“He’s gone,” Floyd said.
I swung back into the cab and closed the door. “Did I get him?”
“I think you blew his arm off,” Floyd said.
“Lucky shot,” Harmony said over the speaker.
“I won’t disagree with that,” I said. “I wish I could have seen it.” My eyes had been almost shut.
“It was a great shot,” Bobby-Ray’s voice said. “We picked it up from the Marshal’s onboard camera. Hang on a second.”
“And cue action,” I said as the image on the screen flickered and we got to see a replay of the scene from the camera in the back of the Marshal’s car.
I was disappointed to see that I was only a dim shadow, barely visible in the cloud of dust the truck was throwing up. The Highway Patrolman in his Hawaiian shirt was much easier to see. He was clinging to the back corner of the container, trying to swing himself around to the side.
There was a rapid series of flashes from my gun and it did look as though one of the rounds hit the police robot’s arm, blowing it off. His body twisted and fell, but somehow he managed to grab on to the back of the truck with his remaining arm, clinging to something low down. He was dragged behind the truck, his body slewing side to side on the road. Sparks flew out from under his knees as exposed metal came into contact with the asphalt.
“That’s going to leave a mark,” Harmony said.
Even a robot’s superhuman strength couldn’t save him from the battering he was getting. The Highway Patrolman lost his grip and the truck went on without him. His body lay in the road and the Marshal’s station wagon sped towards it. Using its one remaining arm, the robot pushed itself to its knees. It was a sorry-looking sight. And then the Marshal’s car hit it.
“I hope he’s got collision insurance,” I said.
“The Marshal or the robot?” Harmony asked.
“Both.”
The desert and the Badlands seemed a long way behind us now. On either side of the highway I was seeing fields of crops stretching almost to the horizon and some way off to the north was a dark forest of what looked like spruce trees. That would be lumberjack territory, I guessed, supplying the city of New Grimsby with all timber it needed. I dated a lumberjack once – her name was Billy-Jo and she was the local arm-wrestling champ. I think of her whenever I smell freshly sawn lumber. Or pine-scented toilet cleaner.
From the outside Rowdy’s Roadhouse was nothing special. Sun-bleached clapboard siding and a big old faux-neon sign that was probably at its best after dark. It boasted ‘live music Fridays and Saturdays’ and cold beer and home-cooked food.
Floyd leaned out of the cab window. “I’ll wait out here with the rest of the machinery, shall I?”
He could have come inside if he’d wanted. You could tell we were getting closer to civilisation – the roadhouse didn’t have a ‘No Robots’ sign on the door.
“You stay out here and keep watch,” I said. “If you’re good I’ll send you out a soda and a bag of chips.”
Floyd shook his head. “Just try not to take all day about it. All you do is eat and squit. It’s like having a puppy.”
“Shall I climb up there and lick your face?”
“Not if you want to keep your tongue,” he said.
“I need it for eating,” I said.
“And for other things,” Harmony reminded me. She’d come out to meet us.
“Are we talking about dessert?” I asked her. “I need to know if I should leave room.”
“You wish,” Harmony said. She strode back towards the entrance, swaying her hips like she knew I was watching.
Rowdy’s sat in that Goldilocks zone where the burgers are made onsite from real meat and the fries don’t come from a deep freeze but at the same time, kitchen hygiene is on a par with the best of the soulless franchise restaurants. Inside, the floors were old dark wood that had soaked up decades of spilled beer and the seats in the booths were proper red vinyl. There was a c-shaped bar made from the same dark wood with a big mirror behind it and shelves of liquor bottles. You could tell this was a classy joint – the stage where the bands played didn’t have mesh in front of it to protect the musicians from thrown bottles. It was early, so the place was only half-full.
