"I can't tell if she's shaking from the debris hits...or the engine's power!"
"Keep her forward, Wilkes! Your fuselage only lost some paint, you big baby! Ready?"
Pause.
"Now or never!" Wilkes had pushed to fly one of the Helldivers, not realizing it would put him square in Benny's sights for this suicidal setup. Up two fighters soar, fat S-47E and shining biplane trailed by debris, followed by a fuming spiral of fiends spitting death rounds.
Slicks, six in total, swerve up to pursue. They spit bullets upward, missing their targets, killing air molecules.
Benny drops first. The maneuver is simple as can be: wobble the wings, feel the forces flex throughout the body as Milkman twists with the force of momentum. Then, swiftly, use the turn to propel the old girl into a bottom line nosedive. Air screeches around her broad, flat nose. She feels as if she's stretching while Benny's body compresses. The Earth summons Milkman to her bosom, to suckle on the milk of death.
At the last second over the river, Benny declines the invitation.
He banks so hard to the left the force makes his teeth chomp, blaze sharp pain in his skull. Benny hears every rivet in his plane quiver. Neck tightening, stomach lurching, he turns back to find Wilkes still playing shadow.
Alright, alright. Let's bring some gifts from America and Canada.
"Wilkes! Drop!"
Angling West toward a land of billowing brownstone smokestacks, they go. Milkman says goodbye to its full complement of HVARs. Wilkes allows his bomb to drop. The recipient of these gifts are the line of brown brick factories sitting pretty along the Christina River. Boom. Boom. Boom! On such a rapid pass, it's hard to tell what flies in the air more, bricks, or Slicks. The destruction of human civilization fills Haskins with improbable mettle. Wilkes...
"Won't we need factories for later? What if this war drags--"
"Bank left!"
Both fighters hit their mark, narrowly evading a trio of Slicks in hiding beneath the trees below. Reddish-brown powder coats the land, obscures Slick visibility. They rise to greet their human foes, but move too late and are quickly mere blurs in the past. Fighters rumble from the detonations behind them. Wilmington is a small city, a factory town, Gunpowder Land. It will blow up nicely.
To his right, Benny now sees the war he left behind. The new guys are putting on one heck of a brawl in the sky. He can only guess how many, how few, of them are left alive. All about their glistening fuselages are charcoal bees, puffs of powder, trace lines to infinity. Haskins almost finds the sight, from a distance, soothing.
Back to work!
Milkman decelerates by means of a hard bank, ailerons down. Lower, lower. Lower! She's flying down Adams Street just twenty feet from Death's grip. Benny pulls the lever, pops the plug. Milkman's legs go down, arms out, propeller angles down to cushion the landing. S-47E hits the street running. One hundred yards of hop-jogging does the trick. Wilkes comes in not far behind, his Mailman clinking, clanking, maturing into warrior mode with a fancy schmancy shield to boot. Helldiver's feet are crimson, maple leaf etchings along them. Both machines squeal on every movement as they attempt to run incognito.
"Wilkes," Benny pauses. Excitement has him out of breath. "They won't expect us on the ground, what with the dogfight above. We may face some strays, but I think we'll have time to search the factories in relative peace."
"You believe so?" Wilkes angles his bird around the corner of a fanciful brownstone. He sees Twelfth Street rolling downhill in peace, devoid of the enemy. He looks up, down, anxious left to paranoid right. "Is that why we hit the ground so far away from the target?"
"Yeah. Motherville's a liar, through and through. She may build Slicks in the factories, but I'm guessing she keeps hostages in a house somewhere. If we have to, we jump out and rely on pistols and exo-skeleton. But that'll be last resort."
There's a gulp lodged in Wilkes' throat. He watches the dogfight far and away, men and machines scratching the blue out of an otherwise fine day. "Good to know. Shall we proceed?"
There is a distinct glow radiating from the grill of La Donna as she hauls tail down the road. Machine gun lights up a grim sky, turning a wall of leaking metal monsters into explosive shrapnel. The rounds coming from the Slick horde rebound off of the super Style master, denting it, scratching the paint, but ultimately doing little but causing her driver to zigzag.
Throughout the joust charge, Frederica Musa grips the steering wheel, pedal to the floor, screaming.
"This won't go down like on the bridge! It won't! Watch me, Motherville! Watch! Me!"
