Tag: Futuristic

Hijack: Part 8

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

8.

Gail waited a few hours to mull over her conversation with Nora. She’d come away from it feeling a little less like the whole world was against her. That Nora acknowledged even the possibility of Lone-Wolfe’s innocence kept her spirits up. Enough to wait out the morning in piled-up paper work, anyhow. By dawn, Darian had appeared in the shop, more pressed and dressed than usual. Gail prepped to run her pre-haul check and get on the road. She was anxious to drive. The last run may have been hellish, prescient in its way, but this could be the reprieve she’d sought. She was no longer waiting for the tidal wave to crash down. Instead, she was doing her best to eye the damage, clean up. She even had official help to do so.

She loaded up the W900, fired the engine. It wasn’t long before she was across town, trailer hooked up, and headed for the highway to Indiana. She kept her wits about her, but managed to relax for the first time in days. Oakton Shipping had taken an order for a steel haul to USX, to be delivered at US Steel’s Gary Works. It was a comparably short jaunt to most steel hauls. Usually, she’d pick up steel from USX or Mittal, haul it to anywhere from the East or West coasts to be used in Industrial applications. Easy treks from Oakton’s importing warehouse to the mills, were few, and further between. This time around, it was coils on a flat-bed chained “shotgun style” and secured with wooden 4x4s.

Ferrero’d always insisted on the shotgun style hauling coils. He’d become somewhat notorious for it between Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, and Illinois’ shippers. It was yet another reminder that his accident was out of character. He’d even take simple coil-hauls seriously. If hauled “Suicide” style, one slip of a chain could easily kill a driver by crushing their cab. Worse, it might murder the poor saps riding behind them. Gail had always been glad for Ferrero’s cautious nature. She was even more glad now that she’d been forced to fill in for Felicia.

In all the years she’d been driving, Gail’d avoided accidents. It was mostly luck. Most drivers had at one under their belt, usually from bumper-stickers– people riding a rig’s ass too and ending up eating trailer or bob-tail axles. Most of the time, they didn’t walk away unscathed. Other times, they didn’t walk away at all. It never ceased to amaze Gail the amount of CB traffic reporting accidents or near-hits.

It helped to keep off the CB, or out of open channels, anyway. She’d submerged herself in the “culture” enough years that it no longer felt necessary. Most of the new-age drivers didn’t use handles, or even for that matter C-Bs. Otherwise, there was no-one to talk to; each day more rigs were autonomous, computer driven. That was M-T’s contribution to the world. That was what they wanted for everyone. Every once in a while Gail’d see the driver-less cabs hauling refrigerated box-trailers or tarp-cover dump-trailers. It always forced a chill along her spine.

She caught site of one of the A-I rigs just past the Ohio-Indiana border. It looked like any other rig at first-glance. On longer inspection, there was a glaring lack of humanity to its driving. It didn’t need to constantly and minutely correct its steering. Instead, it was always “within tolerance.” At that, it never changed speed. The only other indications of anything out of the ordinary were evenly-spaced sensors along its exterior. A normal person might’ve missed them, but Gail’s hyper-alert experience with rigs homed in on them instantly.

Ice once more clambered along her spine; this was the future. Mindless algorithms. Sensors. No hearts pumping blood, no brains thinking. Their routes were cold, calculated, driven by programmers accountable for mistakes or success. People were the weak-link. She couldn’t help but see a future filled with these things. People were too unpredictable. They kinked the proverbial hose’s pristine flow necessary for their function.

For someone as admittedly as cold as Gail, she’d half-expected to find some measure of companionship in the idea. Instead, she felt her first moment of sentiment. With it, came the unassailable gut-sickness that it was merely from her place as a human in a human’s world. That world was fading fast. The rigs were just one symptom, one sign, of a deeper truth; she– and everyone else—were becoming humans in a computing world. Robots, drones, algorithms, A-I, sensors replaced security, cameras, drivers, the list was endless.

Her gut-sickness only increased as the Kenworth pulled alongside the A-I rig. Its M-T Inc logo glared at her from its door: Mechanized Transports. This was their fault. They’d flooded the roads with A-I rigs. Flooded the Unions with work-less drivers. They’d given shipping corporations incentives to cut out drivers– people— and switch to machines. That left the smaller companies hanging by threads, incapable of competing with their profit/cost ratios.

Then, the bastards had the gall to try to by her out. It forced her to become even more of an ice-queen bitch than she’d been. When she declined, they’d turned public opinion against her. Like others, she was just trying to make ends meet. M-T and the like managed to smear them, and kill off an American tradition in the process. But they weren’t content with that. When Gail continued to refuse, they murdered one of her drivers. She wasn’t sure how yet, but between Darian and Nora’s investigations, she would learn how. In time, she’d set fire to M-T, that prick Wembley, and their reputation. Then, she’d sit back and watch them burn to the ground.

She sighed. The road emptied of the few cars around her. They dispersed along merges or ramps. She’d left the A-I rig far behind her, hammered-down just to keep her mind elsewhere. She eased off the throttle, let the speedometer sink back toward the speed-limit. The last thing she needed now was a speeding ticket.

