Chapter 281: Chapter 143: The Roar on the Radio

On a highway in Pennsylvania, the rain was still falling.

Massive freight trucks sped down Interstate 79, kicking up a spray nearly two feet high.

"CRACKLE... FIZZ..."

The citizens band radio, or CB for short, was broadcasting a disturbing message through the crackling static.

"Attention all you brothers heading south, they’ve blocked the road up by the Allegheny River Valley. The big company rigs are all turnin’ around. The Association sent out a notice—no insurance payouts for that area."

A coarse voice complained over the channel.

"Dammit, it’s those Vampires again. Heard they’re working on some big project over in Pittsburgh, and now those sons of bitches have blocked the road just to jack up the freight rates."

"It’s not about the freight rates."

Another, deeper voice cut in.

"This is Old Jack. I’ve unloaded in the South District. It’s a project by Pittsburgh’s new mayor, Leo Wallace. He’s building a port, but the capitalists in Pittsburgh don’t want him to succeed, so they’ve stopped the railways and forced the truckers’ association to blacklist the construction site."

The channel went silent for a few seconds.

Then, the voice continued. "Frank Kovalsky, that stubborn old man from the Pittsburgh Steel Union, just put out a call on the brothers’ channel."

"Pittsburgh is in desperate need of steel and cement. The regular army’s quit, so now they need guerrillas."

"Double the pay, cash on delivery. You get the money as soon as you arrive."

"Most importantly..."

Old Jack’s voice paused.

"Frank said, this is a war."

"That young mayor in Pittsburgh is trying to claw back the rights that belong to us workers from the mouths of the capitalists, but he got outmaneuvered by those suits."

"And that Murphy guy, the one running for Senator, he’s on our side too."

"The situation’s clear now. If this construction site goes under, both of them are out on their asses. And all those promises Murphy made—about raising our pay and improving our benefits—that’ll all go up in smoke."

"If we don’t help that young mayor get this shipment in, we’ll go back to living like dogs, licking the boots of those big corporations. We’ll never get ahead in this life."

The radio crackled with static.

The message traveled on the radio waves, cutting through the curtain of rain and into every parking lot, every roadside diner, and every private garage in Pennsylvania.

...

In Erie City, in an old garage on the outskirts of town.

A dim yellow bulb swung overhead, illuminating the Peterbilt 379 parked in the corner.

The truck was ancient, its red paint peeling to reveal the bare metal underneath.

Harry lay under the truck, his face smeared with black grease.

He was wrestling with a rusted-shut bolt, wrench in hand, trying to plug a leak in the transmission.

He was sixty-five years old, with rheumatism in his knees and two steel pins in his spine.

The truck should have been scrapped, and he should have been retired.

He’d planned to fix it up one last time, sell it to a junkyard, and use the money to go soak up the sun in Florida.

From an old radio perched on a nearby toolbox, Old Jack’s voice drifted out.

"...this is a war. Morganfield is trying to starve out Pittsburgh..."

Harry slid out from under the truck, got to his feet with a groan, and wiped his hands on a filthy rag. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

He stared at the radio, his eyes vacant.

Morganfield.

The name pierced Harry’s mind, instantly throwing him back fifteen years.

Back then, he wasn’t just a driver; he was a small business owner with five brand-new Mack trucks and a few good men who depended on him for their livelihood.

He’d even made the down payment on a little house by the sea in Florida—the retirement he had promised his wife.

Then Morganfield came.

He bought the chairmanship of the logistics association, and then came a string of incomprehensible new regulations.

Things like a "Regional Transport Access Deposit" and a "Unified Emissions Upgrade Standard."

The standards were impossibly strict, designed to choke small fleets like Harry’s. To comply, you had to buy new trucks and pay a deposit of over a hundred thousand dollars.

Then came the freight rates, cut in half.

Morganfield’s fleet was willing to run at a loss, just to drive rates so low they didn’t even cover the cost of fuel.

Harry held on for three months, his hair turning half-white from the stress.

Finally, the bank came. They repossessed his trucks and foreclosed on his house, right in front of his wife.

He watched helplessly as his gleaming, well-maintained trucks were slapped with seizure notices and auctioned off for scrap metal prices to one of Morganfield’s logistics companies.

They were eating him alive, swallowing him whole without even spitting out the bones.

Harry went bankrupt. The fleet was gone, his wife didn’t make it through that winter, and in the end, all he had left was this old Peterbilt he’d salvaged from a junkyard.

He hated the big corporations. He hated the bastards in suits who sat in their offices and could destroy an honest man’s life’s work with just a few lines of paperwork.

"To hell with Florida," Harry muttered.

He walked to a corner of the garage, moved a stack of old tires, and pried a tin cookie box out of a crack in the floorboards.

Inside were rolls of cash, held together with rubber bands.

This was his retirement fund. His burial money.

Harry pulled out half of it and stuffed it in his pocket.

He climbed back into the cab and started the engine.

"ROAR—"

The old diesel engine gave a violent cough, belched out a thick plume of black smoke, and began to rumble.

"Alright, old girl, we’ve got one more run to make."

Harry patted the steering wheel.

"I know you’re leaking oil, and I know your brakes are shot, but we have to go this time."

’Some people say it’s a losing proposition,’ he thought.

Harry shifted into gear and stepped on the gas.

The massive front of the truck pulled out of the garage’s wooden doors and plunged into the rainy Erie night.

"I’ve lost plenty in this life. But this time, it’s about making a stand!"

He was going to the steel mill to pick up a load.

Even if the truck fell apart after this run, he had to get those tons of steel to Pittsburgh.

