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5:48. Four goddamn minutes since the last time he'd checked his watch. A long-ass, shitty, fucked-up day sitting on this godforsaken piece of blacktop, ten miles outside the 'Geurch. Diggin' holes. Diggin' holes, fillin' holes. Laying culvert in the middle of fucking June, 90 degree heat, 90% humidity. Someone's idea of torture. "Honest work." Jesse didn't know what hurt worse, the sunburn, his back, or the idea that the day would net him only $75 after taxes. Fuck sakes. He rubbed at the sweat under his hardhat, and pitched in helping Julio load the Genny into the back of truck #13. They set out the after hours blinking LED warning signs, stating 'work zone, uneven pavement 2mi' They tossed their tools into the work box on the back of truck #4, the only other vehicle on the shoulder that day. Both were mid-90's Chevy's. Long-box, crew cab, 2500-series. Both had long miles on the odo and smelled of sweat and dirt constantly. Dropping the tailgate, Jesse hopped up, and opened his lunch-bag, drawing out two cold ones. Julio jumped up beside him, and Jesse handed over a can. No words were exchanged. 

Both men were just out from long stretches (Julio 8, Jesse 6) and they knew enough to not pry into the other's existence. Jesse drained half his beer in one pull, silently hating his life and staring at the open road. All was silent except the noise of crickets and dragonflies buzzing in the marsh to the South. Jesse had long since stopped swatting at mozzies. What was the rad-blasted point?

In the distance, a new sound. Minuscule at first. Maybe it wasn't even real. No... there it was again. A drone. Getting louder now. Throaty. Reverberating. Sound bouncing off the trees and the water. All around them now. He knew what it was already, and they were still over a mile away. He lay back in the filthy bed of the truck, defeated. Why now? Why did they have to stab him in the senses when he was down? Julio leaned over. "Hey man -- you hear that? Sounds like..." 

The bikes rounded a corner and roared toward the two trucks sitting at the side of the road. One, two, six, ten. They flew by, the sound so deafening it could be felt in your gut, like AC/DC on steroids. A beer can clattered onto the road as the last bike passed, and Jesse resignedly hauled himself up, out of the truck to pick up the litter. (It was part of the job.) 

"Yeah, I heard that. Bloody Fucking Moons." He checked his watch. 6:01. Thank Christ. He piled into the cab of the truck, along with Julio and two other workers. The foreman and three more were in the other vehicle. "Let's get outta here. I got a cold beer at the Sin Den with my name on it... help me try and forget this shit..."