Just remember that, sometimes, it's hard to tell the good guys from the bad. Moral decisions are never as clear-cut as they seem in the movies.
My name is "Big John" Mahoney. Me and my partner, "Little Jack" Simpson, pulled across the Oakland Bay Bridge and out of San Francisco at 1 a.m. on a drizzly Tuesday. A nasty outbreak of myopneumonic plague, or Taylor's disease, was racing through the weffies and dregs of San Diego, and some friends of mine wanted to do something about it. You can call us a humanitarian relief organization if you want, as what we were doing would, in the end, save tens of thousands of lives. We liked to think of it as doing our part to restore civilization.
The San Diego Relief Fund, which was coordinating aid in the emergency, was completely overwhelmed and couldn't come close to affording the vaccine and treatments necessary. The disease is one of the banes of modern "big city" living, and the vaccine and treatments are well established. Taylor's is mercifully rare, and the serums are fantastically expensive. A group called Ameritech had volunteered, anonymously, to produce and deliver the serums, and Jack and I were chosen to carry the 'magic bullets' south. With enough work, Ameritech could be identified as the group responsible, but it wouldn't matter, because it was just a dummy organization, anyway.
The two things that I had wanted to know were why some big organization like the Red Cross and Crescent wasn't involved, and why didn't Ameritech deliver the vaccine by airship? I got my answers. RC8' C abandoned San Diego in 2028. They would step back in for this emergency, but it would have taken them weeks to get up to speed. By then, San Diego would be a ghost sort of notice would be for those behind Ameritech to step forward, and that was something that had to be avoided at all costs. Of course, I was carrying the cargo myself, without backup, because I was the only available trucker who was part of the organization.
Like bubonic plague, a town has to be lousy with rats and completely without sanitation for Taylor's to get a foothold. After that, it's spread by airborne vectors. It's terribly hard to catch, but repeated exposure will usually do the trick. The mortality rate is only about 20%, but, once you have it, for about two weeks you wish you were dead, and you feel the effects for the rest of your life: shortness of breath, weakness and so on. Most survivors of Taylor's die from other diseases within a couple of years, and the others are never again able to take care of themselves. The survivors can hardly bury the dead. The effects on the germ plasm are not yet clear, but a high rate of unfavorable mutations has been reported in at least three towns that have been struck. All in all, it is not a jolly disease.
The first part of the trip was going to be pretty safe, so after I got us on 580 and past the Oakland devastation, I let my partner take over the driving. Jack was a pretty good kid, and steady, but he lacked experience. About 2:15 we got to the First Booth, the toll entrance to I-5, and I began to relax. I pre-paid the fee all the way to LA (20 cents per mile per wheel, with a 10% discount for pre-paying the entire route, rounded to a flat $1,000), and we hit the road. I disengaged my gunner controls and climbed back into the sleeping compartment. I knew that I wouldn't actually get any Zs, but it would help Jack's confidence to know that I trusted him to handle the rig all by himself.
In any case, the odds of combat on the 5 were low until we hit LA, and I could get back in the saddle in a few seconds if I had to.
When we stopped at Rupert's Truck Emporium, near Newman, I got out and got us a couple of cups of coffee while Jack saw to recharging the plant. A lot of Brothers just cross their legs and wait until they get to Sally's to recharge on the SF-LA run, but I had no intention of sticking to an economical 55 on this trip, and that was a long way to go on just one juicing. I had no desire to get stuck on some lonely stretch, having to jump myself from my own trailer. Downright embarrassing, that can be.
Besides, there were people suffering in San Diego, and I was carrying their relief, and there was no sense in taking chances. Besides, I don't see the problem with I-S in the first place. Once you pay your fee and get your transponder, you don't have to stop at the toll booths unless you get off at a truck stop. (That's one of the reasons they get so much long-distance traffic; they just record your license number, a description of your vehicle and your transponder number and pass the information along by datanet.) Those long, lonely stretches help me get in contact with my soul. And going 300 miles without a city almost makes you glad to come over the Grapevine and see the lights of LA. Almost, but not quite.
