novelnext Chapter 144 The Roar on the Radio
Chapter 144 The Roar on the Radio
Chapter 144 The Roar on the Radio (Bonus Chapter for 32000 Monthly Tickets)
It was still raining on the highways of Pennsylvania.
Huge freight trucks sped along Interstate 79, kicking up water droplets half a meter high.
"Sizzle—Sizzle—"
Civilian-band radio, commonly known as CB radio, is transmitting an unsettling message amidst the cacophony of static noise.
"Attention all brothers heading south: the roads in the Allegheny Valley are closed. Large company vehicles are turning around. The association has issued a document stating that there is no insurance coverage in that area."
A rough voice complained on the channel.
"Damn it, it's those vampires again. I heard there's some huge project going on in Pittsburgh, and these bastards cut off the roads to raise freight rates."
"It's not an increase in shipping costs."
Another voice cut in, sounding even deeper.
"I'm old Jack. I unloaded cargo in the South Side, which was a project of Pittsburgh's new mayor, Leo Wallace."
He was building the port, but the capitalists in Pittsburgh didn't want him to finish, so they stopped the railroad construction and forced the trucking association to boycott the site.
There was a few seconds of silence on the channel.
Then, the voice continued.
"Frank Kowalski, that stubborn old man from the Pittsburgh steelworkers, just spoke up on Brothers Channel."
"Pittsburgh desperately needs steel and cement. The regular army won't do it anymore; now they need guerrillas."
"Double shipping fee, cash settlement, pay upon arrival."
"Most importantly—"
Old Jack paused for a moment.
Frank said, "This is a war."
"That little mayor of Pittsburgh tried to wrest the rights that belong to us workers from the capitalists, but he was outsmarted by those guys in suits."
"And Murphy, who's running for Congress, is also on our side."
"The situation is clear now: if this construction project falls through, these two will be fired. Murphy's promises about raising freight rates and improving our benefits will also be completely dashed."
"If we don't help that little mayor get this shipment in, we'll still have to live like dogs, having to watch the faces of those big companies, and we'll never get ahead in this lifetime."
A buzzing sound came from the electrical circuit.
The message traveled on radio waves, through the rain, and into every parking lot, every roadside restaurant, and every private garage in Pennsylvania.
An old garage on the outskirts of Erie.
The dim light bulbs swayed overhead, illuminating the Peterbilt 379 truck parked in the corner.
This car is too old; the red paint has peeled off, revealing the original metal underneath.
Harry lay under the car, his face covered in black engine oil.
He was desperately trying to tighten a rusted screw with a wrench to plug an oil leak in the gearbox.
-
He is 65 years old this year, has rheumatism in his knees, and has two steel nails in his lumbar spine.
This car should be scrapped, and he should retire.
He originally planned to fix the car one last time, then sell it to a junkyard and use the money to go sunbathing in Florida.
Old Jack's voice came from the old radio on the toolbox next to him.
"—This is a war; Morganfield wants to starve Pittsburgh—"
Harry slid out from under the car, struggled to his feet, and wiped his hands with a dirty rag.
He stared at the radio, his eyes somewhat glazed over.
Morganfield.
The name pierced Harry's mind, instantly transporting him back to fifteen years ago.
At that time, he was not only a driver, but also a small boss. He had five brand-new Mack heavy trucks under his command, as well as a few brothers who made a living with him.
He had even made the down payment on that beach house in Florida, a promise he had made to his wife for their later years.
Then Morganfield arrived.
He bought the chairmanship of the logistics association, followed by a series of incomprehensible new rules.
What "regional transportation access deposit" and what "unified upgrade standard for environmental emissions"?
Those standards were set extremely tricky, right at the neck of small teams like Harry's. To comply, they had to buy new cars and pay a deposit of hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Then came the halving of shipping costs.
Morganfield's fleet would rather run at a loss than lose money than lose enough to cover fuel costs.
Harry held on for three months, and half of his hair turned white.
Finally, the bank staff arrived and, in front of his wife, forcibly drove away his car and seized his house.
He watched helplessly as his well-maintained trucks were sealed off and auctioned off as scrap metal to Morganfield's logistics company.
That's cannibalism.
It's like swallowing something whole, not even spitting out a bone fragment.
Harry went bankrupt, his caravan was gone, and his wife didn't survive the winter. In the end, all that was left was this old Peterbilt that he salvaged from the junkyard.
He hated those big companies, hated those bastards who wore suits and sat in their offices, who could destroy an honest man's life's work with just a few lines of paper.
Fuck Florida.
Harry cursed.
He walked to the corner of the garage, moved aside the pile of old tires, and pried a tin biscuit box out of a crack in the floor underneath.
Upon opening the box, one finds rolls of banknotes bound with rubber bands.
This is his retirement savings, his money for his funeral.
Harry pulled out half of it and stuffed it into his pocket.
He climbed back into the driver's seat and started the engine.
"boom"
The old diesel engine coughed violently, then spewed out a thick plume of black smoke and began to roar.
"Old buddy, we've got to make another trip."
Harry patted the steering wheel.
"I know you're leaking oil, I know your brakes aren't working well, but we have to go this time."
Some people say it's a losing proposition.
Harry shifted into gear and stepped on the gas.
The massive truck drove out of the garage's wooden door and into the rainy night in Yili.
"Haven't I suffered enough in my life? But I have to fight for this!"
He was going to the steel mill to pick up goods.
Even if the train falls apart after this trip, he still has to deliver those dozens of tons of steel to Pittsburgh.