Judging by the yard-sticks, she wasn’t far into Indiana. Roughly two-thirds of the trip still remained. If she was lucky, the haul would only take a few more hours. She might still make it in and out of Gary without excess headaches. She wasn’t holding her breath. The place was usually a nuthouse of rig-jockeys fighting for what few hauls weren’t already automated. She was already certain she’d be driving back load-less, wasting fuel and time, but it couldn’t be helped. Ferrero would’ve stayed overnight, waited for another load to be arranged before returning. Gail didn’t have that luxury. Too much needed to be done with the media-circus. Plus, she needed to ready to attend Buddy’s funeral at the drop of a hat.

The road was clear. The sun had just begun shining alongside the highway. Dew still clung to reflectors and guard-rails. Infinite droplets gleamed in sheets along grassy plains that buffering woods and civilization from asphalt. The tranquil serenity Gail had always sought during her hauls returned just in time for the gut-sickness to ramp up. Whether one caused the other, she wasn’t sure.

The brake pedal twitched near her foot. She had enough time to say “What the hell.” Thacker was squawking over her CB. Her hand lifted for it. The rig jerked left. Her stomach dropped. Her pulse started into a sprint. Her hand locked back on the wheel. The rig jerked right. The wheel went with against her will. She recalled Ferrero’s accident, anticipated the next swerve. The rig went left again. Her hands worked. Exhaust and air brakes screamed and chattered, piercing the silent dawn. The trailer brake locked up. The rig was doing its best to come to a stop. It screamed in defiance of the forces acting on it. Technology and physics tugged at it.

The wheel jerked right again. The rig readied to tip. The brakes squealed, chattered, chirped. It couldn’t anymore. Gail’d bled enough speed. The coils weighed too much. Thacker’s voice was frantic. Gail wasn’t listening. She was too focused. She threw on her hazards, blared her air-horn. The rig tried to swerve again, still couldn’t. Gail wrenched the wheel right as it fought for the left. It threw her onto the shoulder. Angry hornets growled beneath the tires from the shoulder’s rumble-strips.

The screams, squeals, and growls waned with the last of the rig’s speed. When it finally came to a complete stop, a quarter mile of smoke trailed behind Gail. A few cars zoomed past in the fast lane. One blared its horn. Somewhere in the back of Gail’s mind, she wanted to flip the bird. The rest of her was too focused on keeping her heart from seizing. She sat, body locked with both feet on the brake and Thacker’s voice badgering her. She breathed, put the rig in neutral, and killed the engine– whatever happened couldn’t continue if the truck was dead.

“Thacker, I read you. Confirm codes–” She rattled off a strings numbers. “I’m pulled over on I-74 just outside Shelbyville. I’ve got a serious problem. Find Darian. Put him on the closed-channel.”

“10-4, Gail. Glad to hear you’re in one piece,” he wheezed, as near to cardiac arrest as Gail felt.

She downed a half-bottle of water before Darian sounded on-air of their private CB channel, “Go ahead, Boss.”

She leaned out the driver’s window, eyeing her mile-long skid-marks, “I’m just outside Shelbyville. My rig’s shot. I need a pick up and exchange with one from the garage.”

He sensed she was avoiding saying too much, “10-4, Boss. Dispatch has your GPS. I’ll tow another rig out myself, prep the other back for inspection.”

His shortness told Gail exactly what she hoped to hear; he’d sensed her subtext and knew to haul the rig to examined it against Bud’s. Hopefully, she wouldn’t total another rig hauling the coils, but the risk had to be taken. At the very least, if something else happened, she’d be ready now.

“Copy, dispatch. I’m issuing operations cease as of today. Have the other drivers finish their hauls and report back. Until we inspect the fleet, I want the rigs under lock and key. And keep Roselle with you. Tell her to use her badge.”

“Dispatch copies,” Darian said a moment later. “ETA two-hours to meet. Sit-tight.”

“10-4.”

Gail threw her head back. It wasn’t often she stared death in the face. That she’d lived through it was almost a stroke of pure luck. The rig had been too heavy. Her memory too attuned to the Ferrero’s dash-cam. She’d recognized the vehicle’s attempts to execute the same maneuvers. However it had been done before, it had obviously been duplicated here.

Darian had flown at top-speed in one of the company flat-bed’s, arrived a half-hour ahead of schedule. Ben Schrier’s Freightliner Cascadia occupied the flat-bed, had just been in for minor repairs. Schrier was currently on vacation with his wife and son somewhere in Florida. Gail helped the pair to lower it off the flat-bed, then carefully maneuvered through the growing traffic to set up for the trailer-hookup. Darian pulled in front of the W900, used the flat-bed’s tow-winch to drag it up the bed and disengage the fifth-wheel. They weren’t about to take chances turning the engine back on.

Gail fitted the Cascadia’s fifth-wheel to the trailer, secured it, then dragged the trailer the rest of the way onto the shoulder. She climbed down and out, engine idling, and met up with Darian and Nora at the rear of the flat-bed. Its hazards flashed, attracting a gawkers in the fast lane. Darian was testing the last of the chains as Gail approached.

