by Lopez, Rob
“No. I took the old one apart. The brushes were welded to the armature, and some of the winding had melted, but I managed to unseize it and salvage some of the winding. Doesn’t have a lot of power to start the engine, but it’s better than having to push it.”
“That’s cool, man. Are you sure you couldn’t have washed the car? I mean, this is a labor of love. Might as well go the whole hog.”
“I ain’t interested in that. I just got tired of pushing the damn thing. I managed to find some bulbs that hadn’t blown in the storm, so you got lights at the front. Lou also told me to put some fuel cans in the trunk. You’ll need them, the way this thing drinks gas. Won’t make no difference, since you’ll be dead before the needle hits empty, I figure.”
Packy slammed the hood down. “Wait a minute. I thought you were meant to be coming too.”
“Are you kidding me? What gave you that idea?”
“Lou said I should take you with me.”
“Kiss my ass. Ain’t nothing out there that I need that’s worth my life.”
“What happened to the spirit of adventure?”
“Never had it. That good enough for you?”
“Dude. Don’t you want to see how well this car rips?”
“Nope.”
“Oh man, this thing is fast enough to blow Mustangs and Camaros into the weeds. Nothing’s going to catch it.”
“Still ain’t faster than a bullet.”
“You’re too negative. You’re better off staying here.”
“I didn’t need you to tell me that.”
“I’m disappointed, man. I gotta do this by myself.”
Joe kicked at the tires of the car. “Let me give you a piece of advice,” he said. “Don’t go.”
“It’s a mission of mercy. I gotta step up.”
Joe eyed him. “You sure this isn’t just about impressing your girlfriend? Because she won’t be impressed when you’re gone, and ain’t nobody going to go out searching for your body or nothing.”
“Dude, you don’t know me.”
“No, you’re right, I don’t,” said Joe, turning away. “Suit yourself.”
Dee and two women emerged from a mobile home and waded through the long grass toward the car. Dee had Jacob in a baby carrier on her chest.
“Well, I’m going,” said Packy to Dee. “Are you going to wait for me?”
“No,” said Dee. “I’m coming with you.”
For a moment, Packy was genuinely perplexed. “And, uh … Jack?”
“Jacob. He comes with me.”
For the first time, Packy noticed the looks of concern on the faces of the two women.
“Honey, at least leave the baby with me,” said one of the women. “You know I’ll take care of him.”
Dee turned. “You know my history,” she said solemnly. “So you know why I’ll never be separated from him again.”
“I know, but …”
“Dee, please,” said the other woman. “You don’t need to do this. You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“No,” agreed Packy. “You really shouldn’t. I mean, it’s cool and all, but … hey, I won’t be that long.”
Dee gave him a blank look. “I’m coming with you and that’s all there is to it.”
Packy tried out a couple of different words on his lips, then gave up. Dee got into the car and waited.
Packy made a show of shrugging helplessly to the women, then got into the driver’s seat. “That looked impressive,” he whispered to Dee. “If you want, I can let you out where they can’t see us, and they’ll never know.”
“No.”
Realization dawned on Packy. “You really want to come, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s because you love me, right?”
Dee said nothing.
“Not even a little bit?”
Still nothing.
“Slight disappointment, I’ll admit,” said Packy, “but I’ll give you fair warning. Now’s the last chance to get out before the G-Force pins you to the seat, because this thing is going to fly.”
Dee clipped her seatbelt on and wrapped her arms around Jacob, looking straight ahead. Packy cocked an eyebrow, but when there was no further reaction, he turned the key in the ignition.
There was a grinding noise from the engine bay, and the pistons turned very slowly.
“Jeez, what’s he done to this?” said Packy.
The engine continued to turn slowly, then suddenly fired up with a guttural roar.
“That’s more like it. Sing for me baby.”
Packy engaged gear, stood on the brakes and revved it hard, smoking the back wheels. Astonished onlookers gaped as the Road Runner fishtailed across the road and thundered toward the interstate.