Our waitress wore a badge that said ‘Candy’ which might have been a fake name but her smile was genuine. The menus she gave us weren’t illustrated and they listed less than a dozen items. But they were all things I would eat. Skeet couldn’t make up his mind so ordered a cheeseburger, a chili dog and a basket of potato wedges. He also asked for a large cola without even glancing at the drinks menu. Harmony and I exchanged approving glances but said nothing to draw attention to his choice. I settled on a bacon cheeseburger with a side of skinny fries. Harmony regarded my selection with something like disgust and asked for a chicken salad. Then she called the waitress back and changed her order to a double barbecue beef burger ‘without fries’ – as if that would make a huge difference to the calories that came on her plate.
The food arrived quickly. It was steaming hot and the buns didn’t have soggy bottoms. This was our boon for having survived the perils of the Badlands. We did a lot of eating and not much talking. None of us managed to clear our plates. I was leaning back to unfasten the top button of my jeans when Floyd’s voice whispered in my earbud. I think he was feeling neglected and wanted to punish me by giving me indigestion.
“We’ve got trouble,” his voice said.
“What kind of trouble?” I asked.
Harmony and Skeeter leaned in closer to listen to my side of the conversation.
“The kind that wears a badge,” Floyd said.
“Highway police?”
“Your old friends the Marshal and his robot sidekick.”
“Squit!” I said. “Has he seen you?”
“No, he completely missed the eighteen-wheeler that is parked out front,” Floyd said. Again with the sarcasm – I needed to get something done about that.
“Sit tight,” I said. “If they both come inside, you take off – we’ll deal with them.”
“Remember that you can’t distract the robot one with doughnuts,” Floyd said. “And tell the red-head not to try flirting with him – he’s got nothing to respond with.”
“What did Floyd say?” Harmony asked.
“He said... good luck.”
I think she knew I was lying. I told Skeet to go and check out the restrooms. The Marshal had never seen him and it was better if he wasn’t seen with us now. You never know when you’re going to need that kind of advantage.
“I’m going to sneak out and see what the Marshal and his sidekick are up to,” I said. “If they come inside, I’ll sabotage their car. Unless you want to go out and drive it into something?”
“You’re not funny,” Harmony said. “Try not to get arrested. Again.”
In her entire criminal career, Harmony claimed that she’d never been arrested and charged. I didn’t believe her. But as far as I’d been able to tell, she didn’t have a criminal record. Maybe she really was that much better than me.
I went outside and peeped around the corner. Marshal Dimmock and the Highway Patrolman were standing in the parking lot and appeared to be arguing.
“You can’t go inside like that,” the Marshal said. “You look like roadkill.”
This was unkind but also an accurate description of the robot cop. His shirt was tattered and torn – and so was the flesh on the front of his body. It was hanging off in strips and scratched metal was showing underneath. And he only had one arm.
“You hit me with your car,” the Highway Patrolman said. His voice was emotionless so I couldn’t tell if he was accusing or whining.
“I didn’t have time to swerve,” the Marshal said defensively. “I hope you’re left-handed.”
“Robots do not have a dominant hand.”
“You’ve got one now,” Marshal Dimmock said. And then he sniggered.
The Highway Patrolman ignored him.
&nb
sp; “Now what are you doing?” Marshal Dimmock asked.
The Highway Patrolman had shrugged off the torn shirt and dropped it on the ground. Then he used his good hand to tear off the damaged synthetic flesh. He dropped the rubbery pieces onto the cement. I thought this was pretty gross. And judging by the Marshal’s expression, so did he.
“Stop that! Do you hear me?” Marshal Dimmock said. “As your commanding officer, I order you to stop.”
The Highway Patrolman tore off his fake ears in a symbolic gesture of defiance. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so disgusting.
“This is the most revolting thing I have ever seen,” the Marshal said.
It was a sick sort of striptease. And the Highway Patrolman seemed to be enjoying the Marshal’s discomfort. Perhaps the robotic worm had finally turned. He tossed a piece of fake flesh towards his boss, like a stripper throwing her panties to a punter.
“What is this?” the Marshal spluttered, peeling the saggy pink thing off his face.
I was pretty sure it was the Highway Patrolman’s ass.
Finally, the robot was just that – a robot. All metal, its casing slightly damaged and with an arm missing, but a robot all the same.
“We should go inside and arrest the perpetrators,” the Highway Patrolman said.
