Chapter 1189: The “Black Belt” of the Southern States

Anyone who’s ever played “Euro Truck Simulator” or “American Truck Simulator” knows how fun it is to drive different models of big rigs on long hauls—at least in the game. In reality, for American truckers, the job is grueling and thankless. Owning your own rig is a dream many strive for, since it means freedom from exploitative leasing contracts or driving for companies that bleed you dry.

Truckers are crucial to the U.S., a nation built around highways. More than 80% of the country’s freight moves by road, handled by rigs of every size. Yet the industry has a constant shortfall of over 150,000 drivers—not because the CDL (Commercial Driver’s License, roughly equivalent to China’s B2) is hard to obtain, but because no one wants the job.

Despite a median salary of $85,000—well above the national average—very few people, not even hardworking Latinos known for their endurance, are willing to do it.

In games, truckers cruise scenic interstates in 18-wheelers, enjoying open skies and peaceful drives. In reality, it’s exhausting, dangerous, bladder-busting, a ticket to obesity, and often means being away from home for weeks on end. In short: stepping on death’s doorstep, holding a steering wheel like a Ouija board, eating cold meals, and sleeping anywhere but a bed.

Federal law mandates truckers can drive a maximum of 11 consecutive hours, after which they must rest for at least 10. Most teams operate with two drivers rotating shifts to keep the rig moving non-stop.

That’s why Teddy and Janice Bodette, a husband-and-wife team, were considered ideal. They earned double income, and avoided marital strain from long separations.

“Teddy and Janice owned their own truck, and for the past six months, they’ve consistently offered the best rates on this route. That’s why we kept using them.”

The manager of the trucking company receiving the FBI agents was a white man with a belly that rivaled a pregnant woman’s. His sparse hair clung to his scalp like scattered tufts on an African savanna, on the verge of extinction.

Like most truckers they’d met, he had awkward body proportions—bulging eyes from hypertension, a ruddy complexion, and a booming voice.

“This business has two secrets: be cheap or be fast. They were both.”

He looked almost wistful as he said it.

“That might’ve rubbed some people the wrong way,” Jubal suggested cautiously.

“Maybe. If you’re talking about the guys driving our company trucks, sure, they didn’t like losing loads to freelancers. But the grumbling never went beyond badmouthing. There’s plenty of work in Margrave these days—they could quit anytime for an easier gig.”

He ushered them into his cramped office and collapsed into an overloaded chair that creaked in protest.

“But whoever did this had guts and brains. No one I know is that capable.”

Jack could tell the man was holding something back. “So, who do you think it was? Did Teddy and Janice have enemies? Was it your competition?”

“The higher-ups are worried it’s sabotage from a rival. That’s why they went to Conklin—Roscoe, I mean—and asked for help. But I told them it’s unlikely.”

The manager cracked open a can of Monster energy drink.

“Sure, the electronics were valuable, but they’re insured. Nobody’s losing money. What I have heard, though, are rumors—Teddy and Janice were willing to transport anything for a price, even if it skirted the law.”

“You mean smuggling contraband?” Jubal’s interest piqued.

The man just gave a sly smile. “I don’t know. That’s just what I’ve heard.”

After collecting detailed cargo manifests and driver rosters, the agents left the cryptic manager and split up per Jubal’s plan.

Jack, Clay, and Aubrey drove two vehicles toward the crime scene at the Georgia-Alabama border.

Alabama is one of America’s poorest states—better than Mississippi to the west, but only slightly. Much like the Rust Belt up north, the South has its own economic scar: the so-called “Black Belt,” stretching from Arkansas through Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, and into the Carolinas.

Originally a geographic term, the Black Belt refers to ancient Cretaceous-era shoreline deposits. Warm coastal waters fostered blooms of plankton, which over millions of years enriched the region’s soil with dark, organic matter—hence the name.

In the 19th century, this fertile land drew settlers. After the indigenous peoples were massacred or driven out, African slaves were brought in to grow cotton. Thus, the richest soil became the place with the densest Black population.

After the Civil War and the abolition of slavery, many African American families moved north seeking freedom and factory work. But many others stayed behind—after all, the plantation owners were generous with watermelon.

Today, American agriculture is mechanized and capital-intensive. The vast farms that still dominate this fertile region no longer need low-skilled local labor. Thanks to the strong U.S. dollar, farm owners now hire trained, certified, and dirt-cheap foreign workers from places like South Africa who can operate heavy machinery with ease.

As for the locals left jobless? Uncle Sam keeps them afloat with food stamps and welfare—a few hundred bucks a month in government aid that some still view as enviable.

Jack and the others were now driving westward along this forgotten artery. The landscape was bleak. Aside from the occasional rest stop, the road was flanked by abandoned buildings—some reduced to skeletons of wood and concrete, ghost towns in all but name.

Many had been leveled by tornadoes, which frequently rip through central Alabama. Jack vividly remembered a movie from his previous life—Twister—and silently reminded himself: if he ever saw a convoy of “storm chasers,” it was time to get the hell out of Dodge.