This is from Ivan's Perspective
I stayed hunkered down in my hiding spot for a long time. Each reverberating gunshot made my heart pound against my ribs. My resolve going through waves. Slowly, the gunshots started sounding the way hunting season does. I waited until the gunshots rang out far in the distance and sporadically before finally deciding it was safe to move.
Moving made me breathe deeply for the first time since I flew down the ladder from the trailer. The deep inhalation burnt my lungs with the smell of smoke. I stifled my cough, scared to give away my position.
Emerging from my hideaway, I squinted against the light and haze. The sun had climbed higher into the sky, but the curtain of smoke shrouded the city and muted its brightness. The air was hazy, filled with an acrid smell that made my eyes water and my throat scratchy.
My mind buzzed with thoughts as I scanned the surroundings, trying to plan my next move. The assignment was to make it home to my wife. My options were limited. The first was to try and find a police station. It was a reasonable idea, considering the circumstances. But the sporadic gunshots were a grim reminder that the city was in chaos. The police were likely stretched thin, and it was still being determined whether they could offer any level of assistance. Let alone protection.
Option two was to hoof it home on my own two feet. It could be a better prospect, considering the distance. Typically, it was a drive of less than two hours. But now, with the city in disarray, my truck and all the other cars, by the look of it dead, I would have to walk. I pondered the question, trying to calculate how long such a trek would take on foot. Would it be a matter of hours? A day, perhaps? Looking down at my gut, I hoped it wouldn't be even longer?
As I thought it over, it became increasingly clear that the only bad choice would be to remain here. I was stranded on the highway with my lifeless truck, waiting for a rescue that might never come. A nearby gunshot punctuated this thought.
Shaking off the indecision, I strode to the truck's cab. Reaching for the door handle, I yanked it open with a grunt. Inside, the cab smelled like old coffee and faded pine air freshener. These familiar scents thankfully stifled the acrid stench of smoke. At least a little.
Rooting around in the clutter of the side door pocket, I fished out a permanent marker and a paper pad. With a deep breath, I scribbled my personal and contact information and ripped out the paper. I then placed it on the dashboard, visible through the windshield.
I took the marker and shut the door with a resonant thud that turned out much louder than I wanted. I scrawled the same details under the company's information on the truck's door. At least this way, when the authorities regained control and began processing the aftermath, they would know who to contact.
I smirked to myself. At least if the mob does torch it to the frame.
The worst-case scenario would be paying a fine and towing fees for abandoning my truck on the highway. However, given the extraordinary circumstances, I hoped that they would show some mercy. After all, the world seemed to be going crazy. This was hardly the worst thing done today. If anything, it seemed I was doing the only sane thing left to do.
Once that was done, I yanked open the door again, the worn leather of the seat creaking as I clambered back inside. I rummaged through the cluttered cab, blind in the dark without the lights, packing my personal belongings into the two duffel bags I used on trips.
A low rumble from my stomach interrupted my thoughts, reminding me of its existence. I hadn't eaten since the midnight meal before I started driving, and the world had gone to hell. I pried open the mini fridge in the truck, now as warm as the rest of the vehicle. I used the hunk of cheese, sliced bread, and some slices of deli meats to make myself a slapdash sandwich and toss the remaining jerky, chips, and fruit into one of my duffle bags. The mug of coffee smelled funny, so I made myself a cold instant coffee in a water bottle.
Sitting in the cab, eating my lukewarm sandwich, I stared at the other stranded vehicles. Some cars had people, all likely as confused and frightened as I was. Others looked empty. The occupants probably headed home on foot. What were they thinking? What were they planning to do?
Finishing my sandwich, a sudden idea occurred to me. Grabbing another scrap of paper, I quickly scribbled down my information.
Finished with my meal, I gathered my belongings and climbed out of the truck. As I swung the door shut behind me, I took one last look at the vehicle that had been my home on the road for so many years. I locked it and pocketed the key, a small part of me hoping I could come back for it in a few days.
With my bags slung over my shoulder, I started walking towards the car that had been stopped ahead of me when everything had gone dead. I recognized it as the one I had knocked on in the middle of the night when this all started, and it was still occupied.