He meant us. I scurried back into the roadhouse to warn Harmony.
As I got back to our table, I saw the truck roll past the window and glide silently down the highway. Floyd must have seen the cops coming inside. Skeet hadn’t yet returned from the washroom.
The door swung open and the two policemen entered. The Highway Patrolman’s robotic appearance caused some chatter among the patrons. Marshal Dimmock was walking like the ‘before’ in a haemorrhoid commercial. Neither of them looked happy. We needed a plan.
“What’s the plan?” Harmony asked.
“You take the big one,” I said.
“Big as in tall or big as in wide?” she asked.
“Mine’s the one with the moustache,” I said.
Harmony nodded slowly as if this choice was significant. “The father figure,” she said. “That says something about you.”
“Yeah, I’d like to punch my father in the mouth someday,” I said. “In the meantime, he’ll do as a substitute.”
“This doesn’t have to turn into a fight,” Harmony said.
“No, but it probably will. What we need is some kind of distraction.”
“I think one just arrived,” she said, nodding towards the window. A gaggle of bikers were pulling into the parking lot. More old friends we didn’t want to be reunited with.
“How did they get here so soon?” I asked. “They certainly didn’t ride those things through the Badlands.”
“Two wheels good, four wheels bad,” Harmony said. If it was a quote from a movie, I didn’t recognise it. Maybe she went more for arthouse flicks. For some reason, an image of a cat-man riding a motorcycle popped into my head – from something awful I’d watched as a kid.
“Am I allowed to shoot him?” Harmony asked, looking back towards the Highway Patrolman.
“Well, Floyd said it would be pointless to flirt with him,” I said.
“Contrary to what you all think, it’s not just about what a man has in his pants.”
“Or doesn’t have,” I said.
Harmony sighed. “You’re probably right. It’s never the same with a robot.”
I wanted to ask how she knew, but Marshal Dimmock was coming over to our booth.
“Quincy!” he said as if we were old acquaintances. “I thought that was your car outside.”
I glanced out towards the Trekker. The Dragon Riders had also recognised it as mine and were standing around it. One of them kicked a tyre – he was probably imagining it was my head.
“Friends of yours?” the Marshal asked.
“We partied once or twice,” I said.
The Marshal seemed amused by this. “They look like trouble,” he said.
“They won’t start anything while you’re here,” I said.
This seemed to amuse him too. “Do you want us to leave?” he asked.
“Don’t go on my account,” I said. “You should stay and have a burger – they’re very good.”
The Marshal nodded. Maybe he ate here all the time. He looked like he did. “We’ll take a booth at the back,” he said. “Don’t want to cramp your style.”
“I appreciate that, Marshal.” Hopefully I sounded like I meant it.
The Marshal clomped off towards the rear of the diner and his sidekick followed. The patrolman squeaked when he moved. I wondered how much damage he’d suffered when the Marshal crashed into him.
The door opened and Mother came in. Two of his ragged brethren followed him. The rest were standing around the bikes outside. Maybe he’d promised them a soda and a bag of chips if they behaved themselves. Mother was still limping a little but the ratty carpet slipper was gone and he was wearing a pair of big old boots with metal toecaps. He swaggered towards our booth, smiling.
“Quincy,” he said. “It’s a real pleasure to see you again.” He stood over our table looking down at me. He seemed bigger than I remembered. His faded tee-shirt was riding up over the curve of his gut revealing dough-white skin covered with hog bristles. He was wearing an open-faced helmet with the strap hanging down. There was a design painted on it that was supposed to be a dragon but looked more like a bloated toad. It suited him. I made no move to stand.
“Mother,” I said, nodding my head in greeting. “How have you been?”
“Doing fine, thank you for asking. Just cruising down the highway, stopping off at places of interest. Taking the waters, as they used to say.”
I couldn’t tell from his expression what kind of mood he was in. I decided not to acknowledge his reference to Hope Springs. Any mention of the humiliation the bikers had suffered there might be enough to tip him over into violence. I saw him glance towards the two police officers in the booth at the back. His expression didn’t change. It was a relief to have the Marshal and the Highway Patrolman sitting there. If I was lucky, the bikers would get bored and leave. But I’m rarely that lucky.
