| General Fiction posted September 17, 2024 | Chapters: |
1 1 -2- 
|
The left lane is for passing only
A chapter in the book Truckin
Truckin, ch 2
by Wayne Fowler
Clyde, an ordinary retired man, lost his heart’s dream, his lovely, beautiful bride by the errant behavior of a semi-truck driver. Traveling a large part of the couple’s lives, Clyde and Jane Ann experienced many truckers’ driving faux paus, many actions downright dangerous and/or illegal. One such trucker move resulted in Jane Ann’s death. The trucker did not even receive a traffic citation (ticket).
Life insurance in hand, along with funds from the sale of their trailer park as well as his retirement annuity, Clyde slowly began to consider his future, a future featuring himself and a certain Xarious Trucking Ltd, and all truckers, in general.
Clyde and the love of his life, his heart’s pulse, had been sharing sights and experiences. Without her at his side, Clyde cared nothing. The most beautiful scene was not worth turning his head toward without Jane Ann to feel it with him.
The first thing he did was to trade cars, trading his and Jane Ann’s crossover vehicle for a non-descript silver Ford Taurus, a car with a trunk that would hide his gear. He wanted a car that would be more difficult to remember as well as to describe to authorities. He thought the trunk would be ideal for stowing an array of batteries and electronics for his weaponry. In any event, Clyde had always preferred to drive his flag, showing his patriotism by driving American made, rather than simply waving an American flag on the front stoop, one that was no doubt made in China.
Next, he rigged a cable from a lever on the console to a spring-loaded contraption that flipped a blank piece of metal over the rear license plate. He considered a stolen plate or an old one from a junkyard, but he figured the what ifs: what if someone could track the plate to his hometown, what if he couldn’t keep the tag current, that is, a stolen plate with an expired date, what if a cop was looking for that plate, or knew somehow, that it didn’t belong to that car, what if he got stopped for anything at all while bearing an illegal plate? No, he had to keep his plate legal but obscured during his actions, hence, his spring-loaded contraption: pull the lever – the plate was hidden, release the lever and the spring-loaded plate cover retracted – simple.
Clyde’s ray gun idea was going to have to go on hold, set to the back burner. There didn’t seem to be one available at the local firearms store, big box stores, or even in the minds of geeksters.
That plan was going to take more time than he was presently prepared to allot. He was ready for action now, even if it was to be with his second choice, a gun. Clyde was no foreigner to guns. They’d been fixtures in his game-hunting family for generations. Pistol target shooting used to be a regular part of family gatherings back in his youth. And needless to say, managing his low-rent trailer park necessitated home protection.
The gun. He wanted a sure thing, something that would stop the truck, put it out of commission for at least a few hours. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, not cause an accident, just to stop the truck. By his figuring, if a truck were to lose a front tire, it would more than likely rumble to a wild, but controllable, stop. The driver might have his hands full, but who cared? Certainly not him. Biding his time, he could follow his prey until most practically safe, pull up alongside, and pop the driver’s front, or the passenger front depending on the situation. Ricochets could be a problem, but again, if he was careful to isolate the target…
Clyde finally decided on a .22 repeater rifle. The sound could somewhat be taken for a blown tire, and not too loud. Bullets were easily purchased without awkward questions. The bullets would also be virtually untraceable, available at many stores in boxes of 500 as easy as BBs. He could shoot out a hole in his passenger window that would neatly steady the rifle for one-handed firing. The Henry Survival Rifle .22 caliber was his choice: lightweight, cheap enough to dispose of if necessary, easily replaced, and capable of being broken down for transport inside a sports bag. The magazine held only eight rounds, but if he couldn’t blow a tire within two, or at most three, he needed to vamoose, in any event.
For practice, Clyde painted a sheet of plywood representative of big rig tires. He didn’t need to zoom past, since he would be matching the truck’s speed, he merely needed to learn the angle and how to position his head. This is where he devised to shoot a set of holes in the car window to hold the end of the barrel. He could both steady the rifle, and also prevent unnecessarily exposing the weapon. He calculated that his best method of operation would be to shoot twice at an angle from just behind the tire, double-tap, as Lee Childs might describe, and then edge up and do the same at the leading tread if necessary. Tap-tap. Zoom ahead a few hundred yards and reset his license plate.
