Shepherd

TWELVE

It was Foley's rig that began to appear in the camera feed before Shepherd's eyes. The dust storm was easing as the sun rose and the distinct paintwork of his cab materialised in the murky glow. Martha, pressing close to him to see the display, let out a gasp.

"Looks like he hit something big!" she said.

Shepherd saw that he'd collided with an abandoned mobile crane, the giant kind that were sometimes used to lift rigs out of ditches. It'd been left sideways across four lanes

"Let's ease forward a bit," he replied and dropped into the driving seat. Starting the engine, he looked again at the Geiger counter. It was still dangerously high.

"Looks like..." He steered to the left, moving around the trailer that had skewed across three lanes before stopping.

"LOOK OUT!"

There, in the middle of the road, was Foley. He was stumbling about, blood pouring from a deep cut on his forehead and blinded by the last of the dust storm. Shepherd anchored on the brakes and narrowly missed crushing him.

Without thinking, Martha went for the door handle.

"What are you doing?" he cried, dragging her back. "Are you crazy, woman?"

"He needs help you selfish bastard!"

"It's too late," he replied. "The rads out there are cooking him alive. There's nothing we can do."

"But-"

"Sit down!"

Reluctantly, Martha did so and Shepherd took a deep breath. He watched Foley stumble to a halt and try to see who'd nearly crushed him.

Reaching up for the microphone that hung from a wire above his head, he switched the controls over to the external megaphone and began to speak.

"Foley – it's Shepherd," he said. "Get back in your rig. Go to your left about a hundred yards. The air is full of radiation – you need to get inside."

They both watched in horror as the blinded, wounded man stumbled about, trying to find some safety from the invisible killer that Shepherd already knew had done enough damage by now. Martha was openly crying, wiping her tears away with the sleeve of her sweater. He tried to feel nothing. Emotions had switches, he knew this. You just turned them off. It was safer that way.

Foley finally found the trailer and as the sunlight streamed in through the dust cloud his form could be seen gripping onto the ladder. By this point, it was too late. He managed the first rung before falling backwards, collapsing in a heap in the dirt.

"Jesus Christ!" cried Martha, throwing herself at the door. "Let me out!"

"I don't think you want to go out there and cook, do you?"

Martha spun and glowered at him.

"You heartless bastard!" she screamed.

"Maybe," he replied.

"Is there nothing we can do?"

He shook his head.

They sat there for a time, staring at his body. The sun continued to rise and bake the ground as a strong gust of wind blew the dust and the sand west away from the road. The asphalt seemed to rise out of the soil, appearing like some old relic, some archaeological find lost for decades. Shepherd watched with detached interest as the unmoving form of Foley was swept clean. He glanced at the counter. The levels had dropped but were still too high.

"I want to go," said Martha. "I don't want to see this no more." Shepherd nodded.

"It is what it is," he replied.