A Set Of Wheels

by Robert Thurston

  We wiped the blood off your forehead, he says. Funny, there wasn’t any on your clothes or anywhere else.

  Funny, I say.

  But you’re okay. You missed a whale of a fight.

  I saw some of it, from up above there. What was it all about?

  We don’t know. These guys in suits stopped the train with their barrier, and opened fire without discussion. I guess we’ve made a lot of enemies. People want to protect their possessions. Chuck is thinking of giving up the operation.

  What were you guys talking about just now?

  Link nods, glances at Chuck.

  It’s your set of wheels. I think it’s had it.

  No.

  I’m sorry, Lee. Couple the guys been working on it. They can get it to run, they say. I mean, it’d be all right for grocery shopping, herding sheep, stuff like that. But it’s got no power, no speed, and they can’t do anything about that. It’s certainly of no more use to the gang.

  The Mech’d fix it.

  From what you’ve told me about him, I’m sure he could. Nevertheless, he’s on one coast, you’re on another. Chuck says you’re gonna have to scrap the wheels.

  Chuck can go to hell. I look over at Chuck. Go to hell, Chuck.

  I’m sorry, Lee, I don’t—

  Shut up, Chuck. I don’t want to hear from you. I don’t trust you anyway. Who can trust a guy who pops up everywhere I go? You’re haunting me, Chuck. You’re a spook, Chuck. Go away.

  Chuck looks very sad. His handsome face seems to collapse just a bit, his body deflates just a little.

  Sorry Lee, he says. I really am. But that’s my decision. I’ll see you later.

  He walks off before I can answer back. He’s smart. He knows my mouth.

  You’re gonna have to, Lee, Link says. There’s no way that car can—

  Have to? Have to? Who the fuck says I have to? What are you guys, God? A fucking two-headed God? I’ll take my wheels and—and—

  And sulk in your tent, Link says quietly. I wonder what the hell he means by that. I won’t ask him. Let him be smug, what do I care? I care.

  Link, let’s bow out. Let’s get away from these guys. You and me, like before.

  Assholin’ down the road, you mean?

  Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean. We don’t need these guys.

  I like it here, Lee.

  Like it? Fuck, they had to force you onto that platform, force the words about believing God out of your throat, force you to study the—

  I know. And I don’t intend to go back there. But I like it here. I’m staying.

  But why?

  I like it here, that’s all. I got a sense of, I don’t know, purpose. We do some good, we—

  Some good? Burning up wrecks?

  As I say it, I get a flash of the Mustang on fire, its melting metal twisting into and blending with the frames of other wrecks.

  It’s not such an awful job, Link says.

  Job? Job, Link? Man, Lena’s got you right in her clutches. From hundreds of miles away, you’re just one more fucking puppet. You’re a Wheeler, Link.

  He shrugs.

  Maybe, he says.

  Maybe? Fucking maybe? This is the criminal life, hell, you told me that, it’s not a job.

  Whatever you say.

  He looks away. We get silent. In the distance I can see the Mustang, looking all crooked because of its flat tire. Hell, it looks crooked without a flat tire. It’s got more dents, bumps, bruises, rust holes, and all that shit, than I’d remembered. New little scars it’s received over the last few months. A couple of guys are crouching over the motor, lazily working on it. I look back at Link. He’s almost as much the worse for wear as the car. How many bumps, dents, and bruises are there on his body? Hell, I can see why he wants to stay. Here he can be Errol Flynn and Gary Cooper, and nobody looking at his ugly face will think about it much. He’ll stay. And I don’t want to leave without him.

  Okay, I say finally.

  Okay what?

  We’ll scrap the Mustang. But not Chuck’s way, definitely not Chuck’s way. I’m not going to just dump it in a swimming pool, then burn it and drown it. No sir, not that way.

  What way then?

  I’ll think of something. I will.

  I'm sure you will.

  Link smiles and pats me on the shoulder. I try to smile back.

  * * * * *

  Okay, I decide finally, we’re in California, near the good old rugged ragged coast, I know what to do with the Mustang. I give Link the rundown. He likes the idea. We go to Chuck, who at first doesn’t understand, asks me to go over it again.

