Deliver

What I wouldn’t give for a few litres of petrol.

Fuck!

I know. Fossil fuel essentially got us into this predicament, but it would sure beat the hell out of waiting for a bike to charge.

Two bars.

Fuck!

My stress levels are already through the roof these days.

Last night I was woken up twice by someone or something testing my door. Thankfully, whoever lived here before me was involved in some nefarious activity. The door is reinforced on the inside with inch thick steel. Unfortunately, this isn’t evident from the outside and I have to deal with infected trying to gain access at all hours.

Strangely, by the time I stumbled upon the flat, it was abandoned with no lock on the door and aside from an empty water bucket, completely empty.

If I had to guess, I’d say the previous tenants contracted one of the neurotropic viruses. Maybe one of the rabies variants. I’ve seen some bizarre and irrational behavior from rabs, especially the rab5 strain.

Running into traffic. Stripping naked in crowds. Insane acts of violence. It’s often hard to tell the difference between rab sufferers and junkies strung out on ice or jack.

Then of course there’s this weird skin issue on my right ankle. Scaly red skin that really seems to flair up with the warm moist weather.

I really should get it seen to, but who wants to brave the public clinics these days with all the virals packing out the waiting rooms, coughing and spluttering.

Not that those places will accept illegals anyway. And I’d be working well into the next millennium if I chose to go private.

For now, I’m just trying to kill whatever fungal shit is breeding down there with rubbing alcohol.

Just try to ignore it.

Still two bars.

Mother fucker!

That solar power system is almost useless in this weather.

On the days when the clouds clear I can charge the battery to almost capacity while I’m out for the day, but charging the bike off it when the temperature drops at night is painfully slow.

In a perfect world the bike battery would have been refurbished at least twice by now.

This is by no means a perfect world.

Right.

I need to get going.

Looking at the charger is not going to speed things up. I’ll get ready and then check back in.

On the other side of my room is a small bucket of water, around 4 litres I believe. It’s probably C+ water at best, but I got it for a good price and dropped in an out of date cleanse capsule which seems to have trapped most of the impurities at the bottom.

The majority of the viral strains in recent years have been airborne anyway.

Worst case scenario I wind up with the shits or Cov23 which has pretty mild symptoms.

When was the last time I had a solid shit anyway?

Have I ever had solid shit?

I remove the lid and dunk my ragged toothbrush into the water. I rub the bristles into the charcoal powder that old Gus gave me.

Brusha, brusha, brusha.

From an old movie, I think… Or an ad.

I think my mom used to sing it.

Always pops into my head when I brush.

I reach out one of my two small windows to pluck a work tee from the line. The upside of the increased UV is that it kind of cooks the stink out of your clothes.

Kind of.

Not really.

Most people stink these days anyway. All of us do, in this quarter.

I detach my phone from the small solar charger next to my mattress and power it on.

The app has a number of pings already. Fairly good for 10:45am, but they’ll all be snapped up before I’m out the door at this rate.

I pray the morning has warmed enough to increase the bike's charge speed.

Three and a half bars...

That’s doable.

Just doable.

Will have to do if I want to eat.

I roll the bike off the stand, give the tires a ceremonious kick, rolling it across to my front door.

Removing the padlock, I shove the heavy door open and awkwardly squeeze myself and the bike through the narrow frame. Holding the bike steady at the top of the concrete stairs with my right hand I pull the heavy door closed behind me and with my left and fumble the padlock onto the outside latch.

I carefully ease the bike down the stairs, lightly pumping the rear break with my left hand to prevent it from taking off. If I was to let go of the brake right now, it would go hurtling down the stairs straight into the carpark wall, destroying my one and only income stream.

On the ground, I take the key from my jean pocket, pop it in the ignition and turn it two clicks to the right. The control panel lights up displaying my hard earned three and a half bars. I’ll need to keep an eye on that battery. The last thing I need is to get stuck across town with a dead bike.

I pop the glove box and remove a bottle of hand sanitiser. I don’t think I touched the hand rail on the way down, but why risk it?

I thoroughly douse my hands and then pull on my gloves.

Reaching back into my transit bag, I retrieve my helmet and jam it on my head. Lifting the visor, I put my n95 mask on then push the visor back down. It’s a bit claustrophobic, but better than choking to death on phlegm.

With my phone in its holder, I open the app again.

Not bad.

Still a few jobs for the taking.

I switch my status to “Active” and press the bike's power button. It gently hums to life.

