Chương 4: I have become Death
Chapter 3
I have become Death
Nom wished that he could stay at the truck stop to watch the aftermath, but he had no time. The place would be rapidly locked down by police and coroners. No need to waste what little time he had reporting on something that a dozen security cameras had captured. Besides those cameras clearly showed he hadn't been involved. If he was going to make his next drop on time, he had to collect his co-driver, and get moving as soon as possible. Pulling away from the fuel island area, Nom hoped for a rapid escape. Unfortunately, the stupidity of humanity ensured that this would not be the case.
Since the dawn of the industry, every night as if on Bald Mountain, the truckers of America gathered for their dance to evil and stupidity. The average truck stop became a small city unto itself. Most drivers preferred to be on the road during the day when they were driving solo. Despite the increased traffic on the road, the increased visibility dramatically reduced accidents—animal strikes in particular. Regardless of where the truck stop was located, roughly an hour and a half before sun set the influx of traffic would increase. Drivers would decide to stay rather than moving on. The parking lot rapidly filled up. Drivers, seeing the lack of available space, would act to corner their share of the scarce market, double, triple, even quadruple parking. This made the act of navigating the lot with a seventy-three-foot truck an act of luck rather than skill. Seeing the potential for a spot, drivers would line up to try and get it. Some were easier than others to get into. Frequently after ten minutes of trying, a driver would give up and move on. Within seconds another driver would be trying their luck at the same spot, hoping that their approached angle was just different enough that they will be able to get in.
The scene was one of bedlam. Dozens of fully loaded semis, each manned by over caffeinated, exhausted, out of shape, middle age men and women. Pressed by their need for sleep and a bathroom, their QUALCOMM units telling them that they have only minutes to stop driving or be in violation of DOT rules, each driver wanted one of the designated spots available, or to find some place, any place, where they wouldn't be towed or ticketed for parking. Some truck stops were wise enough to send out attendants to play the role of traffic cops. These poor souls stood in front of forty ton machines, trying to bend them to their will. Amazingly, they did not get killed on most evenings.
Unfortunately, the truck stop that Nom was at that night did not send out attendants. The lot was chaos incarnate. Fifteen trucks were all at different angles, each trying to muzzle their way into three or four spots. The lot was grid locked, the entrance ramp was packed to capacity with trucks impatiently waiting their turns, and the fuel island was stacked five trucks deep. Nom would not be going anywhere, certainly not before the police arrived.
"What are these Ha'DlbaH thinking?" He screamed into his cab. He released his seat belt, grabbed his safety vest, turned on his flashers, and leapt from the cab. Charging the maelstrom, he hoped he might be able to sort it out and leave. As always, he wished that the pathetic morons, and clearly surplus human scum, would simply die and get out of his way.
Then it happened. Trucks stopped moving. The drivers seemed slumped in their seats, and a few trucks slowed, sliding forward as their clutches idled.
Nom approached the first truck and banged on the door to get the drivers' attention. The driver was slumped over her steering wheel looking away from Nom. She didn't respond. He pulled at the door handle but found that it was locked. Shouting and banging, she still would not respond. Nom moved on to the next truck. This time it was a young Hispanic man. He too was slumped in his chair, his seat belt holding him upright. When Nom tried his door handle he found it unlocked.
The Hispanic driver's face was swollen, the blood vessels in his eyes had bulged and burst. Nom stepped back in horror. Petechial hemorrhaging, what the hell?
Nom had seen this before. His father had taken him on many of his "vacation" ambulance runs when Nom was small. His father had given up that life, but liked to volunteer as an EMT, whenever they were on vacation at the family compound in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. For some reason, the local female suicides tended to hang themselves, while their male counterparts would shoot themselves. It was not the first time Nom had seen the face of a person who had been hanged. It was one of the more vivid mental images he had of his childhood.
The Hispanic driver was clearly dead. Hesitantly Nom climbed back up and felt for the man's pulse. Nothing. Nom ran back to the first truck with the locked door. Seeing nothing at hand to break the glass he pulled off his left boot. The steel toe shattered the window with little effort. Slipping it back on and hitting the unlock button, he climbed up to see if this driver too was beyond mortal help.
A pool of blood on the floor began to dribble out the open door. The woman had lost a vast quantity of blood. He could not see from where. He checked her carotid artery and found that she too had no pulse. Feeling something warm and wet on his leg, he stepped back from the truck. Blood saturated the driver's seat, and had run onto his pants when he had leaned into the cab. It was enough blood to be a mortal exsanguination.
Most people would have been horrified by this unexpected and unexplainable butchery before their eyes. Nom was simply in ponderous shock. To him the entire world and universe was one natural event after another. There was no sound reason to ever assume that the mental wishes of one human being could affect another without the first taking some sort of real action. But, here, Nom had wished mortal harm on almost a score of people, and within minutes they had all died. True, none had simply dropped dead. All had an apparent cause of death, but Jesus Christ, how was he ever going to explain this mess to himself much less the authorities?
People did not simply appear to have been hanged without ligature marks or, more importantly, a rope around their necks! Women did not simply decide to crap out the sum of their life's blood. As for the other drivers, who knew?
Nom had no desire to see what fate had been delivered to them. Looking around he saw a flurry of movement, as the first police car arrived. Rather than risking an interaction with the authorities, an interaction that he would be unable to process logically, he fled to his truck.
Inside, he closed the sleeper curtain and quickly changed his pants. It would be hours before the police would have time to review the surveillance tapes. Without seeing him covered in blood, he might be able to sneak away in the confusion. The police would want to secure the area, but they would also want enough room to access it as well.