“Don’t report it yet.”

Nora’s jaw clenched slightly, “I’m afraid I have to. It’s my job.”

“Not yet,” Gail said firmly. “Confidentiality. Use it. We have to ensure no-one outside the company knows this rig’s compromised. If someone finds out, it could corrupt your investigation.” Nora’s face stiffened at questionable logic. “I know that rig is safe. I’ve driven it for fifteen years. But that’s not everything.”

Nora was uncertain, but resigned to hear Gail out, “How do you mean?”

Darian appeared. “Everything’s green. Ready when you are.”

Gail stayed him with a hand, “Ferrero.”

“You nearly lost control?” Nora asked pointedly.

“I did lose control, Nora,” Gail said carefully. Darian was leaning in now, focused over the sounds of traffic. “The swerving was a point-for-point match. The only difference was that I was heavier, recognized it, and compensated before it completely took over.”

“It? You mean the rig ?” Darian asked skeptically.

“Or whatever’s compromised it.”

Nora shook her head, “This is asinine, Gail. You’re jumping at shadows. You need–”

Gail cut her off, “Someone has done this! They murdered Ferrero. Now they’ve tried to take me out.” Darian and Nora exchanged a disquieted look. Gail sighed frustration. “Just take the rig back. Tear it down. Find the problem. I’m going to Gary. You two hail me on the CB if you find anything. Keep it quiet otherwise.”

Darian shrugged, “We’ll do what we can.”

Nora agreed. “I’ll hold off on anything formal for now.”

“Thank you,” Gail said with genuine gratitude.

The trio dispersed. Gail started out again for Gary again. Whatever the hell had happened, her body was still stuck in it. Mentally, she’d deduced that the danger had passed, but her stomach was knotted and her heart still in her throat. Most of all, she was angry; angry that Nora had doubted her, that Ferrero had been killed, that she could’ve easily been next. However it had been done, she felt M-T’s hand in it through her knotted gut. Whatever hand that was, Ferrero’s blood was on it. Bud may not have even been the first? Who knew how many they’d killed, or could.

Gail couldn’t be sure, but if she had her way, this attempt would be the last. All she had to do was wait for the evidence, then take her opportunity when it came. M-T would burn for this.

Hijack: Part 7

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

7.

It was just after lunch that OPD’s forensics rep appeared in the garage. Contrary to Gail’s expectation, it wasn’t a guy like Thacker with even thicker coke-bottle glasses. In fact, it wasn’t a guy at all. Her name was Nora Roselle, an English-born Oakton Crime Forensics officer who’d retained a slight accent from her youth. Darian was instantly smitten by it, however well he hid it. Gail sensed it in his over-accommodation and slight, dreamy-eyes. She eye-rolled internally, externally remained unchanged; Nora was good-looking, if slightly plain, but her accent and diction had enthralled the untraveled and intellectual Darian. They might’ve been an excellent match were it not for the circumstances surrounding them. Before long, the trio stood at the damaged rig, now in more pieces than it had arrived in.

Nora’s well-shaped brows and full lips inflected learned charisma on her speech. “I understand you have documented the process of disassembly.”

“Quite well, in fact,” Darian said, still somewhat dreamy.

Gail cleared her throat to snap him out of it. He shook off his entrancement and called over one of his crew– curiously, Gerald Rush, the married and less attractive of his two, currently unoccupied employees. He introduced Rush and set him about gathering their camera footage and inspection notes for Nora’s review.

“Thank you, Mr. Foster. It will help immensely to integrate me into things,” Nora said, the pout on her full-lips now evidenced as permanent.

“Please, Darian,” he corrected somewhat uncharacteristically.

If Gail hadn’t been standing slightly behind Nora, she’d have seen the world-tilting eye-roll that once more put Darian back in his own shoes. He said something Gail didn’t need to hear to know was flirtatious fluff-speak, and she cleared her throat again.

“Miss Roselle, if you don’t mind, I have a business to run. Is there anything you need form me?”

She reached into a leather briefcase, “This is a standard non-disclosure agreement stating that you may overhear privileged information during my time here. Often times, it is not regarding my work on the premises, but elsewhere. It is merely a safety protocol to ensure against information leaks.”

Gail nodded, “Fine. But I have over twenty other employees, I can’t sign for them.”

“They will be asked to sign separate disclosures,” Nora assured her.

“And if they don’t?”

Nora winced, “Then they may not be present during my time here. I’m sorry, I know it is an intrusion, but it is required.”

She took the packet, led the pair to the couches and table, and sat down to flip through it and scrawl her name on the last page. She handed it back, “Anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

Darian gestured Nora along, “Well, Ms. Roselle– may I call you Nora?”

“You may.”

“I’d be happy to review our information with you. I’m certain Rush has it compiled by now.”

“Very well,” Nora said, rising with him. She looked at Gail, “Thank you again for your cooperation, Miss Wolfe. I’ll do my best not to be a bother.”

Gail finally stood, “Clear things up. That’s all I care about. Good luck.”