Robots land, gnawing on rooftops like locusts, the plague from some machine's twisted Bible. Robot pieces rain onto Broadway. Random fires break out. Storefronts blow out. Electric cables snap and sizzle, adding to the danger, lighting up the melee. Propaganda posters burn up. Goodbye image of kids in doughboy helmets kicking a Slick's head shouting, "Don't kick a can! Kick an enemy!" So long painting of Milkman high over the white steeple of First Presbyterian Church ("Salem Soars to Victory!).
White glow stretches out and back to form long, whipping lines. Crank's not slowing down. The Slicks don't either. Game of chicken. Winner take all. Loser eats Death. Engines blare. Propellers holler. In Crank's line of sight, a semicircle cyclone of historic destruction, scissor fingers in the hundreds. She turns hard right, mashes the brake, puts her gal into a spin to let the gun fire on all angles until the final shell hits street.
Chug-chug-chug! fills the air.
After the torrential, petrol-fueled blitzkrieg, an aura of relative silence. Slicks remaining shut off flight mode. As debris falls to Salem, so do they.
Right onto La Donna.
The armor holds up again, give or take some dents. The paint job, not so much. But as soon as their digits scar the surface, Crank puts the Stylemaster in reverse. Three fall off, five jump on. She backs over Slick arms, glass bits, smoldering carpets and the remnants of the sign for Economy Shade while turning a plump black dial on the dashboard (labeled SURPRISE). La Donna bobs up and down, burning rubber on refuse, skipping, leaning, BANG! into the first steps of the Salem Post Office. A toppling black light post tackles two Slicks. Good show!
Careening is the only thing keeping the armada from point blank shots at the windshield. Crank turns up the dial, and then lets her hand hover over the button at its center. The grill glows brighter. Slicks fire, but clumsy feet and a wobbling automobile mean the only casualties are the Greek columns on the post office.
Crank floors the accelerator, runs the car up the steps, batters down the iron railing. Slicks run up to greet her, to jab at her car, shoot it, cut her hair, scalp her.
Twenty five pile on. They jab into the hood. One shatters the passenger side window, scissors grasping inches from Crank's neck. She drops down beneath the steering wheel and presses the button.
COMMUNICATION IS OFF...COMMUNICATION IS OFF...COMMUNICATION IS OFF...
As three Slicks reach for the exposed engine, the block opens up two pores dazzling bright. Whirrrrrr.....
BUZZ
La Donna shimmies as a belly dancer. Muffler can't hang on so it pulls a Geronimo. Crank shuts her eyes, claps her ears. She really has no idea what this foreign implant will do, but she's got plenty of brains to know it'll be stupendous. Oh brother, is it ever.
Broadway gets drunk off of the White. Pure, unfiltered, catastrophic prime value dominates. Four seconds. Nine seconds. Crank can't think. Her mind goes White. She hears things falling, crumbling, but all in the background. Skin is cold. Bones ache. The Stylemaster creaks like a rusty gate the entire time, an irate bat in a shiny cave.
BUZZ -- CLICK -- CLICK -- CLICK -- WHIR
LOCK
Stylemaster rumbles, bobbles down the steps and off the curb. Crank realizes in the battle, she forgot to put the gal in park. Crawling into the seat, she feels as if she woke up from the worst sleep ever. She applies the brake, parks the car, and gets blinded.
Not blindsided. Blinded. C
rank can't see the city for the glitter. The air is full of crystalline tidbits, sparkling in the light of revealed sunshine. It's everywhere. Broad streaks of the stuff run up the post office, jagged lines of glitter-gem dust coat Broadway, the car, surrounding homes.
"As if a creature of diamond fell from the sky, swatting flies." Crank's murmur is the best comparison she can draw. On instinct she gets out to check on the hood. One hand covers her eyes. There isn't a Slick in sight. No debris. No shell casings. The street is crystallized, as are the columns, the post office steps, the grill and headlights. Priceless collateral damage.
Yet, La Donna purrs, one satisfied kitty.
Good girl, good girl.
Crank claps her hands to get the dust off. Shaken but alive, she smiles at the Sun.
"Thank God, I'm alive! C'mon, La Donna! Let's...go to the bank. I'll try not to get...cocky...on the way." She feels something slipping away, but can’t define it.
The Stylemaster revs up and takes off. As she goes, she leaves a trail of fine white energy, power on tap.
