“Byers, you there? I’ve got a shipping number: 19087—oh fuck.” Langly dropped to the shipping trailer floor as an unidentified person appeared at the doors.
“Langly? You okay? Was that ‘oh’ as in ‘zero’ or ‘oh’ as in ‘oh’?”
“Someone’s here,” hissed Langly. “The trucker isn’t supposed to be here yet.”
And then the trailer door slammed shut.
“Oh, fuck my life,” groaned Langly, amid the pitch darkness. “Byers?” At least he was pretty sure he was alone now.
“We just have to wait till it’s clear, then Frohike will get you out of there. It’s just a chain and padlock; we have wire cutters, we just have to not be noticed with the wire cutters—oh, crap.”
“Crap does not begin to describe the situation,” yelled Langly. “The truck just started moving.”
“Yes, that was what the ‘oh crap’ was about. I’m sorry, we’ll get you out at the next truck stop. The next mandatory weigh station is in…”
“Forty miles,” said Frohike, who had begun looking it up the moment the truck started moving. “You’ll just have to sit tight.”
“Byers? Frohike? This is not okay. I’m going to die trapped under fallen pallets of illegal genetically modified corn.”
“At least it’s not summer,” said Frohike. “You’re not going to overheat in the next hour.”
“What if you lose the truck?” Langly’s voice cracked, well past the edge of panic. Deep breaths. Puking would just leave DNA evidence. Smelly and unmissable DNA evidence, as opposed to the stray hairs he’d probably already dropped. The molasses in the feed mix reeked, but wouldn’t hide it.
“It has a GPS. We’ll be into it in a minute.”
I’d be into it in a minute, thought Langly. The entire process flashed in his mind; he fake-typed a few commands on the trailer floor. Frohike and Byers, though…at least the things had absolutely shit security. Most consumers didn’t even realize that the things were tracking devices. No, the average amateur conspiracy theorist blabbered about non-feasible schemes like microchips in vaccines (how would those even fit through the needle?), while blithely installing a real, blatantly advertised government-operated tracking device in their car.
At least this time the tracking would help save him from certain death in a trailer full of pallet bags of dubious feed corn. (And wouldn’t that be ironic, him dying of corn. He could just hear his father lecturing him about playing with damnfool toys for secretaries instead of feeding the cows.) It could be worse. It could be a train. It could be a truck that didn’t have GPS, or the trunk of an unidentifiable sedan. Maybe tracking was something they should incorporate into their comms, with enough security that it would be difficult for anyone to hack over a few hours. But there would still be satellites. Or what if it was relative location to a private beacon, which would have to be plotted on a local map—it was time to acquire and rewire some of those electronic car keyfobs. (The bus, of course, had no such thing, and that was probably for the best. There was no way those signals couldn’t be recorded and duplicated, safety measures or no. But they would look like car keyfob radio signals, not location walkie-talkies. If that would even work, and Langly wasn’t sure they would, because frankly he didn’t know more about the things than that he never wanted a car that could be unlocked by them and would never be able to afford such a car anyway.)
Langly gave up on trying to reprogram things he didn’t even know what language they were originally coded in, and focused on the movement of the truck, still lying on his stomach from when he’d originally dropped flat, resting his head on his arms. The road was not freshly paved, and the entire trailer was vibrating.
He was going to have a problem, if that kept up. No, he was already having a problem. But sitting up would probably give him motion sickness, and if he were honest with himself, he didn’t want to give up the vibrations thrumming through the entire length of his body. He was stuck here; he might as well make the best of it. Langly pressed his chest harder against the floor, feeling waves like red electricity running through his stomach and nipples.
“Langly, you okay?” Byers, on the comms.
“Yeah, fine!” Langly squeaked. Had he been making noise? “Just went over a pothole. Are we there yet?”
“At least another 20 minutes. We’re right behind you, in the bus. It’s a highway; we can keep pretty close without being suspicious.”
“That’s great,” said Langly, trying not to sound impatient.
“Do you want us to keep talking to you?” asked Byers.
“No, that’s fine. I’m thinking up an awesome new hardware project. The whole light deprivation thing is forcing me to use my imagination. Who’d have thought.”
“We’ll just work on getting you out, then.”
Finally, thought Langly. He considered removing the earpiece altogether, but that would be even more irresponsible than masturbating while on comms, and he might lose the thing. God, was he really doing this? The angle of his hips and the thrumming against his trapped hard-on said yes. Langly bit his lip to keep quiet, moans caught like static and choking in his carefully relaxed voicebox. He’d gotten boners from moving vehicles before—a bit hard (heh) not to, with a vibrating seat jammed against your taint and balls, or maybe that was just him—but he’d never had half his body, and the more sensitive half at that, sprawled flat against something that vibrated. The position itself was familiar. He’d done it like that, in middle school, until the obvious mess had become enough of a problem that he’d started jerking off the way everybody else did, with his pants open or occasionally off. But his bed and the living room sofa and the carpet in front of the TV had never vibrated. Langly decided that he had been missing out. Maybe, after he got out of this, he could build something vibrate-y that wasn’t a truck bed. Also, stainproof.
He didn’t have the first idea how to make something vibrate on purpose, though (he’d look that up later), and right now he was too busy rocking against the floor, hands braced against splintery wood and dust as he arched his back and ground harder. The seam of his jeans bit into his junk, turning his BVD’s into fine cotton sandpaper, and Langly knew he was going to regret that later, but right now that didn’t matter; right now it barely registered compared to the lust. The road under the wheels shook through his bones and it just kept giving, more than he could ever take, by nature impossible to disappoint. So Langly took. He let the impossible satisfaction pool in his core like molten red wax. He let the shivers run from his nipples down, where his shirt rubbed against them, instead of trying to deny the twinge. He thrashed his legs, trying to merge himself with the floor, and then there was that clench, the crash (he tried not to make any sound), and Langly slumped against the trailer floor, panting and making a mess of his jeans through the aftershocks.
And ow, the vibration against his nipples was really too much now, even through the t-shirt. Langly rolled over on his back, trying not to think about how his hands were covered in truck dirt. Now the vibration was against his tailbone, and that was manageable enough to be nice. But it was also against the back of his skull, and the teeth-rattling was decidedly non-erotic. He should really sit up. He’d do that in a few minutes, once his hands and feet stopped tingling. The road hummed on, below him.
“You look like you got attacked by a dirt goblin,” said Frohike, when he finally got Langly out of the truck. “What did you do, roll on the floor?”
“It was dark! How was I supposed to know trucks are dirty?”
“You didn’t know trucks are dirty.” Frohike looked more horrified than he’d sounded about Langly being locked in a truck. “You’ve seriously never…actually, I can believe it, I just don’t want to.”
“There’s a sign for pay showers,” said Byers, over the comms. “You can rinse some of the dirt off. We’ll buy you a t-shirt.”
“You guys are awful,” Langly glared, twenty minutes later. “You got me a t-shirt with a bible verse, a flag, and ‘God Support Our Troops’ on it?”
“It’s perfect cover. No one will suspect you don’t trust the government,” said Byers, struggling to keep a straight face. “What did you expect? It’s a truck stop.”
Langly tried to get the odious shirt to sit right. It had never been washed, so that was a lost cause. His pants and underwear were still dirty, too. (He had considered just throwing the underwear out, before realizing he couldn’t afford to replace it.)
“You’re lucky this isn’t Intercourse, Pennsylvania. We’d have bought you a shirt that said ‘I <3 Intercourse.’ I’d have bought me a shirt.” Frohike grinned.