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An hour passes as I navigate through the winding terrain. Finally, just as the day reaches its apex, I see a glimmer of light in the distance. It is a small town; a beacon of hope in an otherwise desolate landscape. With renewed energy, I push on towards the town until finally reaching it, realising it is only a service station outpost.
Shit, I fume, there is nowhere to escape to, here.
“We have arrived at the Solaria Recharge Station,” announces Avocado as the Cyberstar eases to a stop. As luck would have it, the charging station is closed; the sign at the glass sliding door trolling me.
A sense of disappointment washes over me. The facility stood there, eerily deserted, its usual bustling atmosphere replaced by an eerie silence. The glass doors are locked, and the charging portals sit vacant, devoid of life. The surrounding area is marked by traces of abandonment; a few discarded wrappers dancing in the wind and a faded signage screen that hangs devoid of content. It is a stark reminder of the unforgiving nature of the desert, where even the most promising oases could fade away, leaving behind only a haunting emptiness.
“How far is the next town?” I whisper, not wanting to provoke the beast.
“Forty kilometres,” blared the AutoMIND, insensitive to the situation. “Due east.”
My hunger and thirst take over. I jump out of the truck and approach the window panel. Looking inside, I see the empty shelves. I walk over to the side and search for a tap, hoping the water is still pumped to this place. There is a garage complex with three bays, one has its door half open.
I rush over and check.
It looks like the roller door was forced open.
I’m resistant to the idea of entering, not wanting to add burglary to my problems, but I’m facing an emergency, and my brain agrees the threat is existential.
Inside the dimly lit garage workshop, I navigate through the clutter of tools and machinery. The hum of electrical equipment fills the air as I locate the lighting control panel, a series of switches on the weathered concrete wall. With a flick of a switch, the overhead lights buzz to life, casting a harsh, fluorescent glow over the space. The illumination reveals the workshop's dishevelled state, with tools strewn haphazardly across workbenches and shelves.
Ransacked.
My boots echo on the concrete floor as I make my way to the bathroom, a small but welcome sanctuary within this rugged setting. Stepping inside, I am greeted by a cool, calming atmosphere that offers respite from the dry heat. The soft lighting and relative cleanliness envelop me, inviting me to take a moment for myself.
I drink straight from the tap, the outside world fading away, replaced by a sense of tranquillity. But the knowledge of the thing residing in the Cyberstar eventually returns to haunt me.
Heading back to the centre bay, I study the half-open roller door. The sun is about to set, and I feel my eyes droop and my head weighing on my neck. I have been in a state of fear for hours and am exhausted. Realizing that I can’t bear another instant inside my truck, I understood the imperativeness to stop and rest overnight. The weariness in my bones demands respite, and the cramped confines of the vehicle feel suffocating. The decision is clear—I needed a break from the road, a chance to stretch my legs, and an opportunity to rejuvenate myself before continuing the journey. The bonus is now a distant insignificant pipe dream.
Contemplating my next move, I conclude calling the cops remains out of the question. What does remain is delivering the cargo. Failure would see my stats plummet and my job redundant. Surreal, yes, yet it is as pragmatic as it can get. Getting another job without implants will prove difficult if not futile.
Losing this job is not an option.
I manually close the roller door, forcing it down and then sit on the garage creeper to rest, eventually closing my eyes, ready for a night's sleep.
The sound of crickets fills the air as the darkness brings on the desert chill. I drift off into a deep slumber when, what seems like hours later, I am awoken by a loud noise outside—the grind of piston-engine cars entering the outpost. I sit up and approach the metal door, listening to the sounds of a group of rowdy teenagers congregating outside. They are laughing and joking around until they approach me directly and...
...begin pushing against the roller door, attempting to open it.
Puckers.
They must be back to rob the place; I conclude as I press against the steel to hold it down. There is no way I am going to let these stupid people compromise me with the police once they get here. One of them starts banging on the metal, and the others slide their hands under and begin lifting. I have no idea what these Puckers would do if they found me in here.
Fucking puckers.
From what I understand, these Puckers are a subculture of cajeros who work in manual labour jobs in the desert megafactories, often involving dirty or physically demanding tasks and are known to engage in unauthorized or illegal activities, such as vandalizing property or just causing juvenile mischief. There is kind of nothing much to do out here, so destroying public furniture, harassing motorists, and lighting massive bonfires is what they do when they are not working their twelve-hour shifts. I’ve heard reports they have recently killed a tourist; a trio had recently been charged with murder. Puckers are not organised in any way like a gang, they just hang out in social groups.
Regardless, they are a threat.
“Oh!” screeched one of the hoodlums, a male, “Look at this. Someone’s inside, all scared and shivering.”
Trying to stay calm, I refrain from responding. That would be just asking for trouble. Give them a bone and these Pucker will never leave you alone. The rural youth gangs have a sense of perceived difference or rivalry between rural and urban lifestyles. City cajeros often have access to better, more lofty opportunities, implants and modern amenities, and are envied by those cajeros living in rural areas with limited access to satisfying jobs and loving amenities.
