BACK ON THE ROAD

 

BACK ON THE ROAD

Fiction by strzeka (05/24)

Another trip with Jared and Chet, the two bilateral amputee truckers

featured in on the road again (Feb 2024)

 

Jared’s Kawasaki ate the miles. The flat landscape was as monotonous as ever but farmers would appreciate the vigorous growth of the young crop of corn. Jared had set his cruise control at fifty‑five, his worker’s hooks rested comfortably on the handlebar and a pleasant breeze penetrated his helmet. The traffic was sporadic, mostly contraflow semis hauling loads towards St Louis. If he had been in a truck, he would have gestured a greeting at the drivers. On his bike, it was wiser to keep both hooks firmly in front of him.

 

Ten weeks had passed since he and Chet had last seen each other. Jared’s article on the effect of new laws and regulations concerning haulage had been published in several lengths and had caused rising commotion in both political circles and publishing. Jared’s human approach and easy style encouraged reprints in a far wider range of newspapers and periodicals. He had been called a modern day Steinbeck, a commoner fighting for the rights of the common man against an overbearing legislation. It had been a huge surprise to discover the considerable percentage of physically disabled truckers who had personal concerns and worries beyond those imposed by the government. Jared had been toying with a few ideas with the intention of improving their lot but felt he understood too little about the everyday worries the profession encountered. His week long journey with Travis to California and back had been eye‑opening but not especially revealing.

 

Chet was alone this time. His sidekick freelanced between several drivers and was currently accompanying a double leg amputee driver on a long‑distance haul to Alaska. The driver’s semi was adapted to hand control and he drove without his below knee prosthetics for most of the day and it was the sidekick’s job to do the run‑around crossing the Canadian border and fetching a endless diet of cheeseburgers and coffee whenever the opportunity presented itself. Chet had read Jared’s article and heard it mentioned several times during meals in diners right across the country. He was hatching an idea which might interest Jared. It was probably too idealistic to be practical but Jared might have his own slant on it.

 

Having ridden for five hours, Jared paid closer attention to the GPS map on his phone. He had the street address and zip of the truck park where Chet was laid up and after explaining his business and giving Chet’s semi’s registration number to the truck park’s security guards, he was allowed in and circled in front of the many trucks parked up. Chet’s ancient cab stuck out like a sore thumb. Jared parked right in front of it, almost touching the rust‑speckled front fender, killed the engine, prised off his helmet and strode around to stare up at Chet, who had just finished a burger. He switched his stereo off and jumped down from the cab. They stared at each other for a few moments, taking in the changes in the other’s appearance. Jared’s dark beard rose high on his cheeks and darkened his neck, melding with his chest hair. Chet had allowed his sandy moustache to fill out. He brushed it to each side of his mouth and looked both untidy and impressive. He was training it, as best as he could with two hooks, to curl upwards. They both hugged, their artificial arms pointing in random directions.

            – It’s great to see you. Thanks for coming.

            – Good to see you too. A ride out here was just what I needed. A good reason to get out of the apartment.

            – Are you working on anything new?

            – Playing around with a few ideas. I’m sort of planning a piece about how small towns are being run down—you know, jobs disappearing, stores closing down, people moving away. What life is like for the people who can’t get out.

            – That sounds interesting. It would be a good follow‑up to On The Road Again.

            – Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. The only trouble is finding the burgs worst affected.

            – You should hitch a ride with a trucker. You’d see plenty of burgs where people are having to scratch out a living.

            – I guess so. Not a bad idea. Have you got a specific trucker in mind?

            – Ha! Jump in, Red. We’re going for a ride.

 

Chet hauled himself up into his worn driver’s seat, comfortable as a living room armchair. Jared walked his bike to the rear of the truck and joined Chet.

            – I thought we could go into town and have us some lunch.

            – Great idea. My treat.

The old semi rattled into life and Chet fired the engine, sending two parallel plumes of black exhaust into the still air. He drove slowly towards the exit and stopped to show his credentials to security.

            – Be back in a hour or so.

The guard saluted and the gate slid aside to allow passage. Chet worked through the gears, heaving on the steering wheel with both hooks and the truck gained speed on the straight road into the centre of Independence, Missouri. Chet knew of a restaurant on Lexington and parked up nearby on Walnut Street.

 

            – Where are you headed next, Chet? Anywhere interesting?

            – I been doing local runs for the past weeks. Seem to have gotten myself into a maze of short runs around the Midwest. Don’t often know where I’m gonna be on any given day but this Independence gig was sorted a coupla weeks ago. That’s why I gave you a call.

            – I’m glad you did. It’s good to see you again.

            – There’s another thing I’ve been thinking about and you’re the only person I could think of.

            – So what’s on your mind?

            – There’s been more attacks on single trucks. Few weeks ago, one of the crew was held up outside Tucson while the bandits emptied the trailer. Legless guy and he was pretty much helpless. They’d have taken the rig too, he reckons, but it’s all kitted out for hand operation and they couldn’t figure out how to work it.

            – That’s too bad. Is he OK now?

            – He’s OK. Bit shaken up and is battling with the insurance right now. But I was thinking that it would be real good if there was a way of letting other truckers know of risky routes in advance and maybe getting two or three trucks moving in convoy for better security across the desert.

            – Some sort of app, I guess. Feed in your route and schedule and location or whatever and see if other truckers turn up at a prearranged time.

            – Yeah, something like that. And then they all head off together keeping an eye out for each other. I reckon the amputee drivers would feel a lot better.

            – I guess so. So how do you want me to help?

            – You’re the only guy I know who knows how to use tech. I figured maybe you could make an app for us. Don’t have to be anything fancy.

 

Their server approached to enquire if everything was to their liking. Both men had ordered twelve ounce steaks, medium rare with French fries. The chef had sliced both steaks into a dozen pieces, as requested. It became finger food and the chef surreptitiously watched the two amputees manipulating their hooks to feed themselves without cutlery.

 

            – I don’t know, Chet. I’ve never made an app before. Maybe I could get AI to whip something into shape. Are you willing to try it out with me? I need someone to send test messages to, see?

            – Sure. Course I’ll help. And once we’ve got something working, I can show to other drivers and get their ideas.

            – That’s the way it works. Dev plus feedback. Tell you the truth, Chet. I need a break from thinking about my next story. It’ll be a welcome diversion.

 

As promised, Jared paid the bill. Chet left a generous tip. It was a good meal in good company. Chet drove them back to the truck park, where they continued chatting, touching often on the social repercussions of federal and local policies affecting the trucking industry.

            – It’s difficult to keep track of how the business is changing. The media never reports on matters which only impact on working folk. I’m sure I’d get better leads if I was closer to the subject.

            – If you want to do another tour like you did with Trapper, you only need to ask. You’re always welcome to accompany me for a ride west if you wanna meet other drivers. D’you ever hear from Travis these days?

            – Not really. He sometimes sends an email when he gets home to Kokomo but otherwise I never hear from him. We don’t keep in touch otherwise. But about joining you on a ride out west—I reckon I’d enjoy that. I could do some research for my article and find out what truckers think about your app before we start.

            – Great! Listen—I’m gonna look around for some long‑haul jobs outta the Midwest and as soon as I get something, I’ll let you know and you can come join me. How’s that sound?

            – It sounds great, Chet. Let’s do it.

 

Jared left Chet to resume his work at four o’clock. Chet had only to hitch his semi to a ready‑loaded trailer and haul it to Salina, Kansas. Then empty to Wichita and back to St Louis via Springfield. It would take a week. They agreed to meet again when Chet was back in town and Jared would join him on a long distance haul. Jared adjusted his hooks to align with his bike’s handlebar, forced his helmet onto his head and headed back home to St Louis. He opened a beer, fired up his laptop and began to type a detailed prompt for AI to digest. With luck, he would create an app for amputee truckers, letting them arrange convoys over the vast distances between the beating heart of America and the population centres on the coasts where customers lived.

 

Jared rarely used AI and had not tried to generate an app before. He was surprised by its simplicity. The AI itself made suggestions, some of them practical, some surreal or unnecessary. Jared wanted a system which outsiders could not access with ease. That way, bandits could not gain foreknowledge of convoys to lay in wait for a convoy piloted by amputee drivers, easily subdued with a little extra force. The AI gained access to the national commercial drivers’ licence register and suggested that only users who input a valid registry number should be granted permission to use the app. Jared thought it a good idea and prompted the addition of the disabled driver certificate number. It was as good an unbeatable combination as possible. After four hours work, Jared downloaded the first version as html and sent Chet a copy by email.

 

The app was simple enough. A driver could input his route and departure date and time. The app generated a code based on state name abbreviations and a three digit number. The coder could be displayed in the cab somehow so drivers for the same convoy could recognise each other. A tally of drivers would increment every time someone joined up for the relevant convoy. Settled in a Kansas City motel for the night, Chet played around with the app for a while. He thought highway numbers could be included for drivers who might join when the convoy was already under way. The app only provided information. It could not be used for communication. Chet wondered about the need for it. There were already enough communication channels available. He input his next prospective long distance route, from Missouri to California. The app shot back with MOCA 001. Maybe the app could generate its own display. Big white letters and numbers on a black background.

 

Chet typed a reply to Jared over breakfast the next morning with his suggestions. Jared generated a photo for the landing page showing a generic truck and trailer with the Stars and Stripes in the sky behind it. Boxes for the initial login were at the bottom of the screen followed by a warning that the ID had to be verified and might take a few minutes. The login system was as yet unactivated. The display generator worked perfectly. Jared imagined a trip from Florida to New York and got the code FLNY 011 in large Helvetica characters. Obviously Chet had been generating his own test codes. He sent Chet a copy of revision one and waited for further suggestions. He settled at his desk and continued researching sources for his article on rural economic decline until he realised that the app had no name. Let Chet come up with one! He sent a brief text and returned to the economy.

 

Chet was amused by Red’s request for a name. He rejected names which played on the idea of disability and a few which sounded like video games. It should be something memorable and short. The purpose of the app was not only to help drivers create convoys, it was also intended to wreck the likelihood of any bandit attacks succeeding. That was it! Wrecker! Or maybe it should be Wreckr. He thought it sounded macho enough and texted a one word message to Red.

 

Two days later, Jared submitted his work for approval to the app stores with a brief explanation of its purpose. He learned that a free app would have to feature advertising and a paid app would generate ten per cent for the hosting companies. He decided on an annual fee of four ninety‑nine and Wreckr 1.0 was available for download almost immediately. The next thing was to advertise it somehow, to let drivers know about it. He sent emails with links to the few drivers whose contact details he had, including Travis.

Chet parked in the giant truck park on the outskirts of St Louis. Red was already waiting for him, straddling his Kawasaki near the entrance to the diner, watching out especially for disabled drivers. He had printed fifty pages, each divided into quarters containing a brief description of how Wreckr worked and links to the app stores. Chet lowered himself from his cab and sauntered over. The decorative chrome chains dangling from his triceps cuffs caught the last of the afternoon sun, low on the horizon. He faced Red with a grin on his face, amused by Red’s old‑style marketing method.

            – How’s business?

            – Not too bad. Most people actually take it and read it. There ain’t any lying around on the forecourt either, so I guess that shows some kind of interest.

            – I think it’s brilliant. You just open it up and input your route and you can see immediately if there’s already a convoy forming or if you’re starting a new one. And you get the number so when you look around the truck park, you can see the trucks with the same number. It was a good idea to leave out the states, I reckon. Outsiders can’t guess the route that way. But enough of that. What do you want to do?

            – I thought I’d cook you a steak. I have a few beers on ice too. Interested?

            – You bet.

            – Jump on.

