MILKMAN...MILKMAN...SHOOT MANY OF US DOWN...MOTHERVILLE IS SAD...STOP SHOOTING US...GIVE US YOUR MIND...
He hears it through the radio. He slides his digits down for the big handgun, but Slick is slicker. It fires one round from the arm, a hot flash singes Benny's left leg. Haskins screams, draws, lets out a shot from his own gun that shatters the big red light eye. Slick is dizzy. Benny limps around Milkman, hops up on the wing, and seals the hatch. Slick wobbles around the plank before plummeting into the Salem River. It leaves an oily residue on the surface of the water, rainbow hemoglobin. Benny clasps the back of his leg. Flesh wound. But the round was so big, it left a nice tear and a mean sizzle.
Blood darkens the black pilot pants.
And I just got these!
Propeller activates. Milkman turns around on its ducky legs. Hopping nicely, Benny turns to face the river. He soon gets why the propeller on Slick was diminished. Out of the river, five more Slicks rise. They've been made amphibian, fit for an Esther Williams flick. They climb up onto the back dock, slimy wet, scissor fingers clipping with robotic anxiety for combat. Benny can't believe his eyes. He sits there in shock as Milkman readies for lift. Then, he remembers the radio.
"Milkman to Crank. Slicks can swim now! I repeat. Slicks can swim. They traversed the river, and are now coming on the dock. They want the hangar. No. Wait! They want Milkman!"
Enough talk. Milkman doesn't have guns for nothing. Benny lets the .50 calibers sing their anthem while the robots touch solid ground. Shell casings fly up and away making copper rainbows. Metal clangs on metal as the Slicks feel Milkman's response to being fondled without permission. One blown away. Two disemboweled. The fifth one, well, he's a crafty one. He jumps as soon as his feet feel land. The Slicks can make good in the jumping department once they set their mind to it. He lands on the nose of the plane, scissors cutting the hull, staring at Benny with the lens eye. Is he mad? Is he studying Haskins? Who knows. Who cares. Milkman is taking off!
At full speed, the plane run-hops down the runway, while Slick keeps banging on the hatch. In three hits, the cockpit shatters just as the plane angles up to the sky above. Slick has trouble adjusting. It didn't plan on a takeoff. Slick slides back over the cockpit as Benny ducks his head. He gets a close shave, diesel fuel from the robot spills on his helmet. The air is biting cold, but Benny reminds himself he never had a closed cockpit in the first war, so no sense in being spoiled. Exposure does make him feel undressed for the occasion, so he thinks of evacuation. If need be, Milkman has a jettison button to push Benny out far up from hitting the propeller in the rear. But let's not abandon ship just yet! His mind races on how to remove this new growth from his ride. But first, he switches over to the plane's radio. Crank hasn't called in yet. He gets a call, but not from his lady.
MILKMAN...THERE IS SO MUCH SPACE HERE...SPACE FOR MOTHER TO GROW...DO YOU NOT LIKE GROWING?...
On the tail end of the weirdness:
"Crank - - Crank - - Crank to Milkman. I see you in the air. I'm on Griffith headed east. What is your status?"
"I've got a boarder who won't pay rent, that's the status! We've been outflanked! Four down, one to go, maybe more!" He spins Milkman in the air, a perfect and fast rollover that sends Slick on his merry way to the earth. Benny sees the fuel gauge; half full. If they wanted the plane, they would send more than five robots, right? Haskins gets the cold chill, and heads back for the hangar, bleeding and feeling his plane's pain…
Chapter Seven: Slick Baby Blues
From the sleepy heavens the Special Technologies hangar looks like a curled up armadillo with a tail inky black. The black is smoke, river swimming Slicks having guzzled ST's diesel and started to pound the empty barrels with bullets. It's an awful thing to behold, these monsters tearing apart this new thing, the only fortress in town. Barbers Basin looks like pairs of flaming chopsticks as the docks are on fire.
Benny sees it, sees La Donna turning sharp on the end corner of Tilbury Road, trunk gun blaring to the beat of war. While he departed to handle the one threat on the fuselage, a second squadron arose to torch headquarters. Milkman angles up to the vertical, rising into the sky, pushed to the limits of its power before the pilot angles her down. Milkman sputters on the rise before roaring to glory on the descent. The plane gains momentum, lining up parallel to the ground, to the rear of the hangar. Down for the shooting arc it travels while Benny's leg slips into dreary awkwardness.
Bullets fall as flashing articles from above and from the side, as Slicks take the news hard. Legs and other assorted components give way to the destructive power of man-made murder. Milkman sweeps up most of the robots at the rear. Shell casings fall as bullets pierce. Milkman delivers fresh death to robots who don't know when to duck.
The streamlined fury of passing Milkman is contrasted by the blunt driving of Frederica and the bullish La Donna. She drives over the cement curb to enter the hangar lot, ramming down a section of metal fence. The big gun pops out and up. Shots dance all over the land like scurrying bees from a hungry bear. Crank pummels a few hapless wanderers making for the hangar's front door. The hangar takes a pounding, trading its glossy paint shell for a cratered makeover. The door is blown off its top hinge, courtesy of Frederica's tactless shooting.
"Milkman to Crank! I've cleared out most of the back, circling to land and finish refueling. What's your status?" His face is smeared with black gunk. Smoke rises, disrupting the calm look of the city.
Crank puts her baby in a hard park, jerking her head and cap forward. She looks at the now swinging door, ashamed of her rampaging lack of accuracy. The front of the hangar is a flaming junkpile. "Crank to Milkman. Okay. I'm coming around the rear to be your backup."
