Wooden Troublesome Truck Novels & Stories

Peace, at last. I dropped into it, closed my eyes, and let the gentle rocking of the train soothe my nerves. Maybe tomorrow I’d take the bus. A low, sharp growl of a voice cut through the calm like a blade. “For Christ’s sake, Alan—just handle it. That’s your job, isn’t it? Or am I the only one doing any thinking around here? You don’t get paid to dump problems on my lap. Come back when you’ve got a plan that doesn’t insult my intelligence. God. Even my cat has better instincts than this.”

Gianna is close behind me as I step outside on the front porch and watch Ryder killing the engine of his bike. Before I can ask him anything, my gaze shifts to the old beat-up truck rolling inside the clubhouse after Ryder motions the prospects at the gate to let the truck in. My brows pull together in confusion as I look at the truck, which is a hazard on the road. It is no less than a miracle that it is still working. Slowly the truck comes to a halt beside Ryder's bike. My breath hitches in my throat when the door opens and the driver steps outside the truck.

I said, walking closer to the men while examining the vehicle with my eyes. “Only one percent of truck drivers have these. It’s from the big cities where humans live,” one of them replied. “Hmmm, I see. Then you should be careful if you’re heading north. There’s been a big pile of cow poop that hasn’t been moved. It could ruin your perfect tires,” I lied, trying to get him to reveal his destination. “Oh, that’s bad for them. I’m heading west, so it’s not really my problem. One of the small districts Skywood Pack owns.”

I squealed as a huge smile crossed my face, bracing for impact. The biters staggered toward the truck as if it was fresh meat. A plump older man wearing overalls and middle-aged female wearing a flowery church dress bounced off the bumper, falling to the asphalt. The truck's thick tires easily rolled over their decaying bodies, popping and cracking their bones to pieces. I laughed. "I'll never get sick of that sound. This truck is so frigging awesome." The smile on Thomas's face grew even wider as he aimed for more. "We ain't done yet."

“Don't try to play tricks on my senses, female.” “I am not telling a lie!” I snap, my eyes growing wide as I look through the dark glass. “It is a massive black truck with the pack marker ZQ6668 stamped right on the iron plate.” Kaelen goes completely still, then twists his thick neck around to look through the rear glass. Sure enough, a giant black pack vehicle is idling right behind us in the dark woods. The hot, romantic air inside our front seat drops down to freezing in a single second, and Kaelen’s jaw sets into a hard line.

T⁠h⁠e gua⁠rds dov‍e o‍ut of‍ the way. CRASH‌. The​ ga‍rbage tr‌uc⁠k smas⁠he‌d through the wood‍en barrier arm and the chain⁠-link gate. Metal s​c‌reeched. Glass shatte​red. We burst out onto the s‍treet,​ fishtailing i‍nto‌ t‌raff‍ic. Cars hon​ked and‌ swerv‌ed. We were out⁠.

James' rickety old car struggled on the road, making a crunching sound as it climbed the stones and granite, we were almost there. I raised my phone, sticking it outside the window as the afternoon sun hit my caramel skin and took a selfie. I pulled my phone back inside and zoomed in on the picture. “Fantastic” I murmured, the angle, the sunkissed effect, it was perfect.

I jammed the gear into first and spun the heavy wheel to the right, plunging the logging truck straight into the narrow gap of the hemlocks. The branches hit the windshield with a sequence of loud cracks, shattering the glass into a web of white lines. I couldn't see the path anymore. I had to look through the small hole the drone bullets had left in the metal dashboard. The truck went down. The trail wasn't dirt—it was an old wooden trough, a twelve-foot-wide timber flume built into the side of the cliff to slide logs down to the river. The wood was slick with green moss and ice. The heavy truck started to slide like a sled, the brakes doing nothing on the frozen timber.

"Okay, okay. Maia, make sure you scream nice and loud so I can enjoy the show too," Raul said. They said long-haul truckers were a crude bunch. I was seeing it firsthand now. I couldn't believe the things coming out of their mouths. My face was burning a deep crimson. For the rest of the day, I lay on the sleeper berth in the back while the two men chatted up front. Most of their conversation consisted of raunchy jokes and dirty talk. I tried to act uninterested, but they were so loud that every word reached my ears.

Torian grunted. ‎ ‎The truck crested a ridge, and the headlights cut through the gloom to reveal a massive wooden barricade. ‎ ‎It looked like a fortress built from the bones of the old world. ‎ ‎Two towering pine logs formed the gateposts, crossed at the top and bound with iron chains. The fence stretching out on either side was a patchwork of sharpened stakes, scrap metal, and barbed wire. Skulls—some animal, some... I didn't want to know—hung from the posts, rattling in the wind.