Down Jersey Driveshaft

by William J. Jackson

  Propeller buzz excites the pilot's sullen ears. Is it his partner? Another from the squadron who made it through the ruckus?

  One engine behind the Airacobra becomes six, then a dozen and counting. Parks dreads a second backward glance. Sweating, he guns the bird ahead, his gut telling him it's time to hustle once more.

  The ground war easily won, Slicks are taking to the skies.

  Chapter Twenty Two: Running

  "Teller? Walter!" Lenses on the cicada mask fog up as Corporal Wilkes screams. He knows Benny hears Parks' cries over the channel, but the Brown Bear continues on.

  Now Haskins is on the move as a shifting breeze sprinkles brick powder on leather jackets and once shiny boots. Behind the flight helmet, blood trickles down his chin. The bottom lip is bitten open, teeth clenched to avoid cursing up a storm during a stealth mission.

  "Wilkes! Keep it down and haul tail! Teller did his part to the end. Better hope we're half the man he is." Benny sticks his neck out around the corner of what looks to him like a bar. No Slicks. No surprises. No time like the present. He proceeds.

  "Was. Like the man he--" Carson begins to follow, big gun pulled out. Breathing deepens; fingers twitch, anxious for vengeance. Wilmington, city of chemistry and industry is a cemetery of headstone storefronts on mausoleum hills. A panic attack might be setting in, shellshock after the bombing.

  Milkman creeps ahead, only the hushed spring action in its legs to make a peep. It turns back only once to wave Wilkes forward as the piercing sun is again blockaded by dark clouds.

  The two jog ahead, making brief hops to pass the sloping hill past King Street, over Walnut and beyond. On a dime, Milkman puts on the brakes. Wilkes brings Mailman to full stop in the nick of time.

  Milkman turns right. Left. Jigs around. Benny turns her sharply North and into a hot sprint. Houses of brick. Houses of stone.

  "What are you looking for?"

  "That." The robotic hand points southeast. Wilkes angles that way, staring at a house of darkened tan and gray stone, window sills a runny patina of copper. A bright red door stands out on this home and it's neighbors. It hearkens back to the days of Caesar Rodney and Independence. It also has a touch of the eerily modern. To men in combat, one building means little. They stand or they fall, shelter or rubble. It's all in the details. Peepers open.

  "Do I see...?"

  Yes, Corporal Wilkes. At first, the windows seem to blink vertically, as if a cadre of spies were inside, making up maddened codes with the blinds. But no. The more he stares, the more clarity shows the way. Every three seconds, a black image passes each window. Every. One.

  "Wall-to-wall with Slicks. Our people have gotta be in there. Can't go in shooting, might kill someone."

  Wilkes pivots his bird on its awkward hips. "So, have we come here to stand idly by?"

  Two fantastic machines hold position on a barren street listening to the sound of wind, the lack of answers it brings.

  "Milkman to squad. Who's near Wilmington?"

  ...

  "Milkman to squad. I need a bit of low flying over the southeast corner of the city. Really low and slow. Anybody hear me?"

  ...

  Wilkes gulps into the microphone.

  "Patience, Corporal. Patience."

  There it is. Seconds of agony end with the beautiful, uneven roar of an overcharged engine. She's one of theirs, coming fast and hard and only eighty feet or so over their heads.

  She, the biplane Helldiver, another Mailman, is smoking too. Banged up like a cowboy after a bull ride gone bad, but charging on. Her action shakes the houses, bends trees. But the effect...

  The brick house teems with activity. Mailman delivers. Slicks open the door and exit in a hurry, one, two, four, six! Propellers going, they take to the skies as Haskins and Wilkes take cover behind a row house.

  "Great job, Pilot! Keep 'em away from here!"

  "You don't know his name, do you?"

  "Now is not the time, Wilkes! Six left from inside, who knows how many more are in there, but it's time for stealth." Cockpit opens. Haskins bursts out of his bird but Wilkes can see the limp while Benny tries hard to seem tough.

  Wilkes exits as well, placing the big gun in hand, finger tensed on the trigger. Fighting the robot army outside of his superior tin can? God help us.

  "We get one shot, as men, to do this. You ready?"

  Wilkes nods his head up and down twice. "No. A shootout exposed against men, yes. Tall robots? No! Oh well, time to snap my cap. Let's go get it over with."