Chet glanced back at his truck, sure it was locked. He had paid for security until noon the next day. He and Red had the next eighteen hours together in the privacy of Red’s apartment. Red twisted his hooks into the driving position. Chet lifted himself onto the passenger seat and snuggled close to Red. He placed his beat‑up artificial arms around Red’s waist and squeezed tight as Red powered the machine into action and headed for the exit. Red could not feel much but Chet was leaning against Red’s back with his head askew, looking at a blur of passing evening traffic and admiring Red’s skilful mastery of the big bike.

 

Chet rarely spent time relaxing as someone’s guest in their home. It was a novelty and he gave it more significance than it deserved. Jared defrosted two steaks and grilled them with frozen French fries. It was as good a meal as any. Jared packed a bag with enough shirts and underwear to last a week or so, including two extra hooks and rubber bands. Chet watched and nodded his approval. You never knew what you were going to confront on the road. It was best to have a wide choice of tools for any job. He intended swapping out his left split hook next day for the large inert hook which Jared had given him. He preferred using it for driving long haul. It hooked firmly into the steering wheel adapter and stayed there effortlessly.

 

Chet insisted on helping to clear up the kitchen after their meal. Jared made a feeble protest.

            – Let me help. Many hands make light work, my grampa used to say.

            – Is he still around?

            – No. He passed years ago. Well before I got these.

He lifted his worn sockets to show what he had got. Jared grinned at him. Many hands. Yeah right. It occurred to Jared that they had both destroyed their hands around the same time. Chet had been an amputee only as long, give or take a few weeks, as Jared himself.

            – That’s a shame. What would he have said if he saw you now?

            – He’d prolly come out with some other old chestnut. Guess he’d be real sorry about me losing both hands.

Jared nodded. This was as good a time as any to discover more about each other’s experiences and attitudes towards their deliberate maiming.

            – How do you feel, Chet? Are you ever real sorry about losing ’em?

            – Gee, that’s a hard one, ain’t it? You know the frustration when you can’t open a bottle or a packet of snacks or when you have to do something which calls for your other set of hooks and have to spend ages trying to swap ’em over. That’s when you can lose your temper and get angry with yourself for being so blind even though you thought you could see your future as a man with hooks. But then you have days when everything turns out the way you want it. You’re have the right hooks, they do exactly what you need and maybe you have someone beside you lookin’ at them in amazement and you feel so goddamn proud of yourself. You look down at your sockets and all the paraphernalia, the straps and cables and hooks and think how beautiful they are and you fall in love with them all over again. That’s when it all feels worthwhile and makes sense all over again. You know that feeling?

            – I guess I do. You use your hooks much more than I do. I mean, you’re more reliant on having an operating pair of hooks than I am. All I do is sit over there at that table and type out my articles and stuff. Not very demanding. Not like you, driving your big truck around the country and fixing the loads, doin’ repairs on the road and that kind of heavy duty stuff. I mean, you can see from the state your sockets are in that they get some real heavy use.

            – What’s wrong with them? I reckon they look real pretty. Or they would be if I gave ’em a clean. But they’ve served me well for the past six years. They still fit real good and I like the way they’re so thick and heavy. They were only s’posed to be temporary. My learner pair, I guess. But when it was time for a pair of light carbon fibre arms like your’n, I said I’d prefer to keep these. I didn’t guess I’d still be wearin’ ’em all this time afterward. How about you, Red? Why d’ya ask? Are you ever sorry about havin’ hooks? I reckon you look real fine, a real city gentleman with a touch of the country boy about ya.

            – My hooks make me a country boy?

            – I reckon so, don’t you? Ya see a lot more guys with hooks on the farm than in downtown St Louis, that’s for sure.

            – Ha! I guess so. I’ve never considered it that way. It’s true. You’re more likely to see a guy like us somewhere away from the city. Maybe I am a country boy at heart.

            – Sure y’are. I’ve read your writin’. You set to carry on writin’ on the road, Red? Gonna bring ya laptop?

            – I think I will this time. I was relying on my camera last time when I was with Travis. It would have been easier if I’d had my laptop with me. Let’s see how it goes. Tell me about the route, Chet. Where we goin’?

            – We’re off to Californy, Red. City of Angels. They have a burnin’ need for some healthy home‑grown literature printed right here in St Louis. We’re haulin’ three tons of books to a warehouse, then drivin’ to the other side of town to pick up another trailer full of bathroom fittings for the good people of Seattle after their little earthquake. Rebuildin’ in style.

            – Are the roads open already?

            – The one I’m drivin’ is open. It’s only single lane for ten miles though.

            – How does that work if there’s no passing?

            – Half an hour traffic north‑south, half and hour south‑north. Simple.

            – They really got hit hard, didn’t they?

            – Sure but it weren’t the big one they’d been predictin’. They still have that to look forward to. Same for Vancouver but we won’t be goin’ that far.

            – It must be dangerous on the roads in the north west right now.

            – Guess so. That’s why your Wreckr’ll be a real boost if it catches on.

            – Thanks, Chet, but it’s as much yours as mine. It wouldn’t have worked without your ideas.

 

Talk continued after the kitchen was spotless and the men relaxed in Red’s small but comfortable living room. He had good furniture. The seats were broad and wide, comfortable to curl up on. The men gradually opened up about their pasts and revealed anecdotes intended only for the closest of friends. It was an enjoyable evening and both men were grateful to have an intelligent companion. They finally decided to call it a night. Chet insisted on sleeping on the couch. Both men would shower in the morning and stroll the kilometre or so back to the truck park before it got busy.

 

They slept well. Jared had been prepared to make room for Chet in his bed but Chet had been adamant that the couch was fine and Jared did not want to press the point. They had not spoken about their sexuality. Jared assumed Chet was straight. He himself was as asexual as it was possible to be. He was aroused only by seeing stumps and prosthetic limbs in connection with the usual erotica. He had learned to suppress his homosexual desires and lost any desire to feel a man’s stubble and run his fingers through thick black chest hair before gripping an insistent penis in his hands, ready to obey his partner’s wishes and demands. His arm stumps were not up to the job and he gradually lost interest in physical sex. He still loved to see men overcoming amputations and their prosthetic limbs, especially, naturally enough, men like himself relearning to live without hands.

 

Chet awoke first and walked naked around the apartment with morning wood, looking at the collection of personal items Red had on display. He read the titles on books standing on the set of shelves dominating one wall and would have pried one or two out for closer examination except for his lack of hands. Chet’s stumps were little more than a third of his former forearms. He heard a sound from Red’s bedroom. The man was awake. Chet stood frozen to the spot, like a thief caught in a torch beam although he had been doing nothing wrong. He was acutely conscious of his erection but could not reach it to cover it. But neither could Red, who appeared moments later similarly encumbered, naked.

            – Ah! I didn’t know you were up. I have to piss, sorry.

Red kicked the bathroom door halfway closed and sat on the wc seat. He called out.

            – Do you wanna shower with me?

Chet ran a stump across his eyes and mouth.

            – Sure!

Jared enjoyed the luxury of a large shower stall. The plumbing had been adapted for his use. Chet stepped in carefully beside him, unsure of his footing. He placed his stumps on Jared’s waist for support. Warm water rained down.

            – Hold on and I’ll wash your face. Lift your stumps.

Jared squirted soap from a plastic bottle and lathered Chet’s armpits with his stumps. Then across his chest and down to his genitals. Without asking, Jared bent over far enough to reach Chet’s cock and balls and kneaded them carefully with more soap.

            – OK, my turn.

Chet returned the favour and used his shorter stumps to clean Jared. He was much closer to Red’s cock and balls. They were a fine set, a nicely proportioned penis. Chet wondered if Red actually used it for anything. He had been ready for some physical contact the previous evening but the subject had not arisen. Since his maiming, his sex life had more or less ended. He enjoyed gay sex with a gentle man, someone who could find pleasure in the caress of a short arm stump instead of the power of a masculine hand. Jared turned the shower off and stepped out, reaching for a clean bath towel for Chet.

            – Do you want coffee before we leave? I thought we could buy some breakfast at a diner.

            – Coffee would be grand. Let me help.

            – OK.

They both dressed as far as they could without donning their hooks. Jared intended wearing his western clothes again, including the handsome white cowboy hat Travis had bought him. He had bought a less conspicuous pair of western boots, burgundy brown with square toes and medium heels which he occasionally wore at home. White T‑shirts on, both donned their artificial arms and continued dressing, hooking onto belt loops in their jeans to pull them up and shoving their prostheses into the short sleeves of plaid western shirts. Jared made two mugs of strong mocca and combed his full beard before it dried into an untidy frizz.

 

Everything was ready. Jared made sure his apartment was locked securely and the two men ambled along the cool dusty streets towards the truck park, a twenty minute walk. They both ordered subs with chicken and looked around for some indication of Wreckr in use. Nothing. Chet tapped St Louis Los Angeles and the date and departure time into the app and discovered to his and Red’s surprise that the route had already been allocated. MOCA 027. The departure time was half an hour later than Chet had planned but it would make no difference. They could wait for a partner, but who was it? Chet accepted the allocation and the count of vehicles in the convoy jumped to two. Jared took out his notebook and wrote the number with a fat felt‑tip pen which fitted his hook. He held his notebook up to display the number.

            – Hey guys! Who’s on route 027?

Truckers interrupted their breakfasts to stare at the guy calling out. Handsome guy in a white stetson and jeebus! He had two hooks. Someone from the far end of the diner next to the window called back.

            – Over here! I’m headed for Anaheim.

Jared and Chet strolled over with their subs to introduce themselves. Other truckers returned to their food, keeping an eye on what was going on. Jared thought he recognised 027 from somewhere but could not remember where or why. The man was tall and muscular. A pair of long aluminium crutches rested against his seat.

            – We found you on Wreckr. Looks like there’s only us two right now.

            – We might pick up a few more on the way. Everyone’s talking about this app and tryin’ it out.

            – Really? That’s great. I can see one problem with it, though. How people in the same convoy can recognise each other.

            – I don’t reckon that’s such a problem. If the app says the departure time, that’s when everyone leaves. You can soon enough work out who’s drivin’ with ya.

            – True enough, I guess. I still think we should come up with a way of recognising each other.

            – Some kind of a badge, you mean?

            – That would be one way of doing it. Shall have to think about it.

            – Why’s it your problem?

            – Oh! I developed Wreckr. I invented it. Well, me and Chet here.

            – Doggone! Well, I’m mighty proud to meet yas. I’m Larry. Legless Larry. And I’m just about ready. I suggest if you’re set, we head on out.

            – Sure. Let’s go.

 

Legless Larry lifted his prosthetic leg into the gangway and reached for his crutches. With a hefty push, he rose and simultaneously kicked his stump to lock his leg. He leaned against both crutches and balanced himself before carefully transferring his weight onto them. Jared and Chet moved back to give him room and Jared remembered where he had seen the man before. Travis had called attention to him in a diner somewhere as he departed. Larry lifted himself into motion and his artificial leg emitted the same squeaks and creaks they had heard before when he crutched past. True to his name, Larry was legless. The prosthesis was attached to a stump two thirds the length of his left thigh. His right leg had been disarticulated from the pelvis leaving him without even a short stump. Standing six foot three on a single artificial leg, he was a commanding sight, admired for his tenacity and popular because of his humour and intelligence. He had been a physics teacher until he discovered that driving a truck would earn him twice as much. A year into his new profession, he had lost his legs in a pile‑up in fog but was back on the road in a new adapted rig paid for by insurance on a short peg leg and crutches. As soon as his stump was robust enough, he had a flesh‑coloured artificial leg made with traditional mechanical fittings and had it serviced twice a year. He had worn the same leg now for over ten years and it both showed and sounded its age. Larry creaked across the forecourt to his truck, already hitched to a trailer.