I've been herding a rig for 23 years (and have been a Knight of the Brotherhood for eight), the last seven mostly on the SF-LA run. Of course, I still make runs all over the country, going where the money is, but on this route I'm known, established. People know how to find me, and they know that any cargo I carry will get through.
Jack kept the Magnum between 65 and 70 for the next 90 miles, and it was right around 4:15 when we spotted the interchange for Highway 198. The plant still had almost half a charge on it, but, as we had agreed, he started easing the rig over to the right to catch the next exit. Until somebody builds a decent truck stop in northern Fresno county, Sally's is in a prime spot to catch most of the traffic in this part of the state.
Of course, Sally's is a lot more than just a place to recharge. If that was all I wanted, we could have continued on for quite a ways. Better yet, we could have skipped the stop at Rupert's, recharged at one of those nowhere places and coasted into Tejon Pass and Big Gary's. But at Sally's I could make connections for the next leg.
If you convoy up while on the road, you have to take pot luck. If you stop at some place named "Truck Stop And Eats" you can wait an hour for some jockey whose looks you like to show up. But I knew that I could walk into Sally's Coffee Shoppe and have my pick of several Brothers I knew and trusted. Besides, Sally had a new waitress that I was kind of sweet on.
It was my third try before I found a group heading south, but it was a group of four Brothers I knew (and the new partner of one), and they were just paying their bill. They were, of course, glad to have a Knight along with them, since there were always a few trigger-happy punks between there and LA, and an extra, experienced hand never hurts. We agreed on a speed of 70 to Big Gary's and two of them went to collect their trailer gunners while I got Jack a piece of Sally's walnut pie (and checked in with Eliza). On another trip I would have let the kid keep driving, but this one was too big, too important.
For an hour and a half I drove in the number two position. Once, John William's new partner spotted a wreck just off the interstate that might have been bait for an easier group, but it was probably just rookie nerves. Besides, no one was going to challenge four trucks, with the weather turning clear and visibility and broadcast distance shooting up.
After the rookie called me on the radio to warn of the possible trap, I had a good chuckle over what he probably thought of me. Any Knight gets quite a bit of respect, especially from the younger drivers. But I knew that, if he hadn't heard of me before, John was telling him about me now, about my beliefs about "Mongo" McGuire. I've put up with it for 20 years, mostly from kids who only know about the Battle of Pittsburgh from what they've seen on television. they can say what hey want, but I was there, and I say that Mongo didn 't die. The feds had the heat on him and he knew the value of a martyr; I know in my heart that Mike is still out there somewhere, probably still herding freight, one hand on the yoke and the other thumb on the trigger.
So it was a bit after six that we hit the ruins of Grapevine and started the long steep climb to Tejon Pass. It had been 20 minutes since we had seen a CHP car and, looking at those rugged hills, I was reminded that they used to be home to a lot of rocket- and bazooka-wielding nuts before Gary's started exerting an influence. These gangs would blow to hell a likely looking truck crawling up the mountain, and then hide out till dark to salvage. That is, they did until hunter-killer missions started rolling out of Gary's.
I shifted down, and then down again, and still farther down. This crawl up the mountain usually makes me nervous; I feel like a sitting duck. But this time, with about 25 guns between our four trucks, I wasn't too worried.
As we approached the pass and pulled off at Gary's compound, I was reminded of how this place had started out as a simple recharge station over 20 years ago. A lot of Brothers liked pulling into LA with their plants at n x, and those north-bound didn't like to recharge in any of those hell-holes on the north end of town. Can't say as how I blame them.
Now, thanks to Gary's winning ways and good business sense, he has a top-notch garage, a coffee shop and full restaurant, and a hotel with a thriving little brothel on one end, as well as a complete parts and ammo shop. Most every trip I stop here, and it would have seemed unnatural not to this time. Usually I stay awhile, but this time I was on a tight schedule. It was a shame; sometimes Gary has a real beefsteak just waiting for me.
