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A Broken Down Truck

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Following a series of sputters and some violent jerks, the truck pulled off to the side of the road and gasped its last. The driver turned the keys in the ignition a few times, trying in vain to revive the old machine. Finally he opened the door, stepped out, and went around to the hood.

He was a tall man in his late 40s or early 50s, with a strong jaw adorned by a Tony Stark type beard. His nose was large and pointed, and the white eyebrows over his steel blue eyes were thick. His head was crowned with short, silver gray hair, shorn in the back and sides but standing up crazily on top. He wore pointed boots, jeans and a jean jacket over a white, sleeveless shirt.

Upon lifting the hood, white smoke billowed up into his face with a violent hiss. The man jumped back just in time to avoid getting a face full. It was no use. The truck was dead. The man turned his eyes in to direction he was heading; miles of forest and hill ahead, but he'd have to walk unless someone else was heading to the doomed town that everyone should be evacuating.

As luck would have it, the sound of a motorcycle engine was not far off. It wasn't leaving Reknab Bend, it was coming to her.

So it wasn't a surprise when the bike and its rider appeared around the bend in the road. Seeing the old man's predicament, the rider slowed down and came to a stop on the shoulder alongside the broken down truck. He wore a black leather jacket and jeans, and a helmet with a deeply tinted visor.

"That looks pretty bad," he said as he lowered his kickstand of his black Harley-Davidson Sportster. He dismounted the bike and removed his helmet.

He was a good looking kid (depending on how the older man felt about piercings, that is, for he had several). Pleasant features; full lips, straight nose, pale blue hunter's eyes. He looked to be in his early twenties, with dark slicked back hair, a stud in his nose, snakebite rings in his lower lip, and a silver cuff on one ear.

"Mind if I take a look?" he asked.

The elderly fellow stood back, allowing the young man room enough to look under the hood of the car. "Be my guest. I don't see any hope for it myself." He said, gesturing at the vehicle with both hands.

The young man stowed his helmet on his bike and made his way over to the old truck to see what was going on under the hood. He waved off some of the steam, though most of it had dissipated by now. After a minute or two he shook his head and clicked his tongue. He could pick out with a sweeping glance a few things that had gone wrong with the old girl. Any one of them could've done her in. But all together? It wasn't good.

"You been having problems with the engine overheating lately? I think she's blown the head gasket," he said, looking at the man. "You're right: she's definitely not going anywhere without a tow." And at this point, probably only to the junkyard, he thought, but he didn't say that part out loud.

He stepped back and took off his leather gloves, and squinted in the sun. "Where you headed? I can give you a ride to Reknab, if you're heading that way."

The man eye'd his truck with an expression of sad resignation. The young man had rightly guessed that it had been giving him trouble for awhile, and he knew it was on its way out, but he'd been in denial. It was a sentimental treasure to him, having seen him through many an adventure over many a year.

"Yes, Reknab is exactly where I'm headed. I'd greatly appreciate a ride." He said.

"You've heard about the sink holes, right?" the young man asked. "Ah, should probably introduce myself. I'm Echo, Echo Hansen. You from around here? Maybe you've heard of my old man, Frank Hansen Jr... He own the pig farm down in Reknab."

The kid clicked his tongue and shook his head. "He won't leave it, in spite of the sink holes and everything. Says he's seen worse, though what's exactly worse than old mines collapsing underfoot, I sure don't know. We've had a lot of storms this year. They're saying it's the uncharacteristic rain that's causing the collapse."

He shrugged. "Anyway, I've got a spare helmet. Let me get it for you."

It was interesting. The young man's aesthetic seemed to denote something of a more sullen, or reclusive nature, yet he was a motor mouth if ever the word applied to any. The old man patiently waited for Echo to run out of breath before replying to one of his questions.

"I remember Frank." He said simply.

"Oh yeah?" Echo asked, getting the second helmet. A look crossed his face like he actually wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. But shrugged it off.

He offered the man the helmet. "He, uh, ever mention my name?"

"Or, I guess, did he ever mention Frank Hansen the third? Lil Frankie?" He felt the question or the man needed a bit of explanation (in spite of the fact that he hadn't asked), on how he could know Frank Hansen on a first name basis but have never met his son. "He and my mom split when I was like, two. So, I grew up in Pinerich." Then he scrunched up his nose and waved his hand. "You know what, doesn't matter. You got a name?"

The man took the helmet from Echo and looked at it for a moment while the boy prattled on. Once again, he waited until Echo was done before he looked up and answered.

"Yes and no. Frank was always a very private man, he didn't like to talk about his personal life" He said slipping the helmet over his head. "My name is Tobias."

"Yeah, that sounds like Frank," said Echo, shrugging again. "Well, in spite of the circumstances," he looked over at the sad old truck, then at the man again, "It's nice to make your acquaintance, Tobias."

He got on his own helmet and mounted the bike, waiting for Tobias to climb on before the pair set off roaring for Reknab Bend.

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