 

            – We have to go by the printing house to collect our load. It won’t take long. Whyn’t ya leave now without waiting for us and we’ll catch up after a few miles.

            – Sounds good. I’ll wait here for ten minutes. I have a coupla emails to see to first. I’ll see you on the road.

 

Larry threw his crutches into his cab and hauled himself up with his arms. Jared and Chet continued along the row of trucks, reduced in number as drivers started their day. Chet made a brief inspection of his rig, checked fuel and oil levels and eased the old truck towards the exit. The route to the printing house was familiar enough. It was a fairly regular run for him. Chet checked his paperwork with the customer and signed off on his load. He reversed his rig slowly to connect with the trailer, manually adjusted the air line and checked the locking mechanism. Everything appeared in order and the long haul across to California could begin.

 

Larry had a custom‑made seat to accommodate his empty right pelvis. He was equally comfortable wearing his prosthetic leg or baring his stump. This early in the morning, less than two hours after donning it, there was little point in removing it. It rested on its heel on the cab floor, which was totally bereft of foot pedals. He drove using hand controls on a console in the middle of his steering wheel. Everything was electronic and automated as far as possible. The rig was eight years old, could haul seventeen tonnes over Donner Pass and was the apple of Larry’s eye. He kept its metallic blue bodywork gleaming and the extensive chrome was always spotless. Five magnum led headlights across the top of the cabin could throw enough light to illuminate not only the road ahead but also the immediate vicinity on both sides for over a hundred metres. Out of his line of sight, a sheet of foolscap bearing the number 027 was taped to the inside windscreen.

 

Larry left his radio on. Chet and Red were sending progress reports every few minutes. Passing through Junction City, Chet announced he was three miles away, closing in fast. Larry dropped his speed from fifty to forty.

 

Chet caught sight of Larry’s trailer with its big green and yellow logo ten minutes later. Cars overtook them on their left, taking advantage of new speed restrictions which allowed self‑driven autos to maintain ninety on rural highways. Traffic was sparse on the two lane highway this far from town. Farmland gradually metamorphosed into scrub as the elevation continually increased. Far in the distance, Larry spotted a white pick‑up truck making its way towards the road. He thought nothing of it until it pulled onto the road, blocking it. Someone in trouble? No. It looked like a hijack. Larry stopped and called Chet on the radio.

            – Looks like we got ourselves some trouble up ahead. There’s a pickup just parked up across the road. Reckon they saw me comin’.

            – Jesus! How close are they?

            – Quarter mile, I guess.

            – Wait for us to get there. If we run together in parallel, d’ya reckon they might clear the road if they see two of us?           

            – It’s worth a try. There’s no way I wanna try turning back.

 

Chet stopped his rig next to Larry, blocking the outside lane. Jared wound his window down and the drivers considered their options. The hijackers had no reason to believe that the two rigs now clearly visible were piloted by disabled drivers who would be at a severe disadvantage if attacked with any force. Neither truck carried firearms, although Larry had a taser and pepper spray, neither of which he wanted to use in his cab. Chet and Jared had nothing more than their hooks, which they knew could inflict the same damage as a pair of knuckledusters in a physical fight.

            – Are you ready to try? I suggest we get enough speed up to make it obvious we ain’t stoppin’. They either get off the road or they get bulldozed. What d’ya reckon?

            – Worth a try. Forty should be enough, right? Any more than that and we’ll be in trouble ourselves. Strap yourself in, Larry. This might get hairy.

            – Will do.

On Larry’s signal, both rigs lurched forward and accelerated towards the pick‑up truck blocking their path. Chet deliberately sent two plumes of black smoke billowing from his exhausts as a signal that they were not slowing. The four hijackers in the pickup had not expected to deal with two trucks, nor had they expected to be challenged. They argued frantically among themselves and pulled and pushed the driver, preventing him from gripping the steering wheel. He stretched himself and floored the accelerator, uselessly spinning the wheels. They suddenly gripped the asphalt and the pick‑up shot forward, clipped by Chet’s chunky front fender causing the pick‑up to roll onto its roof and come to a dusty stop in a gully.

 

            – Well, looks like we cleared that one. You guys wanna stop for a coffee at the next diner?

            – Sure. You OK?

            – Reckon so. Thanks to you guys.

 

Miss Lizzy’s Diner was an hour down the road. Chet was following Larry three hundred yards behind and saw his left indicator flashing in the enclosing dusk. They had been driving for eleven hours and it was time for a meal and a spell outside the cabs. They pulled in and parked up next to each other well away from the front of the diner. Jared recognised the name but was unsure whether it was the same place he had visited with Travis or another version of the same chain. Chet was busy reversing, changing gears and swinging the steering wheel with his enormous hook. He cut the engine and they sat for a moment, appreciating the sudden silence and their luck in avoiding trouble an hour or so before. Larry extended his artificial leg from his cabin and lowered himself carefully to the ground. He reached back to collect his crutches and the two handless truckers jumped out to join him. They were watched by other truckers caught by the oncoming evening, sorry not to have made it further but grateful to be in a warm friendly place with other men in a similar situation. Two amputee customers, both wearing artificial legs, took in the one‑legged man swinging his way towards them, accompanied by two strangers, who, by god, both had steel hooks. What had Legless Larry got himself into this time?

 

The trio enter Miss Lizzy’s and savoured the hearty smell of a busy diner. Coffee and bacon and men. Chet disengaged his big hook from the door as Larry passed him, calling out to familiar faces. Jared soaked in the welcoming atmosphere, surprised by the immediate camaraderie. Being a stranger himself, he was the centre of attention. Chet was familiar to many, raising a hook to greet men grinning at him. They turned their attention to his white‑hatted companion, kitted out with the same kind of hooks. Who was he? Some guy hitching on the road? They would find out.

 

Jared was keen to spread the word about Wreckr, especially as it had been instrumental in preventing a hijacking earlier in the day. He decided to play it cool. It was inevitable that a few of Chet’s colleagues would stop by their table to shoot the breeze. He could mention it then. With luck, word would get around. He had expected it to be slow‑going at the beginning, and it was.

 

Larry turned out to be their best proponent. As familiar faces stopped to catch up on news, he mentioned the afternoon’s threat and how he and Chet had dealt with it. And they were only together because of the new Wreckr app. Larry good‑naturedly insisted his trucker friends download it before they left the diner. Jared was pleased to see that his GPS tracking modification was working. Convoy 027 was marked on the map at Miss Lizzy’s location and the count had risen to three. One of the truckers present had decided to join them westward. Jared asked the others what time they might be moving out in the morning and carefully tapped seven thirty into the departure field. He used both hooks to widen the map and was pleased to see fifteen other convoys highlighted with their code numbers heading both in their direction and eastbound to Chicago and New York. St Louis had three convoys set for departure next morning. It was what Jared had hoped to see and, rather than pride, he felt a sense of accomplishment and burgeoning entry to a new community.

 

The two trucks were parked parallel to each other off to one side of Miss Lizzy’s. After spending too long inside, they returned to their cabs after ten and began to settle for the night and an early awakening. Chet’s cab was smaller than what Jared had become used to with Travis. Chet had a narrow bunk behind the front seats which he used when there was no motel room available. Jared settled himself into the front passenger seat and slept sitting up for six hours.

 

Legless Larry knocked on their cab door soon after six. Jared peered out to see him grinning up at him, accompanied by a stranger a few years older leaning on a cane. Jared glanced around at Chet to see if he had been disturbed and used both stumps to open the door.

            – Morning. Did you sleep there all night?

            – Yeah. Good morning.

            – Time to get up. I found our new addition to the convoy, or more accurately, he found me.

            – Yeah. I saw the convoy number on Larry’s windscreen and kept an eye on the cab until he got up. Thought I’d introduce myself. Mike Hackman, trucker, bound for Santa Fe. Thought I might join you after hearing about the hijack yesterday.

            – Good to meet you. Were you on the Wreckr app?

            – Yeah, I was. It’s real neat. Should have been done years ago.

Chet’s voice came from the rear of the cab.

            – Who’re ya talkin’ to? Ah, is it mornin’ already? Whassa time?

            – Ten past six. Larry’s come to take us to breakfast. And he has company.

Chet scrabbled on the floor to find his hooks before making an appearance. He struggled to don his equipment in the meagre space and squeezed into the front of the cab, where he sat in the driver’s seat wearing only his shorts. He could see Larry and Mike standing outside and raised a hook in greeting.

            – Give me five minutes to get decent and I’ll join you for breakfast. Red, whyn’t ya go on ahead?

            – OK. See you in a bit.

Jared pushed his feet into his western boots and jumped out of the cab. The three men left Chet to dress and visit the john.

 

He joined them when they were halfway through their bacon and eggs. Mike held out a hand to shake Chet’s hook.

            – You don’t often see two hook users together. You a team, or what?

            – Just friends. I write for a living and I thought I’d catch a ride with Chet to see a few things which might give me some ideas.

            – To get inspiration, like? I getcha. You wouldn’t be writin’ about limbless truckers, by any chance? I reckon us four could give you a few ideas.

            – Are you an amp too, Mike?

            – Sure am. Right leg, above the knee. Car wreck twenty years ago. Don’t let it slow me down none.

Mike’s truncated sentences explained everything. He had distilled his amputation story into a few words after hundreds of retellings. Jared was inevitably reminded of Travis who sported the same configuration.

            – You don’t happen to drive long‑distance with your leg off, do you?

            – You betcha. I always drive wearin’ these cut‑off jeans to get some air on my stump.

Jared glanced under the table to see what Mike meant. His meat leg was in a full‑length jeans leg, his steel prosthesis fully visible with the frayed jeans leg ripped off at the knee. He was wearing a scuffed pair of Timberlands.

            – I’ll kick the leg off soon as we get goin’.

Chet’s meal arrived and he manipulated a fork from one hook to the other until he could use it. Mike watched him with interest. He had naturally enough met many arm amputees on the road over the years but they had always been one‑armed men, usually with a bare stump. It was unusual to meet a trucker with two artificial arms, even more so seeing this pair with their different sockets. The older guy’s sockets looked real beat‑up, scratched and half‑covered in torn stickers. The young guy’s sockets were black, the same stuff as his own thigh socket. Mike looked away, grateful to have only lost a leg. He did not believe he would have recovered from losing even one hand.

 

Half an hour later, their three trucks roared into motion, one after the other. Mike led, then Chet and finally Larry. The road ahead was empty and promised an easy run as far as the California state line. But there were dangers. The presence of two other rigs provided considerable peace of mind to all three drivers. Jared opened his phone to check on Wreckr. It was difficult to operate the screen with a single hook. Jared was gratified to see one or two new convoys and that the system which he had coaxed artificial intelligence into coding was working reliably.

 

They rolled steadily west, rising into the foothills of the Rockies in late afternoon, slowing to negotiate roads which could be treacherous even in good weather. Mike chose a route through New Mexico, knowing a secure truck park in Albuquerque where they could rest up for the night after a decent dinner. There were no further threats on this leg of the trip, although any parked vehicles ahead by the side of the road caused additional concern. They had usually turned out to be camper vans parked near impromptu trailer parks within easy driving distance of a small burg. Sky‑high rents drove more and more city dwellers to abandon urban life for simpler, cheaper ways of living on the outskirts and beyond. Jared noticed the new phenomenon of well‑kept commuter cars parked up under solar panels to recharge beside weather‑beaten trailer homes. They were a sign that a new kind of population was emerging with far‑reaching social implications.

