Stephen King – Night Shift – Trucks
TRUCKS
The guy’s name was Snodgrass and I could see him getting ready to do something crazy. His eyes had
got bigger, showing a lot of the whites, like a dog getting ready to fight. The two kids who had come
skidding into the parking lot in the old Fury were trying to talk to him, but his head was cocked as
though he was hearing other voices. He had a tight little potbelly encased in a good suit that was
getting a little shiny in the seat. lie was a salesman and he kept his display bag close to him, like a pet
dog that had gone to sleep.
‘Try the radio again,’ the truck driver at the counter said. The short-order cook shrugged and turned it
on. He flipped it across the band and got nothing but static.
‘You went too fast,’ the trucker protested. ‘You might have missed something.’
‘Hell,’ the short-order cook said. He was an elderly black man with a smile of gold and he wasn’t
looking at the trucker. He was looking through the diner-length picture window at the parking lot.
Seven or eight heavy trucks were out there, engines rumbling in low, idling roars that sounded like big
cats purring. There were a couple of Macks, a Hemingway, and four or five Reos. Trailer trucks,
interstate haulers with a lot of licence plates and CB whip antennas on the back.
The kids’ Fury was lying ~n its roof at the end of long, looping skid marks in the loose crushed rock of
the parking lot. It had been battered into senseless junk. At the entrance to the truck stop’s turnaround,
there was a blasted Cadillac. Its owner stared out of the star-shattered windshield like a gutter fish.
Hornrimmed glasses hung from one ear.
Halfway across the lot from it lay the body of a girl in a pink dress. She had jumped from the Caddy
when she saw it wasn’t going to make it. She had hit running but never had a chance. She was the worst,
even though she was face down. There were flies around her in clouds.
Across the road an old Ford station wagon had been slammed through the handrails. That had happened
an hour ago. No one had been by since then. You couldn’t see the turnpike from the window and the
phone was out.
‘You went too fast,’ the trucker was protesting. ‘You oughta -‘
That was when Snodgrass bolted. He turned the table over getting up, smashing coffee cups and
sending sugar in a wild spray. His eyes were wilder than ever, and his mouth hung loosely and he was
blabbering: ‘We gotta get outta here we gotta get-outta here we gotta get outta here -‘
The kid shouted and his girl friend screamed.
I was on the stool closest to the door and I got a handful of his shirt, but he tore loose. He was cranked
up all the way. He would have gone through a bank-vault door.
He slammed out the door and then he was sprinting across the gravel towards the drainage ditch on the
left. Two of the trucks lunged after him, smokestacks blowing diesel exhaust dark brown against the
sky, huge rear wheels machine-gunning gravel up in sprays.
He couldn’t have been any more than five or six running steps from the edge of the flat parking lot
when he turned back to look, fear scrawled on his face. His feet tangled each other and he faltered and
almost fell down. He got his balance again, but it was too late.
One of the trucks gave way and the other charged down, huge front grill glittering savagely in the sun.
Snodgrass screamed, the sound high and thin, nearly lost under the Reo’s heavy diesel roar.
It didn’t drag him under. As things turned out, it would have been better if it had. Instead it drove him up and out, the way a punter kicks a football. For a moment he was silhouetted against the hot
afternoon sky like a crippled scarecrow, and then he was gone into the drainage ditch.
The big truck’s brakes hissed like dragon’s breath, its front wheels locked, digging grooves into the