The Fish Have Human Eyes

Summary

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.