 

Mike announced his plan to lay up in Albuquerque to Chet and Larry, who agreed fully. They had skipped lunch in order to make good time and everyone was weary and hungry. The rigs backed slowly into a suitable corner of the truck park within easy walking distance of the washroom and diner. Several minutes passed while Mike and Larry donned their artificial legs in their cabs. Larry found donning his long prosthesis sufficiently awkward in the cramped space available that, not wanting to further delay the others, he reached back and retrieved his stubby and a pair of short crutches from a storage space under his bunk. The black carbon stubby slid easily onto his stump. Larry closed the vacuum valve and lowered himself to the ground. Six inches of black carbon poked out of his shorts. He checked his crutches for length and stumped across to the diner where his colleagues waited for him. He was an odd sight. Jared was as intrigued by the short figure swinging a single cylindrical peg leg as the latter had been at breakfast by his and Chet’s bilateral hooks. Jared was proud to be associated with such indefatigable men who went about their daily business in the most unusual of circumstances. Chet had swapped his worker’s hook for the big inert hook before they set off in the morning and was still wearing it. Its unconventional appearance attracted attention which Chet found gratifying. The big hook was his most conspicuous attribute and almost completely useless at dinner.

 

The four men found a recently vacated empty booth strewn with used crockery and settled themselves. Larry lifted himself, seeking a comfortable position for his carbon‑clad stump. He found it difficult to balance without his prosthetic leg when seated. A server appeared and apologised for the mess on the table. He was a fresh‑faced teenager, probably earning a few dollars after school. He piled the plates up and hurried to the kitchen with a promise to fetch the menu on his return. He handed one of the laminated menus to each man and was startled to see that both the younger men had hooks. They were his most reliable turn‑on. His penis sprang into immediate action and tented in his left pants leg. Fortunately his apron hid it. He felt weak, like just before an orgasm. He had never seen a man wearing two hooks before. Now there were two of them. He wanted to stand and stare at them, watching how the hooks opened and closed and how the horny artificial arms moved. He waited for the men to decide on what to order and noticed the huge steel hook on Chet’s left arm. It looked amazing. With a sudden grunt of surprise, he came in his pants and turned away in embarrassment. All four customers looked up at him, knowing well enough what had just happened and amused by the kid’s discomfort. The server made a commendable effort to regain his composure and smiled wanly at the tabletop, not daring to meet anyone’s eyes. Chet broke the silence.

            – Was it our hooks?

The server glanced at the man’s smirk and dropped his eyes. He nodded helplessly.

            – Thought so. It’s OK. Go and see to yourself while we make up our minds.

 

The boy almost curtsied and hurried off to swab the cum from his pants. The four men roared with laughter. Another server took their orders and brought their food. The handsome devotee appeared again after a short interval but stayed on the other side of the diner. He wanted to see the arm amputees again and stare at their hooks while they ate their steaks, fantasising about how it would feel if he had hooks too. Putting artificial arms on over his arm stumps every morning and going about his life wearing steel hooks in place of his hands. Studying, skateboarding, cycling. The image of the guy with the big steel hook was burned into his imagination forever.

 

Jared briefly considered touring the diner from table to table to advertise Wreckr but decided against it after first checking the app and seeing more new convoys marked on the map view than he had expected. It seemed that word was getting out some other way, probably by drivers telling each other and demonstrating the app on their own phones. It was great that there was a demand. He might never get rich from the downloads but it was gratifying to contribute to the safety of men like those with whom he now shared a table. Men like himself. It was warm in the diner and he had been wearing his prostheses for fourteen hours. His stumps were sweaty and his liners probably stank. It was one of the inevitable consequences of using hooks. He needed someone to wash his liners for him, although he could manage to wash his stumps easily enough. Maybe the handsome server who had cum in his pants might like to help. Jared looked around for him and saw him exiting the kitchen carrying two plates. The boy looked over at their table as he did every time he faced in that direction. Jared raised a hook and beckoned him over.

 

            – Hi! Listen, I need some help with something and I was wondering if you could take a break for ten minutes or so. I don’t know who else I could ask.

The boy was equally confused and intrigued.

            – OK. I’ll have to tell my super. Can you wait a coupla minutes?

            – Sure. No rush. Tell the super the customer specifically asked for you, OK?

The boy nodded and went back towards the kitchen.

            – Time we got some shut‑eye, I reckon. Red, come over to the truck when you’ve done your laundry.

            – Ha! OK, I’ll see you there.

The boy returned with a determined smile on his face. Jared stood with him while Chet left swinging the large heavy hook and Mike slid out revealing his cut‑off jeans and prosthetic leg. The boy’s eyes widened and he tried to avert his gaze. He had already embarrassed himself once. Larry grabbed his short crutches and used the tabletop to reach the edge of the seat, swinging his short fat peg leg around and lowering himself onto it. The boy’s jaw dropped as Larry hooked the crutches into his armpits and stumped along the gangway to the door, where Mike stood waiting for the legless colleague. Jared was impressed by the boy’s restraint, although he noticed that he was trembling.

            – I don’t know your name. I’m Jared.

            – Ah, I’m Jack Weissman. Jack.

            – Nice to meet you. Well Jack, the problem is this. The liners on my stumps need washing and I can’t do it myself so I wondered if you’d be interested in helping me with it. We need to go to the men’s room, I guess.

            – OK, sure. Er, this way.

 

Jared followed Jack to the men’s washroom and checked to see if there were facilities sufficient to wash a pair of liners. There were. A choice of paper towels and a hot air dryer. Hooks on the wall.

            – This’ll do fine. Do you want to help? Take my shirt off first.

Jack faced Jared and undid the buttons on the front of Jared’s short‑sleeved shirt. Jared turned and allowed Jack to remove the shirt from the artificial arms. He hung it up.

            – Next come the hooks. Have you ever seen a pair of hooks before, Jack?

            – Er, no. Not close to like this.

            – How do you like them?

            – Ah, they look fine.

            – They look more than fine, I reckon. You really like them, don’t you? It’s OK. I understand. Take a good look. You can touch them if you want. Go ahead!

Jared’s tone was calm and honest. He was providing an opportunity for Jack to acquaint himself with the prosthetic equipment which the boy obviously fetishised. Jared knew the mindset only too well. He lifted his hooks for Jack’s inspection.

            – You know how these work, don’t you? You can see how the cables are attached to the ring on the harness. I just need to shrug my shoulder, like this, and the hook opens. I’m lucky because I still have my elbows otherwise life would be a lot more difficult.

 

Jack took Jared’s hooks into his hands and felt their curved surfaces between his fingers. Jared opened them so Jack could feel the rubberised inner surfaces.

            – Mind your fingers. I’m closing my hooks.

Jack groaned again. What wonderful words! I’m closing my hooks. If only…

            – OK. Now I want you to grab hold of the ring on my back and lift it up slowly over my head, OK?

Jack nodded and did as asked. Jared raised his prostheses and the ring came over his head with the harness drooping over his chest.

            – Now all you need to do is hold onto my sockets and pull until the hooks come off. It’s alright. You can’t break them.

Jack grasped both sockets and pulled gently and then more forcefully. The sockets slid over Jared’s stumps until Jack was left holding two artificial arms.

            – Hang them up with my shirt, will you? Next we have to get my liners off. You need to roll the top edge forward and then roll the liner off. Do you know what I mean?

            – Yeah. I’ve seen this on YouTube.

Jack placed both liners into a wash basin.

            – Now if you could use some soap and hot water to clean the liners inside and out. That’s the bit I can’t do with my stumps. How do you like my stumps, by the way?

Jared held his stumps out and twisted them back and forth. Jack looked at them enviously.

 

            – They’re… beautiful.

            – I think so too. I’m guessing you’d like a pair too. Am I right?

Jack looked guilty. His fetish was no secret anymore but this stranger, this kind man seemed to understand.

            – It’s OK if you do. Like I said, I understand. I’m pleased with the way my stumps turned out. They’re long enough to be useful for using my hooks and short enough to make me disabled when I’m not wearing them. I get to choose. Disabled or not.

            – Did you want to be disabled?

            – What are you asking, Jack? Do you want to know if I wanted my hands off?

Jack was uncertain how to answer, not wishing to cause offence. He looked Jared straight in the eyes for the first time, man to man, and held his gaze while he composed his thoughts.

            – I think your stumps are great. They’re beautiful. I’ve always wanted to have hooks of my own. I think I’d do anything if I could have my own hooks. I’m sorry. You must think I’m mad.

            – No need to be sorry, Jack. I know what you mean. That’s how I felt too.

            – Really? You mean you wanted hooks?

            – Yup!

            – God! So how did you get them? Oh, please tell me! Honest, I’ll do anything.

            – I’m not sure I should. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. How are those liners? Are they clean?

            – I think so.

            – Yeah. Dry ’em with a paper towel but don’t rub ’em.

            – OK.

 

Jared wondered whether to tell Jack about freezing his hands to destroy them in favour of hooks. The aftermath of his maiming was still raw in his mind. The hatred and threats he had got after his amputations became known publicly were more traumatic than the maiming itself. Jack dabbed at each liner, inside and out. Jared decided not to don them again this evening. He could wear his arms without liners for a couple of hours.

            – Thanks, Jack. You’ve been a great help. Would you like to wash my stumps too? Or see how I wash them?

            – I’d like to see how you wash them.

            – OK. Stand back. This usually gets messy.

Jared knocked at the faucet until a modest stream of water ran out. He allowed liquid soap to dribble onto his left stump and rubbed his stumps together, using the tips to lather further up his arms. Jack watched, fascinated by the truncated arms. Jared rinsed them of soap and asked Jack to pat them dry with towels again.

            – If I tell you how I got my stumps, do you promise not to try yourself without having someone else’s help?

            – Ah, OK. I promise.

            – Good. I believe you. It’s too dangerous to try without someone being there to call for help if something goes wrong. You might pass out from pain or get too cold. See, I froze my hands in dry ice. I waited until my hands and wrists were frozen solid and then I went to the hospital with two blocks of ice. There was nothing the surgeon could do except amputate.

Jared lifted his stumps again to show Jack the results.

            – Can you hold the sockets for me? I want my hooks now.

            – How long did it take?

            – About seven hours. There was more tissue damage than I expected so my stumps are a bit shorter than what I planned but it’s alright. They’re long enough to use hooks with. And that’s the main thing for me. Hooks instead of hands. That’s what I wanted. I wasn’t really as interested in the stumps.

            – That’s what I want to do. I want a pair of hooks like yours. I want stumps like yours. They’re really cool.

            – Look, Jack. It’s a life‑changing event. You’d be an invalid, disabled for the rest of your life and helpless without artificial arms. Oh, you might be able to use your bare stumps for a few things but they’re not really very useful. Is that what you want?

            – Yes! More than anything. Honest to god. I’ll do anything.

            – OK. We’ll have to keep this secret from everyone. I don’t want word to get out. I’ll help you if you decide to go ahead with it but it won’t be soon. I want you to finish school first and then we’ll see what the future holds.

            – Really? Do you mean it?

            – Yes. I really mean it. I know how much you like the idea of being an amputee—you remember what happened earlier when you saw our hooks when you came for our orders, right?

            – Yeah. I’m sorry.

            – Don’t be. When you have your own hooks, you’ll gradually stop having enormous hard‑ons every time you see them. It’s quite a relief, let me tell you. You’d better give me your phone number so we can keep in touch. I don’t know when I’ll be in Albuquerque again.

Jack sent a message to Jared’s phone number, which he dictated. Jared replied, revealing his number in turn.

            – Right. Thanks for your help, Jack. You’d better get back to work now. Remember what I said about trying by yourself. Don’t do it.

            – No, I won’t. If you help me, I promise to wait.

            – Good. Come on. Let’s go.