Chapter Forty-Four
“Can I buy you gentlemen a drink?” I asked. Our waitress, Candy, was watching nervously from behind the bar. I signalled that she should bring us three beers.
A flicker of movement off to my left. Skeet poking his head out from the little passageway that led to the restrooms. He took one look at the situation and ducked back out of sight. Smart man.
“We have unfinished business,” Mother said, still standing over me, his bulk blocking the light.
“Sit down and we’ll discuss it,” I said, indicating Skeet’s empty seat.
Mother didn’t move. “Let’s take it outside,” he said.
I glanced towards the window. There seemed to be fewer bikers than there had been – maybe eight including the three inside – but we were still outnumbered. I wished Floyd was with us.
“We lost three bikes back in Hope Springs,” Mother said. It sounded like he blamed me for that. “And two of my crew decided to stay on there. On the plus side, Pappy Joe got himself a new old lady.”
I think he was being literal rather than ironic. One of the bikers behind him was nodding and smiling. Pappy Joe, I presumed.
“That’s nice,” I said.
The waitress approached cautiously with three mugs of beer on a tray. She put them down on the table and backed away, her eyes on Mother the whole time.
“Are you just going to sit there or are we going to fight?” Mother asked.
“Have a drink and let’s talk,” I said.
Mother glanced towards Marshal Dimmock’s booth. He smiled and nodded a greeting. I didn’t like that. Something was going on here and I think the Marshal was in on it.
Mother took one of the mugs of beer from the tray. He raised it as if he was going to drink – trying to raise my hopes for a peaceful outcome. But his squinty e
yes were dead like a shark’s. He smiled and shook his head. No peaceful outcome. He reached out and poured the beer over my head. The whole roadhouse went silent.
Beside me, Harmony’s hand twitched towards her gun but I put out a hand to restrain her.
“I’ve got this,” I said. Her expression said she didn’t believe me. I’m not sure that I believed me either.
“You should pay the check now,” Mother said. “You don’t want to leave any debts behind.”
The movie tough guy dialogue would have been laughable if he hadn’t been such a big ugly scracker.
“We don’t want any trouble,” I said. The beer was drying on my face making the skin feel tight.
Mother turned to the biker he’d called Pappy Joe. “Put a fighting song on that jukebox,” he said.
Pappy Joe went to select a song. It was an old rock song with a thumping bassline. Good choice.
“Shall we dance?” Mother asked.
I was confused. “Just you and me?” I asked. I hadn’t been expecting that. This was supposed to be the barroom brawl scene.
“You and me,” he said.
Squit!
Mother backed away so I could get out of the booth. He held out the sides of his jacket to show that he wasn’t wearing a gun belt. He was challenging me to a fistfight. There’s an unwritten bar fighting rule that says you can’t just shoot an unarmed man. If I hesitated here I’d lose my nerve and then Harmony would end up shooting someone. I had to do this. I unbuckled my gun belt and passed it to Harmony.
“No shooting,” I told her. I slid out of the booth and faced Mother. “Your move.”
I wanted the evidence to show that he swung the first punch and that I was just defending myself. Not that I thought it would matter very much. Mother was a foot taller than me and weighed almost three times what I did. If I was a betting man, I wouldn’t be putting any money on me to win. The odds were low that I’d even survive this. I glanced down at the scarred steel caps of Mother’s boots. Even if I stamped down with all of my weight, I wasn’t going to be able to hurt his shot foot. No advantage for me there.
Mother stared into my eyes and I forced myself not to blink or look away. He picked up a second beer mug. He was going to throw another drink at me – but this time it would be in the glass. I backed away. The mug whizzed towards my forehead. I reached up and caught it with both hands. As I lowered it there was still an inch or so of beer left in it. I drank it down and then hurled the mug back at Mother’s skull. I was showing off a little to try and impress Harmony, I’ll admit to that.
Road Rage Page 27