As I pulled out of Gary's, I still had 30 more miles of mountain left to cross. A little after 7:15 I pulled into Last Booth, handed over my transponder and was waved on my way. The eastern sky was rosy, we had been on the road for six hours and 290 miles and I never even had to touch a trigger switch. I don't see why anyone says that I-S isn't the best route between LA and San Francisco.
Anyone who takes I-5 through the heart of LA should be certified, though. I took the exit for I-210 in order to miss some of the worst of the CTs. Sure, it's illegal to duel on the freeways of LA, but that doesn't stop a lot of drivers. Few people are willing to get into a pitched battle with a Brother except in a real lonely spot, but there are too many places where nuts can set up emplaced guns off the interstate, either to take pot-shots or to try to take out a tire and cause a wreck. That kind of aggravation I didn't need, especially not with this cargo.
After the 210 turns south and becomes State 57 there are some nasty stretches, but I made it back to the 5 with no hassles. Just before 8:30 I was pulling into the Disneyland Truck Stop and Auto Shack. After about 20 minutes it became clear that I wasn't going to find anyone to convoy with down to San Diego (not a lot of freight goes that way normally, and with a quarantine announced...), but I n de a contract to pick up a load of oranges bound for San Jose the next day. The next leg, I knew, would be the worst.
My unease turned out to be justified. About 10 miles below Oceanside, we were overtaking a dark blue luxury much too quickly, where I-S is three lanes wide; the car wasn't going fast enough for this area. I radioed for permission to pass and got a laconic response, but I wasn't happy. The car had vaguely familiar lines that I couldn't identify. I had Jack punch up silhouettes of luxuries from the on-line vehicle guide to display on the heads up.
Suddenly, I got a blip a half-n le back and coming up fast. The mist that should have burned off by that time of the morning still clung uncharacteristically to the roadway. I was calling the bogey, asking for ID, and preparing to brake so he could pass when all hell broke loose.
Just as I identified the car ahead as a Ranger that had had its body lines mucked with, the jerk started spitting spikes and an oil slick on the roadway. Something went "click" in my head and I pulled the stick to the left as that "oil jet" burst into flames. Then four shapes pulled out of the ditches onto the road about 100 yards ahead of us (I couldn't tell yet, but I had them tentatively identified as trikes), two on each side, just as the truck behind me broke out of the mist. I immediately recognized it as a Magnum Morgan, probably their idea of a salvage carrier.
First things first. I called to Jack to give us rear defense, and I saw him moving instantly to the big red button on his console marked "Do Not Push." Smart kid. He realized that the situation called for an all-out defense. Our Artful Dodger would keep me from bringing our lasers to bear in the rear, but the mist made their usefulness doubtful, anyway.
While our trailer dumped a slick and a triple load of mines, I sighted the lasers on the left rear tire of the Ranger, just to see how they were going to operate in this fog. I was gratified to see the tire explode and the wheel come flying off.
Unfortunately, at the same instant, the turret on the Ranger opened up. The gunner scored a recoilless hit on our front armor just as his car fishtailed and skidded, presenting me with his left side. The gray Morgan opened up with his Vulcan, but he apparently couldn't get a bead on us through the smoke of our flaming oil. Slugs went whistling by the cab and tore into the highway.
Somehow, the driver of the Ranger got his car under control and wrestled it back, just short of the left shoulder. As he did, he spat another oil jet and two sets of spikes. I was about to take out his right rear tire when I hit the first spikes that he had laid and they exploded under me, slewing my tractor to the left. That didn't stop my Twin Lasers from making scrap of his remaining rear tire, though, causing him to skid, flip and roll.