  "Back here again?" Larry feels jinxed. "First we get sent to the A&P like sled dogs, now we come back 'cuz--"

  Skinny Bubba puts a broad finger up to his ally's face. Two vehicles pull up here, Skinny being first. He radioed Larry moments ago, and may be regretting it. "Keep your voice down. A lady I escorted to the courthouse couldn't find her kids. Said she last sent them here. A girl and a boy. Said her son had on an oversized Senators cap from his dad. Keep your eyes peeled."

  The parking lot is disastrous, bullet casings and vehicles parked in haste, some idling, doors ajar. They tiptoe around the side of the store, a plain view of Fifth Street, Anchor Glass and the fire department in full view, a car dealership in cinders.

  Larry toys with his big gun, lips pucker. "So? Let's go nab the squirts by the ears and..."

  A&P has a gaping wound where roof meets sidewall. Smoky. Crumbly. Quiet.

  "Slicks?"

  Skinny nods. "There's a door around back. Go in that way. I'll take the front. Remember, these exoskeletons can hold a fight with one for a minute, not win one. Hit and run."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah." Gun ahead, Larry sneaks over. Skinny about faces for the front door. The glass is foggy. No. Smoky charred. Exhale. He opens the door and steps in hard like Cagney.

  Groceries litter the floor, so does the clipped, burned figure of Mister Avis, the owner. Skinny tries to ignore the acrid odor. A body should have a head. Flashes of memory in the brain are hard to ignore. He was a hard man to me but, that's no way to go.

  The murder gives him feelings, raw ones. Terror. Depression. Hatred. Forget the espionage. "Hey! Slick! Where you hiding at?"

  Random items falling from shelves distract the eyes from right to left. "I know you hear me! Somebody hears me!" Clarice comes out of hiding to feel the embrace of Bubba's hand. He scans the store through the periscope of her sight.

  Sniffle.

  Head swivels right. A sniffle rises again, that of a child. Skinny takes a step. Third sniffle generates a right good ruckus, but from the other side of the store. Nerves tense.

  "There you are..."

  In the back right, a girl of around twelve clutching a boy a few years younger crawl into view just as Aisle Ten on the opposite side leans over in a shredding cacophony. Slick, greasy, buzzing, stands up. The kids stop moving.

  "C'mon, babies." Skinny waves for the door.

  Slick vaults over to Aisle Nine. Scissors snip like hyena laughter. The girl hugs her brother and sobs. Why aren't they moving?

  "C'mon now!" Skinny jogs their way.

  Slick is in Aisle Eight and not going for the toothpaste! Kids remain paralyzed.

  "Doggone it!" Skinny grabs them, puts them on their feet and shoves them towards the door. Slick plows through aisles seven, six, five, four, three, two...

  Kids break out to the sidewalk. They look back, but their hero is out of sight. Skinny is knocked sideways by oncoming groceries, smacked around by bags of flour. His feet go out from under him. The fall causes him to let off two random, useless shots. Slick is on top of him. The area turns white. Scissors cut the wall over his head, move to snip a memento from his trousers, loosen the belt, cleave the ST cap--

  Skinny manages more caterpillar squiggling to avoid getting punctured. He fires at the head on the move. Nothing. Nothing! Green light eye shattered. Slick continues the jabs, though with added clumsiness.

  Skinny tries to use Slick's legs to pull up and stand, as only its upper body both
ers to move. Hands slip down from all the leaky diesel and axle grease gobs. Scissors plunge between the jacket and shirt. As they try to open and close, Skinny is caught in the enemy's arm. Rammed up against the wall, it puts him in a good position. Skinny hacks from the flour fog.

  Blam! Good night red eye lens. Skinny digs in his pocket. Change. Lint. Lighter! He puts it to use. Slick catches fire fast, pulling away from Skinny to assess damage.

  It stumbles blind. Toilet paper burns. Newspapers ignite. A&P is a casualty of war. Skinny gets the memo and bolts for the door. Cold air feels great, victory and better lung capacity even better. He sees the kids sitting across the street, too scared to budge. He looks back at the flames spreading in the store, takes two steps...

  He feels like he's wet himself. A hand reaches down to check comes up bleak red. "What the--?"

  It's then the pain screams in tiny sharp C-notes of harmonic resonance up the spine. Slick got him after all. He can't tell how bad it is. Kids can't know. He keeps walking.