Chapter Twenty One: Broadway Bombing
Instilling tranquility is not in Roy Fuse's repertoire of tricks. Heck, the disciplined man doesn't even know tricks, only tried and true training stirred in a crab pot of honest dealings. Now, crammed into the no longer spacious abode of the National Bank with one Salemite too many, he finds his usually still nerves being twanged worse than a beat up guitar in the hands of a jilted lover.
What smarts worse, the rip of continuous bombardment, or being wedged in with defeated humanity?
Motherville pushed Salem into one lone corner. Folks are restless. Soldiers have to close the vault, for some seek to steal cash and bolt. Fights are breaking out. Some dislike being so close to colored families, being walled in or fear death altogether. Others have offered cash to Fuse for a secret drive out of the county. Outside the bank's long windows, the hail of midnight smoke puffs become white lightning in daytime. When you sign on for a war, you find yourself committing to a vast array of menial, and aggravating, tasks never before envisioned.
Fuse's fuse is burned out.
"Folks..." The single word to draw silent attention instead brings noisy demands.
Mr. Dean demands he and his two children be relocated to the courthouse (P.S: Mister, she's loaded for bear with citizens as well. Take a number). Fifteen persons are injured in a building too packed to provide a decent triage, four of them lie under white sheets. Glass hums to the beat of explosions outside. There aren't enough IV's, blankets are short. Two bandage rolls remain as injuries skyrocket. All the added supplies trucked into town are soaked up. Crying children not comforted by fairy tales. Bleeding and battered pastors from varying denominations committed to one common prayer.
Fuse is beside himself. No one is listening. For every person giving compassionate aid, another two cry out. With so much movement, not a soul blinks when the tall front door opens. Soldiers are in and out, either carting supplies and people or ducking for cover. But this visitor, a prismatic statue from nowhere...
Crank!
She doesn't shut the door, nor does she walk in. Fuse sees her first, forgetting the worries to move her way. In slow motion, the bank's holdings recognize invading light. They wonder if the almighty Sun has revealed itself to their dark day. Fuse, though, bears witness to the truth. Frederica Musa brings the dawn, a spectacular shine pushing aside the collective cloud of gloom.
"Crank?" Fuse places a hand over his eyes to cut the glare.
No response. Only the distant reverberations of the air war above make a sound. Eager for action, Roy Fuse pounces, taking the little lady by the arm. He rubs fingers together before his face once he gets coated in alabaster glitter.
"This is new..." He escorts Crank inside, shuts the door, keeping eyes on the new element. "From where did you get this?" He poses, but Miss Musa draws a blank.
A handful of women young and old rush to assist their sister. One of them is a familiar face, an opponent from the theatre.
"Non ti ho battuto...?" The voice drifts on clouds of whispers. A fist rises, faint, direction less. But the broad gets the meaning.
"Water under the bridge, honey. Come over and have a seat." She shakes her head at Roy. Who here understands Italian? The ladies marvel at the powder as much as Fuse. Every particle radiates a soothing, pleasing aura. Some are losing their essence, but Crank remains resplendent. Children flock to her.
Fuse takes off her jacket. He motions for a soldier to take the jacket and place it in a bag. "Good to see you're responsive, Crank. What the heck happened?"
Crank scratches her hair, giggles as sparkling bits fall out. "C'è un uomo...nero come la notte...volante...luce blu...persons sciama la Casa Bianca...dopo la ruggine..."
She blinks before Fuse's snapping fingers. Kids dance around her. Ladies remove the mechanic's hat to comb her hair. A black crown resides above lucent strands.
"Crank? Crank!" Snap. Snap. Snappity-snap!
Crank looks at Fuse, or rather, his chin. "Sí."
"What happened out there? What is this that you're covered in?" Snaps motivate a GI to put a flashlight in the hand of Roy Fuse. The light is shined into vacant eyes. Irises neither contract nor expand. Shock.
"Mio motore..."
Salem forgets its worries to gather about the current drama. Fuse is flummoxed, as are the ladies in waiting. Only the children take the shine as a blessing.
"Where was this?"
"...all'ufficio postale..."