Clyde spent hours, and days, devising his attack and escape mode. He would stop the truck, always on a freeway, and then immediately take the very next exit, reversing his course, allowing himself to review the success of his work. As soon as his imagination resulted in a plan, he began tearing it down, resolving to form no pattern, not always reverse course, but to occasionally plod on, forcing himself steady. Mostly, he would reverse course, and then turn either left or right, making his way to the closest parallel freeway. His plan, for the most part, was to hit no more than one per day, at least on the same road. By taking surface streets and state highways where and when he had to, but north-south freeways where he could, he planned to hop-scotch/angle his way across the country, ridding the highways of inconsiderate truckers at least for a few hours for each one that he could derail.
Clyde prepared for his maiden run, his shake-down cruise. Outfitting the Taurus with a case of water and plenty of nutritious car food, he headed west, mindful of his and Jane Ann’s last route. He daydreamed of coming upon his Xarious driver, plinking him, and going home to retire, leaving all the nation’s clean-up work to Jack Reacher and his sort. It was in Arizona, after many a qualifying applicant for his Truckers’ Prison was allowed to continue on that he first considered the circumstances ideal. The trucker hadn’t cut him off, but two cars ahead, caused a line-up of more than a dozen cars as he took his sweet, merry time passing another truck.
+++
Thirty miles further on, Clyde seized his opportunity. Without hesitation he eased the rifle barrel into the hole and cocked the rifle, resolving to cock it first next time. He edged to firing position and carefully pop-popped the truck’s tire, immediately finding himself car lengths ahead of the quickly slowing truck, the driver struggling to get it to pull over to the right shoulder. Clyde had never even heard the rifle shots. It was only as he sought a place to reverse course that he remembered that he’d failed to cover his license plate. A few minutes later, before he arrived at the first exit driving at a cruise-controlled pace of eighty-two miles per hour in the eighty-mile-per-hour zone, he passed a State Trooper who was positioned at an authorized vehicles only cut-across. The Trooper was just beginning to turn himself about, obviously responding to a call from the trucker. The Trooper would have to drive east until he could again cross back over to the westbound lane, get to the trucker, get the story, and then either race in pursuit or radio for someone else to capture the shooter. Risking that there be only the one Trooper nearby, Clyde tach-ed out the Taurus, racing it several miles to the exit.
Before the Trooper arrived at the disabled truck, Clyde was southbound on Highway 191 in search of I-20, intending to return home and await the news, prepared to face the music. The nervous shakes hadn’t taken hold for thirty or forty minutes after he discovered how far he was from I-20. There was nothing to do but ride it out, touching the steering wheel as lightly as possible and trusting the cruise control to keep him at a steady, unremarkable speed.
That was when he began to scheme how he could void cell phones or a CB radio. He also spent practice time beside his plywood target: throw the license plate lever, cock the rifle, place the rifle, fire twice, remove the rifle, and flip back the license plate lever – over and over and over. Before finishing, he added lowering of the passenger window an inch to hide the rifle barrel hole. He also learned how to break the rifle down, removing the barrel from the stock with one hand to hide it on the floorboard. From the truck drivers’ perch, they could easily see a rifle lying on a passenger seat. He figured that it would be easy enough to re-assemble, that he would never be in such a hurry as to need it for defense, and would never take on another target so soon afterward. Second thinking, he decided that he would never use the gun to defend himself in any scenario. Patience – he mentally practiced patience.
Clyde had intended to return home and watch the news, to lay low and see whether any report was made. He also made certain that he had the phone number of an attorney in the event authorities knocked on his door to arrest him. He set a minimum hiatus of ten days.
That was until he’d witnessed an egregious act of unsafe conduct on the part of a national chain driver. As the trucker passed an onramp, he swerved into the left lane, forcing a car driver to hit his brakes. The apparent reason for the trucker’s move was to allow a car entering the freeway room to merge, space that it didn’t even need since it had sufficiently accelerated. Clyde figured that the trucker had not noticed the car’s approach and was startled.
Clyde’s next victim was self-identified.
Several minutes further: cock the rifle, set the plate cover, position the barrel… And then Clyde’s jittery stomach became increasingly greater physical shakes. He couldn’t understand it, He’d already demonstrated that he could do it. Why now? After obvious success? Clyde eased back, coasting back behind the truck, resolving to return home.
