Rising Phoenix by Kyle Mills

for a customer wasn’t a concept that had taken Poland by storm.
    “That would be fantastic,” Hobart gushed. “The more of these I can get, the more people I can help.”
    Hobart had told Orloski that the mushrooms were part of a research project at the University of North Carolina Medical School. The mushrooms, he had said, contained a chemical that could be helpful in treating cancer.
    “How much longer?” Orloski asked.
    “It’s two-fifteen now—forty-five minutes.”
    “Would you like to inspect them now or wait until Paul is done?”
    “Oh, I don’t think that I want to inspect them at all,” Hobart said. “I’m a chemist, not a botanist. That’s why I hired the foremost expert in Eastern Europe.”
    Orloski swelled with pride. “Let’s return to my car, then. I have a bottle there that will help keep this damp chill away.”
    Hobart’s second drink, and Orloski’s fifth, was interrupted by a shout from Paul. The large pile of mushrooms in front of him had dwindled to nothing, and the workers had straightened up and were walking slowly across the field. Back to their village, Hobart assumed. The two men walked quickly up to Paul and the truck.
    “All ready,” he announced. The mushrooms had been sealed into six large wooden crates that were tied securely to the back of the truck.
    “Wonderful! Dr. Stapleton and I will be taking the truck to the docks so that they, can be shipped out immediately. Very perishable, must hurry.”
    Paul nodded knowingly, and took the keys offered by his father. After a short good-bye, he ran down the hill and sped off in the little car that had brought them there.
    Lech pointed to the open door of the driver’s side. “After you.” Hobart looked at him with a confused expression. “The passenger’s side door doesn’t open, I’m afraid,” Orloski explained.
    Hobart surveyed the truck skeptically. It looked as if it had been welded together from spare parts. Rust had eaten away the bottom of the body, which now seemed to float magically above the chassis. All in all, though, it looked a hell of a lot safer than the go-cart they had arrived in, so he climbed aboard. Orloski followed, having some trouble getting himself into the elevated cab. The whiskey hadn’t improved his limited mobility.
    With a loud grinding noise, they were off. The truck swayed down the mud and gravel road and onto the highway. Orloski pressed the accelerator to the floor, increasing their speed to the truck’s maximum of forty. It seemed too fast.
    “There haven’t been any problems with the shipping arrangements, I hope,” Hobart said.
    “Of course not. Everything has been taken care of.”
    Hobart nodded gravely. “Normally, I would never ask your help on something like this. It’s just that U.S. Customs can be so unreasonable sometimes. I’m afraid that your mushrooms might sit in quarantine forever before they release them. If they begin to rot and lose their potency, my experiment will be ruined.”
    The first indication that they were approaching their destination was the smell. The fragrant dampness of the Polish countryside began to fade, replaced by the stench of industry. A cloud of smog on the horizon closely followed the noxious odor, and Orloski started into an animated history about the small river port that was their destination.
    The city lacked the hustle of Warsaw. It also lacked the architecture and recent renovation. It was a town of abandoned houses, cracked concrete, and most of all a pervading stink that seeped into every crevice of the old truck. Occasionally a small child could be seen playing in a large pile of bricks or rolling an old tire. Mostly, though, the streets were empty. Orloski pointed the truck down a desolate road leading to the docks. His speech on the history of the area had ended somewhere in the 1600s. He seemed to have no interest in the city as it existed in the present. Hobart was thankful for the silence.
    “Here we are,” Orloski