"Milkman to Crank. I'm swarmed by these rats but making it. I'm way out over Alloways Creek. Do you have Ninny? Is the bridge secure?" the radio blares. Miss Musa can't respond.
It hits her when the Slicks slam the car, dog piling on the trunk and the hood. When they crash on the roof, it bends in, groaning like a tackled football player. Crank screams again, fidgets on her belt for the oversized revolver. La Donna careens back and forth from the weight, from the rocking motion of a baker's dozen of jiggling, burnt diesel fuming nightmares. The car bumps up as the drawbridge rises higher. Where Crank stopped is right on the edge.
Sniper Slick leaps over the car, reaching in through the open driver side window to get at Crank. She's screaming mightily now, but gets her fingers on the gun. Slick has her by the hair as Crank lets out with all six rounds, blowing out Slick's face. He lets go as the car lurches forward. More scissorhands break glass and enter, cutting the car seats to ribbons, dashing the dashboard. Too much of the car is hanging off the end of the drawbridge. Crank is shoved against the door as Slick plummets to the river, pieces falling in slow motion before her quivering blue eyes. Frederica hits it so hard, the car door opens. She rolls out, grabbing the door frame. Slicks continue to pound La Donna even as she leans toward her owner, and their demise.
One final rocking back and forth, and the ladies take the plunge.
Crank feels blood run down her temple, sees the beautiful watery teeth of the fatal Salem River grow larger as she, La Donna, Ninny's Fleetline and an army of black steel death fall into its mouth, its murky brown maw. The ice water takes her breath and robs her heart of beats.
"Milkman to Crank. Crank, are you alright?"
"Crank?"
"Crank!"
...
Chapter Eight: Is This Trip Really Necessary?
It's all she can do to hold breath in her lungs as murderous freezing water surrounds Crank. The force of the impact shoves the tiny woman back into La Donna, a vehicle filling up with brown swirls. It's high tide. The Salem River is a fast moving blitzkrieg of compact whirlpools heading north. The car is dragged along as it sinks, its tail end bobbing up as only the trunk holds air. Swimming into the back seat, Crank pulls on the heavy backing. The weight of water works against her.
Planting both feet on the cushions, she gives it all she's got, air leaking from the corners of her mouth in bubbling streams. Ice cramps every muscle, the unstoppable undercurrent pulls her pockets inside out. The backing cracks open, Crank shoves and wiggles her body inside.Choking, gasping, but surviving, Frederica kicks the seat shut with numbed feet. Her fingers are soon to follow. Banging noises assault the outside of the trunk. Are they caused by driftwood or determined Slicks? Every knock sends her head reeling, waiting for the hatch to rupture, for the water to find its way in.
The trunk is a Godsend. Roomy and sealed, filled with precious oxygen, Crank gasps back to sanity. But she feels the rough bumps of the river, the car going up and down. She also feels the blood pouring down her head again, vision blurring. Crank knows soon she'll be out cold. A strap hangs in the dark, usually it holds a collection of rags, but they must have fallen out. Crank wraps the strap around her right shoulder. If she passes out, she won't sink into the depths.
As the car undulates, the mechanic's vision fades to black.
"Crank!"
Benny Haskins pushes Milkman to the limit to get to the Penns Neck Bridge. But over Alloways Creek, the Slicks are thick as thieves, a gathering hornet's nest of angry drones. Benny spends time burning fuel, outracing the slower robots, forcing them to loop into each other's trajectory. As over the airfield in Millville, many Slicks zoom past him as come at Milkman from behind. They parlay in a conflicting duality of maneuvers, some evade, some attack. None of it makes sense. Only a third of the Slicks engage.
Is it because they want to take Milkman back to their despotic Motherville? If so, why attack at all? But with Crank unresponsive, his mind does somersaults trying to play out what's happening on the bridge. Might as well toy with the skinny little vagrants.
He waits. The second line of Slicks moves up from behind for the pass. Benny lets the first robot swoop by before taking advantage of Milkman's design. He rolls the plane to the right and angles it back left at the same time, a stressing swoop that has him facing the incoming line. Slicks are greeted head first with eight barrels, all firing. Benny wastes not a single movement, flying straight into the heart of the formation, filling the sky with fiery orange outbursts, tarantula legs of gritty vapor and plummeting shrapnel to seed the marsh below. Milkman takes a few on the cheek, tawdry cuts and bruises. Having taken a mass of them by surprise, Benny reckons it's time to vamoose.