Clyde, an ordinary retired man, lost his heart’s dream, his lovely, beautiful bride by the errant behavior of a semi-truck driver. Traveling a large part of the couple’s lives, Clyde and Jane Ann experienced many truckers’ driving faux paus, many actions downright dangerous and/or illegal. One such trucker move resulted in Jane Ann’s death. The trucker did not even receive a traffic citation (ticket).
Life insurance in hand, along with funds from the sale of their trailer park as well as his retirement annuity, Clyde slowly began to consider his future, a future featuring himself and a certain Xarious Trucking Ltd, and all truckers, in general.
Clyde and the love of his life, his heart’s pulse, had been sharing sights and experiences. Without her at his side, Clyde cared nothing. The most beautiful scene was not worth turning his head toward without Jane Ann to feel it with him.
The first thing he did was to trade cars, trading his and Jane Ann’s crossover vehicle for a non-descript silver Ford Taurus, a car with a trunk that would hide his gear. He wanted a car that would be more difficult to remember as well as to describe to authorities. He thought the trunk would be ideal for stowing an array of batteries and electronics for his weaponry. In any event, Clyde had always preferred to drive his flag, showing his patriotism by driving American made, rather than simply waving an American flag on the front stoop, one that was no doubt made in China.
Next, he rigged a cable from a lever on the console to a spring-loaded contraption that flipped a blank piece of metal over the rear license plate. He considered a stolen plate or an old one from a junkyard, but he figured the what ifs: what if someone could track the plate to his hometown, what if he couldn’t keep the tag current, that is, a stolen plate with an expired date, what if a cop was looking for that plate, or knew somehow, that it didn’t belong to that car, what if he got stopped for anything at all while bearing an illegal plate? No, he had to keep his plate legal but obscured during his actions, hence, his spring-loaded contraption: pull the lever – the plate was hidden, release the lever and the spring-loaded plate cover retracted – simple.
Clyde’s ray gun idea was going to have to go on hold, set to the back burner. There didn’t seem to be one available at the local firearms store, big box stores, or even in the minds of geeksters.
That plan was going to take more time than he was presently prepared to allot. He was ready for action now, even if it was to be with his second choice, a gun. Clyde was no foreigner to guns. They’d been fixtures in his game-hunting family for generations. Pistol target shooting used to be a regular part of family gatherings back in his youth. And needless to say, managing his low-rent trailer park necessitated home protection.
The gun. He wanted a sure thing, something that would stop the truck, put it out of commission for at least a few hours. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, not cause an accident, just to stop the truck. By his figuring, if a truck were to lose a front tire, it would more than likely rumble to a wild, but controllable, stop. The driver might have his hands full, but who cared? Certainly not him. Biding his time, he could follow his prey until most practically safe, pull up alongside, and pop the driver’s front, or the passenger front depending on the situation. Ricochets could be a problem, but again, if he was careful to isolate the target…
Clyde finally decided on a .22 repeater rifle. The sound could somewhat be taken for a blown tire, and not too loud. Bullets were easily purchased without awkward questions. The bullets would also be virtually untraceable, available at many stores in boxes of 500 as easy as BBs. He could shoot out a hole in his passenger window that would neatly steady the rifle for one-handed firing. The Henry Survival Rifle .22 caliber was his choice: lightweight, cheap enough to dispose of if necessary, easily replaced, and capable of being broken down for transport inside a sports bag. The magazine held only eight rounds, but if he couldn’t blow a tire within two, or at most three, he needed to vamoose, in any event.
For practice, Clyde painted a sheet of plywood representative of big rig tires. He didn’t need to zoom past, since he would be matching the truck’s speed, he merely needed to learn the angle and how to position his head. This is where he devised to shoot a set of holes in the car window to hold the end of the barrel. He could both steady the rifle, and also prevent unnecessarily exposing the weapon. He calculated that his best method of operation would be to shoot twice at an angle from just behind the tire, double-tap, as Lee Childs might describe, and then edge up and do the same at the leading tread if necessary. Tap-tap. Zoom ahead a few hundred yards and reset his license plate.
Clyde spent hours, and days, devising his attack and escape mode. He would stop the truck, always on a freeway, and then immediately take the very next exit, reversing his course, allowing himself to review the success of his work. As soon as his imagination resulted in a plan, he began tearing it down, resolving to form no pattern, not always reverse course, but to occasionally plod on, forcing himself steady. Mostly, he would reverse course, and then turn either left or right, making his way to the closest parallel freeway. His plan, for the most part, was to hit no more than one per day, at least on the same road. By taking surface streets and state highways where and when he had to, but north-south freeways where he could, he planned to hop-scotch/angle his way across the country, ridding the highways of inconsiderate truckers at least for a few hours for each one that he could derail.
