The Fish Have Human Eyes
Language: en
My name is Dutch. I haul freight for a living. But you won’t see my rig parked at a Walmart loading dock, and I don’t move consumer goods. I specialize in the kind of “shadow contracts” that most drivers wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. Word around the depots is that I’m hard to kill—that I was born under a dark star and have enough grit to stare down whatever crawls out of the roadside ditches. But this last job? The cargo was a truckload of “live fish,” and it damn near buried me. These weren’t your average catch. They were massive, housed in custom-built black timber crates that…