Now, Fuse doesn't dabble in Italian, but even nearby kids gather postale means--
"The post office? Jameson! Lippincott! Find Skinny Bubba and meet me at the post office!" Fuse grabs his black ST coat and cap. He heads for the door. Hand touches doorknob. Then, he does an about-face and returns to reluctantly grab one of ST's huge revolvers from a holster atop a stack of munitions, picking it up as if the weight of it sprains the wrist. On touching it, he again eyes Crank. "Keep her in one spot, ladies. Please. Make sure she doesn't leave until we're certain what's happened to her." He runs.
"Wait!" The ladies are desperate. "Where are you going?"
"To find the cause of the powder. It may just be a better weapon than frequency jamming!"
Skyborn hand of Motherville dissipates under consistent fire from two directions. Slicks dangle, broken toys in the grip of childish bombs before littering the Delaware River. They put up a terrifying front at the start, but now...
Pilots new to this industrialized combat can't tell the flak from the scrap.
Back into the mess.
"Anybody getting a count on what's left?" Teller tips his bird on her side, cutting between a lilting parade of Slick heads and spinning scissor blades. "Lost about all of the paint job! But----ZZZZZKKKZZZ!--holding out!"
"Parks here, Teller! I'm a hot thousand feet overhead!" Delvin Parks rode into town with Fuse, hot off the presses of the training camp down in Tuskegee. He squeezes a trembling control stick. High in the air, proud to serve, high yellow and high on action, he slides side to side in the cockpit. Parks has moxie and drive, but lacks size. "Coming your way! Almost sure the big guns took out the majority! Twelve, maybe thirteen left!"
Parks slams the stick forward, and his Airacobra Lawman plummets like a terrier downing a squirrel. G-forces dig into his hide while the stick quibbles. Two Slicks flank Teller. Their backs are to Parks, propellers humming.
BADDABADDABADDABADDA! CHOOM! Zoom by!
One and done. Two makes encore. The save comes right on time, for choom meant the machine guns have spit out their last.
"Teller! I'm spent!"
"Me too! I can't make contact with the others, much less see them! Like flying through the Sargasso Sea! I think Fort Mott is on our left! Fuel's low, and I may be leaking!"
Delvin cuts his eyes back on the pass. Teller's baby is more than dripping, but first thing's first. "You are! We gotta land. Now!"
One yank of the stick takes Teller back and over to his
comrade in a loop. Gradually the sooty air takes on a bluish charm. The world is still there, reeds and dead grass and small fires, box homes sitting pretty. At their left, Pea Patch Island and the Civil War holdover called Fort Delaware rest undisturbed in the middle of the river. Fort Mott's bolstered earthworks and modern artillery look better to them than a hot date.
Date loses her appeal on the quick.
"What's that?"
"What? Where?" Teller begins to catch nothing but smoke. His bird is stricken, something black and worse than flu.
"Angle left! By the island!"
Teller shrugs off the shrill pitch taking over Parks' voice. He doesn't really know the man, but the tone smacks of life-or-death. Regardless, the pilot turns.
"Oh...no..."
Out of the Delaware they pour, the Black Cascade. Under an obese rainbow smudge of oil, Slicks are on the march. They march up from the river bottom by the dozens, hundreds...
"Thousands of 'em! Fort's covered!"
Truth be told, the war walks onto the pallid brown grass of Fort Mott, sending offensive gunners into a lopsided, half-hearted defense. Soldiers run for their rifles. Too many are gunned down on the retreat. Slicks. Slicks. Slicks! One line. Ten lines. Metal outnumbers flesh.
Pilots can view the shift. Wilmington is a still paradise ten lifetimes distant. Pennsville is a hibernating bear swarmed by ashen centipedes swigging petroleum. Can't angle the big guns at the ground. Can't assist without bombs, without ammunition.
"We can't land here!"
"I'm too banged up! I have to land!"
"No! It's a slaughterhouse. Gotta go farther! C'mon!"
"Impossible! They need help!"
ZzzzzZZZZZZ------rrrzzzzZZZZ!!!!zzzzzZzz!
"Teller? Teller!"
Parks stops the name calling. A casual glance shows Teller has turned about again, nose of the plane down sharp. You get into war for ideology. You stay in it for brotherhood, for brothers whose names you know and names you don't.
"No! No! No!"
The salvo behind silences Parks. He knows. He knows Teller went the soldiers' route, used himself as the weapon, right into the enemy's lifeless face. He slows the Airacobra down. No time to rush. He needs to mourn. He wants to cry over the madness, but needs clear eyes for flying.
Down Jersey Driveshaft Page 22