  It’s simple, I say. I just want to send it off one of these splendid sunlit California cliffs. Like in the movies, you know?

  Chuck smiles. Why is it so hard to stay angry with him?

  I like it, he says. As they say in the movies, Lee, it’s you.

  I wonder what he means by that.

  Well, whatever, I say. I just don’t want it to wind up as part of a mangled pile of metal. I want to watch it roll and bounce down to the sea and sink beneath the water.

  Chuck suddenly can’t stop laughing. When he can talk, he says:

  Whatever you say, Lee.

  Why is everybody always saying that to me? Can’t I do any goddamned thing without being the object of ridicule? I mean, Link and Chuck are on my side, for God’s sake.

  Link, you take your Merc and follow him. Drive him back when the deed’s done, okay?

  Sure.

  I want this to be right, I say to Link as we walk to the car. It’s ceremony, right, ritual? If you want to laugh at me any more, choke on it, okay?

  Okay.

  We should probably wait until morning to leave, but I can’t stand the idea of waiting. I want to go now. Get to the coastal cliffs, say something appropriate as a eulogy, then send the Mustang over the edge. I want it to be quick. I want to watch it go, then turn my back on it and walk away. No wonder I'm afraid of Link’s laughter. If I were split into two people right now, one of me’d probably laugh at the other.

  — 11 —

  I thought the coast would be easier to find than this. California’s got more roads than they got jerks. Well, I hate to do it, but I have to admit it. I’m lost. I don’t want to admit it to Link.

  This road looks likely, and that rushing noise sure sounds like the ocean. I’ll try it. I look into the rearview. Link’s Merc is still there. Maybe he doesn’t know we’re lost. I took the directions from Chuck, after all. Ahead, the road seems to be getting worse. It’s pitted and not well defined. Sand has drifted in elongated triangles onto the road. Well, sand’s a good sign, I guess. Where there’s sand, good chance there’s an ocean nearby.

  Only the headlights from our two cars illuminate the road. My brights aren’t working, so I can see ahead only a small stretch in the pitch darkness. At this slow speed, the car’s not running too badly, although it did have an attack of emphysema when I tried to speed it up earlier.

  The farther we go, the more sand there seems to be. Sometimes the road disappears altogether and the car skids along the sand for a half-mile or so. I’m getting scared. I’m scared I’ll lose all sight of road and wind up stuck for good on a rocky beach. I’m scared I’ll skid on sand and slide off into a gully.

  The land around me seems to be flattening out. The few lights in the distance—windows of homes, working roadlights and streetlamps, faded neons—are fewer. They seem to flash out on me like dying stars. The ocean smell is getting stronger. I’m scared I’ll just drive nonstop into the sea. No cliffs, no romantic tumbles, just me and the Mustang following this old road right into the ocean. I begin to believe this could happen. I slow down more.

  There’s a high fence beside the road now. Well, it was formerly a high fence. Now it’s bent over with age. In some places its barbed wire top nearly touches the ground or sand, There’s a sign up ahead. I stop the car.

  As I get out Link runs up behind me, his simian gait made more awkward b
y his slipping and sliding over the drifts of sand.

  What the hell’s going on? he says.

  I’m gonna read this sign.

  Look, Lee, why don’t you follow me out of here? We get back to the main road, I’m sure I can get you to a better place than this.

  I want to read the sign, Link.

  Okay, read the sign. God.

  It’s a big sign. Its wood was once painted white but the air and sand and time have flecked away some of the paint, have greyed the rest of it. There are several lines of print on it. This must be some major sign. In the dark I can’t quite make out what it says. I go back to the Mustang. Link watches silently. I drive the car up closer to the sign. The letters, those that can still be read, are clearer now that they’re illuminated by the Mustang’s headlights.

  I get out of the car. Link, crouching and leaning close to the sign, reads its bottom line:

  This says something about an air force base. V-A—I can’t read a few letters, it ends in a burg.

  Vandenburg, I say. Used to be an air force base out this way by that name.

  How do you know?

  My Dad took me to a lot of military-preparedness movies. And Vandenburg’d probably be around here somewhere. I want to read the sign, maybe we can figure out where we are or where to go or something.