9
Packy didn’t bother with caution. The bright orange car was conspicuous, even when slow, and the growl of the engine could be heard no matter what he did, so he kept his foot down. The abandoned vehicles on the interstate turned his power-run into a slalom as he weaved between the obstacles. Dee rode with the window open, her hair flying wild, shifting her body left or right as the vehicle lurched, rocking Jacob in a gentle rhythm. The snarl of the twin exhausts echoed back at them every time they passed a stranded car or truck, and Dee’s face was placid, like it really was just a road trip. Packy stroked the radio on the console, wishing it still worked. As far as he was concerned, this was the perfect time for music. And speed.
The desolate town of Morganton sped past, and the overgrown shoulders and curb strips of the highway provided a green tunnel to barrel through. The sun glittered on broken glass from the cars that had been broken into and looted, and discarded plastic bags flew up in the Road Runner’s wake. Eagles rode the drafts above the pavement, and pigeons rooting through the garbage took off as the roaring behemoth disturbed their scavenging. Baby rabbits that had ventured out from the shoulder stood on their hind legs to see what was coming, then scampered into the weeds, their white scuts bobbing. Packy swept through the remains of humanity without seeing a single human. Whatever isolated settlements existed, they were invisible beyond the trees, and if they came to the interstate to investigate the sudden noise, they’d have found Packy gone before they got there.
Packy was happy with the car’s performance. Whoever had owned it before the storm had maintained it well, scratches notwithstanding, and the engine was in fine form. Hyped with adrenaline, he was in his element, spotting obstacles instantly on the road and judging gaps between vehicles as he motored through with barely an inch to spare.
So focused was he that he failed to appreciate the tactical risk of the CommScope building that overlooked the interstate at Hickory. Looming above the trees, with a ragged flag hanging limp over the roof, the four-story office block had multiple windows facing directly down the route of the highway. Packy didn’t hear the shot fired at him, but he saw an empty can jump up from the road ahead, seemingly of its own volition.
“What the hell caused that?” he said as he swerved, the can bouncing off the hood and disappearing.
Dee looked to the building and saw gun flashes. “They’re shooting at us,” she said in a flat voice, like she was describing a dream.
Packy dropped a gear and veered right, putting a semi trailer between him and the building. Bullet holes stitched a line in the canvas walls of the trailer, culminating in the blowing out of the tractor windshield.
“Hold on to something,” yelled Packy, yanking the wheel again. A steel barrier prevented him from getting off the road. Savagely weaving, he punished the tires, drifting sideways when they lost their grip, the suspension pitching as he jerked the wheel one way, then another, getting close to vehicles as he used them for cover. An exit came up and he red-lined the engine as he accelerated up the ramp. In his rear view, he saw two pickups bouncing down the slope from the building in pursuit.
“Should have blocked the road, fellas,” he laughed.
The pickups chased him up the ramp, but they
were no match for the Road Runner. Leaving them behind, Packy flashed through an intersection, left the road and took to the air, soaring over a sloping curb strip. Landing heavily, with stalks of long grass flying at the windshield, he emerged onto another ramp and rejoined the interstate, out of sight of the building.
“Woohoo! That’s the way to do it, baby,” cried Packy.
Dee had braced her legs and was now comforting Jacob, who’d been rudely awakened by the bump. Packy was still feeling good about himself when he noticed a third vehicle peeling out from behind the flagging pickups. It was a black car, sleeker than the pickups, and it was accelerating hard.
“Okay,” he said, a little worried. “Now we really do have company.”
Dee glanced behind. “What is it?”
“A Dodge Charger. About the only thing that can challenge this baby here.”
“Can we outrun it?”
Packy looked at Dee. “No.”
