11:59 PM.
Mac stared at the glowing green digits on the dashboard. The silence inside the cab was absolute, save for the erratic, shallow sound of his own breathing. Outside, his apartment complex looked like a frozen photograph under the sickly sodium streetlamp.
12:00 AM.
CLACK.
Mac jumped, his shoulder slamming hard against the window. The heavy iron locks on both the driver and passenger doors had slammed down simultaneously. He grabbed the handle, yanking it backward. It didn't budge. The mechanism felt fused, as if the door had been welded shut from the outside.
"Okay," Mac whispered, his voice cracking. "Okay, so we're doing this."
12:01 AM.
A low, resonant scrape echoed from the trailer behind him. It sounded like something massive dragging its weight across a ribbed metal floor. Then came the breathing. It wasn't the hiss of air brakes or the shifting of unsettled cargo. It was a deep, wet inhalation that vibrated right through the heavy steel separating the cab from the trailer.
In... out. In... out.
Mac gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. His eyes darted to the laminated manifest taped next to his hand.
Rule 1: Ignition Protocol. Start the engine at exactly 12:03 AM. Not 12:02. Not 12:04. If the engine does not turn over on the first try, exit the vehicle... and run.
"Kind of hard to run when you've locked me in," he muttered through gritted teeth.
12:02 AM.
The minute stretched into an eternity. Sweat beaded on his forehead, stinging his eyes. Every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to kick the window out, to grab his flashlight and smash the glass until he could crawl back out into the freezing March air. He could be broke. He could be homeless. That was better than whatever this was.
He raised the heavy metal flashlight, aiming for the corner of the driver's side window.
The dashboard clock blinked.
12:03 AM.
Mac dropped the flashlight. He grabbed the heavy brass key already slotted in the ignition and twisted it hard.
For a terrifying, heart-stopping second, nothing happened. Dead silence. No clicking, no sputtering.
The blood drained from his face. It didn't turn over. He reached frantically for the fused door handle, panic finally overriding his paralysis
RUMBLE.
The massive diesel engine roared to life with an aggressive, deafening shudder that shook the entire chassis. The dashboard lit up, dials spinning and gauges glowing a harsh, radioactive green. The headlights flared, twin beams cutting through the gloom of the empty parking lot.
Mac slumped back against the cracked leather seat, gasping for air as if he had been held underwater.
He had started the truck.
He shoved the heavy gear shift into drive. The air brakes released with a sharp, aggressive hiss that sounded too much like a sigh of relief. Slowly, Mac pressed the accelerator. The monolithic vehicle rolled forward, leaving the empty parking spaces behind.
He steered toward the narrow exit of his apartment complex, half-expecting the massive trailer to clip the brick guardhouse. It didn't. The truck moved with a strange, fluid grace that betrayed its massive size.
As the nose of the cab breached the exit, pulling out onto Elm Street, the environment changed.
It wasn't instant, but it was undeniable. Elm Street was usually lined with closed storefronts, flickering neon signs, and parked cars. But as the truck rolled forward, the streetlights began to pop, one by one, plunging the road behind him into absolute, impenetrable darkness.
A thick, unnatural fog rolled over the hood of the truck. It looked heavy, like dry ice, swirling against the windshield.
Mac flicked the high beams on. The light barely penetrated ten feet ahead. The asphalt beneath the tires no longer felt like cracked city pavement. It was too smooth. The familiar bumps and potholes of his neighborhood were gone.
A small, heavy GPS unit bolted to the center console suddenly snapped to life. The screen was black, featuring only a single, glowing red line charting a course straight ahead.
In the corner of the screen, plain white text read: Highway 81 - Uncharted Variant.
He wasn't in the city anymore. He wasn't entirely sure he was on Earth anymore.
In... out. In... out.
The breathing from the trailer continued, a steady rhythm against his back.
Mac kept his eyes glued to the road, his hands locked at ten and two. Above him, the rearview mirror sat angled uselessly at the grey fabric ceiling. He didn't dare lower it.