(For those not familiar with NaNoWriMo, it’s the National Novel Writing Month – in brief, slap 50,000+ words onto the screen as a “zeroth” draft of a novel. It’s not pretty, it’s not even a first draft, it’s simply an exercise in “Just – Keep – Putting – Words – TOGETHER!” and seeing what comes out the other side. I’ve done it five times and “succeeded” twice. I’ve decided to be incredibly self centered and foolish open about my process so I’ve put my work up here on this site for the last three attempts. Just do a search to see some of the crap I’ve inflicted on my loyal readers in the past. Actually, that might not be totally true – while being “zeroth” drafts, at least three of them had stories and characters that I actually thought were pretty good if I ever managed to get past the NaNoWriMo stage, finish them, and then start editing.)
That was fun!
Yeah, the first section is a tiny bit personal. It was odd writing it. It was what my muse wanted, and I liked it, but it was a bit slow, exposition-y, not sure where it was going, needed badly to take a left turn…
So I did. You might be able to tell where. And from there it was off to the races.
The biggest problem was time. My “ah-ha!” moment came after 23:30 and I need to post by midnight to keep my 633 day posting streak intact. So those last seven hundred words were written REALLY FAST.
Where do we go next? It’s 18:20 and I have no clue. Except, structurally, I think that…
Also, for those not familiar with the terminology, a “pantser” is someone who writes “by the seat of his pants.” So to speak.
All comments will be welcome.
CHAPTER TWO
Trying to get back to sleep for the tenth time that night, Ed couldn’t help but think of how in his youth he had loved country/western songs that mentioned lonesome train whistles blowing off in the distance in the dark and all that they symbolized in terms of loneliness, loss, and regret.
“What a crock of shit,” he muttered to himself, reaching for the spare pillows to again try to bury his head in search of silence while cautiously leaving a little channel so that air could still get to his face. Outside, yet another lonesome train whistle blew off in the distance in the dark.
It might have been a couple hours later but probably was more like ten minutes when his phone started ringing. Not one of the sing-song-y, generic ringtones that came with the phone and made it sound like every other phone in the mall, but that weird musical riff that everyone recognized as some kind of phone ringtone that the supervillain used in that movie without anyone being able to remember which supervillain in which movie.
Pillows scattered onto the floor as Ed reached for the ringing phone. Thank God that it was lighting up like a Christmas tree with its screen blinking and flashing to get everyone’s attention even if everyone in hearing range were deaf. It helped to find it in the dark, and Ed needed all of the help he could get, especially if The Boss was calling.
“Yeah, Boss?”
“Where are you at?”
Good question. It had been really late when he got there to begin with, hauling his rig on a long, slow haul that had started two days ago in the thick woods of northern Maine, following a wild goose chase across almost two dozen states. He had learned not to ask stupid questions, and all questions were stupid when you were talking to The Boss, but you really had to wonder some times.
“Um, the Midwest. Illinois? Iowa? Indiana? One of those flat, flyover states near the Mississippi River.”
“Are you actually near the Mississippi River?”
“Yeah, I can see it about a quarter mile away. I’m in some little town where the railroad tracks cross it. Fort Jefferson? Fort Kennedy?”
“If you’re next to the Mississippi River, you’re not in Indiana then. We’ll assume you’re either in Illinois or Iowa. Of course, this would be so much easier if you would not park the rig where the satellite signal isn’t blocked and I could just talk to it. It’s ever so much smarter than you are anyway. Dolt!”
“There weren’t a lot of parking options, Boss, especially for something that size. I’ll try to be more careful next time. Sorry.”
“Yes, you are. I need you in California, ASAP. We had a Class Four event occur there thirteen hours ago and the Science Team has finally been able to narrow down the location to the Malibu area. I need you there in thirty hours. I want you moving in ten minutes. As soon as the rig reconnects I’ll have the route and further instructions uploaded.
“Move! Now! Thirty hours! Malibu!” With that short tirade the line went dead.