Approaching the window, I knocked lightly to get their attention. "Anything changed for you guys?" I asked. They responded with a simple shake of their heads, not bothering to open the door. The fear in their eyes was tangible.
I found myself trying to sound more brave than I felt. "Well, I'm going to try and hoof it home," I declared, hoping my bravado would infuse them with some courage.
A woman's voice from inside the car said, "We're too scared to try walking. We live about ten miles away..."
I couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Count yourselves lucky. I'm about seventy miles out."
Before I turned to leave, I asked, "Hey, if you're planning to stick around here for a while, could you hand this to the cops when they show up?" I asked, holding up a scrap of paper with my contact information.
They hesitated for a moment before the door opened a crack. A hand snaked out to snatch the paper before the door was shut again.
Shaking my head with a wry smile, I waved a casual goodbye to the scared folks in the car and began my long walk. I tried to look strong and confident, hoping they'd take heart from my bravery.
However, reality didn't take long to slap me across the face. I'd hardly covered a hundred yards before my breath hitched and wheezed in my chest. The smoky air didn't help, stinging my lungs with every inhalation. But the real culprit was my own body. Years of sitting behind the wheel, combined with an addiction to fast food, junk food, and sweet food combined with a disdain for the gym, had turned me into an overweight trucker ill-prepared for a trek of any distance.
Coming across an abandoned car, I parked myself onto the hood, laying on my back, the cool metal a relief against my sweat-soaked back. My legs were already beginning to tremble in protest, my lungs screaming at the unfamiliar exertion. Sitting up, I fished out the bottle of cold instant coffee from my duffle bag, taking large gulps to cool my parched throat.
The smoke didn't seem to be letting up. If anything, it felt denser, hanging around me like a tangible shroud. Each breath I took was a painful struggle, the air tainted with the taste of ash. I quickly realized I had to modify my breathing and pace to endure this grim march.
Pushing off the car hood, I continued down the highway at a slow shuffle, aiming for a pace that wouldn't force me to take deep, painful breaths. Every few minutes, I lost my pace, walked faster, and had to pause, clutching at my chest as I forced my laboring lungs to draw in the air more slowly, more carefully.
This way, I pushed onward, stopping and starting in a slow rhythm, my progress agonizingly slow. Each gasp for air, each ragged breath, and each halting step seemed to drag out the minutes, turning them into hours. But I kept going. Just kept walking.
At least I had one small mercy in this situation: I knew the route home by heart, GPS be damned. I'd traveled it countless times, enough to know each bump, curve, and landmark like the back of my hand. Yet, what had previously been a sub-two-hour drive at a mile a minute was now a slog at a mile an hour.
As the early afternoon sun tried to penetrate the heavy smoke, I emerged from the shadow of another overpass. Squinting against the harsh glare, I recognized the sign of a truck stop up ahead. It was a spot I usually avoided when on the road. The area had a bad reputation, and the clientele was rougher than most. I liked my truck too much to subject it to such places. But right now, I was not in a position to be picky.
My heart leaped at the sight, hope surging in my chest. Without thinking, I picked up my pace, adrenaline momentarily overpowering my body's fatigue. Almost instantly, I regretted it. Taking a reflexive deep breath to fuel my sudden exertion, I choked on the heavy, acrid smoke in the air. Coughing and wheezing, I doubled over, my lungs screaming in protest.
Out of nowhere, an old admonishment from my Uncle flashed through my mind, "If you ever start smoking, you'll regret it twice: first when you can't breathe, and second when I beat your ass for being a fool." A grim chuckle escaped me. This gave me another coughing fit as I struggled to normalize my breathing.
Forcing myself to take slow, shallow breaths, I gradually eased my body upright, clutching both hands at my chest. My heart still pounded painfully, the taste of smoke lingering in my mouth.
Once I regained some sort of control over my breathing, I started walking again. This time, I paid attention to being deliberately slow, one foot in front of the other. It was a battle against the screaming protests of my body, demanding respite, and my mind, on the other hand, seeing a place where I could take a rest.
After I trudged on, staring at the road before me, I looked up. The truck stop sign in the distance seemed to remain stubbornly far.
This was going to be a very long walk.