Packy tried anyway. From Hickory to Claremont, the two muscle cars roared down the interstate, tearing up the debris and veering through the derelicts, but Packy was unable to shake the Dodge off his tail. When the exit for Claremont came up, Packy took it, thundering through the town’s main street and jumping the humps in the road, but the ominous black grille of the Dodge remained in his rear view, and the Road Runner’s V8 had no more power to give. At the first intersection, Packy threw the car around the corner, drifting hard with a squeal of rubber. As soon as the next turn arrived, he threw the car into that too, the drifting vehicle nearly slamming into the front of a store. Mounting the sidewalk to avoid a derelict car, he yanked on the parking brake, slewing the Road Runner, and burned rubber down a narrow alley. With each abrupt change in course, the Dodge fell farther behind until, taking one side street after another, Packy no longer saw it. After a few more minutes of violent maneuvering, he circled around the town until he was back on the interstate. Powering down the ramp, he watched his rear view, but the Dodge never appeared.
“Ha ha,” exclaimed Packy in triumph. “You don’t mess with the best, because the best don’t mess.”
He turned to wink to Dee and saw she was a little less triumphant, trying to keep Jacob’s mouth on her breast and coaxing him every time he stopped feeding to cry.
“Kid, make the most of it,” said Packy. “In times like these, you mess with the breast as often as you can. I know I would.”
Pleased with his own joke, he eased off the speed, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants and leaning out to catch the breeze on his face. The remaining miles to the Catawba bridge were less eventful, and Packy settled down to enjoy the ride.
Until he reached the bridge.
With a screech of tires, he stopped the car. Ahead, on the bridge, was the black Charger, facing him. Predicting Packy’s route, he’d given up the chase in the town to go on ahead, and Packy was now trapped. Steel barriers on both sides of the road hemmed him in. Slamming it into reverse, he smoked the tires and spun the car around while still moving, changing swiftly into first gear. The Charger, however, had no need to make that kind of time-wasting maneuver. As Packy accelerated away, the Charger got closer and closer until it was right on his bumper. A man leaned out of the Charger’s passenger window and aimed a large bore pistol.
Still working up through the gears, Packy swerved to one side as the pistol boomed, taking out the door mirror on Dee’s side.
Packy stepped up his game, redlining every gear until the derelicts were flashing by, coming up so fast it was all he could do to avoid hitting one, but the Dodge stayed right behind him, riding his slipstream. A bullet came through the Road Runner’s trunk, thwacking into the rear seat, and another put a hole in the rear window, tearing a path along the roof lining. Packy swerved hard left, keeping away from the shooter’s side of the car, but the Dodge seemed to anticipate every move, and had enough power to bump him from behind, lifting the Road Runner’s back end up just a touch. The resulting loss of grip in the Road Runner’s rear wheels had Packy fighting with the wheel to avoid the car going sideways and rolling over.
“Come on,” he shouted at the car, losing his cool. Jerking it down a gear and slamming the tachometer needle straight into the red, he tried to coax a little more speed out as the temperature gauge rose.
Anxious to avoid any further contact, Packy drove as erratically as he could, and when he reached Claremont again, he powered up the ramp and down the main street one more time. He drifted into the corners of side streets once more, controlling the vehicle until his passage through the town was one long drift, but the Dodge driver stayed with him this time, matching every maneuver. The G-forces were too much to allow the passenger to shoot accurately again, preoccupied as he was with holding on, but Packy was simply unable to shake off the other car. Sooner or later, since he was leading the charge, he’d make a mistake, and that would be the end of the chase, but he was running out of ideas.
In fact, he was running out of town.
The suburbs ended abruptly, and he found himself on a highway heading east. It was a two lane highway, with barely any abandoned vehicles on it. On either side of the road were sparse woods and abandoned mobile homes, and the black Charger was with him still, closing in again on his rear bumper.
“Okay,” seethed Packy. “Let’s see how good you really are.”
As the Charger was about to kiss his tail, Packy yanked the wheel onto a dirt track, throwing up a cloud of dust behind him. Unperturbed, the Dodge followed him, skidding slightly on the dirt as it understeered.
