Clinton, South Carolina, Wednesday, August 21, 2019, 11:33 a.m.

Here is the fourth and final installment of my short story.

The world is changing so damned much that it’s hard to keep up. For instance, truck stops are not as crowded. It’s fairly easy to get a shower, shave, and otherwise freshen up. I never took a shower in a truck stop until Freddy came along. He says it’s because more than a quarter of the transporters out there are now driverless. They’re manned. They’ve got an operator, much the same way a subway has an operator. They’re all like me. They just pump gas and tell the rig – I’m sure I would name a driverless transporter after a monster, Rodan, maybe, because Godzilla is bound to be overused – where to go. A low-slung sports car would have to be a woman. A Porsche Boxster might be an Ingrid, a Ford Mustang a Bonnie.

Freddy is a perfect name for my persistent Trek. Why? Because I say so.

I have a job. Freddy has one. He’s good at it, better than I am at mine. I give my steed a loose rein. His opinions – oops, analyses – are sound.

I while the hours away, reading books on my badly dated Kindle with classical music provided by Freddy. I still read books. I miss driving, but those days are past. When I’m home, it’s fun to tool around the county in my old pickup truck. I used to kill time on the road talking on the mobile phone. It kept me awake. Chatting with Freddy does that now.

He tells me how he interconnects with other driverless vehicles. They are predictable and logical in their movements. They never swerve without a good reason, and they warn other driverless autos – the term “automobile” makes sense – instantly when the need arises. Freddy has to be wary when humans are in charge.

I discover that one of my social media accounts has been hacked. Freddy instructs me to change my password and provides one that is both easy to remember and suitably obscure. I wish I had Freddy’s precision when I’m not nestled in his technological cocoon.

We take a day off in Denver, where Freddy spends a day at a service center and I take a driverless Lyft to an afternoon game between the Rockies and the Diamondbacks.

“How was the spa?” I ask.

“Pardon?”

“I was just thinking that being serviced, for you, must be a bit like a spa would be for me.”

Freddy pauses for research.

“It’s not like that,” he says.

“I’m feeling a little parched from spending the afternoon in the sun,” I say. “I think it’s time for a bed and a good night’s sleep.”

“As you wish,” Freddy says.

“By my estimation, I figure we’ve got a night to spare on the way to Salt Lake,” I say, “but your estimation is much more accurate than mine.”

“You are correct, Horace.”

Freddy books me into a La Quinta just off Interstate 25 in Fort Collins. The next morning I’m up early and refreshed after the obligatory free breakfast, and we head north into Wyoming after stopping at a truck plaza for small vat of coffee. Cheyenne is flat and boring. The mountains rise in the west, but the spectacular ones are up north. I-80 descends into the Salt Lake Valley via what is mostly a gap between mountain ranges. It only gets mountainous on the outskirts of the city, and the final descent is gorgeous. I’ve never been there except to change planes.

Utahns are not celebrated for their nightlife, and even though I’m rested, neither am I. As soon as the sun sets, I put the Kindle in the console and start to nod off. Freddy asks if I’d like to stop for coffee.

“Decidedly not,” I say. “I haven’t the desire to remain awake.”

Freddy doesn’t reply. He knows me better than I do. I dream of shady summertime, playing catch with my father, him teaching me how to bat lefthanded or make a football spiral.

Freddy urgently interrupts my happiness by blasting my seat with heat.

“Damn, Freddy,” I say. “What’s wrong? You trying to scald my ass?”

The seat cools.

“No, Horace. Your assistance is needed. I believe a transporter behind is attacking.”

“Attacking? The fuck …”

“There’s no time. Shift me to manual, and take the wheel.”

I do so. Freddy obviously means business. Streams of nonsensical characters start cascading across the video screen. Occasionally there are pauses, and a large word, ending in an exclamation point, interrupts the screen.

DUMP!

“What?” I ask.

Freddy’s words are barely recognizable, enveloped in static. I manage to make out his instruction in words I can understand.

“Goddamn it, say dump!” Freddy has never before cursed. He has never before felt the need for the urgency of a verbal exclamation. Are words from a computer verbal?

“Dump!” I yell.

The “are you sure?” pops up, flashing in and out amid the computer garble.

The last cogent message from Freddy is, “Exit the interstate. Turn left. The intruder will not be able to keep up on mountain roads.”

Famous last words. Freddy, as always, is right. I execute the dump by touching “yes” with my index finger. I don’t know whether the evil rig followed or not. I see it get off the exit, but after I peel off across the bridge and up into the hills, either it saw the futility of following or gave up the chase quickly, no doubt to return to the interstate to attack someone else. After thirty minutes without further emergency, I pull over and kill the ignition. I don’t know what else to do but what used to be known as “rebooting.” I count to fifteen and crank Freddy back up.

Only it isn’t really Freddy anywhere. His knowledge is gone. He asks me his name, and this time I use my real one, Chris. I don’t know where he has booked me, so I stop at a wind-blown motel that looks like one in a horror movie. I manage to find a Trek service center with my phone, and, for the next two days, technicians restore the systems in my trusty sport-utility vehicle while I take care of my business.

On the long way home, we get reacquainted, which is to say he slowly rebuilds his database, and we start anew.

This time I dub him Clarence because he is my technological guardian angel. I guess I’m not religious enough to call him Jesus, though it’s true that he died to save me and rose from the dead.

 

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My eighth novel is called Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

Lightning in a Bottle is now available in an audio version, narrated by Jay Harper.