  In capital letters at the top of the sign, it says WARNING, then in regular block print it implores: Please take heed.

  It goes on:

  Land East of High Tide Line between Osa Flaka Lake and Point (the word is obscured, looks like Sal, wonder who he was) Except Parking Lot and Road—Private Property.

  That’s interesting, I mutter to Link. I think we’ve trespassed.

  Under the general warning are some numbered specific ones. In each warning the word danger is colored red. It was probably bright red once. Now it looks like old lipstick.

  1. DANGER! Rip Tides and Strong Undertow. Swimming and Surfing at your own risk.

  2. DANGER! Dangerous Rocks and Air Currents. No Hang Gliding.

  3. DANGER! Mouth of Santa Maria River Not Passible (It’s really spelled that way) When Flowing. Dangerous Quicksand and Heavy Currents.

  4. DANGER! Missile Fall our Area from 1 Mile South Through Vandenburg Air Force Base.

  5. DANGER! Obstructed Vision in Dunes: Shifting Dangerous Surface. Watch for Pedestrians and Others.

  I don’t know what to do. Watch for the Pedestrians or the Others. I’m afraid to move. One step and I could get pulled away by a rip tide or fall into the quicksand or onto the dangerous rocks. I could impair my vision hopping around sand dunes or just simply stand here until the next missile falls on me. Good thing I left my surfboard at home, anyway.

  What is it? Link asks.

  I don’t know, I say. This may be the checkpoint for the end of the world.

  Oh. Well, I’m checking out that dune over there myself.

  The dune he means is higher than any other rise in the vicinity. It seems populated with ragged-looking clumps of mysterious dark matter. It looks ominous. It looks like the kind of place where you’d find irritable mutated animals and corpses of dead pilots from the world wars.

  That dune? No.

  Why not?

  You could, you could get lost.

  Me? Bullshit. Don’t worry.

  He strides off, holding his low shoulder lower than usual. I retreat to the Mustang, almost get in it, ready to crawl underneath the steering wheel, stick my thumb in my mouth and wait. I read the sign several times. I look out at the sand dune. I think I see Link moving around out there in the darkness, dodging the mutants, stepping over the aviators’ helmets of the corpses.

  Are you all right? I holler.

  Fine. There’s not much out here but prehistoric beer cans, that kind of shit.

  I’m fidgeting. I’m slapping both hands against my jeans in an erratic rhythm. To stop this, I reach in the car window and switch off my headlights. No sense in having the battery run down, not now. I resume slapping my jeans.

  In the distance a car motor starts up. My heart leaps to my throat, where it’s wanted to be anyway for the last ten minutes. It hadn’t occurred to me that somebody else might be out here. On the horizon in front of me, I see a gradually expanding glow of light, the headlights of another vehicle. It clears a dune beside the road and starts coming toward me. It is two or three miles away right now, toward where the ocean should be. I hadn’t suspected that the beach could stretch out that far. I’m scared. What if we’ve come all this way across the country and into the western paradise, only to be robbed and slaughtered by some cruising carload of beach bums? We’re too alone here, isolated. What should I do? I try to holler to Link, but the words catch in my throat. I clear my throat and manage one good shout:

  LINK!

  He doesn’t answer. Oh Jesus, maybe he has gone off and got lost. That car is closer now. It’s not moving fast, just coming on steadily. I glance into the Mustang, looking for some kind of weapon, but my luck fails me now, no monkey wrench, no cooking fork. The car comes around a curve, and it seems to be slowing down. I close my eyes for a moment, see a gang of pirates emerging from the vehicle, brandishing already blooded swords, cocking for the first shot from ancient two-barreled pistols. I open my eyes. The car is now only a few feet down the road. I’m sure it’s stopping. It’s going to stop. Isn’t that squeak the sound of a brake being applied?

  But it doesn’t stop. It barrels on past me, traveling much faster than it had appeared to me. In the streaked darkness following the glare of their headlights I can’t even see into the car, can’t tell what kind of people were in it or how many. I’m not even sure there was anybody there, it might be a ghost car, driven along these godforsaken sands forever. DANGER! Ghost vehicles. Beware of tire tracks after sand storms.

