Heavy Load
Flash Fiction from the Vault
Paul and Andrew stood discussing the problematic, new-to-them, twin-engined loader. Surrounded by dense woods, the remote location limited their options. Tall snow-speckled trees in the low sun cast long shadows over the frosty site. Here squatted a hulking machine—an articulated shovel, like an old soldier covered in countless battle scars. Every ding and scratch, giving way to rust. It resembled a primordial yellow beast among the woodland.
“It’s not running right,” Paul said, blowing on his cold hands. He pointed to the loader’s drive motor, a robust diesel that used a small petrol unit to start it. The second engine that drove the hydraulics sat on the other side of the central steering pivot. “I’ve never seen a setup quite like this,” Paul admitted.
The older man, Andrew, brought his experience to bear. “This has to be an after-market custom rig, maybe built in-house by a mine or something. Must have needed the extra horsepower for some big project.”
Andrew checked pipes and rams. Hydraulic fluid from the loader arms leaked in small drips, creating a stain on the ground. “This is beyond a quick fix,” Andrew sighed. “This old girl will need some serious workshop time.”
Paul’s satellite pager beeped. No cell tower service this far out, the device proved a necessity. It sent the incoming message to his smartphone.
Paul shared his screen.
Andrew frowned. “Damn.”
Paul shrugged. “It’s not like we didn’t see it coming.”
Andrew lifted his cap. “I guess we’d better head back to base.”
The conference room adjoined the open-plan office. The people gathered, buzzing with tense energy. Workers huddled in small groups, whispering about the recent sale of their company, their apprehension palpable.
The new management’s plans soon became apparent: selling parts of the business deemed unnecessary. Employees heard they could move out of state or walk away. The room fell silent, heavy with the realisation that this meant job losses.
Paul, known to be a man of few words, spoke up.
“We can’t cut corners on safety.
If we downsize, we’ll put one person alone more often than not. Given the machines we service and repair, that makes unsafe conditions.”
His remarks resonated with the room, but the cold, hard reality remained. Executives decided policy elsewhere—far above their pay grade.
At Paul’s workshop, a big rig trucked the twin-engined loader into the yard. Paul faced the daunting task of repairing the loader’s hydraulic arms, and the problem ran deeper than leaking hoses.
The new rule bit. Management sent Andrew east on a call-out, and Paul worked alone. Despite his misgivings, the machine shop suited him better than the conference room. Here, among tools and machinery, Paul knew he could make a difference, one repair at a time.
The massive limbs of steel lay disconnected, lifted free of the loader. A bar ran between their sockets, and the assembly hung suspended from heavy-duty winch chains. Paul worked on an arm; he applied force to loosen a bolt, and the jerking motion caused the hydraulic cylinder to slide along, leaving it hanging at a precarious angle. His heart skipped a beat.
With great care, Paul levered everything back, using a long bar. The weight dragged—immense; his muscles strained under the effort. “Just a bit more,” he growled.
At last, the arm settled into place. Paul stood and breathed, sweat beading on his forehead—the task far from over—the disaster averted for now.
As the day drew to a dark winter’s close, Paul, under the bright service lamps, wiped his hands clean. The old loader waited for resurrection, scarred and stubborn beneath the light.