Looking around Nom saw that there as only a thin line of grass, a sidewalk, and a curb keeping him from the street. He put his truck into drive and pulled over the curb towards freedom. The cops were arriving on mass, but were blocked by the dozens of trucks from gaining access. They began directing the drivers who were still alive to move out of the way. Long before they ever reached the fuel island, Nom was miles away.
Nom's mind raced through its usual analytical processes, scanning all available information for a potential natural explanation. He kept drawing a blank. There simply was no rational explanation for what he had observed. There was always the possibility of insanity or hallucination. Still, given the police response, and the blood-stained pants sitting on the floor of his truck, it seemed unlikely that his brain would be capable of so thoroughly creating an artificial reality. It was a possibility though, so he put that option up on his mental board. It was also possible that he was in a comatose or dream state, and that this reality was simply in his head. Another idea for the mental board. Lastly there was the logical impossibility that Nom had somehow caused twenty-four people to die, in the span of an evening, with nothing more than his will and a wish.
He had no time to seek a mental health evaluation. Knowing full well, that merely suggesting the thought process he was having, would see him involuntarily committed. If he was dreaming, well then there were no real consequences to be had from the events around him. He might as well enjoy them. If the events were real, he had better see if he could control more lives.
For the sum of his true adult life, Nom had been convinced that the greatest problem facing humanity were the endless hordes of morons breeding more morons every day. Humanity grew into an endless sea of unnecessary idiots, polluting the world with their unnecessary lives, and unnecessary moronic thoughts. Most were far too stupid to ever contribute anything of meaning, or purpose, to society; let alone to posterity.
After the truck stop, Nom knew that he could not reasonably test himself to see if he was sane. He had no means of proving if he was dreaming or hallucinating. He could test and see if he could control his perceived reality though. Nom made a choice. He would seek out a subject to test his powers on.
Tripp, Nom's co-driver, was a massive irritant unto himself. He had little of value to offer society. Tripp had no ambition to improve his life, no wish to do something more with his life. His highest aspiration was to drive for a few hours a day, and sleep the rest. He read no books, took no classes, watched no shows. Tripp never was seen to call or visit any family members, other than crashing at his parent's place. He never even went for so much as a walk. He just drove and slept. Well, he pretended to drive. Every morning Nom would be forced to wash the driver's side window on the inside. It was covered with greasy head prints from Tripp napping against it during his shift.
Worse yet, he was once again preparing to invade Nom's personal space. Why should a person with power over life and death permit such a thing? Was there a range, to Nom's power? Could he wish Tripp dead from miles away, or did he have to be within a close range in order for it to work? Nom knew that he certainly wished Tripp dead. All he did was sleep, fail to drive his share of miles, and leave all the paperwork to Nom. That was it.
Yes, Tripp should die.
Nom was supposed to meet Tripp at the local branch of the company's driving school in half an hour. It was one of the few places large enough for a truck that would be uncrowded at this hour. The school had a private training lot. It was secured by a fence and gate that only company personnel could access. If he arrived, and found Tripp dead there, then he could assume that there was an extended range to his ability. If he arrived, and Tripp died soon after, then he knew that he had to be close. If he arrived and nothing happened, well maybe it would be time to request a psych evaluation.
Multiple times Nom tried to call Tripp, to see if he had succeeded, only to find his call going to voicemail without so much as a ring. Tripp's phone had been turned off. He would have to wait and see. Nom told his phone to play the overture to Wagner's Parsifal and settled in for the last few minutes. When he arrived at the school, he saw that there was only one car in sight, and it was dark. He parked his truck and approached. He wished that if the car contained Tripp, that he would be dead. If it did not contain Tripp, than the occupant would be alive, he could experiment on them later.
Suddenly, the driver's door opened, and an older African American man leapt out screaming. 'He's not breathing, someone help! He's not breathing!"
Nom ran over.
"What's going on?" Nom asked.
"My boy, Tripp… Just a second ago… We were talking about the next time he would be visiting… and then suddenly he stopped!" The man replied.
Nom got into the car to see if Tripp was still in a condition to be revived. What he saw wasn't human anymore. Nom only knew that this piece of meat was Tripp, thanks to an easily recognizable tattoo of a cartoon ghost on his right arm. The remnants of his face looked as if they had been left in a desiccation chamber for several years. Just a week before, when he had last seen him, Tripp was a young man of no more than twenty-four. Now he looked like the remains of an Egyptian mummy. Everything bellow his neck looked the same as it always had, but that head… If it had ever known life, it had not been in this millennia. He would never leave a greasy head print again.
Nom drew back. Now he knew. For now, at least, there was a limit to the range of his ability. The father had been clear, only a moment or two had passed since Tripp's death. It seemed that if he let his desire fester while he was out of range, the more terrible the death was. Nodding to himself, Nom disregarded Tripp's father's pleading for help. He walked back to his truck. The was man grasping desperately at the only other human present, begging him for assistance. Nom had none to give, nor any desire, so he turned and faced the man. This moron father of a moron son, a direct representative of the enemy, dared to impede him.
"I wish you would have a widow maker." Nom said.
The man clenched his chest, grew pale, and slowly slumped to the ground. He wasn't dead, but he would be shortly. A full blown LAD occlusion would see his heart dead in at most a few moments.
Nom, turned back to his truck. "If I am to have mobility, I need to lose this slow piece of crap." He said to himself.
The company had put governors on their trucks which kept them at sixty miles an hour or less. Tripp had not made a mess in his father's car, he had simply turned into a raisin. The engine was running. It was a Toyota Range Rover, rice burner or no, it had the ability to move him more rapidly than his truck. Nom mounted his truck and proceeded to grab his personal gear. After five or ten minutes, he had stacked it all in front of his new ride. Nom pulled Tripp from the passenger seat and checked to be sure that he had not soiled it in his final moments. The car was pristine. Nom loaded his gear. Heading: out for the open road, and the future of humanity.
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