He swoops like mad, using the plane's mass to arc down and pick up speed for the escape from this aerial loony bin. The ground below appears almost as morbid as the mechanical cemetery above.
Milkman fires its final round of ammunition. Three thousand two hundred rounds blown away fast in the heated dogfight. Haskins can't afford to play patty-cake with the boys any longer. He guns the engine, maximum speed, headed for Salem. The Slicks, never ones to ignore an invitation, tag along.
Drones are fat with lead death, and no longer hesitate to present their wares to the opponent. Haskins keeps ahead, nimble in his slight touch of the controls. Milkman slips to the right, then left, bobbing away from the flaming traced lines of fire, a huge boxer weaving his head side to side. But there are tons of these buggers advancing. Benny can't keep up the evasive tactics forever.
Behind the Pratt and Whitney engine, Benny hears a welcome sound. It is reminiscent of the big dogfights, dozens of airplanes at war in the clouds. He thinks he must be dreaming, and continues on course to get his girl. Then a slender, slate gray needle of an airplane shoots by. Dreaming eyes catch a red maple leaf on the tail end.
"ST to Milkman. ST to Milkman. That is Milkman I see, Roger?"
Benny stifles the tears.
"Milkman to ST. Please say you're the pilots I was told to expect, otherwise shoot me down now!"
"Roger that, Milkman. We had a few run-ins ourselves. Planes are scarce, but ST delivered. You've got two P-39's and five SBC-3's from Turner's Closet watching your six o'clock!"
Benny could have cried right then and there. "Woo-hoo! I've got a partner to rescue in Salem. We'll talk shop at the hangar later."
"Roger that!"
Slick walks away from the Fleetline, an almost cocky strut for an artificial construct. The deed is done, task completed. By the Route 45 bridge, it stands to observe the icy churning of Fenwick Creek, an offshoot of the Salem River. For a time, Slick seems to be in a passive, serene mood, its metal whiskers vibrating, tasting chemicals in the slight salty air.
And then its head breaks.
Round after round penetrates the Slick's back, sparks on the metal setting fire to the diesel fuel leaks in its joints. Slick goes down into eternal rest, while its assassin, another Fleetline, slams on the brakes. Rotating barrels of a well used machingegun come to rest. Skinny opens the driver side door and pulls himself out. The heat of battle has made his temple break out in a sweat, one wiped away with a quick grab of a wrinkled handkerchief. Skinny is no fool.
A survivor of Operation Torch in North Africa before ST snagged him, and of the burning down of his own town, Claysville two years ago in sight just down the road, Skinny takes no chances. He's got the big revolver out (a part of him wondering what it's even called; he decides his is Clarice), aiming it at anything and everything. He thrice checks to make sure Slick stays a junkpile before jogging to the other Fleetline.
In that car, driver side door open, Bobby Meyer lays across the front seat. He clutches his stomach, moaning like a heifer giving birth. The kid's mouth and nose are bloody, his big revolver behind his back. Skinny doesn't hesitate. He grabs Bobby and sits him upright, plants a couple of gentle slaps on the boy's face. Bobby is two shades whiter than normal, cold and damp. Skinny thinks he's dead, until the eyes creak
open.
"Mister Case?" Those two words roll off Bobby's dry tongue in stretched out vowels and barely enunciated consonants. Even half cocked Bobby speaks to Bubba with respect. Heck, Skinny Bubba is one of the few guys Robert Meyer doesn't hit with the young punk routine. Robert rears up to vomit. It's a rotten dry heave that weakens the boy. He degrades back to unconsciousness.
The crunching ice of the creek suddenly has a new melody, a loud one. Skinny grabs the kid's gun to give Clarice a dancing partner. He shivers to adjust the exoskeleton. Around the bend comes the rounded bubble of a green car trunk, bobbing up and down while Slicks pound away. Skinny knows La Donna on sight. He raises both arms and waits for the car to reach the bridge. He knows the bridge will stop the car.