Scranton, downstairs from a budget apartment building.
Mike sat in the driver's seat, the glow of his phone screen illuminating his young but tired face.
He was only 28 years old and was an independent freight driver.
His car is a used Volvo heavy truck that he bought on loan, and he has to pay a high amount of car loan payments every month.
The freight app on my phone is flashing.
Those were express delivery orders from several e-commerce platforms.
The goods are lightweight, the roads are easy to travel, and although the freight cost is not high, it is stable.
If he takes the order, he can earn enough for this week's worth of baby formula by tomorrow.
His newborn daughter was still sleeping in the apartment upstairs, and his wife was worrying about next month's rent.
At that moment, a call came from the car radio.
"High-grade cement is urgently needed in the Pittsburgh area. Heavy cargo, bad roads, and a major company is on strike."
"This is work for our own people. Mayor Leo of Pittsburgh wanted to build a cooperative for local workers, but the local capitalists wanted to kill him."
"Come on if you dare, otherwise keep delivering your packages."
Mike's finger hovered over the "Accept Order" button.
He hesitated.
Although Mike wasn't from Pittsburgh, he had heard of Leo Wallace and John Murphy.
Mike had seen Murphy's speech on the TV at the rest stop.
The old man stood under the crane, saying he wanted to bring jobs back to Pennsylvania and restore dignity to workers.
Those words were exactly the same as those said by Mayor Rio.
Mike heard that they were in cahoots.
The young mayor created something called a "workers' cooperative".
That's a new term. It's said that in that company, workers don't have to worry about the boss's attitude; they're shareholders themselves and get dividends at the end of the year.
When Mike first heard it, he felt as if his heart had been burned.
He kept hoping that Leo and Murphy would win.
He hoped that this cooperative would expand from Pittsburgh all the way to Scranton, right to his doorstep.
That way, perhaps he won't have to be leeched off by these damn platform algorithms anymore.
But now, before the cooperative even left Pittsburgh, those greedy capitalists have already made their move.
Reason told him that going to Pittsburgh was a bad idea.
The road conditions there are very poor, the cement is very heavy, and it wears out vehicles extremely quickly.
Moreover, that's the eye of the storm right now, and we might get caught up in a lot of trouble.
Is it worth offending the logistics association for the sake of a so-called "future"?
He looked up and glanced at the window upstairs that was dimly lit.
He thought of his father.
My father used to be a coal miner in Scranton. After the mine closed down, he became an alcoholic and died in despair.
Mike doesn't want to be like his father.
But the line of work he's doing now, while seemingly free, is actually a slave to algorithms.
The platform can lower prices whenever it wants, and impose fines whenever it wants.
He has no dignity and no security.
He was still thinking about whether he should vote for Murphy in this Senate election.
After all, the Philadelphia lieutenant governor seemed too far removed from his life, while Murphy at least knew that workers' hands were rough.
Now, something's happened in Pittsburgh.
If that plan fails, if Pittsburgh loses, if even people like Leo and Murphy are strangled by the capitalists.
When his daughter grows up, will she also be trapped by algorithms like him, with no way out and forever struggling to make ends meet?
Mike didn't want to see that happen.
He didn't want Pittsburgh to lose.
"For the sake of the children."
Mike said something in a low voice.
He pressed the screen on his phone, turned off the suffocating app, picked up the walkie-talkie, and switched to the public channel.
"I'm Mike, and I'm in Scranton."
His voice sounded a little strained.
"I have an empty truck here. Tell me where the cement plant is, and I'll go load the goods."
He gritted his teeth.
Fuck the delivery service, fuck the algorithm.
He needs to haul cement.
To make the foundation of this city more solid, and so that his children could have decent jobs in the future.
On a highway in Pennsylvania.
The night was dark.
The once empty road began to be dotted with lights.
It wasn't a large, uniformly organized fleet of logistics vehicles; it didn't have a uniform paint scheme or a brightly colored logo.
That was a ragtag army.
There are cab-over trucks that are about to be scrapped, flatbed trailers that have been modified by themselves, and even special vehicles used to haul timber.
They set off from the shores of Lake Erie, from the mountains of Scranton, and from farms in Bedford.
They are like tiny streams, converging in the same direction.
The radio station became lively.
"This is Broken-Leg Joe. I'm on Highway 76, hauling thirty tons of rebar. Those cops wanted to check my overload, so I took a back road."
"I'm a night owl, I came from the Ohio border. I heard there's a shortage of asphalt in Pittsburgh? I have a truckload here, just coming off the factory."
"Hey buddy up ahead, it's Harry. My water tank seems to be leaking a bit. If I break down halfway, who's going to give me a push?"
"Don't worry, we have over a dozen cars here. We'll carry you all the way to Pittsburgh!"
These individual drivers, who are usually strangers and might even fight over a single order at the freight station, were connected at this moment by a roar that resonated in the same frequency.
They are small people who are being squeezed and unable to breathe by large logistics companies.
They are pebbles crushed by the wheels of time.
They are usually silent and patient, forced to bow and scrape for survival.
But today, they held their heads high.
Their hands gripped the steering wheel more firmly than ever before.
Because they knew that this time, they were not just transporting goods.
They are conveying dignity.
They were giving the middle finger to those arrogant capitalists and to that business rule that only recognizes profits and not people.
These are the capillaries in the rusted metal.
When the aorta is severed by capital, these normally ignored blood vessels begin to throb wildly.
They transport oxygen, blood, and the nutrients that this dying industrial city desperately needs.