Consciousness twinkled away to a point where I lost track of time and trucks. I unscrewed, rammed the
nozzle into the hole, pumped until the hot, heavy liquid splurted out, then replaced the cap. My blisters
broke, trickling pus down to my wrists. My head was pounding like a rotted tooth and my stomach
rolled helplessly with the stench of hydrocarbons.
I was going to faint. I was going to faint and that would be the end of it. I would pump until I dropped.
Then there were hands on my shoulders, the dark hands of the counterman. ‘Go in,’ he said. ‘Rest
yourself. I’ll take over till dark. Try to sleep.’
I handed him the pump.
But I can’t sleep.
The girl is sleeping. She’s sprawled over in the corner with her head on a tablecloth and her face won’t
unknot itself even in sleep. It’s the timeless, ageless face of the warhag. I’m going to get her up pretty
quick. It’s twilight, and the counterman has been out there for five hours.
Still they keep coming. I look out through the wrecked window and their headlights stretch for a mile
or better, twinkling like yellow sapphires in the growing darkness. They must be backed up all the way
to the turnpike, maybe further.
The girl will have to take her turn. I can show her how. She’ll say she can’t, but she will. She wants to
live.
You want to be their slaves? the counterman had said. That’s what it’ll come to. You want to spend the rest of your life changin’ oil filters every time one of those things blasts its horn?
We could run, maybe. It would be easy to make the drainage ditch now, the way they’re stacked up.
Run through the fields, through the marshy places where trucks would bog down like mastodons and
go –
– back to the caves.
Drawing pictures in charcoal. This is the moon god. This is a tree. This is a Mack semi overwhelming a hunter.
Not even that. So much of the world is paved now. Even the playgrounds are paved. And for the fields
and marshes and deep woods there are tanks, half-tracks, flatbeds equipped with lasers, masers, heat-
seeking radar. And little by little, they can make it into the world they want.
I can see great convoys of trucks filling the Okefenokee Swamp with sand, the bulldozers ripping
through the national parks and wildlands, grading the earth flat, stamping it into one great flat plain.
And then the hot-top trucks arriving.
But they’re machines. No matter what’s happened to them, what mass consciousness we’ve given them,
they can’t reproduce. In fifty or sixty years they’ll be rusting hulks with all menace gone out of them, moveless carcasses for free men to stone and spit at.
And if I close my eyes I can see the production lines in Detroit and Dearborn and Youngstown and
Mackinac, new trucks being put together by blue-collars who no longer even punch a clock but only
drop and are replaced.
The counterman is staggering a little now. He’s an old bastard, too. I’ve got to wake the girl.
Two planes are leaving silver contrails etched across the darkening eastern horizon.
I wish I could believe there are people in them.