Nora gave a courtly forward-tilt of her head and Darian led her to the far corner of the garage where his desk was sequestered. They disappeared around an edge of the damaged rig, and Gail blew a breath through her lips. At least someone’s day was looking up. Hers, on the other hand, was only looking to get more complicated. Almost immediately preceding Nora’s arrival, dispatch had received alarm codes on one of the short-haul rigs. Felicia Euwart, the driver, immediately confirmed the issue, but it had put everyone on-edge. ABS warning-codes had gone up, and Felicia lost pressure in her primary brake-lines, it wasn’t earth-shattering, and even Darian confirmed the rig had needed new brake-lines. With the state of things, he’d let it out on the road with the mind of replacing them on its next return, expecting they’d make it one last haul.

However understandably wrong he was, the extra time required to bring the rig back, exchange it for another, then haul its load to its destination would now put Felicia behind schedule. It was just enough, that she’d never make the next haul, assigned to her from Ferrero’s schedule. With most of their long-haulers on the road, and only Carl on his mandated time off left at the garage, Gail was forced to pick up the slack. In other words, after greeting Nora, she had enough time to go home, sleep off the day’s bullshit, then head for Northern Indiana.

Afternoon writhed and wriggled into night, passing only for Gail to rise more tired than usual. She chugged her latest mug of black-sludge coffee and made for the garage. The morning’s wee-hours found the office door spitting light across the garage’s outer-sanctum. The night-shift dispatchers were slumped at their desks, imbibing caffeine and barely visible from the angle, but Gail’s attention was drawn to low-lights glowing from Darian’s desk-area. She had more than enough time to dally before getting on the road, figured she’d scold Darian for skimping on sleep. She rounded the corner of Ferrero’s damaged rig, and found Nora poised over Darian’s desk with loads of paper-work atop it.

“Nora?” Gail asked approaching. “Why’re you still here?”

She didn’t respond. Gail eyed her oddly, then stepped up and laid a hand on her shoulder. She snapped ’round with a start. Gail lurched back, panted terror.

Nora yanked ear-bud headphones from her ears with a breathy, “Cry-st!”

Gail gasped, “Sonuvabitch! I think I need to change my pants.”

“I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

Gail recomposed herself, pushed onward, “What’re you still doing here?”

“I’m accustomed to long nights,” she admitted, finally catching her breath. “In my profession, it is a useful skill. I work a thirty-six hour days, sleep eight hours, then repeat.”

Gail sympathized, however apprehensively, “I know the feeling.”

She smiled, “I imagine I’d have been an excellent driver in another life.”

Gail nodded to the papers, “Quite a commitment to the job.”

“It is important I examine as much of the vehicle’s history as possible, however mundane. A faulty, third-party part could be as much to blame something factory-spec that never required replacement. In either case, the vehicle’s history will allow me to narrow it down as Darian has attempted.”

Gail leaned against a wall at the desk’s edge, “Any ideas yet?”

“No.” She picked up a sheet of paper, skimmed it, then met Gail’s eyes again. “But I have seen the video footage.”

“Off the record, what’s your assessment? Driver error?”

Nora seemed to consider if her opinion could be professionally damning, then relented, “Off the record, there is no way to be certain. Ever. Driver-error is always a possibility, but given the driver’s history, it’s too far of a stretch for my liking. Unfortunately, I can’t rule it out entirely without proper evidence. As far as the vehicle goes, nothing adds up.”

“How do you mean?” Gail asked with genuine intrigued.

Nora shuffled some pages, “These are all of the work orders on the vehicle’s maneuvering systems and suspension. All post-work diagnostics indicate perfect functioning, as far as the tests can tell. From what I can personally see, the vehicle was expertly maintained. Some evidence of this is only days old.”

Gail skimmed the pages with a look, “What’s it tell you?”

“Simply? That there was no earthly reason for that vehicle to act as it did.”

Gail’s skeptical look urged her to explain. She dug a laptop from beneath the mounds of papers, and flipped it open. Gail braced herself on the desk and chair from beside Nora. On-screen was a crude, wire-frame model of a T680. She keyed in a command and the wire-frame began to move as if traveling at highway speeds. All of a sudden, the rig jolted left, then right, left again. The model tipped and ground its side until it struck a guard-rail. Simulated debris rained behind it, smacked away like particles. The wedged rail caught the road, took the rest of the engine with as it broke free, and crude flames sparked on the overturned rig as it came to a stop.

Gail was suddenly aware of her white-knuckled grip on the desk and chair before her. Nora seemed to notice it too, tactfully ignored it. Gail eased from the tense poise and cleared her throat; it had been like watching the accident all over again, except every bit of the first-person dash-cam played over in her head atop the third-person render. It was horrifying, enough that even Gail’s hardened heart felt sympathy for Buddy’s last moments to have been in such fear.

Nora allowed Gail a moment to recollect herself, then explained, “As near as I can tell, the vehicle was traveling in a straight-line, at safe-speeds, in preferable road conditions. Nothing short of a driver error or an electrical failure could have caused the first swerve.”

“But you disagree it was driver error?”

