned-beef subs at the back right next to a microwave dog and some strips of ham he hadn't eaten. On the shelf below were a couple of protein shakes, banana flavoured, and a few pathetic looking apples. Beneath that was his bottle of Russian Vodka, still full and which he decided was overdue being relieved of a slug or three. He took this along with a sub back to his seat and when he found a car's length of gap in front of his rig he let out a sharp curse before easing the thing forward to catch up before the cars behind began honking their horns.

"Fuck you all," he said to himself as he twisted off the cap of the vodka and took a pull from the neck. He tore off the plastic wrapper from the sub and had a bite from the bread, chewing it along with the second mouthful of vodka. He checked the label again. Yep, it said corned beef but it tasted like cat food and he knew exactly what cat food tasted like. Seth, his driving partner on the Boston run, had once replaced the meat on his tuna-melt with a sachet of Good Kitty for a prank. Since then, anything that didn't taste like it should tasted just like chicken liver cat food to Shepherd. As he drank a third gulp from the bottle, he cursed his counterpart with as many words as he could remember.

The line of traffic shuffled again. The a/c unit spat some more and Shepherd, mulching his way through the sub decided that the family in front of him were dysfunctional. Looking down from his elevated position some twenty feet above the silver SUV, the husband who sat in the passenger seat looked brow beaten. His wife, a plain looking thing with no make-up and too many layers for the Colorado sun, gestured wildly at him while he just nodded and agreed with everything she said. Like most of the vehicles in the queue towards the checkpoint they were weighed down with luggage ranging from suitcases to shopping bags and the two littles patiently sat in the back watched as Mom and Dad went at it tooth and nail. She was waving her arms at him and he had his folded on his lap, nodding sometimes and at other times trying his best to defend himself.