  "Get in the car, kids. I'm gonna take you someplace safe after...after...I find why Larry didn't show..."

  They get in the Aerosedan. Skinny sits inside, puts in the key, turns it. "Gotta find..."

  Steering wheel getting closer...

  The shots impress upon Larry the urge to run like mad for that back door. He reaches the back, jumps up on the concrete steps to the loading dock and stops cold. He eyeballs an old guy in a lab coat, cool as a cucumber. Could be something bad, but Larry is pumped on action. No time for stalling.

  "Hey, Mack! Ain't you heard about the war? Get outta here!" He shoves the man aside to get to the doorknob. Newsflash! It's locked. Larry kicks it. Kicks again.

  "Yes, I'm aware."

  Larry turns. "What?" He walks right into a hot rush of air, oddly targeting his gut. The wind feels colder. He looks down. There is a red wetness on his shirt, coming from an object. Lab coat is holding it, looking at Larry without compassion. "Oh..."

  "Yes. Oh. The war. I am Professor Lark. One with the War." Prof pulls the object back with violent force. No longer plugged by the blade, Larry's spleen is free to vent. Now the cold seeps in faster. Larry tries to talk. Lab coat eases his body off the steps. Larry hits the pavement in a thud. Perhaps it gifts him a bit of life, a residual fire. One hand pushes on the wound. He screams. The other hand...

  "Ugly...monkey-faced...!" Blam. Blam. Blam!

  Lark possesses all the dodging skills of a car without wheels. He takes bullets from the big gun right to the face, chest and left thigh. He blows out. Dropping straight down, his remains slough down one step.

  Rage pulls Larry off the ground, accompanied by an acapella outcry. Up, staggering, he wobbles backward against the store wall. Salem moves in and out of focus. The mind tells the body to fulfill its assignment.

  Go.

  Go.

  Go down.

  Rest.

  Dark.

  Chapter Twenty Three: Bleeding Frequencies

  To no one's awareness inside the bank, the death of Professor Arthur Lark down the road awakens a remodulated Johnny. Pulling off the white sheet over his body, he sits up at a ninety degree angle.

  People huddled as one...a bank...sheet over my form signifies presumed death...where am...conquer the county seat...conquer...conquer...

  Conquer what?

  What or whom you choose...

  Stiff as a drink, numb as a coma patient, he arises. Children attempting to find gaiety in tight spaces in the bank become unnerved by this inhuman walker and seek a different playground. The adults, defeated, distracted or otherwise disengaged take no notice. Larry is simply another lost soul.

  He positions the white sheet around him as a cloak, a pale spy in plain view. Searching for a proper mode of attack...no. A proper time? Yes. Find the right one, the right face to instill terror. This sounds better in his dominated mind. See many but pick one, and then squeeze the ripest fruit. Watch. Study. Conquer...

  Frederica Musa is more herself as minutes compound. Wandering about the faces as well, she wraps bandages for the elderly, tucks blankets under cold feet. One friendly hand returns the favor, handing her a damp wash rag. As she patrols, white powder from the Great Unknown is removed. The goosebumps and tingle subside, leaving behind a tickling whisper near the carotid artery. Crank returns to this reality.

  Back from the flip side.

  She passes the man in the sheet hood to motivate towards a welcome sight. But Brown Hair, the lady behind the concession stand at the Fenwick, makes her move.

  "Hey, honey. Remember me?"

  "Io...ah, si. I mean, yes. You wanted my Benny." English feels weird, Italian too though less so. Distant, as if something else could be Crank's mother tongue. But that's impossible. "Nothing is impossible."

  "What's that, honey?"

  The eyeballs of Crank double in size. "Hmm? Oh. Uh, I was thinking aloud about other places. Like this one. But not this one. I mean, the same town but a different Earth with different his...stories. Ah..."

  "Right." Brown Hair gives the slow head lift and fake grin. "Listen, sugar, I just wanna say I'm sorry about the theatre and am so grateful for what you and the fellas have done fighting for our city." She extends a hand for shaking. It's a marble smooth, young hand. Perky.

  Crank shakes it with her small, pale but strong hand with the layered callouses. "Sure, sure, sister. It's yesterday's news-- oh my! Excuse me." She bolts past Brown, peepers fixated on an object in the corner.

  Is it an end table? Is it a bar? No, not quite.