She was careful, evasive for the sake of her job more than anything, “Personally, I do not believe that to be an issue. This was a deliberate motion, too instant and sudden for the drifting of a fatigued or inebriated driver. More-over, none of the preceding video shows any indication of driver distraction.”

“So, it was the electrical system?” Gail asked outright.

“Logic would suggest as much, given the video evidence. As I’ve said though, there is no mechanical reason for it to have happened.”

Gail went quiet for a long time, wondering how the findings might fit her M-T theory. For someone to sabotage the vehicle, as she suspected, they’d need access to it. Overlooking the obvious fact that it was damn-near impossible to get to, Gail wondered what they could have done to cause the accident. She’d been driving rigs long enough to know this wasn’t a frayed wire snowballing into a colossal fuck-up. If it had been, the rig would’ve shown signs before-hand, and it would’ve been caught during one of the vehicle’s inspections Darian and his crew had done.

But without clear evidence of tampering, Gail couldn’t point a finger at M-T without bringing a serious shit-storm upon herself. She suspected something would be found though. Even Nora seemed to be leaning toward that– in as much as her suspicions did not involve neglect by either driver nor mechanic. While Gail didn’t know much about the woman, her high-intelligence was obvious in her methods and demeanor. If others respected her as Gail expected, especially given the Chief of Police personally assigning her the case, her word might be enough to back up Gail’s suspicions if necessary.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Nora said finally, breaking the silence. “What do you believe happened? You must have suspicions yourself, right?”

“Off the record?” Nora blinked once. “I think someone fucked with that rig, someone from M-T Inc.”

“Mechanized Transports?” She asked, accent drawing out certain syllables.

“Yes. The assholes have been trying to buy me out and I’m not interested. I wouldn’t put it past them to do something like this then hide behind their lawyers.”

Nora looked away to think. Then, with a resigned grimace, she met Gail’s eyes. “If that is the truth, it is all the more imperative we discover how they’ve done it. Otherwise, many more innocent people may die.”

Short Story: Triggermen

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Spotlights threw their beams and heat across two-rows of computers, situated back-to-back before pinstriped Racer chairs. The high-power LAN was accented by LED peripherals that inflected slight hints of color over the otherwise bright white. Beyond them, along the three sides of the arena, the crowd roared in, riled by the convention taking place outside. They sat in their seats as restless and bloodthirsty as any crowd could be. Cube-like displays of flat-screen televisions hanged scatter-shot from the ceiling, ensuring no-one missed a second of the mayhem about to commence.

Slideshow of teams about to enter the arena with short bios and photographs flickered past. Digital banners ceremoniously proclaimed, “Triggermen World-Champion Clan Match: Icewind [ICWND] vs Phantom Cobra [PCBRA].” Triggermen, arguably the greatest E-Sports title ever created, had grown from a few groups of fanatical fans to millions of players, and countless clans, in only a few short years. The first Triggermen championships forever changed competitive gaming.

Mechanically, the game was nothing special; simple team or free-for-all game modes, and a few others more cult-favorites than competitive. The real prize was the immersion. Triggermen managed to suck a player in, as if they were really there, fighting for base-rights, hostages, or bombs. Either from the expertly crafted-atmosphere, the absorbing environments, or the pitch-perfect sound effects, there was something about Triggermen that had captured every player and transported them to a new world.

The two teams filed in. Cheers nearly staggered them. Some players waved or made vague gestures of gratitude or love. Others remained straight-faced, unaffected, too focus to let the crowd gain purchase in their minds. They took their seats, fitted their headsets, and keyed in their credentials. With their profiles loaded, each player chose their load-out and prepped for game-play. The start counter began at 10, prompted hands to make their last, minute adjustments.

Among the teams was Brandon Dodgson, also known as BurntVenom, or just Venom. It was only luck that his gamer-tag had slotted him a place on a team where Venom actually made sense, though he hated the first part of the ages-old gamertag. None of that fronted Venom’s mind though. Like always, Triggermen had completely taken over. He sat amid the rest of Phantom Cobra, taunted by into a rabid fury by a downward tick of a digital clock; “3” coursed fresh adrenaline through Cobra. “2” readied them for bloody gun battles, flowing improv-strategy, and hostage rescue. “1” poised them forward, ready to beat Icewind to their hostages and back to base first.

The teams found themselves at opposite sides of a large map, lined up like their seats in the long dissolved area. “0” flashed as boots hit dirt and beat a cloud of dust with headlong-sprints, Venom among them. He knew the map well, better than most; three, main paths were laid out between the two bases. Cobra’s hostages were sequestered inside the opposing base, just behind Icewind’s spawn. A few shortcuts here and there cut diagonal paths between main through-ways to give players ambushing options– or ambushee options.

Venom knew the cuts well, but he wasn’t about to start the shit-storm of close-quarters fighting. He kept his sights forward, broke into pairs to assault the three, main paths. Slicer was with him; the only girl on the team, and more ballsy than most of the other guys. She insisted on being called a tomboy, wearing the label as something of an achievement. When Slicer’d joined Cobra, Venom cared less about her genitals than if she’d be an asset. A few matches later, she’d smoked the rest of Cobra in 1-vs-1s– Venom hadn’t let anyone else cover him since. She was always at his side, he at hers, and this championship wasn’t going to be any different.