 

Jack Weissman returned to work in a vastly improved mood. He had been forgiven for cumming in his pants and reassured that it was quite understandable. And one of the truckers had promised to help him get stumps of his own as soon as he graduated. That was next summer. He imagined himself serving customers in the diner using a pair of steel hooks and felt yet another erection starting. Jared joined Chet in the old truck and resigned himself to sleeping another night sitting upright in the passenger seat.

 

Jared looked around for Jack the next morning at breakfast but he was nowhere to be seen. He had given some thought to the enormity of helping someone mutilate themselves. It would probably lead to criminal prosecution if the secret ever got out. He thought back to his own freezing process, trying to remember if any of the medical team had shown any interest in discovering the reason for Jared’s injuries. He did not believe anyone had. He was relieved and satisfied with the way his arms had been reconfigured. As he had mentioned to Jack, he had not been so concerned about the final shape of his stumps. The main point of the exercise was to provide the opportunity to wear hooks. Jared could also remember the erotic feelings he experienced with his boyfriend after he returned from the hospital boasting two stumps. Then everything had fallen apart and he had to escape back to his mother’s home in Wyoming. Jared was determined not to allow anything similar to happen to Jack, whom he felt was very much a kindred spirit sharing the same urge to acquire artificial arms and become a successful bilateral amputee. Although he had warned Jack about the severity of his potential maiming, Jared personally disregarded labels such as disabled, crippled, disfigured. Even buck naked, he liked the symmetry of his body and his stumps.

 

The journey west continued. Mike left the convoy first, wishing his travelling companions good luck. Larry turned off for Anaheim an hour later, leaving Chet and Jared to brave the late afternoon Los Angeles traffic. They had not succeeded in making their destination that day and would lay up overnight in a secure truck park, actually the same one where Jared had spent a night in Travis’s company. It was where Travis had insisted that Jared wear the heavy pair of worker’s hooks which they had bought in Anaheim. Jared rarely used them, preferring the smaller and lighter standard hooks which he had become completely familiar with. Despite that, he had brought them with him on this trip in case he needed a manly grip.

 

They enjoyed another steak and fries in the diner, washed down with a couple of beers. Chet had replaced his large driving hook with a standard one and felt like he had regained the use of his arm. Both of them opened Wreckr to see the current situation. There were convoy markers on both coasts but none where they currently sat. They were too weary to circulate, socialising and persuading other truckers to download the app. Despite that, Chet initiated a new northbound convoy, number 221, for the next day and estimated that it might join Highway 210 East in Pasadena at midday.

            – We ought to work out a way for trucks in the convoys to let other drivers know they’re on the same route. You know, something like a destination board front and back like on a bus. Something you could see at a distance on the road.

            – I know. I’ve been thinking about that too. But that would cost money and anything on the back of a trailer would have to be removed and reattached every time. Give it some time, Red. I reckon someone will come up with a solution to that little problem before long.

 

There was far less interaction between drivers in this huge truck park. There were truckers from all over the country, many of them Spanish‑speaking, and less relaxed camaraderie compared with stops in the mid‑West. Their disabilities attracted less attention and no‑one recognised Chet. They tarried for half an hour, talking about inconsequentialities. They went for a quick wash and brush up before retiring to Chet’s cab, where they spent a quiet hour or two before shucking their artificial arms and settling down for a noisy night, disturbed by truck movements and the shrieks of airbrakes.

 

Jared had not been sure what kind of relationship might grow from this impromptu trek with Chet. He had become inured to a life without pysical contact and no longer sought a sexual relationship with another like‑minded man. But he had been prepared for some kind of closeness with Chet. Their physical attributes were immediate clues to the possibility of forging a closer relationship but Chet had shown no sign of approaching Jared for love or anything more physical. Jared knew it was not because they did not synch together. They got on well enough, chatting during the long stretches across the interminable tedium of the American west. They were good friends. But there was nothing more. Chet was now hauling a load of bathroom fixtures northward to Seattle. The bill had stated nothing more than ‘faucets’. Chet assured Red that he would detour via St Louis on the return east.

            – It’s the least I can do, Red. I don’t know where I might be goin’ after Seattle and if it’s the east coast, you might never get home again.

            – Thanks, Chet. I know it’s not exactly the shortest route but at least there are decent roads along the way and there’s less risk of hijacks east of St Louis. Too much traffic, Wreckr convoys or not.

 

Five drivers had used their intuition and Wreckr to join the convoy in Pasadena. Chet led the pack at an average of forty‑five through parched vineyards and pulled into a diner once again at seven in the evening. Chet backed into a vacant space and jumped down from his cab. He leaned against it on one hook with the other resting on his hip. Jared stood beside him, hooks locked in front of his crotch. One by one the following trucks pulled in alongside, their drivers saluting Chet in thanks for escorting them safely so far in good time. One by one, the drivers switched off their lights and descended from their cabs. One young guy looked around at his surroundings until he discovered that the leading team were disabled, whereupon he concentrated his entire attention on the pair’s hooks. Behind him, another senior driver and his side‑kick lurched along in a parody of disability. They were both wearing artificial legs and neither made any effort to walk naturally. They greeted the trio of convoy truckers and turned to watch the last of the trucks disgorge its driver.

 

A peg leg extended first from the cab and found purchase on a step halfway to the ground. The driver held onto grab bars along the door frame and lowered his right peg leg to touch the ground. He was wearing western gear including a black leather cowboy hat and black leather gloves. He lifted both hands and slammed the rig’s door shut and teetered on his peg legs to face the four men staring at him. He raised a hand and swung his pegs in a comfortable regular rhythm towards them. Jared thought the man must surely have wanted to lose his legs as insistently as he wad wanted to lose his hands. Nothing else could explain the accommodation to extreme disability which he watched in admiration. He had never seen anyone walk on two peg legs before, neither would he have believed it possible. The guy was about thirty, more or less his age. The rubber tips of his pegs kicked up tiny dust clouds with each step.

            – Hi! Thanks fer waiting for me. I know I’m not the quickest on ma feet. How d’ya do? I’m Chuck. Chuck Manson. How d’ya do.

The other drivers introduced themselves to each other and the entire group made their way at Chuck’s modest speed into the diner and settled themselves into a red leather booth.

 

            – How did you manage to find the convoy, Steve?

Steve was one of the older truckers riding with his sidekick, more or less his own age.

            – We was in Phoenix and there was a guy at the next table rantin’ about a new app which was gonna change the world. Anyway, after he left, the guys at the table explained that it looked pretty nifty and the guy weren’t just bullshitting us. Anyhow, I been using it for the past coupla weeks and met up with some fine guys. Including you all. Mighty fine bein’ behind the wheel knowing someone is lookin’ out for us. That road is getting to be a bitch to get through without hoodlums makin’ trouble one way or another.

            – Did you find the convoy on Wreckr by any chance?

            – Yeah, sure. Heard about it a few days ago and I reckon I’ll be using it every time I come west. The east ain’t so bad for hijacks but these desert people sure know how to kick up a hullabaloo for a lone trucker. Specially for a guy like myself past his prime.

            – Don’t put yourself down, Steve. There’s a good few years left in you from what I can see.

            – There’ll have to be. Can’t afford to retire. Used to have money saved up for a pension, like, but that’s all gone on truck repairs over the years.

            – It’s the same for all of us, Steve. Do you think a guy like myself, legless, would be still truckin’ if there was another way to earn a livin’?

            – Don’t take on so, Chuck. Look at Chet and his pal. I reckon a coupla peg legs ain’t nothing compared with what they put up with.

Both Chet and Jared, sitting across the table from Chuck, waved a hook at him. The group looked around at each other and laughed at the impossibility of their situation. When they were young, it would have been impossible to believe that bilateral amputees might still need to work for a living well past the average pension age. What had happened to society? The answer was obvious enough. The crippled men served its purpose every day. There was upheaval on the way. It was simply taking its time.

 

Effects of the earthquake four months previous made themselves obvious the closer to the Oregon/Washington state line they approached. Otherwise undamaged houses had been abandoned after they had shifted off their foundations, destroying access to utilities. The road was cracked and buckled in places, restricted to single‑file traffic. Makeshift traffic signals allowed several minutes of movement in alternate directions. It was slow‑going and more than a little frustrating. Only now, months after the disaster, practical help could begin to arrive, thanks to emergency repairs to bridges. Even so, they were also restricted to a carrying load of two trucks at a time. The convoy decided enough was enough for one day. They would stop at the next motel which they came across. A billboard soon proclaimed them welcome to the Prentiss Motel in Kelso, ten miles. With luck, it might actually be open for business.

 

It was. The forecourt was a generous size, optimistically designed to welcome a hundred cars, more than enough for the eighty rooms available. Business must have been good before the quake. The Prentiss was an ideal stopping distance between the two big towns on each side of the state line and was set in a picturesque location with attractive views to the west and north. Now only one wing was illuminated in addition to the semicircular reception and dining room. The five drivers of convoy 221 pulled in alongside other trucks. Apart from one or two pick‑ups, truckers seemed to be the only guests. One by one, the cabs emptied of their crews and the drivers stood in front of their trucks in a loose group, appraising the strangers who had joined the convoy along its route.

 

Chuck attracted the most attention, unsurprisingly. He had spent a good deal of effort in mastering his peg legs and knew the effect they had on onlookers. They were such a blatant statement of disability that people rarely passed comment or asked questions. Mike’s and Larry’s visible artificial legs paled into insignificance. Chuck took them all in, amused by their extrovert display. So conventional. The last two drivers approached and the group turned toward the motel.

 

Jared was more than relieved by the prospect of sleeping in a real bed after two night squashed upright in the rig’s passenger seat. It was comfortable on the road but less than satisfactory to sleep in all night. The truckers received their keys and were effusively wished heartily welcome several times by the proprietor who was more than happy to see custom picking up after the bridge repairs. They made their way to the dining room and sat around two adjacent tables. Other tables hosted one or two guests, almost certainly truckers themselves. It was an elegant art deco space and the atmosphere was completely different from the easy camaraderie familiar from the usual roadside diner. Even Chet and Jared sat demurely with their hooks in their laps rather than leaning on the table with their hooks in the air. An elderly woman, sprightly and heavily made‑up, approached their tables with an armful of menus and wished them welcome. She busied herself pouring water for each guest, taking in those physical disabilities which were obvious.

 

The menu had been adjusted several times since the quake to take into account the lack of fresh stuffs available and the loss of high scale visitors. The kitchen comprised one sole cook after the departure of the head chef for financial reasons. The fare was little more than what a diner might offer but the establishment tried to maintain standards. Their hamburgers were handmade from start to finish. The buns had been baked earlier in the day, patties were flattened into shape for each order. The sudden order of seven steaks and fries cast the kitchen into panic mode and exhausted the supply of steaks for the rest of the evening. The truckers understood the difficulty of the situation and waited patiently for their meals, They were quieter amongst themselves. Chet was itching with curiosity about Chuck’s peg legs but sat quietly, pressured into silence by the opulence around them.

 

The convoy agreed to start late next morning at eight o’clock. It would give them the luxury of enjoying a good night’s sleep and to take their time over breakfast. The day promised to be increasingly demanding. One of the new drivers had discovered that deliveries intended for Seattle were left at a truck park ten miles outside town. Local drivers took over distribution from there. Chuck led with the rest of the convoy following at two hundred yard intervals. Washingtonians on the road heading south raised their hands in greeting, grateful to see aid arriving at last. Life was getting back to normal, now that the ground beneath them seemed to have settled. Chuck kept a peg on his brake, anticipating blockages or other unexpected phenomena on the road. He had set his cruise control for just under forty, as had all those following. The single lane section on the final stretch towards Seattle was green in their favour with a few minutes left. It was enough time to negotiate the two miles of precarious one lane travel.