The trailing Morgan, still gaining on us, broke past the smoke of our flaming oil and detonated one of our napalm mines. Immediately afterward, Jack zeroed in with the autocannon of the trailer, missing, but kicking up fresh gravel around the Morgan. the pickup responded with another burst from the Vulcan; this one scored on our rear doors.
If they had any brains at all, the crews of the trikes were already figuring out that this wasn't such a hot idea, but the rear pair were dropping mines on the edges of the road. I immediately had those two pegged, anyway, as Cratermakers; big trouble would come when I passed them and their AT guns came into play.
I had cruised over the last set of spikes without setting them off, but I was coming up quickly on an obstacle I wasn't going to be able to avoid so easily; the Ranger was bouncing in the road just in front of me, now. I braked a bit and eased the stick to the right, hoping to just graze it, but I popped him a good one.
The collision bent the frame of the poor Ranger at about a 30 degree angle. The crew was probably jelly after the impact. Pieces of the vehicle were scattered all over the roadway, and the frame went bouncing off into the grassy median.
Then, as if to prove that things could still get worse, the lead trikes opened up with rear-mounted Vulcans, and the trailing, outside trikes dropped more mines. The mines were close enough that they narrowed the "safe" area of the roadway to an eight foot strip down the middle, blocked now by the center trikes. A couple of slugs ricocheted off our front armor, doing no significant damage.
Meanwhile, the Morgan was roaring up on our rear. Jack hit the red button on his console again, dropping another slick and more mines onto the road. Now, between the last slick laid by the Ranger and the one Jack had just dropped, the Morgan would either have to talk to the shoulder or eat some flames.
Just as I was taking aim on the left rear trike, the Morgan reached the mines that Jack had left for it. At least one group went off and, along with the damage that they had already endured from the fire, a couple of the pickup's rear wheels gave up the ghost. In fact, the right rear corner was lifted into the air and the truck landed on its side, spinning and rolling.
Pulling the stick still farther to the right to get out of the way of the now bouncing Morgan, I sighted on the back armor of my chosen Cratermaker. Miraculously, both twin lasers scored, tearing off most of the armor protecting the mine dropper.
Accelerating to (hopefully) avoid the Morgan, I told Jack through gritted teeth to, "Take out the right rear trike." My hand was steady on the stick. Jack responded with a terse "Right" as his hands moved to the aiming controls. He swiveled the cab's turrets to bear.
As I pulled back to the middle of the road, I used my lasers to finish ripping out the back of my target. The mine dropper of the left-hand Cratermaker gave way with a "Whoomph!" and pieces of the power plant went flying through newly-made holes all over the trike. I sighed contentedly as the trike burst into flames, completing the picture. I forced myself to ignore the love-tap that the bouncing Morgan gave our trailer.
As I was taking care of the mine layer on the left, Jack was turning his attention to the one on the right. The trikes were still accelerating, but we were quickly gaining ground nonetheless. He waited until he had almost pulled even with it to open up with the gauss gun. At point blank range the iron needles tore away at the left armor of the trike.
I think that the drivers of the two lead trikes figured out what I had in mind almost as soon as I did. They were driving almost shoulder to shoulder down the middle lane, and I was racing up from behind, almost perfectly centered on them. Unless either they deviated or I backed off, I was about to bounce them all the way to San Diego. Having no desire to be scraped off the road, the drivers scattered, heading for the ditches on either side.
As we pulled past, the Cratermaker that Jack had scarred got off a shot with its anti-tank gun. The shell exploded against our rear, doing substantial damage there. I hardly noticed, though, because just as it did, the rolling Morgan hit a group of mines left by his partners (miraculously, we had detonated few of them). The explosion lifted the truck in the air, and the wreckage settled slowly, bit by bit, to the roadway.
Jack was starting to bring the rear autocannon to bear, but I stopped him. "No need," I said, realizing tbat those were practically the only words that I had spoken since the battle had begun. All three remaining trikes were headed off-road. I glanced at the chronometer; less than five seconds had passed since the Morgan came roaring out of the fog on our tail. I swore softly. It never ceases to amaze me how so much can happen so fast when the adrenaline gets pumping.