They sprinted through the foliage of the first path, followed its decline, and slowed near its mid-point. They vaulted over a fallen tree, dropped into cover between it another, knowing the play. They’d run it more times than they cared to count. Venom covered slicer with his rifle as she slipped over the tree beside him, shouldered her way along a ruin’s to the short-cut’s opening. She crouched at the passage’s mouth jutting from the jungle around them, and slapped down a proximity explosive.

The first sounds of gunfire erupted in the distance. Slicer hopped back into place beside Venom. Someone on Cobra radioed “C” was breached.” Venom ignored it, B-route was his. So long as they did their job, everyone else would do theirs. He vaulted over the tree as Slicer had, repeated her actions at the mouth of the passage’s opposite side, then knelt to cover Slicer’s advance.

She sprinted past the passages, Venom on her tail. The sloping ground continued for a quarter Klick, leveled out in a low brook gurgling with a shallow current. A few tall stones and toppled trees scattered around the area provided cover. Venom dropped into a crouch behind a stone, angled sideways to see the path forward. Slicer threw herself to her belly, crawled for the cover of tall reeds along the brook’s far-edge.

Rifle fire chattered over the low booms of explosives and shotguns. “A” was being fought for, hard, “B” seemed desolate. There was no way to be certain I-W wasn’t lying in wait, or worse, causing a distraction to extract their hostages. Venom and Slicer could only wait so long before forced to advance on I-W’s base, and their own hostages. When that time passed, they knew of only one way to play it.

Venom was out of cover in his crouch, weaving a random zig-zag to keep anyone watching from predicting his movements or hitting him with gunfire. When he reached the far-side of the brook’s clearing, Slicer jumped up and sprinted for his side. She crouched again beside him, followed in-step to begin the forward advance toward IW’s base.

The ground sloped up, a perfect place for an ambushing sniper to wait for them to appear. Slicer dropped prone, inched upward along the left side of the trail. Venom mirrored the movements at the opposite side of the path. Slicer’s head peeked over the rise. A distant rifle barked. Debris dusted the air a few feet forward. Slicer inched back down, heart racing. Venom knew what to do: it had to be him. The only way to force the sniper to shift his aim would be for him to run– without that split second misdirection, Slicer couldn’t get a shot off.

“On three,” she whispered. “One.”

“Two.”

“Three!”

Venom was sprinting in his zig-zag. Erratic barks traced his path forward. He bobbed and weaved in the open, no cover in sight. A lone shot rang out and the sniper-fire went quiet. A kill fed over the reel of player names above an audible rise in the crowd’s roar. The pair regrouped, went in guns blazing. Muzzle flashes lit darkened corners of I-W’s bunker-base. The crowd’s din rose with each animated spray of blood or sound effect of death. The pair littered a pair of bodies with lead, and with a quick command, the hostages ran for Cobra’s base.

Venom slapped in a new mag as someone spawned before him. His pistol out, murdered the guy before he could react. Sweat beaded on Venom’s brow as he sprinted after the hostages, pulled ahead to clear the path. They made for C, trampling over bodies of both sides for the narrow short-cut back to B. Slicer ran Vanguard, Venom one-shotting an I-W rifleman with his back turned. The darkened passage gleamed at both ends from the daylight scattered over the jungle and its ruins.

“They’re on our tail,” Slicer said, hustling out onto B route.

A burst of fire swallowed her words. She dropped prone, rolled sideways. Venom wanted to stop, knew he couldn’t. He led the hostages nearer toward Cobra’s base– almost there. Slicer was up, rocketing after him. The first proximity explosive went off. A pair of names popped up on the kill-feed. Slicer swiveled, laid suppressing fire on the path’s center. Another pair of I-W troops appeared. Their fire whizzed past Slicer, aimed at Venom’s hostages. She growled, tossed a grenade.

Venom stopped at the doorway to their base, heart pounding. Slicer back-stepped toward him, firing. The first hostage hit the rescue threshold and the first I-W soldier appeared. Venom splattered his digital blood across foliage. The second hostage hit the rescue zone, Venom forced to reload. Slicer kept her eyes forward, blasted the last I-W that tried to take advantage of Venom’s state.

The last hostage hit the rescue zone and the screen popped up with “Mission complete.” Cobra were instantly on their feet, headsets off. The crowd roared, “Co-bra! Co-bra!” Slicer and Venom leapt, hugged. She kissed his cheek with a giddy laugh, and hugged another team-mate. Cobra shook random hands with I-W between monitors, now world champions with more than a few grand to remember the win by. Venom didn’t care so much for the money or the title, he was in it for the game– though he wasn’t sure he’d ever wash his cheek again.

Hijack: Part 6

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

6.