La Donna taps the bridge with a gentle crunch. One Slick slips off while another finally manages to force open the trunk. Crank is dangling inside! Skinny sets bullets free, one, two, three, four, five shots to break apart the oblivious robots. Greasy runoff forms rainbow trails on the ice. The shooting wakes up a weary Frederica, a tired, shivering awareness. She tries to climb out, but finds her fingers aren't working. Bubba hops over the side, balancing himself on the old posts that keep the car still. Skinny acts as a ladder for the lady to climb up. He feels her shiver as she crawls up. A final shot with Clarice sends an approaching Slick to the creek bottom.
"You good, Crank?" Skinny wipes the hair out of her little face. Languid skin. Her lips hold a light blue tint. She forces her eyes to half open, gives a thumbs up. Her body is colder than the air, breathing short, huffy. Skinny removes her soaked coat to give her his own. He escorts her to the Fleetline.
Bubba ducks as the vroom of a warplane dominates the skyline. Milkman flies low, and Skinny sees Benny looking at them through his Army ant mask as he passes by. The radio in the Fleetline begins to squeal.
"Milkman to Skinny. I'm heading for the bridge. Is Crank okay?"
Skinny places Crank in the backseat and grabs the receiver. "Skinny to Milkman. I've got her. She's got the chills but hanging on."
"Roger that."
Skinny breathes a sigh of relief. He hasn't seen action like this since Egypt, but he still has what it takes.
Up above, a certain Mister Haskins breathes easier too. As he rounds the bend where creek meets river, the Penns Neck Bridge comes into view.
Slicks are scanning the air for chemical traces. Do they search for human chemicals, natural or artificial? Who can rightly say? One thing is clear. Those lined up on the Pennsville side of the broad bridge take notice of a low flying airplane coming from the northeast. The plane bears a resemblance to the one Motherville desires. The plane moves at top speed, low but parallel to the churning waters.
The plane drops two bottles, and then a third, High Velocity Aircraft Rockets coming their way. They sizzle through the atmosphere, deceptive in their simple design. Many of the slender bête noir do not dodge the incoming projectiles. Most choose to aim their machineguns, letting loose with clumsy bullets flying off target, striking distant trees. The rockets move in on time.
The first two fired strike gawking Slicks along the Pennsville riverside. Half of their number are blown into memory in a dustup of flying sand and deafening explosions, while the rest suffer the ignominy of forced amputations. It's a terrible bluster, as burning diesel sets fire to some of the tall reeds standing guard along the Salem River. Tiny cracks creep up the bridge supports, pieces of the railing crumble.
The third rocket strikes the base of the control tower. It explodes at the corner, pounding cement to powder. The tower collapses in slow motion. The Slick inside leaps for the bridge, landing like a mechanical cat. It stands firm as the tower smashes into the water below, sending a wave of ice water over the rusted drawbridge.
Milkman doesn't perform the typical flyby after launching rockets. Immediately after launch, it drops the ailerons to reduce speed, angles the wings ninety degrees into arm formation, allows the fingers to grab hold of the bridge’s counterweight frame, and spins in the direction of the landing Slick. Legs out! Milkman makes a hard pounce on the bridge surface, taking a boxer's stance, metal sparking. The propeller winds down to a stop as the transforming fuselage tucks it up and back, the forward section out. The three-fingered hands form fists. Benny hunches down in the cockpit. Milkman hunches.
Slick tilts its head. Is it confused?
Benny sits restless in the cockpit. He clutches his bleeding leg, slaps some life into it. Wake up! Work to do! He wiggles his fingers a bit, gets a feel for the robot form's motions. Just like boxing. Slick studies, scans, computes. Milkman moves ahead and then stops. Slick flinches.
Gotcha.
Milkman runs forward, a frantic emu pace. Slick raises its scissors to defend. Milkman comes in high, but turns left and drops low at the last instance to deliver an uppercut worthy of Joe Louis. Slick's lenses crack as it flies up and over the railing. Into the cold river it goes, a sturdy send off for the invader. In the cockpit, Benny feels a surge of power flow from the vibrating gloves to his body. Yes, this robot gimmick just might be his thing after all.
The day is frigid, Salem's riverfront smokes more than its many factory furnaces, but Benjamin Haskins feels like a million bucks. At the Pennsville end, rockets are making pieces of the bridge break off. Time to depart, victorious.
The roaring parade of cool gray SBC-3 Helldivers and needle sleek P-39's over his head only amplify the feeling of euphoria. The day is theirs.