My dad used to tell me about the bike his dad had back in Australia. It ran on two stroke, a type of fossil fuel I believe.

It used to rumble and roar to life when you started it. He would make the grunting engine sound when he told me about it. Miming the throttle as he chased me around the room.

“Ding.”

A pick up at 23 Auldwood Drive.

That was quick. I know that spot. One of the more popular pickup locations.

I roll out cautiously toward the main road. To my right, a pack of six or so dogs are fighting over god knows what.

The dogs are rarely a threat to the living.

Why stalk a healthy male, when there’s so many sick or dead around every corner? It’s just the rabid ones you need to look out for.

There’s quite a number of riders in my zone already. Zipping in and out of the alleyways making their pickups.

No-one ever makes deliveries in this zone.

I make my way east along Collins avenue. The road is so cracked and potholed now that it’s created a sort of slalom course. No challenge for me.

I could maneuver the majority of the outer quarter with my eyes closed.

Thankfully, I didn’t set myself that particular challenge, as when I rounded the corner into Lockhart street I was forced to lock both brakes so hard that my little electric motorcycle shuddered and pig rooted onto it’s front wheel.

I caught my weight by throwing out my right leg, landing it squarely in a large crack in the bitumen. I bite hard on my bottom lip as I feel my scaly rash sheer against the rough edge.

Faaaarrrrrkgh!

In front of me, blocking the entire lane was a burnt out sanitation vehicle and the wreckage of what looked to be a delivery bike.

Accidents like this are an almost daily occurrence. Deadlines and expectations pushing drivers to take bigger risks.

A tip or an extra pick up could be the difference between going hungry.

One of my colleagues scoots past, glancing at my blood soaked ankle.

He doesn’t stop.

I don’t blame him.

I wouldn’t either once I’m on the clock.

I need to push on.

I stomp my foot hard on the ground and hit the throttle. My pick up is almost ready.

When I arrive at Auldwood drive, I coast my bike into the cobbled lane at the rear of my pickup location.

I find the usual half dozen or so drivers, leaning impatiently on their bikes, waiting for their number to be called.

Time is money.

“2089114!” crackles a voice from the intercom system.

“That’s me!”

Sometimes it pays to be late.

The other drivers look irritated. Like somehow I had cut the line.

It’s just as often that I wind up waiting around, wasting precious minutes.

I roll my bike to the yellow line on the cobblestones about five feet from the door.

A man in a hazmat suit steps out holding the sealed yellow bag.

“Step back from the vehicle.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I raise my hands and leave the bike.

He mists my transit bag inside and out with sanitising alcohol, then places the package inside. He then zips the bag closed and runs a piece of monogrammed paper tape across the zipper.

“OK”

He taps a button on his tablet and I hear the “ding” as my app updates with my delivery address.

613 Sycamore Grove.

Wow. First quarter. Must be some big wig.

A politician or a tech billionaire.

I take off like a bat out of hell. The rich ones are always the toughest customers and if I want any chance of a tip, I’d best be quick.

I dart in and out of the sporadic traffic, the majority of which consists of other delivery riders.

As I near the end of the third quarter, about to make the turn into Russel, I see a young girl, maybe nine years old, leap from the bushes at the side of the road.

She has some kind of makeshift weapon carved from an old fence paling and is angling straight for my bike.

I attempt to manoeuvre past, But it’s too late.

I clip the girl, and in my side mirror, see her spin in the air and tumble lifeless onto the road.

There’s nothing I can do.

If I go back, I lose my delivery.

She was almost definitely a rab5 case.

No one in their right mind would try something that crazy otherwise.

Her eyes did look red.

I pull back on the throttle. I can see the grand trees and towering mansions just ahead.

There really was nothing I could have done.

I let go of the throttle and reduce my speed to a slow roll as I approach the cast iron gates of Sycamore Grove.

The man in the guard box appears to be asleep, but as I near he springs to life.

“State your business.”

I remove my phone from the holder and flash the screen in his direction.

“Roll forward.”

I roll up to his booth.

“Number?”

“2089114”

“Place it in the box.”

I unzip my case, careful to show that the tape was unbroken. I remove the package and place it in the sterilised metal box.

The guard pulls the box through and inspects the label.

He dials the intercom and waits.

“Yes.”

“Mrs Grieves. We have your UberEats.”

I turn my bike around to make my way back.

Two bars.

Something flickers in the harsh sunlight.

I lean down to retrieve a small gold, heart-shaped locket that was wedged into my front forks.

“Ding.”

No tip.