Anarchaos

XIX

If I had known in advance what that journey was to be like, it is possible I would have chosen to remain a slave. In the first place, one of the cables — the one on which I had my left foot — must have had something to do with the exhaust system from the engine, because it soon grew hot, and hotter, and quickly was too hot to touch. I had to keep my left knee bent, holding on only with my right foot on the cable and the fingertips of my right hand clutching the top of the trailer.

If I’d had two hands, it’s possible I could have pulled myself up once we’d started, climbed out on top of the load of ore, and traveled in relative comfort. As it was, with only the one hand, I could do nothing but hold on and wait.

If only they’d stop. There were two drivers; sooner or later they’d have to stop while they switched places. But they wouldn’t do it. I held on, and chewed my lower lip till it bled, and when I got weak and began to pass out my left foot sagged down onto the hot cable and snapped me awake again.

I considered hammering my elbow against the metal partition behind me, signaling the drivers. But if they found me they would only turn me in at the compound. And I wouldn’t go back, not now, not after all I was going through to get out.

Still, I didn’t want to die. And I would die, I knew that without doubt; I would die if I lost my grip and fell. Part of me would hit ground while part was still between cab and trailer; I would be torn to pieces.

I finally decided on a gamble, a bad gamble but the only thing I could think of to do. I would try to attract the attention of the drivers, and then I would try to avoid being discovered by them.

Accordingly, I hit my left elbow against the partition. And again. And again. And again.

My elbow was numb, and I was about ready to believe the partition was too thick for them to hear me pounding, when at long last I felt the brakes being applied. The truck ponderously slowed, and the great clattering treads on both sides of me came shuddering to a stop.

The instant the truck stopped I let go my grip and dropped down onto the ground. I landed wrong, and painfully, on sharp stones, but immediately pushed farther down, squirming my legs under the trailer until I was sitting on the ground, then squirming more, hitting my head against the bottom edge of the cab body, forcing myself along the jagged ground until I was completely under the trailer, on my back, staring up at the pitted metal inches from my face, and waited to see what would happen.

The drivers both looked in the area I’d just vacated, and talked back and forth about what had been making the noise. Something obviously had come loose, but what? One of them got down on hands and knees in front of the cab and looked under; I heard him plainly as he said, “It’s pitch black under there. I can’t see a thing.”

“We’ll report it,” the other one said. “Come on, let’s get going.”

They talked about it a minute or two more, then got back into the truck and drove away, the trailer sliding past above men and suddenly leaving clear sky, the violet color of evening on Anarchaos.

It was now necessary to get off the road. I was far too weak to walk by now, but I could still crawl. Slowly, heavily, I rolled myself over onto my stomach, bent my knees, stretched my right hand out ahead of me as far as it would go, and began to drag myself to the side of the road.

I crawled what seemed a considerable distance, over rough, broken, rocky ground. When at last I could move no more, I was in darkness, in the shadow of a large boulder. I lay my face on the cold ground and closed my eyes.

I came to semi-consciousness some time later, aware of the cold. I could no longer feel my feet or fingers. I thought, “I must get up and walk, or I will freeze to death. I must get up and walk, or I will die.”

I thought that. But I didn’t move.