A sign flashed by, telling them that they were approaching the Bunker Hill Covered Bridge, one of the last covered bridges in North Carolina.
“Uh, Packy,” said Dee, her eyes widening as it dawned on her where they were going.
Packy paid no heed, racing along as if he was still on good blacktop. His hands gripped the wheel tight, and he focused all his attention straight ahead, no longer even glancing in the rear view.
Dee did look behind, catching glimpses of the black Charger in the dust. The driver gripped his wheel the same as Packy, and the passenger waited with his pistol raised. Dee returned her view to the front, and the color drained from her face.
The covered bridge was ahead, looking as old as the sign suggested, with a wooden frame, wooden sides and wooden roof, spanning a creek.
It didn’t look wide enough to take a car, though.
“Packy!”
Packy didn’t slow down even a bit. With grim determination, he aimed for the center and drove straight into the tunnel of the bridge, ripping the remaining door mirror off and scraping the fenders. Like a bullet from a gun, he shot out the other side, taking off and landing hard in the dirt, the Road Runner’s suspension banging and squeaking.
The Dodge driver didn’t quite make it. Coming suddenly upon the bridge in the dust, he missed the looming gap, plowing into one of the walls, snapping solid timbers like matchwood. The roof collapsed and the Dodge teetered over the side, the tires losing purchase. At the speed it was going, it completed the destruction of the century-old bridge and dug itself into the bank of the creek, crumpling the front end of the car and snapping the necks of both driver and passenger.
Packy yanked the parking brake and threw the car around in a skidding stop. When the dust settled, the bridge had been flattened and the Dodge was steaming in the creek.
Grabbing his shotgun, Packy got out and strode over to the wreck. When he returned he had a pistol in one hand and a bag in the other. His face was set like stone, but Jacob was crying. Dropping the bag, Packy came around to the passenger side and touched Dee’s dusty face.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Dee pulled her face away to attend to her baby and Packy sat down in the dirt, staring at the damage that ran along the side of the car.
“Ain’t no way that’s going to rub out,” he murmured.
*
Packy was subdued as they drove into the northern suburbs of Charlotte. The engine idled erra
tically, and the suspension squeaked. With the exhaust burbling, he coaxed the Road Runner through the silent streets until he reached Concord Mills, a large shopping mall. Turning into the parking lot, he drove to the loading bay, parked behind a dumpster and turned the engine off.
“Is this the place you were thinking of?” said Dee, looking around.
Packy nodded.
“They have a pharmacy here?”
“Pharmacies have all been looted. First place people would have gone to.”
“So what’s here?”
“You’ll see.”
Opening the bag he’d taken from the Dodge, Packy pulled out several pistols and a bottle of water. He held the bottle up, seeing the particles that swirled in the fluid when he shook it, and discarded it. From the pistols he selected a snub-nosed .38 and offered it to Dee.
“You ever shoot?” he asked her.
Dee eyed the revolver then took it. “Walt took me to the range a few times.”
Packy gave a little nod. “That’s good.”
“He wanted me to be safe.”
“Sounds like a stellar guy.”
Dee hesitated before speaking again.
“I don’t love you, Packy.”
Packy looked thoughtfully at the dash. “That’s pretty random, but … doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
“I need you to know.”
“Personally, I was happy to let it hang.”
“I loved Walt. When he didn’t come back, it broke me. I don’t know if I can love again.”
“So why did you come?”
“I don’t want to wait for someone again. I don’t want to be broken when they don’t show up.”
Packy wrinkled his face trying to figure that one out. “So … you feel something for me?”
“I feel something. Don’t ask me what. You saved my life. You look out for me.”
Packy looked at her. “Do you want me, or do you want a big dog?”
She looked back at him. “Dogs don’t drive.”
Packy’s face creased into a goofy smile. “They surely don’t. What the hell, I’ll be your huckleberry. I’m loyal and easy to keep. A word of warning, though: I ain’t housebroken.”