...

Scranton. Downstairs from a cheap apartment building.

Mike sat in his cab, the glow of his phone screen illuminating his young, weary face.

He was only twenty-eight, an independent truck driver.

His truck was a used Volvo he’d bought on loan, and every month he had a hefty payment to make.

The freight app on his phone was blinking.

It was showing several delivery orders for e-commerce platforms.

Light cargo, easy roads. The pay wasn’t great, but it was steady.

If he took the job, by tomorrow he’d have earned enough for a week’s worth of baby formula.

His newborn daughter was sleeping in the apartment upstairs, and his wife was already worrying about next month’s rent.

Just then, a call came over the truck’s radio.

"Headed to Pittsburgh, urgent need for high-grade cement. Heavy load, bad roads, big companies are on strike."

"This is a job for our own people. Mayor Leo in Pittsburgh wants to build a cooperative for local workers, but the local capitalists are trying to kill it."

"If you’ve got the balls, come on down. If not, go back to delivering your packages."

Mike’s finger hovered over the "Accept Job" button.

He hesitated.

Mike wasn’t from Pittsburgh, but he’d heard of Leo Wallace and John Murphy.

Mike had seen one of Murphy’s speeches on a TV at a rest stop.

The old man had been standing under a crane, talking about bringing jobs back to Pennsylvania, about giving workers their dignity back.

His words were exactly the same as what Mayor Leo had been saying.

Mike heard they were on the same team.

The young mayor had started something called a "workers’ cooperative."

It was a new concept. Supposedly, inside it, workers didn’t have to answer to a boss. They were shareholders themselves and even got dividends at the end of the year.

The first time Mike heard about it, something ignited in his heart.

He’d been hoping, praying that Leo and Murphy would win.

He hoped that this cooperative thing would make its way out of Pittsburgh, all the way to Scranton, all the way to his front door.

Maybe then, he wouldn’t have his blood sucked dry by these damn platform algorithms anymore.

But now, before the cooperative could even get off the ground in Pittsburgh, those greedy capitalists had made their move.

Logic told him going to Pittsburgh was a bad idea.

The road conditions were terrible, the cement was heavy, and it would be extremely hard on his truck.

Besides, it was the eye of the storm right now. He could easily get swept up in some serious trouble.

’Is it worth pissing off the logistics association for some so-called "future"?’

He looked up at the faintly lit window of the apartment above.

He thought of his father.

His father had been a coal miner in Scranton. After the mine closed, he turned to alcohol and died a depressed man.

Mike didn’t want to end up like his father.

But the line of work he was in now, while it seemed free, was just another form of slavery, trapped by algorithms.

The platforms lowered rates whenever they wanted, handed out fines whenever they wanted.

He had no dignity, no security.

He had been thinking that maybe he should vote for that Murphy guy in the upcoming Senatorial election.

After all, the Vice Governor from Philadelphia seemed too far removed from his life, while Murphy at least knew that a worker’s hands were calloused.

Now, Pittsburgh was in trouble.

If that plan failed, if Pittsburgh lost, if even people like Leo and Murphy were crushed by the combined power of the capitalists...

Then when his daughter grew up, would she have to be like him? Trapped by algorithms, with no way out, forever struggling just to make ends meet?

Mike didn’t want to see that happen.

He didn’t want Pittsburgh to lose.

"For my daughter," Mike whispered.

He closed the suffocating app on his phone, picked up his radio mic, and switched to the public channel.

"This is Mike. I’m in Scranton."

His voice was a little tight.

"I’ve got an empty rig. Tell me where the cement plant is. I’m heading over to load up."

He gritted his teeth.

’To hell with the packages, to hell with the algorithms.’

He was going to haul cement.

To make the city’s foundations a little stronger. To give his daughter a shot at a decent job someday.

...

On the highways of Pennsylvania.

The night was deep.

On the once-empty roads, scattered lights began to appear.

This was no orderly convoy from a major logistics company, with no matching paint jobs or bright logos.

This was a motley crew.

There were cab-overs on their last legs, custom-modified flatbeds, and even specialized logging trucks.

They came from the shores of Lake Erie, from the mountains of Scranton, from the farms of Bedford.

Like tiny streams, they converged, all flowing in the same direction.

The radio channels came alive.

"This is Broken Leg Joe, I’m on Route 76 with thirty tons of rebar. The cops tried to bust me for being overweight, so I had to take the back roads."

"Night Cat here. Comin’ over from the Ohio border. Heard Pittsburgh needs asphalt? I got a full load, fresh from the plant."

"Hey, brother up ahead, this is Harry. I think my radiator’s leaking a bit. If I break down, can someone give me a push?"

"Don’t you worry, there’s a dozen rigs back here! We’ll carry you to Pittsburgh if we have to!"

These independent drivers, who normally didn’t know each other—who might even get into a fistfight over a job at a truck stop—were now united, connected by the roar of anger on a single radio frequency.

They were the little guys, squeezed breathless by the big logistics corporations.

They were the gravel, crushed under the wheels of progress.

They were usually silent, forbearing, bowing and scraping just to survive.

But today, they raised their heads.

Their hands on their steering wheels were firmer than ever before.

Because they knew that this time, they weren’t just hauling freight.

They were hauling dignity.

They were giving a giant middle finger to the arrogant capitalists and to the business rules that valued profit over people.

These were the capillaries of the Rust Belt.

When the main arteries were severed by capital, these normally overlooked vessels began to throb wildly.

They were delivering oxygen, delivering blood, delivering the nutrients this dying industrial city needed most.