"Did you get a good look at the lead trikes before they scattered? Could you tell the make?" I asked Jack.
Jack gave me a funny look. "All four trikes were Amex Cratermakers, John. Couldn't you tell?"
Reviewing what I had seen, I realized that the lead trikes had also had the distinctive snouts of Cratermakers. I hadn't had long to look at them, and the presence of the Vulcans in the rear and the changed fairings had thrown me, but I guess bandits have the right to customize, same as anybody.
"What I'm more interested in," I continued, "is what they had in mind." I reached for the CB mike. "I have no idea how nuts like that could have survived this long. That 'trap' never stood a chance. Of course, we got some lucky breaks, and that helped end it so quickly, but the outcome should never have been in doubt. And we're not even very heavily armed as far as Brothers in this neighborhood go."
"Maybe they knew that," Jack responded nervously. "Maybe they knew what our cargo was. Maybe they were paid to stop this truck, this job in particular."
"Not a chance, Jack. If they had been, they would have been out in overwhelming force, and we would be a smear on the interstate. No, there just probably haven't been any vehicles worth the trouble, except in convoy, this way since the quarantine was announced, and they took their best chance, poor as it was. Switch the sender to Channel 9," I told him.
"To vehicles in range," I broadcasted. "Especially for all you law enforcement types. Flash: I-S, southbound, about..." I checked our Locator. "About 11 miles south of Oceanside, eight miles north of I-SOS. Banditos. At least three vehicles still operative. Beware also wreckage and potentially dangerous obstacles still in the road. Switching to Channel 17."
I only had to wait a couple of seconds before I got a response. "California Highway Patrol, north San Diego station; Officer LaMonte speaking. Please identify yourself and proceed."
"This is Big John Mahoney." I gave my Brotherhood ID, an impressively low number. "A few minutes ago, we were engaged by at least six bandits. You might want to get a crew out there to clear the road; I wasn't going to stick around to do it, as there were at least three trikes still operational."
"You mentioned road obstacles, Mr. Mahoney. Were any of those explosive or incendiary devices?"
I hesitated, remembering the general law against dropped weapons on California Interstates. First I told any and sundry my position, and let them guess that I was alone, and now this crap. I should never have reported the incident until I reached a roadblock; there was sure to be one set up north of the city. The law about dropped weapons was unlikely to be enforced this far south, and in a purely defensive position. Still, there was no need to take chances. "Affirmative, officer. At least two of the vehicles were laying mines, and one was dropping spikes. In addition, I have reason to believe that some of the spikes may be explosive, and some of the mines napalm." I went on to describe the general tactics of the bandits, coming at us from in front and behind, as well as from the shoulders, and the general outcome of the battle, but I left out any reference to the sorts of weapons that we had used. No reason to give away too many secrets to our listeners.
A couple of miles later, we were flagged down by a National Guard squad. There were several heavy vehicles by the shoulder, but the roadblock that I had expected looked almost thrown together. There was a much more elaborate setup in the northbound lane, along with a fair number of vehicles backed up, awaiting inspection. They seemed to be turning back many more than they were allowing to pass.
The corporal handed a couple of flyers up into the cab; I passed one to Jack. "Mind if I check the trailer?"
"Not at all," I said, swinging down to unlatch for her. Less than two minutes later, we were moving again.
"Why did she want to check the trailer?" Jack asked sarcastically. "Was she afraid that we're carrying contaminants into the city? There's not an awful lot of harm anyone could do bringing something into San Diego now."
I gave Jack a quick glance, but there was no way that he could know the true nature of our cargo. "No, I think she was just checking for trailer crew, and didn't even think to ask. The poor girl looked dead tired; they're probably working double shifts, or longer." I looked at the dash chrono; five after ten. Excellent time down the coast.