Practice makes perfect. Benny decides to let Milkman jog down the road, past the dead quiet factories of Heinz and Anchor Hocking Glass. Milkman moves funny, but can get a reasonable twenty-five miles per hour on the pigeon legs. Haskin motions the robot to throw jabs at the air while on the move, victory punches. He rounds the corner onto Market Street, streaking beyond the historic homes that once hid escaped slaves, watched the British march into town during the Revolution, dogwood trees sleeping away the winter.
Milkman makes its way to the two Fleetline Aerosedans. Skinny Bubba flags him down. The cockpit slides back with a hard bang as Benny gets out. He still has the bug mask and gloves on as he runs to the cars.
"Crank!"
Skinny rears up from the back seat. "Easy, Benny. She's fine, but cold from being in the river. I got my coat on her, and some blankets from the trunk."
Haskins leans in to double check. There was Frederica, snug as a bug, trembling like a loose fan belt. He rubs her tiny face with his bear paw. The kid looks like death frozen over.
"Hey Benny, if you're done with Crank, you better come take a look at this."
Benny's body tenses at the change in Bubba's tone. It deepens into a fearful unknowing. Skinny leads the way to the other Fleetline, where he points to Robert Meyer. He sits up, pale, unresponsive. Benny keeps his distance.
"What happened to him?"
"Slick had a hold on him when I first got here. I'm not sure exactly. He's been throwing up a lot."
Haskins take a couple of steps back. He places one hand on his big revolver. "He's been remodulated. He can't go back with us."
Skinny gets in Benny's face. It's a shock to Benny, one that soon wears off. "Are you crazy? He needs medical help! Doctor Wentz can-!"
"No doctor can fix him up, not the way he's been done." Benny glances down. Skinny is clutching Clarice and the other revolver in his muscular fingers. The big man's face tightens. Benny isn't scared, but he also isn't dumb. He's hurt, worse than he'll admit aloud, and Skinny Bubba is an ally, not an enemy. The leg starts cussing him out.
"It's...okay. Hi, Dad." Bobby slithers the words. Skinny breathes a heartfelt sigh of relief, forgetting Haskins to rub Meyer's greasy head.
"That's my boy! I knew you wouldn't let them take you down!"
Bobby nods. The eyes roll in Benny's direction. There's a look in the eyes for a second, a knowing look. Benny rubs his leg while he watches Bobby play victim.
"Skinny, uh..." Benny points to the guns.
Bubba returns
Clarice to her holster, the other gun he lobs onto the car seat. Benny remains distant. He isn't convinced, and knows it's a bad call but...
"Crank is too cold out here. She needs warmth now. Let's move it!"
They rush to place Bobby in the other Fleetline with Crank while Skinny takes the wheel. He starts her up, and in one shift of the gear he's off for the hangar.
Benny climbs back into Milkman. One more act to perform. He walks the robotic fighter plane out to the bridge over the creek. Stuck on old pier posts is La Donna, her rear end jutting out of ice chunks. The old girl looks bad, scratched, abused. Milkman carefully dips its feet in the water, grabbing the rear fender. Benny heaves up and back. He wiggles the car before heaving again. The car is free of the posts and begins to drift ahead, pulling the plane with it. Benny hunches down, and manages to inch back a step. Two steps are taken, then four. On solid ground, Milkman has an easier time gripping the vehicle. Benny turns it to the side, allowing water to pour out of the broken windows, making the haul smoother. Finally, he pulls the old girl out and lets her rest. Haskins breathes hard. Making moves to move the plane is a tiresome sport without spectators.
Mud drips out the cracks of the car, a fish flounders in the back seat, but La Donna is preserved. Benjamin begins to feel the aches of war groan as adrenaline subsides. Bobby, Crank, Slicks, pain. Variant thoughts begin to bring down his mood. He shakes off all negatives and sticks to the matter at hand.
Now how do I get her and Milkman back home?
Chapter Nine: Life In Pictures
Fenwick Theatre is open, its cozy seats rest under the fluttering light of a projector. Crank is sitting in one of those seats, staring at a silver screen presenting one still image. A black, white and gray picture of a baseball player, swinging his black metal bat at a shiny diamond ball. She scratches her head, looks around at the few folks in the theatre, and wonders why they're staring at it as if Clark Gable was about to burst out of the screen and dance the foxtrot.
Down Jersey Driveshaft (Book One of the Diesel Series 1) Page 8
