My Doomsday Farming Truck Mga Nobela at Kwento

Those with problems could piss off! As one would expect, there was no reasonable way to transport a half gallon pot of rice pudding on a motorcycle, so Tony had to take Big Bertha, his black '94 Ford Bronco. He loved Bertha. She was very reliable and whatever paint they used when she was born had held up perfectly in the sixteen years she's been around. Tony had promised himself that Bertha would be the only thing built by Ford he would ever own. There was a reason that the acronym 'Fix Or Repair Daily' had stood the test of time. Aside from Broncos, their build quality was abysmal and Tony did not like them.

Caius “WOOO-HOOO! CRUSH IT! CRUSH IT INTO OBLIVION!” My darling fiancé bellowed, leaping up from the stands as Grave Digger, the neon-green monster truck, plowed over the shell of an old F-150. She bounced on the balls of her feet, screeching through her cupped hands as Grave Digger was followed by Monster Mutt, another monster truck, though this one was painted neon orange and had the face of a dog on the front.

They’ve come to hear the sounds of people’s screams. The brothers run to the window, looking down at the change in nature. The ocean in the distance is crashing with such unreal waves that all the canoes have been swallowed by its rage. And the sky is suddenly being covered by dark clouds, casting shadows of darkness. The ominous feeling is one that can’t be shaken, even by these powerful wolves. Their eyes are widening at the imbalance. “What’s happening, Chester?” “My Lord, it’s a curse.” Kade snaps his eyes toward Chester. “The crops are suddenly dead. The water has dried. All foods have rotten. It’s Doomsday.” He finishes with an alarm in his tone.

The two of them were jolted back to reality, and Amal swung the tractor towards the commotion. “There!” said Dareon. He pointed a finger at one of the farm’s high-tech facilities - a textile mill - thousands of meters away. A hole had blown out from its side. Black smoke billowed out of it, and split the beautiful purple sky. Amal cranked the throttle towards the mill, and the tractor lurched forward in response. It sped up as the moments racked up, but it only made Dareon all the more nervous. “Come on, you pile of scrap! Get a move on!”

The main bay doors, large enough to drive a tank through, were closed, but a smaller personnel door stood ajar to the side. Ame pointed down to a smaller, box-style truck parked near the back wall, separate from the larger vehicles. It was painted a drab green and had a logo on its side that was too faded to read. “That one,” he said. “It is used for laundry runs to the outer camps. They check it less thoroughly.”

Almost immediately, the surrounding area went very dark and quiet, apart from the croaking and chirping of various animals. Two huge trailers drove menacingly, approaching from a distance. The driver at the front was listening to soft music, his guard down. Looking ahead, the road was clear, so he pushed on. Suddenly, a car appeared in front of him. Truck drivers of the Bronze Orchid were trained for years before they were allowed on the road in the organization's name. One of the trainings entailed running over any potential threats in their way. Their trucks were specifically built to ram any type of car off the road and soldier on unharmed.

X Farm and Fleet was a massive corrugated steel and cinderblock slab sitting in the middle of about two acres of concrete off 32, just past the 218 interchange. Folks from out and around the county go there for everything from tractor tires to school supplies, but mostly on the weekends. Today, the parking lot was practically deserted.

“No, Ben, I ain’t.” “Paul?” “What?” “I’m gettin’ scared. What the hell is this shit?” “I don’t know. It’s looking like we’re in a nightmare.” “Well, I wanna wake up!” “Me too, Ben, me too.” “Paul?” “What?” “Listen! Do you hear a truck?” “Yeah, it sounds... it sounds like it’s gettin’ closer.” “Look! Here it comes. What is… what the heck is it? It looks like a milk truck from the 1950s… Fletcher’s Dairyland Best Milk & Cream.”

The number of dismantled Civil War-era corpses piled up in the storage unit was a testament to Papa Nightmare’s lack of military acumen. Roo and Fernández had pushed the zombies out of the storage unit once. After dismembering the initial attackers, they’d used Roo’s truck as a tank, ramming anything wearing blue or grey. The vehicle had given its life for the two men and the soon-to-be-awakened Golem. Riddled with a couple dozen bullet holes, steam rose from the deceased engine. Two tires had been summarily shredded by nineteenth-century weapons fire, and the zombies were lining up for a final push. Papa Nightmare might have been inexperienced, but he learned fast.

A black SUV slammed its brakes on the gravel lane outside, its tires throwing stones against the barn door. Heavy boots hit the porch steps. "Break the door!" a man screamed from the yard. I didn't think so. I squeezed Dominic’s hand once, slammed my raw heel down on the clutch, and jammed the heavy gear shift into first. I floored the gas pedal. The old truck leaped forward like a wild animal. The front iron bumper slammed straight into the rough pine wall of the barn. Six-inch timber posts snapped like matchsticks. Sharp splinters and heavy wooden planks flew through the air as the truck burst out of the dark barn, airborne for a fraction of a second, before crashing hard into the shallow,