Shepherd

NINE

They were gone.

Shepherd pulled the bike up alongside his rig and saw that it sat in the coming dawn alone on the wide and dusty highway. The wind was whipping at his face and hands where they were white from the cold. The hollow sound ran through his bones, through his marrow and settled somewhere inside his heart where it sat with the weight of a star. Not that Shepherd cared anything for them. Quite the contrary, had it been his choice he'd have driven alone rather than be swept along by their sheep mentality and their coarse jokes. But this time it hadn't been his choice and now that they'd chosen to leave him behind he felt a strange pain in his chest, one that he hadn't felt since the night he'd left Nat.

Trying to shake the feelings away with work, he unlocked the cab and opened the storage hatch, returning the bike to its place beside its twin, securing the vehicle in place with straps and buckles and wires. His gear he put back into the lockers and by the time he climbed up into the driving seat he was dog-tired and ready to drop.

The sun was edging its way up from its dark, cold bed in the east, kissing the blue horizon with red and orange lips. As he sat there, thinking about the miles that remained, his eyes began to grow heavy and sleep whispered a thousand thoughts into his dull mind.

Locking the cab down, he closed the blast shutters on the windscreen and dug the shotgun out from under his seat. Then, settling into his bunk, he lay there and closed his eyes. In moments he was out like a light.

"I don't think you're understanding us," said the gruff voice on the other end of the line. "This isn't an option, it's an order. If you're not at the landing strip by oh-eight-hundred they'll send a team after you. You know this, Shepherd. When they find you-"

"IF they find me," he replied.

"When, Shepherd. It's only a matter of when. Leave now, it's not too late to make it."

"If I go on this job I'm as good as dead anyway."

"Maybe. But don't and you certainly are."

Shepherd woke around ten and for a moment he'd forgotten it all. The trip. The trucks. Utah. But when he felt the heavyweight of the shotgun on his chest he remembered with fresh clarity. He saw the gunfight at the post office again, saw Utah and his rig. Saw it sink into the river. It wasn't a dream.

He got up and checked the external cameras. There was no one there. The road was dusty and half-baked by the risen sun and it made the distance shimmer in the haze. There was nothing for miles ahead, nothing behind. Just him. Alone.

He went into the back and took out a carton of orange juice from the fridge, piercing the top with his fingernail. He made a hole big enough and began drinking from it, taking long, thirsty gulps until it spilled over into his beard. He wiped the drops away with the back of his hand and drank again until the carton was empty. Then he threw it away and ate a ham sandwich, chewing it whilst looking at the feeds.

"Nice fucking mess," he said to no one in particular. "I should cut and run now."

"That's not you, Shep," said Nat.

"It should be," he replied. "Then I'd be with you at the cabin."

"With me washing our bikes in my denim shorts again?" He laughed, remembering how she did it to tease him on some hot summer's day so long ago. It seemed too far away to be real. He ate another bite of the sandwich and sat down in the driver's seat.

"Come back to me, sweets," she whispered from the passenger seat.

"When I'm done," he whispered. "When I'm done."