 

One by one, the trucks were allocated unloading bays in a logistics centre which was conspicuously bent in the centre. Bays One to Thirty‑One were out of use. The building half stood on ground which had tilted three degrees. After weeks of reconstruction, bays Thirty‑Two to Fifty were operational again. The forecourt was split and hastily repaired with asphalt. One by one, the drivers backed into their allocated bays and the drivers disembarked to deal with paperwork and then made their way to the coffeeshop facing the forecourt. Chet and Jared joined them last of all, when conversation had already turned to the growing need to find some decent food somewhere. Only one of the new drivers had been in Washington state before and that was well before the quake. It looked like the only thing to do was to head back south along the same route and head for a major city where there might be the chance of picking up a load heading east. Jared suggested they create a new convoy on Wreckr, and at four in the afternoon, WACA 010 snaked its way back south, heading for Portland, Oregon, where they might arrange for a load. Without trailers, the trucks were more agile and sped along unbroken sections of highway to the state line and arrived on the outskirts of Portland around nine in the evening. The sunset was orange with smoke from forest fires well to the north. It was both beautiful and terrible. The rigs parked up in a row opposite a low sleek diner, built recently. Its entrance curved towards them and the legless truckers appreciated a smooth tarred surface in contrast with the usual forecourt gravel.

 

Once again, there were few other customers. Most of the convoy’s drivers fired up the local logistic centre’s app to seek out suitable loads available in Portland for delivery east. One by one, they settled for something lucrative which would take them to another likely spot to pick up another load. Chet arranged to haul a refrigerated trailer to Phoenix from Eugene, Oregon. Chuck found a similar load. The two rigs would share the road and travel together.

 

Jared was aware that he had done no writing for several days. It was educational to pay attention to their changing surroundings and the excursion north had suggested new themes for future articles. At the back of his mind was the pact made with Jack Weissman. Somehow Jared would need to organise another session with dry ice, probably in his own apartment. He had stipulated that Jack should finish his education first, at least wait until after graduation. Jared imagined that Jack would turn up very soon afterwards. Helping Jack become a bilateral hook user would be the most significant outcome of Jared’s journey as Chet’s sidekick. They still got on well enough with each other but Jared had detected a devil‑may‑care attitude in Chet which he did not care for. It affected the way he treated other people. Perhaps it sprang from his voluntary amputations and how he was continually asked about them by complete strangers in the most unlikely of circumstances. Chet himself regarded his stumps and his well‑worn sockets as part of himself and disliked the apparent need of ignorant people to hear why he used hooks. The same deference bled into his friendships.

 

 

 

 

S U M M E R

 

Jared continued research into the way increasing austerity was altering social norms and the impoverishment of cities. Food deserts forced desperate working class citizens to seek sustenance further afield which almost always meant a retreat to surrounding rural areas. Gradually cities were ringed with tent cities whose main problem was the availability of fresh water. Between May and July, he crafted another article in much the same style as his previous prize‑winning work and submitted it to the same periodicals and magazines which had published it. They snapped it up, grateful for the chance to include a long and serious piece in perfect English. Jared began to plan a third part of what he hoped to turn into a series which he might later combine into a book. It would deal with the reconstruction of the North‑West. He thought it would be interesting to watch how Seattle especially reorganised itself in the current economic climate. Much of its population had already left, mostly to Utah and Colorado. Would they want to return to a city dominated by private business with little attention paid to reconstructing homes? It might be worthwhile following the situation over the next year. But there was another more pressing matter to take care of first.

 

Jared and Jack had kept in touch and learned more about each other. Jack was impressed to learn that Jared was not a trucker but was in fact the author of the article which his English teacher had recommended they read. They had discussed On the Road Again at length, touching both on the subject matter and the linguistic style of the author and how he alternated opinion with genuine quotes from people suffering the consequences of governmental ignorance. Jared in turn was impressed by the teenager’s lucid and logical explanation of why he admired arm amputees and why he wished to join their ranks. He occasionally overstepped the mark and wrote something which had Jared wondering about how serious Jack actually was but he always returned to the same need and intention after his forays into eroticism and sadomasochism.

 

He arrived with a carry‑all and a broad grin. He had allowed his moustache to grow after graduation and it was already an impressive blond handlebar. He looked older. Young men’s faces changed quickly in the late teens. Jack appeared to be a preppy young man with good prospects ready to face the world on a visit to impress. He certainly impressed Jared, who welcomed him and made him comfortable before explaining what he had planned. There was no longer any point in trying to talk Jack out of losing his hands.

 

Jared had another idea which Jack might or might not approve of. Jared was lonely and wanted the company of someone who could accept his disability and give occasional assistance when two hooks were insufficient. Jack was lively, intelligent, imaginative and would soon have a matching pair of stumps very similar to Jared’s own. He had no idea what Jack intended to do with his maimed future. It was something which would resolve itself after Jack’s stumps had healed and he had learned to use a pair of hooks. One such pair hung in Jared’s closet, his first pair. The sockets were pink, the hooks almost pristine. They had been used mainly to tap his keyboard. The prostheses he wore now were sleeker after his stumps had shrunk to some degree. There was no reason why they might not fit onto Jack’s stumps, assuming that his stumps were short enough.

            – Looks at these, Jack. I wore these for about two years until I got this black pair. I reckon they’d fit you well enough with a pair or two of stump socks and you could use them until you find a job and can afford a custom pair of your own.

            – Are you serious? I could wear those?

            – I reckon so. But if your stumps are longer than mine, they won’t fit. You can decide if they’re the sort of thing you genuinely want for yourself. I don’t want to try and deter you, Jack, but with everything else being ready, you only have a very short period of time to decide whether to go through with this.

            – Jared, stop worrying! Of course I want stumps!

 

Jared looked at the boy’s beautiful hands. The fingers were long and straight, with nails neatly clipped. His own hands had been stumpy to begin with—short fingers, continual hangnails which were sore when he picked them. His hooks looked better, and he loved the lack of feeling. The most delicate control he had over his hooks was from his elbows. He loved the mechanical precision of his prostheses, perfectly replacing his hands with his hooks’ two steel fingers. Jack never stopped watching him, free at last to gawp at a hooked man who would shortly help him create his own stumps. There was never a doubt in his mind that his future was as a hook user. He knew he was good‑looking. He was tall, well built with handsome legs exercised on regular runs, and his arms were well muscled with handsome hands. He hated the sight of them and wanted to see steel hooks instead. The day allocated for his transformation arrived. Everything was ready except for the dry ice. Jared had arranged to collect a big bag of it from a trucker who was running a refrigerated load from San Jose to Philadelphia. He agreed to pause in St Louis to sell Jared a quantity of dry ice which had proved unnecessary on his trek west. Jared met him at the truck park and they ate burgers together. Jared was surprised to see that the driver also used a prosthetic arm with a worker’s hook. The driver was just as surprised by Jared.

            – I’m guessin’ this ain’t for you. You got someone else lined up?

            – You mean for getting stumps?

            – Sure. What else are ya gonna do with a bagful of ice? I see ya might be of a mind to freeze a guy’s hand, seeing as you’re wearing a pair of hooks yaself.

            – It’s none of your business, bro. But you’re right. And it’s not for one hand. He’s losing both of them tonight.

            – Ha! Great! Another member of the bilateral club. You tell him from me he’s on the right course. I’m havin’ this off soon as I get back to Colorado.

He lifted his hand and waved the fingers.

            – I’m guessin’ there ain’t nothin’ better for a man than to have a pair of hooks to show who’s the alpha male around the place. You show up somewhere with a pair of hooks and everyone wants to do everythin’ for ya. It’s like ya rule the world.

            – Wow! Is that what you think?

            – Best thing ever happened to me. Was a bit unsure at first but as soon as I got my first hook, my life changed. Listen, tell the guy to use his hooks for everything. It’s the best way to learn how to use ’em, even if at first you think you can’t. I can't wait to get rid of this damn thing.

He raised his hand and twisted it from side to side. In the circumstances, it looked like an unnecessary mess of flesh tacked onto a prospective stump.

            – I’ll be sure to tell him. Thanks for the ice.

            – Don’t mention it. Anything to help another guy on the way to getting his stumps.

 

Jack had brought a packet of twenty pills which the seller assured him would knock out any pain and all his worries. Jared inspected the packet, which seemed to be genuine and sealed with a hologram. Jack swallowed two and waited for twenty minutes until he thought they began to take affect. He could no longer feel his body. He could move his hands and arms but they seemed to be insensate. He was ready. Jared asked him if he was determined to lose his hands. Jack looked at Jared with desperation in his eyes. He placed his hands through the holes in a plastic box intended to hold computer disks. Jared shook globules of dry ice from a scoop into the box, covering Jack’s flesh, destroying his skin, its lethal chill sinking into the flesh of his fingers and hands and wrists killing capillaries and nerves and tendons. Jack writhed in pain despite the painkillers. The cold was intolerable. But he knew that it was too late to pull out. Once begun, the process had to be seen through to its inevitable end. A quarter of an hour after the icing began, he had already lost his hands. Never again would he fondle his boyfriend’s penis or run his fingers over his stubble. He should have considered it before Jared started. It was too late now. He would have to cope with a disabled life. His hands protested in agony. The pain lessened as his nerves died. He hoped his stumps would not look unpleasant.

 

Jared visited him in St Louis General Hospital every afternoon. He was concerned with how Jack was healing. His stumps were wrapped in thick bandages making it difficult to judge how long the stumps were. Jack complained of the pain, to which Jared had no reassurance.

            – Of course it hurts. It gets better, Jack. Believe me. You just have to go with the flow. I know it’s difficult at first.

            – What am I gonna do when I get out, Jared? I can’t go home like this.

            – I thought everything was fixed. Are you telling me they wouldn’t have you back?

            – They’d kill me or kick me out on the street.

            – Jack, why didn’t you tell me the truth before? What are you going to do? I thought you’d be returning home once you had your hooks.

            –  I know. I’m sorry, Jared. I didn’t want you to stop the process. You do understand, don’t you? I wanted stumps more than anything else.

            – And now you have them. Jack, we’re gonna have to talk about this when you get out. You can come back to my place for a coupla weeks until your stumps heal but then we’re gonna need to talk about things.

            – OK. Thanks Jared. I won’t be any trouble, I promise.

            – Except for the fact that you won’t be doing a whole lot around the place.

 

Jack’s fish‑mouth sutures showed good signs of healing and the patient was discharged on the sixth day after his arrival. His stumps were protected under pliable translucent plastic shields. Jared collected him from the hospital lobby where Jack sat holding his stumps uselessly in front of him. The physical reality of limblessness was beginning to strike home. He had never felt so helpless in his life and was continually shocked at the absence of hands. His stumps were shorter than he had imagined, only a third of his forearms remained. He was afraid that they would be pretty useless even after they healed completely. He was never going to use his naked stumps for anything practical. He was condemned to relying on artificial arms all waking hours for the rest of his life—assuming that he could afford a new pair every few years. He had no idea about what work he might do.

 

They walked slowly through the centre of town avoiding the denser groups of homeless street dwellers. Jack was especially wary. Those who were awake eyed the two amputees without interest. Jared’s apartment was a haven of sanity and they were both relieved to arrive without being accosted.

