Dulce Base

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Reggie Copeland hated Dulce Base, hated being underground, and hated being away from his trailer with its TV and fridge full of cold beer. He hated Mount Archuleta and meant to get out the first damn chance he got, and had been meaning to since he’d turned 18 nearly two decades earlier.

He frowned and slumped over the steering wheel of the large dump truck, one with tires fifteen feet high. What the hell else am I going to do?

As usual, Reggie had woken up about an hour before his 9 PM shift started, or more appropriately, came-to from passing out on the floor the night before, which was his typical evening procedure, although it took place before noon. After pulling himself together, finishing off a Coors, and dragging a comb through the tangled mat he called his hair, Reggie’d climbed into the cab and gotten onto U.S. Route 64, passed the one motel and one gas station that the small, sleepy town of Dulce (pop. 900) afforded, and drove the 2.5 miles to the base.

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