In less than thirty minutes I was pulling into a special station that the San Diego Relief Fund had set up on Mission Bay, and helping to unload the ten large cylinders and four crates of syringes, needles and supplies, the 'magic bullet' that we had come 500 miles to deliver. "I don't know how we can thank you and your partner, Mr. Mahoney, or the company that hired you. This vaccine, and the treatments are going to save a lot of lives," one director gushed.
"Tell you what, buddy: If you deliver this to as many of the weffies and dregs of this burnt-out hell-hole as you can, I'll consider that thanks enough." I was pushing my luck, a bit, talking to him that way, but I couldn't let it pass.
"Please, Mr. Mahoney, we don't refer to our clients that way. They're people, the same as you and I."
"Sure, the same as you or me, but they're living in a deep pile of shit, with no chance to climb out. Ah forget it. I just made this run because I can't stand to have people suffer."
"We thank you, Mr. Mahoney. Here," he said, passing me a form that was already prepared. "Sign this, and you can be on your way shortly. Or, you can stay and enjoy the hospitality of the station, such as it is. Of course, some people are squeamish about tarrying in a plague area... Still with the new vaccine, you'll be safe enough. Of course, you'll have to stay long enough to get your own protection and to let it clear the disease from your bloodstream, just in case your masks weren't enough."
"Thanks, but we were inoculated before we left San Francisco, and have papers to prove it. We've got to get moving; I've got a load waiting for me in Orange County." That was a bit of a lie, but one that I was sure would never trip me.
An hour after that, we were being checked through by the HP, Border Patrol and National Guard. I had stopped to send an Elmay dispatch: "The baby is delivered: a healthy boy," and the short-lived corporation Ameritech was softly and quietly fading away. The Guard resupplied and recharged us at an only slightly larcenous rate.
On the way back north, Jack broached a tender subject. "John, I know how concerned you are about those people, and you know that I feel for them, too. Why, just those few we saw on the way into the city looked absolutely pitiful. And the guy at the shelter ... remember how he practically had to drag himself down the corridor? I was just amazed at how he kept going.
"But, John, I read once that a plague is nature's way of cleansing a population that's grown too crowded to survive. I know that Taylor's is pretty terrible, but when the epidemic is over, they'll all be living in squalor as bad as before. Not only that, but most of the population will be too weak to take care of themselves. We didn't end their suffering, John, we just prolonged it."
I drove in silence for so long that I'm sure that Jack thought that he had offended me. "Jack," I finally said softly, "you may be right. I don't know. All I know is that each of us has got to do what he feels is right in his heart, and that I have followed mine."
The next hour and a half was awfully quiet. The gangs that normally inhabit that stretch of I-5 must have fled north, away from the plague, or else they decided that even a lone truck wasn't worth taking on with refugees on the road, and Jack didn't say much. I guess that he was as lost in his thoughts as I was in mine.
As I showered this afternoon, preparing for about 12 hours sleep at the Disneyland Truck Stop, I kept thinking about what Jack had said. I know even better than he does that, even before the plague, the life of the average weffie in San Diego was no picnic. Their only recreation was breeding, and that simply led to another generation chained to the triplet n sters of Poverty, Disease and Starvation. Maybe a good old-fashioned plague did do more good than harm, breaking that terrible cycle. But I, for one, can't stand the suffering that goes along with it. And neither could the powerful people who had created Ameritech for just such a mission as this.
I thought of all those thousands who were not yet infected and were even now receiving the vaccine that we had delivered. They were out of danger and their worries were over. I thought also of the numbers who had contracted the disease and were being administered the "treatment." Within 48 hours they would begin to drift off into a deep sleep and die, never feeling the pain that the disease would have brought. You see, there was more in that serum than we advertised.
Just remember that, sometimes, it's hard to tell the good guys from the bad. No moral choice is a clear-cut as it first appears, and every issue has more than two sides. Remember that, and remember me, as you crawl between your nice, clean, comfortable sheets tonight.
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