  "Is this a...? Yes! A McLagan phonograph!" She hugs the mahogany stand, rocks it back and forth on its four spindly legs. Cautiously, Crank lifts the lid. Gasp! "The grid blocking over the speaker. It's the Italian Renaissance model. My mother used to crave one of these. Someone took very good care of it. Records!"

  Before Brown Hair can pose a question, Crank is off on the hunt.

  "This joint needs some tunes!" In and out of cots she goes, scooting between people, asking if anyone has a record.

  She hunts. Johnny trails behind. He'll wait.

  "Hold on, Larry! Hold on!" The Aero Sedan lacerates the corner of Fifth Street. Skinny has one trembling hand on the steering wheel, the other applying pressure to Larry's wound. Blood smears lick the seat, doorknob and the unfortunate kids in the back. It took all three to load him into the car. Skinny is paler by the second, envisioning what should go on his headstone. But he drives.

  Larry stares at passing skies, oblivious. A perfect shade of blue tinctures his bottom lip. Kids are aghast in the back seat.

  Skinny doesn't pause to make the left on Broadway. But he does apply sudden, ample pressure on the brakes, holding Larry in place. The kids zoom forward, bouncing off the back of the front seats like billiard balls. Skinny brings the car to a dead stop, but not due to Slicks, or even blood loss. Larry watches it and grunts. The kids see it too. Skinny gets out of the Aerosedan, groaning in pain.

  It's snowing.

  In one small area of the city, snow white and gray and unlike snowflakes altogether drifts in the wind. It coats the spacious brown Victorian home, the street, post office...

  "Crank? That Crank's car?" Skinny feels tingly inside as snow meets skin. He rubs it between thumb and index finger. They twitch. "Nobody...? Hey! Fuse!" He sees the truck through the soft blanket of this queer weather. Fuse stops cold.

  Roy Fuse stops setting up a tripod of exotic machinery to scan an indistinct horizon. "Skinny! I just sent some guys out-- oh, God! What happened? Medic!" No more stopping. Fuse burns rubber.

  Skinny walks to meet him halfway, but his legs quiver. The body increases in the numb feeling, while his back boils from freezing. The street looms closer. Fuse changes in Skinny's sight as he closes in. He's an ST warrior, a samurai, a Victorian lady in purple adorned with weaponry. He's convinced death is imminent. His eyes must be lying to him. The static cloud about them makes the world flicker every second.

  Fuse catches the
burly soldier right on time. "Skin! Skin! Can you hear me?" Skinny widens the stare but the eyes don't really see what's before them. Fuse gently slaps the man's face while rubbing his own eyes. Skinny shifts, the face is different men, variant races, ones known and unknown. Fuse shakes his head. Clear out those cobwebs. "What the heck is going on?"

  The medic skids to a halt, barely avoiding breaking his neck. "This stuff's slippery but dry. Some kinda fuel?" He stabs Skinny with a syringe of potent morphine, turns him over to assess the cut.

  "Something like it," Fuse mumbles. The eyes are doubtful but the mind wonders. "Fuel for imagination."

  "What?"

  "Nothing. Hey! There are kids in the car! You got Skinny?"

  Medic nods. "Spine isn't hit, only muscles. He should make it." Fuse races to the car, stunned at first to see Larry sliding off of the front seat. Day just keeps getting better. He rips open the door and children pour out, tears plunging Niagara as they grip this welcome stranger. Fuse hugs back, while angling for his comrade.

  Larry is colder than today's catch. "Medic! Hey, you guys! Get these two in the truck and to the bank! Now!" That last word reverberates down the street. Soldiers double time it with sulfa powder for possible infection, bandages, cots to move them. Fuse supervises the move. Fluid. Rapid. This is not Roy's first rodeo by far. It takes little to convince the kids to go with the truck full of brave soldiers. It takes off, leaving Fuse and three soldiers behind.

  It vanishes in the white fall, this Army truck that appears like a Conestoga wagon, a draft horse, a car with a front propeller as it rumbles down the road. Fuse almost rubs his eyes again, sees the glimmer of white on fingertips. "Maybe not."

  "Now, maybe we can look into La Donna. I've a feeling she holds the key to winning this war." Popping open the door, Fuse gets in behind the wheel. Hands go numb. Salem through the windshield changes. It takes time for the eyes to realize time is the issue. Salem flickers like radio static.