Romans & histoires Wooden Troublesome Truck

"He's in the old utility truck. Parked outside the gate." The truck was a beast, a relic from a time when people worried about hauling lumber and drywall, not survival gear and fleeing from the undead. It was a deep, faded green, with patches of rust blooming like sores across its hood and doors. The bed was long and deep, a metal trough that could carry a significant haul. "We would definitely have enough room to take us for a while in case we had to take a detour," I murmured, more to myself than anyone.

The bumper was slightly dented. And the driver’s door clearly required unnecessary violence before it properly shut. “Oh God...” Chatrine sighed dramatically. “So this is the vehicle I’m supposed to drive?” One of the workers emerged from the warehouse wiping sweat from his neck. Marko. “Don’t worry, Miss,” he said cheerfully. “This truck is loyal. The engine’s a little stubborn, but once it starts, it’s strong as an ox.” “An ox?” Chatrine repeated in disbelief. “I’d rather call it a tank. Look at the size of it. I could probably drive through a two-story house and the truck would survive.”

They’ll notice we’re gone sooner than later, and when they do, there’s no telling who or what they’ll send after us. After I feel like we’ve ducked and hopped over the same trees and fallen branches a dozen times, a truck tucked beneath some brush comes into view. It’s older for sure, a pale yellow color that blends into the surroundings, but it doesn’t have to be fancy to run. He helps me up into the truck, but once he closes the door, I can’t help feeling like something is going to go wrong. This was too easy, too simple, and it’s going to come crashing down on us.

Alice nodded. The road outside the warehouse was extremely narrow, and the driver did not appear to be very skilled in driving. Then the vehicle collided with Summer’s transport truck with a thud. Alice was concerned that they would make a big deal out of it, so she stopped him and moved closer to Daniel to take a look. Much to her relief, the transport truck was only dented because it was much more robust and larger than the vehicle. Because it had so much stuff inside, that truck appeared very unstable. After shaking a few times, one of the boxes inside fell heavily onto the ground.

"That's why I gave you good chair." I tool out my gun "Sixteen AK-74Us. Three crates of ammo." I sipped my drink. "You expect me to believe you moved that by your own will?" Marco's chin trembled. "I—I just drove the truck! The Bratva boys at the docks" "Ah." I set down my glass. "Now we're getting somewhere." Luca leaned against the wall, flipping a butterfly knife. "See Marco, here's the thing. Army grade hardware? That's not some drunk Russian kid's side hustle."

Scarlett was a flaming ball of determination these days, so tightly wound that I half expected her to spring apart at any given moment. It only hit me why that was as we were loading up the truck. The truck itself was a blessing – Marla had stolen it on the way back from the airport, and I’d been unable to get her to give it up. She’d repainted it with orange wall paint, which was already peeling and chipped, and it was so badly dented and scratched from being driven around by a werewolf pack that it was basically unrecognisable. “I think you should name the truck,” said Scarlett, her eyes gleaming and her hands glowing as she used the wind to lift her overnight bag into the back.

The man I had been intently observing the entire day was proving to be very annoying as he was insistent on standing on his original answer. He confessed that he was a poor man that could barely make the ends meet every month. His old Volkswagen had been troubling him for quite a while now, and since he earned just enough to keep the family from drowning, he had managed to ignore the services that were demanded by the faulty vehicle. He paid the price of his ignorance when the brakes on his vehicles betrayed him right when he was speeding past the expected limit in one of the deserted streets of London. Unfortunately, he was not the only person who had paid that price. Along with him, it was

– M Within seconds, the screen filled with a flurry of typing dots and beeps, but I had no time to read them. The tow truck driver—Ron, a rough-around-the-edges native with a Saints beanie—gestured for me to come over. I jammed my phone into my pocket and grabbed Pockets. “Come on, little man.” I sighed.

Arianna looked at Brian to see if he also noticed as they glared at her with hostility, Brian who couldn’t wait to get to the root of the matter didn’t even observe the staff's responded in some type of way. Arianna decided to ignore and focus on what brought her there, “I’m here to make inquires about a truck”. “A truck?” Another speaker asked as they looked at each other. “Yes, a rickety one to be precise” Arianna answered with a straight face. “Do you have any more information that could describe the truck aside that it’s rickety?” The first speaker asked. “No, all we know is it’s a rickety old truck that makes a loud noise” Brian replied.

My sister had packed a spare heavy wrench there just in case of something like this. I reached back as far as I could, trying to get to it. The crash had warped the latch. I pulled with everything I had until it finally snapped open. Relief flooded through me. I reached inside, but when my fingers closed around the wrench, I froze. It wasn't metal. It was soft. A wrench-shaped piece of chocolate. "Chocolate?" My mind went blank. Outside the car, Julian burst out laughing, clapping his hands like a kid at a carnival.