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Fiction: "Jake Brake," part two
by Mike Woodson
29 November 2004
Jake rolled into Klienfelter at about 2 a.m. Darkness wasn't the word for it. No moon, overcast sky with no stars shining, no lights anywhere other than the glow of Jake's pod-mounted halogen high beams on the hood of the White Peterbilt longnose, focused on the set of railroad tracks and the Burlington Northern water tower with the "Jesus saves" graffiti below it. This was the place that the shipper's manifest said to wait until morning and a representive of Pierce Lemon Groves would direct him. Not even a greasy spoon to grab a bite to eat or a fuel stop to take a leak. Nothing but the sands of Troy Dry Lake, black lava beds, Chollas cactus and black as far as the eye could see.
It was turning out to be a creepy trip. The freight pickup in Barstow went well enough, but the shipper's directions specified that Jake take route 66 and stay off I-40. It made no sense as Klienfelter was right off I-40 and would have saved half the time. Still, the circumventive route made Jake feel strangely alive. The loneliness and solitude of the Mojave desert, with town after ghost town of ruin and decay, was like being in another place or time. A time where once White store owners, shop keepers, motel managers, garages, diners and countless tourist courts recognized early on that weary travelers required food, automobile maintenance, adequate lodging and built towns and railroads out of nothing in the vastness of the desert to fullfil those needs.
The promise of economic growth and long-term prosperity that was once route 66 was all gone now. Replaced by an interstate 30 miles to the north. Macdonald's, Taco Bell, Walmart, Mobil oil. An interstate that the jew bankers, speculators and their paid-for politicians had bought, with all the prime real estate that goes with it along I-40 before it became public. Now Jake knew why all the truckers called it route 666.
Jake settled into the sleeper and tucked his stainless steel Colt King Cobra .357 Mag underneath his pillow and thought about the Mexican who had dared point a gun at him when he roared through Java. He smiled thinking of Spielberg's movie, "Duel." In the jew movie it takes a trucker two hours to terrorize a lone four-wheeler. In reality it takes 2 seconds. The ambulance Jake had seen earlier passing him in the opposite direction, red light spinning but no siren and no high rate of speed, told Jake that there were no survivors and no witnesses.
Jake drifted off to sleep wondering about the 24 pallets of bagged Ammonium Nitrate fertilizer he had on his 52-foot trailer and why a citrus grower would want dry NH4-NO3 AN instead of a liquid-bulk, tanker-truck solution that would normally be sprayed on food crops. He also thought of his wife Sandra and the weeks he had been away and hoped that she would be there when he got home.
Jake awoke to the sound of a soft knocking on the cab door. At first he thought he was dreaming, but the barely audible blow became reality and Jake instinctively reached for his .357. He climbed out of the sleeper and rolled down the driver's side window and looked upon a pony-tailed blonde female about 30, with the bluest eyes he had ever seen.
"Follow me," she said!
Jake thought to himself that this chem fertilizer delivery might be interesting...
MIKE WOODSON
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