The morning meeting came as much welcome as anyone had expected. It was 8 AM on the dot when the Union Rep pulled into Lone-Wolfe’s lot. The Chief of Police followed immediately. Little was said between them as they stepped for the door, brief-cases in hand. Gail had made coffee and forced Carl off the couches so she might sit with Darian and Marla across from the pair. The rest of the employees gawked one room or the other, hidden in shadows or at desks and chairs only half-listening so no-one would notice.

They laid out files and folders across the coffee table between them, set up audio recorders “for the record.” Gail figured that meant, “to sell to the nightly news.” She allowed it for the sake of moving forward, and began by introducing Marla and Darian.

“Marla and I were retrieved the vehicle after the accident. Darian is Lone-Wolfe’s crew-chief, and is inspecting it on grounds of his experience with it.”

The Police chief spoke first, and at Marla, as if singling her out for the weakest link, “And you submit the vehicle arrived in roughly the same condition it left the tow-lot?”

Marla eyed him, but spoke expertly, “The vehicle arrived here in identical condition. We have cell-phone photos to prove it.” She fished out fuzzy print-outs from a file-folder and set them up, “As well as high-resolution images of the rig’s arrival and unloading.”

She thumbed out a few pieces of photo-paper, and the Chief’s mouth squirmed. He’d expected her to be the weak link, not a well-spoken professional. Gail sensed almost immediately how in over his head he was; he’d made it through life bullying the weakest making his way forward from it. He’d expected to get through the morning the same way, but now couldn’t. Regardless of Marla’s standing in the three, she was still expertly skilled, however often Gail found fault with certain personality traits.

Gail hid smug satisfaction at watching the Chief squirm. He’d already revealed his agenda, and the whole damned building knew it. He wasn’t there to meet out justice. He was there to appease constituents and critics, crack-down on the little guy. Gail wasn’t little by any means, even less so a guy, and infinitely less of one to be fucked with so crassly. It was going to be one of those days, and everyone knew it now.

The Union Rep explained, “Local 413 is prepared to argue in your defense provided you meet certain criteria.”

“In our defense? Is someone taking this to court?” Darian asked suddenly.

“We’ve received word the NHSB is preparing a lawsuit to be brought to the state’s Supreme Court. As I said, we’re prepared to represent you, provided you allow a forensic investigator to assist in your examination of the vehicle.”

Gail fumed, but did her best to keep her cool, “What good’s a Union that can’t protect us?”

“That is what we’re attempting–”

“No. It isn’t,” Gail spat sternly. “You’re covering your own asses and throwing us to the wolves. All of this is politics and optics. If you had the clout you pretend to, it’d never go so far.”

“Need I remind you this conversation is being recorded?” The Chief said, mirroring her previous smugness.

“I’m allowed to be angry,” Gail said, clamping her jaw shut. “I’m allowed to admit that I feel we’re being hung out to dry. That the Union has only its own interests in mind concerning this case.”

“Gail, please,” Darian interrupted with a low hand. He eyed their visitors and Gail, “I see no reason not to allow a forensic investigator to observe, so long as that is all they do. I have a job to do with regard to the vehicle, and I intend to do it. I’ll comply as much as is reasonable. I can always use an extra set of eyes. That said, I can’t allow anyone to compromise my inspection. What I’m doing here will set the tone for everyone’s defense– be it Union, Lone-Wolfe, or otherwise.”

The Chief seemed to relax at Darian’s obvious command of the situation, “Very well. Then I’ll ensure you’re deferred to as authority during the inspection.”

“And so long as there is no evidence of non-compliance in this matter,” the Union Rep said. “Local 413 will be behind you every step of the way, but I warn you Ms. Wolfe, your company’s on thin ice, with the Union as well as the Press. You’re under the microscope for the time being.”

“Which means what?” Marla asked outright.

“We’ll be sending in representatives to observe and document the company’s work and responses to the investigation.” He managed a round-cheeked smile that made Gail want to knock his teeth in. “Consider it our own form of investigation regarding personnel and operations. Should everything check out, your certification within the Union will remain in good standing.”

“And if not?” Gail asked with a slight snarl.

He winced and rose from the couch, “Let us hope it does not come to that.”

The group rose with him, Gail’s arms firmly crossed as the two saw themselves out. She watched the garage door shut, then about-faced and marched into her office. Darian and Marla trailed after her, passing gawkers that did their best to suddenly appear casual. Gail sank in her chair while Darian and Marla stood before her.

“Shut the door,” she instructed them. Marla slipped away for a moment, returned with her arms crossed. “Darian, watch this… investigator carefully. Don’t fuck up your job over it, but make sure they’re not allowed access to anything sensitive. Especially on the rig.”

Darian nodded, “I’ll handle it.”

“Have you found anything yet?” He shook his head. “What’s the hold up?”

“What’s left of the rig’s pristine, or as much as it can be after the accident. So far though, it’s looking more like driver error.”

“Have we heard from the Cook County Coroner yet?”

Marla replied this time, “Someone took a call from the office yesterday, but they said it’d be a couple days before they released their reports. Apparently they’re backed up on paper-work, but Bud’s wife took possession of the body yesterday. She called in to alert us of it, and that she’d call back once they’d made the funeral arrangements.”