Ed considered a number of alternative courses of action. His favorite involved going to the rig, leaving the circuit breakers to the satellite uplink pulled, driving it far enough so that he couldn’t hear trains, and then taking about an eight-hour nap. The consequences of that course, however, were obvious. And painful.
The whistle from another freight train split the night and rattled the hotel windows, bellowing from the at-grade crossing just outside the hotel. If that wasn’t a sign from God then Ed didn’t know what was. He quickly used the facilities, popped a double dose of stay-awake pills, got dressed, threw his bag together, and boogied toward the semi parked on a side street a block away.
Walking along at a brisk pace in the cold, night air, Ed wondered for the thousandth time how he had ended up here. Not here as in Fort Franklin, State-that-starts-with-an-I, but here as in working for The Boss and driving his equipment all over the country.
Somehow, he had ended up with the unique and specific skill set that The Boss had been looking for. How many physics post-docs were there who had experience in driving a big rig and had their current commercial driver’s license? And who were also single, unattached, and orphaned? Granted, being a science geek, “single” and “unattached” were the norm, but in combination with everything else required, there wasn’t a big pool to select from. Knowing how to shut up and do what he was told was also key.
The problem as he saw it was that The Boss had all of the money and was just a little bit batshit crazy, but he had the common sense and street smarts that God gave a baby squirrel. Ed might not be a genius or a billionaire, but he was also smart enough to disable the rig’s tracking equipment when he needed to, among other little tricks he had picked up. He honestly didn’t think that The Boss had any clue or suspicions that the “accidental” data outages were just Ed’s need for a bit of privacy once in a while.
Whatever. The pay was good even if the hours were grueling. There was usually plenty of paid time off as well, although the schedule was erratic and lately he had spent way too many days and weeks in a row on the trail of something The Boss had a bug up his ass about. Ed was curious about what The Boss was looking for, but also cautious enough to keep his head down and not let The Boss see that he was interested.
For all The Boss knew (hopefully) he was just a loyal, hardworking, simple technician and truck driver who did was he was told like a good boy. 11/10, no notes, that was Ed’s job review in his own head. And he wanted to keep it that way. He suspected that if The Boss suspected anything different, life would become much more complicated and unpleasant very suddenly.
Swinging up into the cab, Ed started flipping switches to activate the rig’s systems. A handful of those were for the tractor, a slightly upgraded and modified Peterbilt. The rest were all embedded in a separate console panel that wrapped around to where a passenger seat used to sit. Dozens of gauges and screens lit up, all of them showing settings comfortably in the green zones of whatever instrumentation was they were measuring.
Ed was careful to make sure that the satellite connection stayed off. It wouldn’t do to have it come on, connect, and show that he was sitting still.
With everything live, Ed eased the big machine into a slow crawl away from the curb. As he got going, he finally flipped on the circuit breakers for the satellite dish. Almost immediately he saw that data was starting to download into the navigation system.
As they got to the end of the block and the main local highway, the GPS told him to turn left to cross the bridge. No doubt it was taking him to the interstate on the other side of the river, judging it to be the quickest route to start heading west. But Ed could see that the lights on the bridge were starting to flash, indicating that the bridge was about to open for a tow boat and its cargo. That was going to take a while to clear.
Despite his act during his phone conversation with The Boss, Ed was not an idiot. He knew exactly what town and what state he was in. As he pondered his next move, another train was stopping on the tracks in front of him, blocked from moving ahead due to the imminent bridge opening. Scanning the wide river stretching out in both directions, he could see a tow boat coming from each direction, both of them carrying a full complement of fifteen barges.
Ouch.
The Boss had said to be in Malibu in thirty hours. He couldn’t afford to sit here for thirty or forty minutes or more. With that decided, he checked for traffic on the road and swung the rig out in a wide, right turn, back through the center of town and to the southwest. It might be slower than going by the interstate, but it was faster than sitting still.
We Love The Stars Too Fondly 