Brandon Marshall Writing

Darrell’s breakfast came out like it always did. Pam’s never disappointed.

“Thanks, Jenny,” he said and began demolishing his plate.

The familiar alarm began sounding from his backpack – his life support. He had only 30 minutes before he needed to plug in. He’d been a slave to the truck for eighty years now. But hey, it kept him alive. He felt the vibration of the motors churning blood through his body. He’d be dead without his pump, but sometimes he wondered what was worse.

“I know what that means,” Jenny said and smiled at Darrell. “Back to work, huh?”

“You know what they say Jenny, work to live and live to work.” Darrell smiled half-heartedly. He pushed his plate away and made his way back to the truck.

Where to now? He thought.

The machine on his back attached nicely into his captain’s chair. A series of high notes indicated he was charging. He checked his gas, three quarters tank. A pair of fuzzy dice dangled from his rearview mirror. A picture of his wife and kids, long gone now, sat on his windshield, placed into the crook of the glass.

For Darrell, the truck was his life. It was the only way to live. After a week of recovery he was put to work – going from job to job, powering his pump. That was how they got you these days. They sold it as “saving your life,” but in reality it was forced servitude. For him, it was working the truck deliveries. For others in poverty, it was everything from mining crypto to prostitution. The world was being served by people just trying to survive, bound to their jobs to live.

BEEP BEEP BEEP. INCOMING CALL. INCOMING CALL. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Darrell swiped on the electronic dashboard of his truck to accept the call. “Mr. Mavis, how the hell are ya?” Darrell asked with feigned excitement.

Don Mavis’s video enlarged on the dash.

He too was a pumper, but of different sorts. He was the kind with money, well rather, the kind with generational wealth, who could afford the costs of operating the charging station at home. They even had portable chargers now for the world’s ultra-rich.

Don was poolside. A gold chain dangled loosely against his hairy chest. His belly hung far below his palm tree covered swim trunks. A hazy California sunrise was in the distance amongst the mountainous backdrop. A topless woman with a steel tray brought him an iced tea.

“We got a hot one for you, buddy,” Don guffawed, and took a long sip of his iced tea, its contents spilling down his face.

“Where to?” Darrell asked.

“Vegas, baby. The boys need your truck down at the Vegas headquarters. They need to do some upgrades, or whatever. We’re gonna need you there in 48 hours or less.”

“Don, you think I can make it to Vegas in this thing in TWO DAYS?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think, kid. Get your ass movin’. You know what’s on the line.”

Don’s pump began to beep. “Honey, could you grab my charge port?”

The screen went black.

“Motherfucker, man,” Darrell muttered to himself. He slammed his fists onto the steering wheel.

BEEP BEEP BEEP. WARNING. DO NOT DAMAGE THE VEHICLE. ANY FURTHER ATTEMPT WILL DEACTIVATE THE CHARGING PORT. BEEP BEEP BEEP.

The truck was a prison. If you sped, warning alarm. If you took a turn too hard, warning alarm. If you napped, warning alarm. Darrell could barely even take a shit without the truck alarming. Let’s get this over with Darrell thought and started toward Vegas.

***

“Ain’t shit but dirt and cactuses out here,” Darrell said to himself.

He had been driving down west on 15 for what seemed like eternity. He was about 39 hours into the drive and had pissed himself three times already. The truck waited for no one and for nothing. Classic rock played in the cabin – he thought it fit the desert vibe.

BEEP BEEP BEEP. WARNING. FUEL LOW. BEEP BEEP BEEP.

Fuck.

He looked to his gas meter 20 miles to E. He hadn’t seen a station in over a hundred miles. He typed frantically into his GPS, “GAS.”

He couldn’t believe it. Eighty years of doing this shit and this had never happened. The closest station was 25 miles away, and judging by the area, could be abandoned like the rest of the god forsaken desert.

He pressed on nervously.

***

Just after passing into Nevada, the truck sizzled to a halt. The familiar warning signal blared. Darrell began to sweat. He had thirty minutes before his pump lost power and here he was walking aimlessly down a desert highway.

This is it, he thought. I spent the last 80 years working for these evil bastards to get picked apart by buzzards.

He spotted a building in the distance. A mirage? Am I dead?

It was an adobe building with two stories. A shoddy balcony overhung the first floor. Small rooms with gaunt doors were partitioned along both floors. The overhead neon sign illuminated MOE’S. Dusk was beginning to set.

As he approached, he realized this was no motel, but rather a brothel. He was quickly approached by famished, unkept men and women.

“Hey man, you wanna hit?” One guy asked, pulling a bag of crystals from his pocket. A catheter attached from his neck to his pump.

“You here for a good time or what, sugar?” A raspy voiced female asked.

Darrell waved them away one at a time and entered the lobby. It was lit by a vocal fluorescent light. The clerk behind the counter was a pumper. He looked older, maybe ninety, Darrell thought.

The clerk looked at him and smiled. “You here for the special? Let me tell you brother, it’s the best cum I ever came, all right? What we do is we disconnect ya and let the girls get to work on you. Once you’re good and hard and you’re startin’ to see the light, THEY GET YOU OFF. I felt like I was sixteen again, let me tell you.”

“Gas. I need it,” Darrell said.

“Closest station is 10 miles west, bud,” he said.

The clerk stood at an awkward angle between the front desk and the adjacent wall. His charge port was positioned such that he was forced to remain standing to charge. His wires were rusting and there was clotted blood at his access sites.

“I don’t think you understand. I will die if I don’t get any,” Darrell said, now more excited.

“Listen, if I could help you I would. Truly. From one pumper to another, it’s probably better of this way.”

His pack began beeping. Five minutes left.  

Without thought, Darrell jumped over the front desk and held the clerk by the neck. He felt his trachea give slightly into a crunch. The clerk’s device was alarming loudly PERSSURE HIGH. And in an instant, Darrell ripped the pump catheter from the man’s neck. Blood flooded the immediate area and the man’s eyes became lifeless. He allowed the clerk’s body to flop ungracefully on the ground.

Darrell stepped over the man’s body and placed his back to the wall of the charging port. He heard the calming series of high notes and let out a long sigh.

BEEP BEEP BEEP. WRONG USER. BEEP BEEP BEEP.

The charging port powered down.

Darrell slid down the wall to a sit and sobbed until his final alarm rang and his pump seized.

End