“What’s the matter, afraid of a little fun?” says the Pucker as fists bang on the steel more vigorously.
I relent and say, “I am not looking for any trouble?”
A female voice yells, “That's not how things work around here. You're in our territory now, and we decide who gets into trouble.”
“I'll leave if that's what you want.”
The female voice says, menacingly, “Not so fast. You think you, an outsider, can just waltz in here and walk away without consequences?”
“I didn't know this was your territory,” I tell them. “I'll leave right now.”
“Too late for that. Your fakey eyes have already seen too much. We can't have you running to the cops now, can we.”
“I don’t have...” I am about to say ‘implants’ but realise these Puckers resent folks like me who have ‘chosen’ not to comply with societal norms. Forced to undergo cybernetic surgery to have jobs, these Pucker are caught between minorities like me, who reject implants as if it were against our religion and the majority who comply with anything the corporate state imposes on them.
One look at me and they will notice.
My heart sinks at the prospect of a group of hoodlum youths vying to make an example of me. Their taunts of menacing threats send shivers down my spine. Their laughter is a sinister symphony, echoing through the dimly lit garage as they wrestle with the roller door. I can feel my palms growing clammy and my breath becoming shallow as fear takes hold. The darkness seems to magnify their malevolence, turning the once-busy automobile repair shop into a menacing playground for their wicked games.
Every word they utter is like a dagger, striking at my vulnerability and leaving me feeling exposed and defenceless. My heart pounds in my chest, torn between the urge to confront them and the instinct to retreat to the safety of the bathroom. In the face of their intimidation, I acknowledge that courage is my only ally, and I must find the strength to stand my ground against these assholes.
I scan the workshop for anything that can be used as a weapon. Surely, there’s still a tool or two lying around.
“What the matter, cityboy?” teases the other male, “Don’t you like fun and games?”
“We got a bonfire, happening soon,” says another.
Sounding amused, the original voice calls out, “You're really making us beg now, huh? How pathetic.”
The intensity of the assault on the door increases as the situation intensifies. Fear grips my chest, and realize I am at the mercy of these Puckers.
Then, as they continue their menacing game, it dawns on me that the other, more serious menace could awaken. My instinct is to open the roller door, and warn these kids, get them inside for safety, regardless of how thin my empathy runs for these bored cajeros.
“You need to leave this place,” I yell. “Get the hell away from here.”
“Why?” says the original Pucker.
“It’s not safe,” I reply amidst the banging.
“Police?”
“Worse than police?”
“You got balls showing up here, bootlicker. Most folks steer clear of our zone.”
“I didn't come to cause any trouble. I’m just lost and need a recharge.”
The female voice says, “What is worse than cops?”
“I can’t explain.”
They laugh at me.
“Seriously, get as far away from here as possible.”
More laughter accompanies, with more violent banging against the metal. I helplessly yell, “You’re all gonna fucking die if you don’t leave this place.”
The Puckers fall silent as the jeers, the hammering dies suddenly. A moment later the original Pucker says calmly, “You’ve heard how we deal with bootlickers, haven’t ya?”
“Listen to me...”
“Those who’ve sold out to the system. You want to know what we do to them, those traitors, the worst kind. Selling out humanity for a few shiny upgrades.”
“There is something in the back of the Cyberstar...”
“I’m sure you’ve heard rumours,” insists the Pucker.
Frustrated, an alien callousness suddenly manifests within me. “Okay, dickheads, go check the back of the Cyberstar.”
“We strip ‘em of their precious enhancements. Those fancy implants you're so proud of? We rip ‘em out, one by one. Show ‘em what it’s like to be free again.”
“I don’t have implants, asshole.” I can’t help it; my anger has somehow overridden my fear. “Unlike you, I haven’t sold out to the system. I’m no traitor. You’re the sellouts. You.”
When a distant rumbling and clanging echoes its way into the concrete space of the garage, such emotions dash away in a millisecond. The youth’s voices stop abruptly at the sound of metal crashing. I hear them scatter, their designer plimsolls clambering against the concrete.
Moments pass and I hear the unnatural growling and rumbling of some beast outside, out there with them. Something big and dangerous. The creature lets out a deafening vibration, like a synthesised roar. Human voices scream as footsteps clatter in all directions, their voices hollering in terror as they run away from the thing.
I listen, terror-stricken, as the mystery animal gallops after them, roaring, jaws snapping, bones crunching. The cries for help, and the shrieking, punctuate the ambience of the night, the crickets indifferent to the horrors unfolding.
Falling to the cold concrete, I wait, motionless, without moving a single muscle, and listen out, trying to ascertain where this carnage is taking place. The intervals between each scream grow longer, abruptly stopping at one last agonising howl. I stand up in silent darkness, knees wobbling, not breathing. I know that I have just witnessed something unnatural – something that would stay with me for years to come.
ns 18.68.41.164da2