Clyde prepared for his maiden run, his shake-down cruise. Outfitting the Taurus with a case of water and plenty of nutritious car food, he headed west, mindful of his and Jane Ann’s last route. He daydreamed of coming upon his Xarious driver, plinking him, and going home to retire, leaving all the nation’s clean-up work to Jack Reacher and his sort. It was in Arizona, after many a qualifying applicant for his Truckers’ Prison was allowed to continue on that he first considered the circumstances ideal. The trucker hadn’t cut him off, but two cars ahead, caused a line-up of more than a dozen cars as he took his sweet, merry time passing another truck.
+++
Thirty miles further on, Clyde seized his opportunity. Without hesitation he eased the rifle barrel into the hole and cocked the rifle, resolving to cock it first next time. He edged to firing position and carefully pop-popped the truck’s tire, immediately finding himself car lengths ahead of the quickly slowing truck, the driver struggling to get it to pull over to the right shoulder. Clyde had never even heard the rifle shots. It was only as he sought a place to reverse course that he remembered that he’d failed to cover his license plate. A few minutes later, before he arrived at the first exit driving at a cruise-controlled pace of eighty-two miles per hour in the eighty-mile-per-hour zone, he passed a State Trooper who was positioned at an authorized vehicles only cut-across. The Trooper was just beginning to turn himself about, obviously responding to a call from the trucker. The Trooper would have to drive east until he could again cross back over to the westbound lane, get to the trucker, get the story, and then either race in pursuit or radio for someone else to capture the shooter. Risking that there be only the one Trooper nearby, Clyde tach-ed out the Taurus, racing it several miles to the exit.
Before the Trooper arrived at the disabled truck, Clyde was southbound on Highway 191 in search of I-20, intending to return home and await the news, prepared to face the music. The nervous shakes hadn’t taken hold for thirty or forty minutes after he discovered how far he was from I-20. There was nothing to do but ride it out, touching the steering wheel as lightly as possible and trusting the cruise control to keep him at a steady, unremarkable speed.
That was when he began to scheme how he could void cell phones or a CB radio. He also spent practice time beside his plywood target: throw the license plate lever, cock the rifle, place the rifle, fire twice, remove the rifle, and flip back the license plate lever – over and over and over. Before finishing, he added lowering of the passenger window an inch to hide the rifle barrel hole. He also learned how to break the rifle down, removing the barrel from the stock with one hand to hide it on the floorboard. From the truck drivers’ perch, they could easily see a rifle lying on a passenger seat. He figured that it would be easy enough to re-assemble, that he would never be in such a hurry as to need it for defense, and would never take on another target so soon afterward. Second thinking, he decided that he would never use the gun to defend himself in any scenario. Patience – he mentally practiced patience.
Clyde had intended to return home and watch the news, to lay low and see whether any report was made. He also made certain that he had the phone number of an attorney in the event authorities knocked on his door to arrest him. He set a minimum hiatus of ten days.
That was until he’d witnessed an egregious act of unsafe conduct on the part of a national chain driver. As the trucker passed an onramp, he swerved into the left lane, forcing a car driver to hit his brakes. The apparent reason for the trucker’s move was to allow a car entering the freeway room to merge, space that it didn’t even need since it had sufficiently accelerated. Clyde figured that the trucker had not noticed the car’s approach and was startled.
Clyde’s next victim was self-identified.
Several minutes further: cock the rifle, set the plate cover, position the barrel… And then Clyde’s jittery stomach became increasingly greater physical shakes. He couldn’t understand it, He’d already demonstrated that he could do it. Why now? After obvious success? Clyde eased back, coasting back behind the truck, resolving to return home.
I apologize for the length. Sometimes you just can't quit.
For those willing to suffer along with Clyde, rest assured that this is more than a simple revenge story.
Photo courtesy of cleo85 (Don't drink and drive) from FanArtReview
Pays
10 points
and 72 member cents. For those willing to suffer along with Clyde, rest assured that this is more than a simple revenge story.
Photo courtesy of cleo85 (Don't drink and drive) from FanArtReview
Artwork by cleo85 at FanArtReview.com
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