 

Jared was annoyed with Jack because of the way he had been misled. Jack had initially assured him that he had plans for further education during which time he would learn to use his hooks. By the time his studies were complete, he would be adept at doing everything for himself. Now the truth was revealing itself. Jack not only had no intention of continuing his schooling, he was also barred from returning home. His parents would never accept their son as a bilateral amputee. He dared not confront them. It was certain that he would break under interrogation and admit to freezing his hands deliberately in order to gain stumps. Jared blamed himself for being so gullible and taken advantage of, having experienced a similar situation himself. He remembered how he had also misled others and been devious about his plans. The desire to replace healthy hands with steel hooks required total secrecy and a considerable amount of lying. But when he was working on his laptop, he frequently admired his accuracy and speed. He enjoyed using his hooks and appreciated the lack of sensation in his non‑existent arms. The rigidity of the sockets was an additional bonus, a crippling obstacle to dexterity. The continual physical challenges gave him a sense of personal accomplishment which he knew he would never have experienced without stumps.

 

Jack’s presence was not as inconvenient as Jared had anticipated. It was true that Jack had to be fed and watered, not always easy with bilateral hooks, and the regular visits to the bathroom we co‑ordinated so that both men urinated at the same time. Jack was an avid reader and patiently read sitting at a table, coaxing pages to turn with the blunt tip of his right stump. His stumps were naked for most of the time unless he wore the plastic shields. They made his stumps sweat. Jared’s annoyance lapsed as the pair of them unavoidably shared intimate moments. Jack’s libido had not recovered from his trauma and it was easy to conceal his homosexuality from Jared. He was not overly concerned by the brevity of his stumps. It was going to be quite a challenge for him to masturbate. Maybe it was something else he would have to use his hooks for. He put the thought from his mind. There were more urgent worries to confront first.

 

Jack’s stitches were removed two weeks later and he was presented with a sizable hospital bill. His surgeon enquired about prosthetics. Jack replied that he had already made arrangements to be fitted with his first pair of hooks. It was another untruth. Jared had carefully compared the flesh‑toned sockets on his first pair of hooks against Jack’s arms and believed that they could be adapted to suit the shorter stumps. It was quite possible that the prosthetic arms would last several years with careful use and maintenance. Jack was impatient to test them for the first time. He believed they would allow him his independence again.

 

Jared was equally keen to see Jack fitted with hooks. Jack had a steep learning curve ahead of him and with luck, Jared’s old set of arms would allow him to start. Jared spent an hour loosening buckles and straps in order to accommodate Jack’s broader shoulders. The loose ends of the straps had been annoying but Jared was glad he had not cut them to size. The hooks would not have fitted Jack otherwise. Jared laid the hooks out on the table before Jack and invited him to insert his stumps carefully into the sockets. He was to stop immediately if there was any pain.

            – It feels tight. Is it supposed to?

            – Yup. Tight is good. OK. Take your stumps out. You need stump socks. Put these on.

He dropped a new pair of soft cotton stump socks onto the hooks. Jack looked at Jared to see if he was serious. He was. Donning his prostheses was something he had to learn to do alone and putting socks on his stumps was the first step. The first obstacle. Jack leaned forward and fumbled with the socks. Somehow he had to work out how to do it.

            – Use your teeth.

Jared watched Jack struggle and fail after several attempts. It was almost impossible to open the sock wide enough and hold it in place. Jared’s hooks were the only available assistance. He picked one sock up and inserted the other hook which he opened. Jack succeeded in pushing his stump into the opening and used his teeth to pull the sock further up his stump.

            – There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

Jack laughed.

            – Easy peasy. Will you hold the other one for me?

            – OK. New socks are usually a bitch until the opening stretches a bit.

Jack used his teeth again and admired the appearance of his white cotton stumps. He used them to pull the right socket towards him and coaxed his stump into it. As before, it felt tight but the sock helped. It was more comfortable. Jared checked the harness and reminded Jack that he needed to take care not to tangle the straps.

            – Lift your arms up. I’m going to pull the harness over your head. This is something else you’ll have to learn to do yourself, Jack. Practise doing it alone.

The control cables were about right but the canvas straps needed readjustment. It was a slow process but gradually the harness sat firmly over Jack’s shoulders. The sockets were tilted with the hooks resting on the table.

            – That looks about right. How does it feel?

            – It feels fine. What do I do now?

            – You’re good to go.

Jack stood up and went to a mirror to check his appearance. It was great to see arms again. The pink sockets looked mechanical and lifeless like on a store dummy. He pushed his stumps deeper into the sockets and the hooks clicked open. He relaxed and they snapped shut. And again.

            – Try opening a hook by pushing your opposite shoulder forward. That’s how to open the hook if you don’t want to change its position.

Jack experimented a few times until he discovered the proper movement. Jared was still concerned about the fit. Jack’s stumps were shorter than his own and the sockets were custom made.

            – Are your stumps moving down inside the sockets, Jack?

            – I’m not sure. I don’t think so.

            – OK. We’ll have to keep an eye on that.

 

Jack had expected his first time to be different from what it actually was. The prostheses and harness demanded a lot more attention than he had imagined. He had to plan his movements in order to open the hooks. He could not simply open them at will. It was going to be difficult. He returned and sat down at the table, inspecting the appearance of his arms. This is what all the pain had been for. Instead of elation, he was disappointed and anxious. It was not what he had expected. He stared at the arms and at the steel hooks. Their cool inhuman glossy surfaces emphasised their artificiality. There was so much of it! His arms were completely covered by these things. Everyone would notice them first. They were the most obvious thing about him. Everywhere he went, he would be the guy with hooks. The old Jack would disappear and he would be seen only as the crippled guy who no‑one wanted to know. He would never be able to join in a game of softball or throw a frisbee or play tennis again. Jared watched the expressions flickering across Jack’s face. He was coming face to face with his new reality. He had purposely destroyed his future in favour of an alternative. He would need to make a major effort to achieve whatever laid ahead. It was going to demand dedication and determination from a teenager without natural arms and hands. Jared stretched his arms and shrugged his harness into a more comfortable position and returned to his computer screen. He had a few ideas to help Jack out of his funk but he wanted Jack to become familiar with the sensation of severe disability regardless of wearing prostheses. His old pair of arms looked pretty cool on the guy. The flesh colour accentuated the other components. The cable and straps became more obvious, contrasting with the simulated skin tone of the sockets. He preferred the completely artificial appearance of his carbon fibre arms. His hooks looked impressive with the glossy black.

 

Jack toyed with his hooks. They pointed in random directions. He wanted to turn them so they looked more tidy and thought about how he might do so. He shrugged a shoulder and one hook opened a little but it closed as soon as he moved his arm. He tried it the other way. He moved his arm so the hook was where it needed to be and then tried shrugging. He pushed harder and the hook opened all the way. Now he could move the hook and close it onto the other one to twist it around how he wanted it. The hooks interlinked and Jack tried twisting his wrist. Nothing happened. He had no wrists. Jared looked up, alerted by the sound of steel on steel and watched Jack concentrating on the hooks. It was good he was exploring his new capabilities, or lack of them. Jack’s exaggerated movements to manipulate his hooks were entertaining. Jared remembered his own experimental attempts before the arms began to feel familiar and part of himself. His movements had gradually adapted to the minimum necessary to open a hook but it had taken about a year before he suddenly realised he had mastered the skill. After that, his rehabilitation had been much faster. He no longer needed to consciously think about controlling a prosthetic device. He simply manipulated his hooks as and when they were needed. Jack had a way to go before he reached the same level and it gave Jared an idea.

 

            – Jack, why don’t you get yourself a glass of water? You should stay hydrated.

Jack seemed to be surprised by the concept of actually using his new hooks for something.

            – OK. Will you help if I can’t do it?

            – Oh, you can do it if you try. Come on. I’m going to brew some coffee.

 

Jack’s hooks were still in odd positions. Jared showed him a trick to move them. Now his left hook was horizontal, his right vertical.

            – Open the cupboard door with your right and reach in with your left. You should be able to grab a glass.

Jack contorted his upper body, persuading the hook to do what he wanted. The door slammed when he tried closing it.

            – Sorry.

            – No problem. Try turning the faucet on.

Jack knocked against the lever until cold water flowed and he filled the glass.

            – Not so difficult, was it? Try drinking from it without spilling any.

It was much more difficult. He raised the glass towards his face and tried turning his wrist to tilt the glass. The socket and hook remained as rigid as ever. He had no wrists. He lifted the rim to his lips, leaned back and drank. It felt unnatural but it was a minor victory, maybe the second one after learning how to twist his hooks around. Jared busied himself filling the coffee machine with espresso grounds. That also involved a considerable amount of physical movement which Jared noticed for the first time in months.

 

            – I had an idea and you might be able to earn a few bucks from it. How about starting your own video channel showing how a complete novice learns to use his hooks? You could wear the camera I use for interviews on your chest and record yourself doing stuff. I don’t think anyone has a channel like that and I’m pretty sure you’d get an audience. Charge five or ten bucks per view. I reckon you could easily get an hour of decent video every day if you set your mind to it. What do you think?

            – What sort of stuff do you mean?

            – You could start off with a video showing how you put your arms on in the morning, starting with the stump socks.

            – But it was so difficult!

            – So video it and show people how difficult it is! That’s what I’m saying. No‑one’s ever made a channel showing anything like that. You wanna start now? Shall I get the camera?

            – OK.

Five minutes later, Jack had Jared’s miniature camera pinned to his T-shirt. The wide‑angle lens would pick up his sockets and hooks and give viewers the impression they were wearing prostheses themselves. And Jack might be more motivated to try using his hooks for different things.

            – Will you help me set up a channel?

            – Sure. We’ll get AI to do it and it can edit the material too. There’s a ninety‑six giga memory card in the camera so that should be enough for a few hours every day. I don’t have time to sort through it myself. I always get AI to pick out the good bits.

            – Alright. You’ll have to show me how to use it first, though. I’m not sure how to prompt it.

            – Don’t worry about that. Are you going to drink that espresso?

            – I don’t think I can pick the cup up.

            – Just lean over and slurp. Turn the camera on!

 

By the end of the day, Jack had six hours of video showing him using his hooks and he was beginning to enjoy himself. Jared uploaded the material to the Cloud and checked that it was accessible by prompting AI to prepare a five minute edit of an interesting sequence which showed skill in manipulating prosthetic hooks. They sat together and watched Jack’s first efforts at feeding himself. The images were stabilised and colour graded. It was a professional result. Jack was surprised and pleased. Even his struggles looked impressive.

            – Maybe if we ask it for fifteen minute long videos, they might be about right? What do you think? You wanna carry on?

            – Sure!

 

A week after first donning his prosthetic arms, Jack had generated twenty hours of video material, including his first independent attempts at dressing, including squeezing his stumps into stump socks. Jared was always willing to help with the proviso that Jack should make an effort before asking for assistance. On Friday evening when Jared was tired of writing, they sat together and worked together on prompts for the AI, asking for explicit sequences of struggle and effort, failure and success, in a logical chronological order.

            – We need to think of a good name for your channel before we upload anything. Any ideas?

            – Hands to hooks.

            – That didn’t take long! Not bad. OK. Shall we ask it for a title sequence and a logo?

            – Let’s have two hooks linked together in a circle.

            – OK. You’d better start thinking about how to advertise your channel. You need to find the sort of people who enjoy looking at other peoples’ stumps and artificial limbs. Devotees and admirers. People who can afford to pay twenty bucks for an hour’s entertainment.

Jared checked the new folder in the Cloud and renamed it Hands2Hooks. It contained five AI‑generated videos, each twenty minutes in length. They watched a long version of Jack’s procedures to don his prostheses, not his first efforts. It ended with him holding his hooks in front of the camera and inspecting them. They looked enviable.

