2 chapters for a work in progress book I'm attempting to write. It's about a WW3 taking place in the American continents. I'm planning 4 parts, first part follows a trucker in the midwest.
Part 1: the river
Chapter 1: The Last Haul to St. Louis
The October day was hot, a damp, oppressive heat that clung to the skin despite the overcast sky and the constant drizzle. Sam guided his rig toward the final checkpoint out of Indiana, the last barrier between him and the fractured lands of southern Illinois. Beyond that was St. Louis, and maybe a shot at something resembling safety. But deep down, he knew the truck wouldn't make it. Diesel was a ghost in this part of the country, and he was running on fumes and a prayer, hoping to trade some of his employer's cargo for fuel along the way. It was a breach of contract, a risk. But the contract didn't matter anymore. This was about escape.
The truck groaned, its momentum bleeding away as he rolled to a stop in the outpost blocking the bridge across the Wabash River. Covenant soldiers, clad in mismatched gear, waved him aggressively toward the inspection lane, two pick-up trucks blocking his way out. The papers from his OAM employers had been a charm from Indianapolis to here, but this was different. This was the border. The final gate.
With a hiss of air brakes, the rig settled into a burbling idle, the engine drinking the last dregs from the tanks. A soldier tapped on the driver's side window with the muzzle of his rifle. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like a clock counting down. Sam already had the manifest in hand, the One American Market logo stark against the paper. He gripped it tight, his knuckles white, and rolled down the window.
The soldier snatched the paperwork without a word and carried it under a nearby canopy, out of the rain. Two others remained, their fingers resting on the trigger guards of their rifles, eyes locked on him. Beyond them, the Covenant flag hung, obnoxiously large. Thirteen stripes, but where the stars should have been, a single Star of David was pierced by a cross.
Sam’s mind drifted, a dangerous habit. He was calculating the miles to the first potential fuel stop in Illinois when the crackle of a walkie-talkie snapped him back. The soldier under the canopy was speaking into his radio, his gaze flicking toward Sam. The conversation was a burst of static and jargon, but the tone was clear. Final.
The soldier pointed directly at Sam and barked an order to his
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