“You should go,” Darian insisted. “A lot of us have already decided to. Ferrero was a good guy, a friend to all of us. It wouldn’t be right not to. The dispatch crew’s spoken to one another about it, they’re planning to go in shifts.”

Gail heaved a sigh, leaned back in her seat with fingers tensed against her forehead. She hated funerals. They were an extension of people’s inability to accept things and move on. To her, “Closure” was just another word for attachment. She respected Zen philosophies most, ones where nothing was sacred and all things would pass. Anything else just seemed self-indulgent and delusional.

While she agreed with Darian’s assessment, not attending was still better than attending without a proper show of sympathy– or any for that matter. Sympathy was one of those emotions she had trouble with. It required a certain level of sentimentality, and she seemed to be losing what little she’d had by the day.

She straightened in her seat, “Fine. I’ll go. Marla, keep me informed of anything we hear.”

“And until then?” She asked simply.

“Help Darian and keep an eye on that squint when they come in. If I need you for something more, I’ll let you know.” She waved them off. “I need time to think.”

They nodded at one another and headed for the door, stepping out as someone else began to step in. The fleeing movements of their departure damn-near confirmed what the stink of money said before she looked up. She found herself eyeing M-T Inc’s leading, suited prick.

“Get out of my office and off my lot!” She shouted, nearly tipping her chair back as she stood.

“Ms. Wolfe, if you’ll allow me–”

“I won’t.” She reached for a phone on her desk. “Get out now, or I’m calling the police and having you charged with trespassing.”

He cleared his throat, “That won’t be necessary. Mechanized Transports merely wishes to extend our sympathies to you and your employees over the recent loss of your driver.” She lifted the phone to dial, but he stopped her, “And I’m certain, as this is my purpose here, it would only engender more negative opinion were you to have me accosted over it.”

Gail froze, poised with phone in-hand and finger ready to dial. She clenched her eyes shut for a moment, tensed her jaw, and flared her nostrils with a furious breath. She set the phone back on its receiver. “You have exactly twenty seconds before I hurl you off my lot with both hands.”

“I shan’t need more,” he said with a cocky half-smile. He set a briefcase on the desk, popped it open to produce a packet of papers. “In addition to our condolences, I am also authorized to present you with a copy of the offer-contract we’ve written up. Our price is more than fair, and I assure you we’ll hold to that offer as outlined.”

He set the packet on the desk, shut the briefcase. Gail couldn’t help it, she laughed– one, robust laugh that melded desperation with exasperation. “More than fair? You want to buy us off, gut the company, and eliminate the competition to further your corporate agenda.”

“I assure you–”

“Listen Mr. Wembley–” Genuine surprised that she remembered his name etched over his face. “My boots alone have twenty years on you. If you want to spout rhetoric, go home and practice in the mirror until you believe the bullshit you’re selling. I started this company. I built it with sweat and blood, and I’ve kept it running with good sense since then. Now you come in here, high and mighty, and expect me to roll over like you would. If you think I’d ever sell to you, you’re a lot more of a lost cause than I thought.”

His face turned to a scowl, clearly bothered by her slight, “You cannot hold out forever.”

“Watch me,” she challenged with narrow eyes.

He sneered toward the packet of papers, “That offer is contingent upon the public value of your company, Ms. Wolfe. The lower it goes, the lower we go.”

Her previous suspicions flared up in the back of her mind. Her voice turned low, venomous, “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here. You show up, and suddenly one of my drivers is dead. I don’t know how your company is involved, but I aim to find out. When I do, you won’t have paper enough to wipe your asses with.” His eye twitched, but he remained silent. “You’ve had more than your twenty-seconds. Get. Out.”

A corner of his mouth twitched and he turned away, body considerably more stiff than before. The door to the office shut with a deliberate attempt not to slam it. Gail fell back into her seat, waiting a moment to recollect herself and contain her fury. In a perfect world, she’d have kicked the little shit through a window, smashed his head into a desk, then left him in a bloody heap outside Lone-Wolfe’s front-gate. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a perfect world, and any physical violence she might want to exact on the assholes trying to set her up would have to be transmuted into more-clever legal maneuvering.

One good thing seemed to have come out of everything though, however negative in the longer run: M-T’s involvement. She hadn’t been sure before. She’d wanted to believe it as a matter of personal pride, and because coincidences happened even less often than she knew they did. Wembley’s reaction though, confirmed M-T’s involvement.

She’d been on the fringe of the corporate world long enough to know that Corporations did two things; shouted denials when involved in lies, and went dead silent when caught with their pants down. It wasn’t just the companies as a whole though, it the individuals themselves, an extension of the so-called “corporate-culture.” Wembley was nothing if not an embodiment of that culture. No doubt he’d be running to their lawyers crying like a child to mommy when he got back to M-T’s offices.

As much as it was a win to discern involvement, it was a loss as a whole. She was now waging corporate war against the seemingly infinite resources of a modern mega-corp. On top of that, they had public opinion and a guard dog safety-bureau on their side controlling both her own Union and the local Police. However things wound up ending, it wouldn’t be pretty.