 

F A L L

 

Jared was impressed by the way Jack had rallied after his initial uncertainty. He dismissed his intention of allowing Jack to stay only as long as it took for him to acquaint himself with a pair of hooks. The old Jack re‑emerged, good‑humoured and vital, enthusiastic about using hooks and satisfied with his short stumps. He still encountered difficulties but had enough experience to know that he could beat them with a little extra effort and some lateral thinking. Jared exposed him to public view by short day trips on his Kawasaki to various small towns where they always stopped for burgers and something to drink. Jack became less self‑conscious about his disability and began to feel proud of the additional attention his hooks earned him. He liked it best when a good‑looking guy stared at him, just as he used to stare at the disabled truckers in the diner back home. Jared had suggested that Jack let his parents know that he was doing OK, he had found his vocation and wished to be independent from now on. His mother replied several days later with an acknowledgment dripping with religious dogma and irrelevancies. The main point was that they would not be causing any trouble by notifying the sheriff about a missing person.

 

Hands2Hooks was gaining in popularity. The camera was almost a permanent feature of Jack’s attire when Jared did not need it. The dozens of hours of weekly material allowed AI to select langurous slow‑motion sequences of close‑ups and otherwise trivial details which were nonetheless fascinating insights into the life of a young man without hands. The first cheques arrived from the platform host. The first for just under a thousand bucks, the second for just over three thousand. Jared was amazed and indignant that his idea had proved so lucrative but Jack needed an income and had begun to share the rent and foot half of the other domestic bills. He still had an unpaid hospital bill.

 

Jack’s stumps slowly shrank. His stumps extended further into his sockets and affected their use. Jared solved the problem by pouring some quick‑drying plaster of Paris into the sockets before making Jack wear them until the plaster dried. The prostheses were a little heavier to wear but Jack’s stumps were finally supported on a firm surface and he noticed the hooks seemed more responsive. He decided to save as much money as possible for a custom pair of prostheses similar to Jared’s. Black carbon sockets made to fit his stumps exactly.

 

There was another reason why Jared allowed Jack to settle in his apartment. Jack had regained his libido soon after he came out of his funk and experimented with both his stumps and hooks to masturbate. When his penis was fully erect on his belly, his stumps reached his glans but not the shaft without leaning forward. Jack found his situation extremely erotic. His penis strained for attention and he longed to grab it and jerk off but his stumps could not. He could sense his hands and fingers but he felt only chaotic sensations high on his forearms as the rearranged and displaced skin relearned how his penis felt. It was easier to wank with the hard inner surfaces of his sockets. One evening, Jack asked if he could borrow Jared’s working hooks.

            – What do you need them for?

            – Well, I’d rather not say. It’s sorta private.

            – You’re gonna try jerking off with ’em, right?

            – Er, yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll wash ’em before I give ’em back.

            – Darn right you will. OK. Go ahead. Where are you gonna do it? In the bathroom?

            – Yeah.

            – You know where I keep my hooks. Help yourself.

            – Thanks Jared. I’ll make it up to you.

 

Jack made it up later after Jared had gone to his room. Jared had shucked his arms and lay awake thinking. Jack tapped gently on the door and entered without waiting for an answer. He reached down and pulled the duvet from Jared’s body. He kneeled and balancing on both hooks, leaned forward and took Jared’s semi‑hard penis into his mouth. Jared was too surprised to protest and anyway, it felt grand. Just like with his boyfriend nearly ten years ago. Blowjobs were their regular thing. Jack was a skilful lover and paced himself in parallel with Jared’s mounting excitement. The inevitable happened. Jared tried to smear his jizz away with his stumps until Jack fetched a hand towel from the bathroom and cleaned Jared’s stumps and belly. Jack cleared the debris, pulled the duvet back over Jared and returned to his own spot on the couch.

 

It was the start of their sexual relationship. Neither man enjoyed penetration but there were plenty of games to play featuring stumps, prostheses and insistent erections. They started referring to the worker’s hooks as jerker’s hooks.

 

Jared invited Chet to spend a day or two with them over the Christmas holidays. They could eat and drink well and catch up on news. Jack had become an adept hook user and wanted to show off to Chet and maybe learn a trick or two from an expert. Chet accepted and parked up at the secure park on the outskirts of town. Jared met him and they rode back on Jared’s motorbike.

 

Chet met Jack for the first time since Jack’s amputations. The transformation was perfect. Instead of a self‑conscious preppy teenager, Jack was now a self‑assured young bilateral amputee who displayed his artificial arms to all and sundry. Thanks to the continuing series of video productions, Jack had attempted to use his hooks for things which an ordinary recovering new amputee might not consider. Jack had learned to move his upper body in tandem with his unsophisticated prostheses, forcing his hooks to obey his will. Chet was impressed.

 

            – Listen, Jack. I want to propose something. I need a permanent sidekick. I’m takin’ on a contract for long‑distance haulage from Chicago to LA and back with a strict timetable. I was wonderin’ if you’d be interested in joinin’ me in a partnership. Unless you’ve got college ahead or somethin’.

            – Nope, nothing like that. You mean I’d be riding with you and we’d be a team?

            – Sure. But I want you sharin’ the work. I want you to get yourself a commercial driver’s licence so you can take over the drivin’ some of the time.

            – Wow! Jared! I’m gonna be a trucker.

            – Good. I think it’s a good idea. You’ll learn a trade and earn some good money if you work hard.

            – And best of all, we’d be two double amps working together. That would be great. How do I get started, Chet?

            – You need to retake your drivin’ test, the normal one, as an amputee driver. After that, there are courses for a commercial licence and qualifications for tankers and combos and doubles and the hazmat course if you wanna be real flashy. It’ll take a few months, I reckon, but you have time on your hands, don’t you?

            – Sure.

            – You don’t mind if I steal your boy away from you, do ya, Red?

            – It’s his life. You can keep this place as your base, although I reckon you won’t be seeing much of it if you’re on the road.

 

It was decided before lunch. Jack suddenly had a new purpose in life. He already earned enough from his video channel to regard himself as financially independent. He had started to pay his hospital bill to clear his debt and had a realistic payment schedule spread over the next thirty‑six months. He was welcome to regard Jared’s apartment as his home and they could continue creating new videos. Maybe he could broaden Hands2Hooks to include his new life with Chet.

 

Jack watched the easy camaraderie between the two older men. They were both much older than he was. Chet was nearly forty although he did not look it. Jack was fascinated by his sockets. He treated them roughly. They were scratched and buffed silver where the control cable continually rubbed against the surface. There were torn stickers from various sports teams and someone had painted something like a tattoo into the socket. Best of all were the decorative chains, a row of three on each socket, which rattled quietly whenever the prostheses moved. Chet had no compunction about drawing additional attention to his artificial arms. He had lost his hands at sixteen in a freak triple collision between three motorbikes. Somehow his hands had been forced between the upended but still powered rear wheel of one of the bikes and his hands and wrists had instantly been ripped to shreds. Eight weeks later he returned to school proudly displaying flesh‑toned sockets and gleaming steel hooks. He had always been one of the alphas and remained so, popular with the guys who indulged their urge for voyeurism in his company.

 

Jared had ordered in a quantity of seasonal food but due to the unique physical restraints imposed on all three diners, it was served on plates with the invitation to dig in. They ripped apart turkey breasts and ate using hooks rather than cutlery. It was easier and more efficient. After they were sated, Jared produced a bottle of bourbon. Alcohol was rarely seen in the apartment but Chet and Jared both enjoyed a drink on the rare occasions when the opportunity arose. Jack was young enough to regard bourbon and other spirits as an acquired taste, something older men drank. Jared skilfully manipulated the bottle and poured the first three shots.

 

They discussed Chet’s prospects as a new contractor. Terms and conditions had recently been eased, possibly as a result of Jared’s investigative work into the trucking business. Chet assured Jack that he would soon learn the ropes. It was one thing to handle a truck and something else entirely to juggle timetables and deadlines, as well as learning the network of highways and their condition. Jared asked what had happened to Calvin, the short body builder who had ridden with Chet.

            – He left last summer. Found a companion, as they call it, a driver with no legs who talked Cal into joining him. Last I heard, Cal was recovering from having his left leg amputated above the knee and was learning to walk on crutches. He’s gonna have to wait a while before he can be fitted with a pros, assuming he wants one. His big muscles have to atrophy down to something he can stuff into a socket first.

            – Wow! Voluntary, you mean?

            – As far as I can make out.

            – I bet he ends up legless like his boyfriend.

            – Wouldn’t surprise me. Once you get stump lust, you never know where it’s gonna lead.

 

Jack explained about his video channel. How Jared had suggested it, to show off Jack’s learning process as he learned to use his hooks.

            – Some of the early ones are really embarrassing to watch ’cos I was so awkward.

            – I’d like to see that, if you don’t mind.

            – I was thinking maybe I could make videos while we’re on the road.

            – Sure! You can shoot me too if ya like but don’t show my face. I don’t wanna be a movie star.

 

Jack soon became intoxicated and relaxed into a semi‑stupor. He watched the other men, especially Chet, and how they moved their hooks as they explained stuff. It was something he had not learned to do yet. It was something he could work on. He closed his eyes and slept.

 

W I N T E R   T H R O U G H   S U M M E R

 

Jack looked into retaking his driving test. He found a driving school which had experience with amputees but Jack was the youngest bilateral his instructor had met. His steering wheel was fitted with a ring. His licence would stipulate that Jack could drive legally only wearing two prosthetic arms in a vehicle fitted with such a driving ring. As he had expected, he passed the disabled driver’s test with flying colours and shortly embarked on a series of short courses designed to qualify him as a truck driver. Chet kept in close contact with him and encouraged him to study all the voluntary extras like the hazmat course. Jack could then legally drive a fire or rescue truck. He was a little worried about some of the practical tests like handling a fire extinguisher or dealing with various connectors but with determination and two extra rubber bands for an intense grip on his hooks, he passed the hazmat requirements and was now an unusually well‑trained commercial driver.

 

Jared and Chet congratulated him and promised him a slap‑up meal in town the next time Chet was around. Chet was eager to have a relief driver after several strenuous months on the road alone. Almost before he knew what was happening, he agreed to accompany Chet on his current run and continue from there. Jared was prepared to lose Jack’s company. They would meet only sporadically. Jack was anxious about how they would continue making videos for Hands2Hooks. Jared suggested filling several memory cards before Jack dropped them off in St Louis for Jared to upload. The channel proved so popular that it had won a gold plaque, and it was recommended to new amputees as a demonstration of how practice makes perfect. The monthly cheques continued to arrive and Jack felt that his new career as a trucker’s sidekick was more of a hobby than proper work. His channel brought in far more money. He invested in new miniature cameras and demonstrated new ways to use his hooks. Chet kept an eye on the boy. He was still a novice with hooks and vulnerable to the frustration of new situations. The prostheses were Jared’s old original pair, glossy pink sockets with standard hooks. Jack ought to get his own custom pair. He could afford them.

 

The two amputees gained some notoriety along their routes. The occasional one‑armed hook user was common enough among the amputee truckers who inevitably formed a close‑knit clique and who were regular users of Jared’s Wreckr app. But bilateral drivers were unusual. It was unheard of for there to be a pair working together. They both wore denim jerkins with miniature cameras recording wide‑angle views of their arms and hooks and beyond. Their prostheses were on full view and attracted considerable attention in public places. They basked in the friendly companionship of fellow truckers and never tired of demonstrating how their hooks worked. But neither man spoke of how they had lost their hands. Chet, because it was a painful memory, Jack because he feared the reaction if he admitted to destroying his hands deliberately. Not only his hands, but most of his forearms too. His short stumps were adequate for prosthetic use and he was mostly satisfied with how things had turned out. Sometimes people were too inquisitive. Jack and Chet had a private code—both hooks held open meant enough. It was time for them to get back on the road.

 

back on the road