From the perspective of Chase Cringle.
In the candlelit trailer in tow, Jeriah and Milton sat and kept watch, making sure that the diesel drums did not collapse and tumble, though the drums were latched tight.
Brandon drove the meager stretch of I-64 West to Louisville and, once we arrived in the midst of a traffic jam, he unveiled to me a coy grin and ten F.E.F. gas cards.
"You must be the king of hustling," I admitted.
"Don't flatter me. Here, take two of these gas cards into that Flying J over there while I wait for these semi-trucks to pass. I may have the gas pumped by the time you get back."
Brandon endured several minutes of driving at the pace of a snail, waiting patiently for the legion of trucks in front of him to pass to enter the parking lot.
"Be conservative." Brandon commanded. "Be upfront. We need bottled water, and grains--plenty of grains, as well as fruit and beef jerky. I'll drive over to the gas pumps and fill up the tank while Milt and Jeriah walk around. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Two gas cards will get all the gas we need. Take em'."
I took the gas cards and stuffed them in my pocket. "How am I paying for the food?"
"I got you covered." Brandon produced an electronic credit reader from his pocket and handed it to me. "Use this. It's an electronic credit reader. E.C.R. for short. Remember, Kentucky is under the jurisdiction of the Future of Energy Foundation. Credit is what they use for everything besides fuel."
I nodded in agreement. I took the slim, rectangular E.C.R. and slid it into my pocket with the two gas cards, then I thrust open the passenger door and jumped to the asphalt.
The Flying J was in near disrepair--soldiers under the authority of the F.E.F. commanded the operations. Common folk bobbed and weaved while juggling vital supplies, darting in and out of the Flying J center like an army of ants. An intercom with a haggard female voice blared: "Gas cards are good for one full tank of gas ONLY. Once the card has been used it is null and void. Any person caught stealing will be shot on sight. Thank you for your business." BEEEEEP.
What way to address civilians, I thought.
Overhead, rain clouds loomed endlessly, and thunder crackled like a grand symphony. The trees in the distance swayed with an oncoming sheet of dense rain. A mist rolled in, inflicting me with the chills. I continued to amble toward the entrance.
Inside, I found myself in a clutter of panic: a child raged war with a black cat while yelling vulgar insults at the starved feline; staff were displaced from their assigned posts; the elderly huddled together by the entrance, seizing every opportunity for a sliver of food; a filthy, morbidly obese caucasian man in sweat-stained black elastic jogging pants flipped over his electric wheelchair while reaching for triple chocolate doughnuts, squalling like a deranged wildebeest; a hobo with ruffled, silver-white hair and sun-dried, peeling skin and shit-stained jogging pants cackled as he drank a bottle of cheap vodka, standing, dazed in the alcohol aisle; and, finally, two teen girl popstar wannabes screaming above each other's voices in an effort to gain an uninterested teen boy's attention.
I grabbed a shopping cart, then I searched high and low for water until, after walking through the whole center, I came upon two 24 packs of mountain spring water in the corner of the main reception. I hoped that no one else needed the water as nearly as bad as me and my amigos. I heaved the two packs of bottled water and laid them in the cart, then I continued on with my search for bread, fruit, and beef jerky.
After collecting three loaves of white bread, a dozen apples, and five bags of teriyaki beef jerky, I rushed to find a clerk, who I found sitting behind a counter, counting his gas cards and credit cards and other prepaid cards. The clerk had light caramel-colored skin, squinty eyes and slick, short black hair and dense acne on the crescent of his neck, shaking his head at the delirium. He hadn't shaved in days. He wore a white dress shirt labeled with F.E.F. in black, and underneath was his name tag that read "JOSE".
"Sir, can I pay for all this?" I asked the clerk as I revealed Brandon's E.C.R. and the two gas cards.
The man's eyes dilated as he snatched both of my gas cards and stuffed them under his trousers.
"You didn't have to swipe them from me!" I shouted.
"Shut up, vamp. Hand me that E.C.R. you got there."
I rolled my eyes as I handed the clerk Brandon's E.C.R. and the clerk paired it with his own E.C.R.
"That will be 214 credits. Do you agree to the transaction?" the clerk asked as his eyes darted across the room.
I rolled my eyes again, then I nodded. "Yes. Please."
After the clerk handed me back Brandon's E.C.R. I saw the screen display the leftover amount of credits Brandon owned: 571 credits--not bad, but not that great, either.
"Have a nice day," the clerk said with a malicious grin.
With a grunt, I hesitated, then I scurried off with the supplies in tow.
I returned to the rear of the open trailer. Milton and Jeriah stood inside, peering out at the heavy rain and the fierce oncoming derecho.
I asked, "Guys, get the supplies for me, will you? Thanks."
Jeriah and Milton both helped pack the supplies into the hangar. Droplets pelted their heads when they returned to their posts.
"Ready to head out?" I asked the two.
"Yeah." Jeriah burped between sentences. "We--we walked around a bit."
Jeriah, what a goof. He was wrecked, his eyes flaming and darting back and forth. Not only was he high, he was drunk, too.
"It gets stuffy in the back sometimes. Nothing we can't handle," Milton said. "We're ready to roll."
"Good," I replied. "There's an assortment of sandwiches in the duffel bag. Only drink as much water as you need. We'll try to stop every couple of hours. Keep the candles going. Most important of all, don't kill each other. Have a fun time aboard."
"Well… this sucks," Jeriah remarked sourly as I began to drop the hangar.
"Oh yeah, give me and Brandon a couple of them bottles of water, will ya? And a pack of jerky. Thanks. Will you two be okay?"
"Yeah." Jeriah burped again. "We'll totally be fine. Go ahead and shut the hangar."
"Alright."
Finally, I had closed the hangar, then I stood outside, thinking, enjoying the chaotic atmosphere and the crisp, fresh air.
I strode toward the truck cabin on the right side, and behind the door Brandon sat in the passenger seat, munching eagerly on a turkey sandwich, so I walked around the front of the semi and I claimed the driver's seat.
In the driver's seat I suddenly felt anxious and unsure of myself. "You really want me to drive?" I asked.
Brandon kept eating, he didn't even flinch. He waited a moment, then swallowed and turned his head and belched. "I was looking at a map before I started to eat. I figured St. Louis is about four hours away, maybe longer. Anyway, a good halfway point is in Mt Vernon, Illinois. We'll let Milton and Jeriah stretch their toes. You'll drive on to Mt Vernon, then I'll take over. Fair enough?"
I replied, "Quite fair. Onward, we must go. I just hope I don't drive us into a ditch."
I started the truck, put my foot on the brake, grasped the gear and shifted to drive, then I pulled out of the lot. I got the tractor trailer back on the road.