Stephen King - Trucks

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2024-11-23 0 0 37.31KB 16 页 5.9玖币

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TRUCKS

The guy's name was Snodgrass and I could see him getting ready to do something crazy. His eyes had got bigger,

showing a lot of the whites, like a dog getting ready to fight. The two kids who had come skidding into the

parking lot in the old Fury were trying to talk to him, but his head was cocked as though he was hearing other

voices. He had a tight little potbelly encased in a good suit that was getting a little shiny in the seat. lie was a

salesman and he kept his display bag close to him, like a pet dog that had gone to sleep.

'Try the radio again,' the truck driver at the counter said. The short-order cook shrugged and turned it on. He

flipped it across the band and got nothing but static.

'You went too fast,' the trucker protested. 'You might have missed something.'

'Hell,' the short-order cook said. He was an elderly black man with a smile of gold and he wasn't looking at the

trucker. He was looking through the diner-length picture window at the parking lot.

Seven or eight heavy trucks were out there, engines rumbling in low, idling roars that sounded like big cats

purring. There were a couple of Macks, a Hemingway, and four or five Reos. Trailer trucks, interstate haulers

with a lot of licence plates and CB whip antennas on the back.

The kids' Fury was lying ~n its roof at the end of long, looping skid marks in the loose crushed rock of the

parking lot. It had been battered into senseless junk. At the entrance to the truck stop's turnaround, there was a

blasted Cadillac. Its owner stared out of the star-shattered windshield like a gutter fish. Hornrimmed glasses hung

from one ear.

Halfway across the lot from it lay the body of a girl in a pink dress. She had jumped from the Caddy when she

saw it wasn't going to make it. She had hit running but never had a chance. She was the worst, even though she

was face down. There were flies around her in clouds.

Across the road an old Ford station wagon had been slammed through the handrails. That had happened an hour

ago. No one had been by since then. You couldn't see the turnpike from the window and the phone was out.

'You went too fast,' the trucker was protesting. 'You oughta -'

That was when Snodgrass bolted. He turned the table over getting up, smashing coffee cups and sending sugar in

a wild spray. His eyes were wilder than ever, and his mouth hung loosely and he was blabbering: 'We gotta get

outta here we gotta get-outta here we gotta get outta here -'

The kid shouted and his girl friend screamed.

I was on the stool closest to the door and I got a handful of his shirt, but he tore loose. He was cranked up all the

way. He would have gone through a bank-vault door.

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TRUCKS

He slammed out the door and then he was sprinting across the gravel towards the drainage ditch on the left. Two

of the trucks lunged after him, smokestacks blowing diesel exhaust dark brown against the sky, huge rear wheels

machine-gunning gravel up in sprays.

He couldn't have been any more than five or six running steps from the edge of the flat parking lot when he

turned back to look, fear scrawled on his face. His feet tangled each other and he faltered and almost fell down.

He got his balance again, but it was too late.

One of the trucks gave way and the other charged down, huge front grill glittering savagely in the sun. Snodgrass

screamed, the sound high and thin, nearly lost under the Reo's heavy diesel roar.

It didn't drag him under. As things turned out, it would have been better if it had. Instead it drove him up and out,

the way a punter kicks a football. For a moment he was silhouetted against the hot afternoon sky like a crippled

scarecrow, and then he was gone into the drainage ditch.

The big truck's brakes hissed like dragon's breath, its front wheels locked, digging grooves into the gravel skin of

the lot, and it stopped inches from jackknifing in. The bastard.

The girl in the booth screamed. Both hands were clamped into her cheeks, dragging the flesh down, turning it

into a witch's mask.

Glass broke. I turned my head and saw that the trucker had squeezed his glass hard enough to break it. I don't

think he knew it yet. Milk and a few drops of blood fell on to the counter.

The black counterman was frozen by the radio, a dishcloth in hand, looking amazed. His teeth glittered. For a

moment there was no sound but the buzzing Westclox and the rumbling of the Reo's engine as it returned to its

fellows. Then the girl began to cry and it was all right - or at least better.

My own car was around the side, also battered to junk. It was a 1971 Camaro and I had still been paying on it,

but I didn't suppose that mattered now.

There was no one in the trucks.

The sun glittered and flashed on empty cabs. The wheels turned themselves. You couldn't think about it too

much. You'd go insane if you thought about it too much. Like Snodgrass.

Two hours passed. The sun began to go down. Outside, the trucks patrolled in slow circles and figure eights.

Their parking lights and running lights had come on.

I walked the length of the counter twice to get the kinks out of my legs and then sat in a booth by the long front

window. It was a standard truck stop, close to the major throughway, a complete service facility out back, gas

and diesel fuel both. The truckers came here for coffee and pie.

'Mister?' The voice was hesitant.

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Stephen King - Trucks

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