  I holler for Link again. He hollers back this time, says to keep my shirt on, he’ll be there in a minute.

  I stroll around the Mustang, trying to bring my nervousness under control. On the other side of the road is a gentle downgrade. A few feet down it, I see something. It’s probably a land mine. Still, I want to know what it is. Slipping and sliding, I run to it.

  Just poking out of the sand, like a burrowing animal just checking out the outside world, is the front of a car. An old Ford, looks like. It’s eerily dark down here and I can’t see any of the lights I was using for reference points earlier, the roadlamps and lighted windows. There’s only a faint aura, the headlights of Link’s Merc. Much of the metal on the old Ford has rusted or eroded away. It’s replete with holes that have rust-bordered rims. It occurs to me, wherever I leave it, the Mustang’ll look something like this some day. Hell, it’s at least halfway there already.

  I scrape away some sand and discover the Ford’s windshield which, amazingly, has remained intact under the assault of the elements. There are scrape lines all over the glass. I trace a couple lightly, safely, with my fingertips, try to look inside. It’s dark. I fumble around in my jeans pocket, come up with a bent and almost crumpled matchbook. Like most of the matchbooks I carry, this one has a single match in it. One match, bent and almost ripped through. Carefully, I disengage it and gently strike it. At first it doesn’t light, then it suddenly flares up. Quickly I hold it close to the windshield. I can’t see much. There are still seats inside the car, they seem to be ripped, jagged metal peeps through the upholstery. There is a book wedged between the front passenger seat and the gear box. I can’t make out what book it is. It looks like the pages would fall apart, turn into sand, blend with the natural sand of the beach, the minute they were touched. The match is almost burned down to my fingers. I try to focus on the rear seat. Just before I have to shake the flame out, I see something. Something large, something vaguely human or shaped like a big ambulatory animal, something moving.

  I jump backwards, lose my footing, start to fall further down the hill, do a couple of backward somersaults, the kind that had always eluded me in gym classes. My back rams against something
solid. Another car probably, but I don’t look back. I scramble to my feet, start running up the hill. My left foot slides out from under me and I fall sideways. Onto what looks to be the remains of the cab of a diesel truck. It gives way when my shoulder hits it, makes a small moanlike sound, slips downhill a bit. I don’t want to inspect it at close range, but it felt strangely light to the touch of my shoulder. I want to scream hysterically and be rescued. Instead, I manage to get my feet working again and, running and crawling, slipping and sliding, chewing on mouthfuls of sand, I get back up the hill to the road.

  I am a few feet behind Link’s Merc. I run toward it.

  LINK! I yell.

  I’m right here, he whispers. His whisper almost sends me right fucking out of my skin. For a moment the weirdest possibilities occur to me. Maybe something bad happened to Link out there by the sand dune. Maybe he’s become one of them. One of whom? What’s out there besides a lot of sand and a few old car shells?

  Let’s get out of here, I say to Link.

  Why don’t you leave the Mustang here? he says. Just run it off the road down that hill.

  No!

  Lee, it really doesn’t matter where you—

  No.

  All right, you follow me. I’ll find the coast for you.

  No, not that either.

  Then what are you going to do?

  I look back down the hill, I can just see the old Ford poking its nose out of the sand, can just make out the outlines of what must be a couple dozen other abandoned vehicles. A breeze has come up from nowhere and, with it, the salt smell of the sea. I can almost feel the salt on my skin. I can hear the waves beating against the shore much clearer now, I don’t know why I didn’t hear them before. My throat is dry, and probably sandfilled. My tongue feels swollen.

  I think my brain is swollen, sandfilled, dry. Maybe I should abandon my brain here, let it sit forever in the driver’s seat of one of these derelict vehicles. I see the Mustang rotting and rusting away in sand until it breaks up into pieces, artifacts for beachcombing; I see it becoming pearl-smooth in sea water and discovered by future scientists out to see what went wrong with Earth’s oceans; I see it on its roof at the bottom of a cliff, come upon by sleazy vagabonds who use it as a place to sack out and roast pig’s tails; I see it floating to the South Seas and becoming a scrap metal god. I see it turning on me and going off on its own, leaving me only a roadbed oil slick to remember it by.