Robotic legs lacking upper bodies ambulate about Barber's Basin, whirring and spraying electrical fizz.
"Roger that."
She's leaning on her car's vibrating hood, trying to appear in control. But inside, the sudden attack from the river has left Crank out of sync, harp strings in an earthquake. She can't wrap her head around Motherville's purpose, or what special need she has for the Milkman S-47E. Surely, she thinks, Motherville would want back the hep engine Crank shoved into her car. But no, this unseen force desires a plane that, though special, lacks the power and advances under the hood of La Donna.
Milkman sits pretty, splashed in a fuel mascara and scissor scribble scratches along the checkered front. Benny walks hard, trying to play off the injury while his baby drinks in the good stuff. He shot up the Slicks in the nick of time, as three barrels of fuel tucked way in the back remain. The back of the charnel house hangar may as well have been the streets of Anzio or the aftermath of Pearl Harbor. Charcoal smoke drifts in five separate plumes.
The duo have to kick plenty of spare robot parts around to clear a path, shatter many a lens lest they remain able to see and record. Milkman continues to eat between the fire and the fumes.
Crank watches the plane eat. Benny attempts to stand tall, feels a tinge of jealousy from the kid with a broad depth of respect. "How do you do it, Benny?"
Benny, pumping gas, at last pays attention. "What? Oh. How do I do what?"
"You know? Shoot on the move, but hit the target and very little damage to what's around?" She holds a silent vigil for the front door and the paint job, wonders if either of them should check on Traveler Coursey. She decides they should...later.
He takes a gander at her out of the corner of his eyes. She folds her arms, waiting. "I got a recollection of the Immelman move during the war, how I admired ol' Max, even though he was on the other side. I pulled off the move to line myself up for the attack. Jugs are heavy, but A-plus for making dives, so is this baby. Oh, you mean how do I hit?" He realizes he’s bragging, and blushes. "Well, you have to line up your sight with the target. If they're on the move, you fire just ahead of them, so they run into it, you see. You can't just let out the gun and squeeze the trigger."
He tries to smile, but the twinge in his leg kicks the smile off
his face as it forms. Crank worries for him, admires his fortitude, and realizes how skinny Haskin's legs really were to his upper body. "You, you shouldn't fly anymore today. You need to rest."
"Who? Me? Nah! I've been in worse scrapes than this, sister! One day I'll tell you about what happened two days before the Armistice."
"One day, soon, you'll tell me why your hands shake."
Benny unhooks the hose from the plane. He eyes Crank good and long. He sees her concern, not cracking wise. "Okay, Crank. okay." Now his breathing does the shakes. He imagines telling her he's lightheaded from blood loss, and that Crank takes it well, tells him to keep flying. Yeah, right. He keep his mouth shut.
The back door opens. To be more precise, it is kicked repeatedly from the inside until fused hinges give way. It ruptures, opening and swinging down to the charred ground. Johnathan Coursey makes his way outside, the cocky demeanor overshadowed by a two spoonfuls of terror.
"What in the world happened?" Traveler squeals. Benny gets a good guffaw through his hurt off the ST leader's high pitch. Johnathan leans back to watch the rising black clouds of ruination. His face wrinkles. Has he seen smoke before?
"I believe we suffered what is generally referred to as an attack, sir." Haskins gives Musa the wink. She grins before roving to Milkman, assessing its injuries. Already her keen brain concocts remedies for the cut fuselage.
Coursey evades every scrap of Slick he lays eyes on, treating them as if they were macroscopic cancer cells out to get him. "I uh, I uh, received word that our pilots detoured to Millville. They are assessing if any Thunderbolts are salvageable. Right after the hard line went dead. Good boys, they are! Whew! We made it through another one, eh?"
Benny shakes his head while Crank caresses Milkman. She has tools, and pries out a section of the fuselage to replace right away, where Slick scarred it the most. Benny dips past Coursey, making his way inside behind Crank. She grabs a spare section of metal, and assesses a second cockpit door, a sliding model that should fit the S-47E right fine. They get to work, hands accustomed to working under the gun, fast coordination while eyeballs meander from the task at hand, to the sky above. Benny sees the two eyeing his obvious limp, and tries to straighten up.
As Haskins dreaded earlier, the sky begins to buzz. It's a venomous buzz, like motorcycles revving up right behind the eardrum, dozens of loud engines flying under a banner of chaos. Slicks are in the distance, in the air coming from the northwest.
There must be thirty or more. ST has four cars, and one airplane. A powerful plane it is, but still twenty-nine short of a fair fight. Crank's hands shake as she bangs the plating into place. A large hand grabs hers.
"Hey, Frederica. Breathe, aim, fire. Got it? If so, repeat it."
Crank gulps. She falls into Benjamin's boyish eyes. "Breathe. Aim. Fire. I got it." They race outside. He screws in the final bolt flush on the cockpit cover, falls into her eyes, and forgets what he just told Crank.
Static on the radio! They recoil from the noise.
"Ninny to Crank! Ninny to - -! I'm caught on the bridge! They're everywhere- -!" The voice shrieks out of the radio speaker.
By the time Ninny is done, Benny is in his plane, Crank is behind the wheel of her baby. She shifts gear, hitting wheel while backing the car out to the street, chrome bumper banging asphalt. Coursey makes his way to Milkman, gripping his cap to yell at Benny.
"Captain! Think you can lead these things away from the town, give Crank some breathing room, and us so I can clean up this mess?" The high pitch remains. Johnathan trembles like a newborn calf.
Haskins gives the thumbs up, slides the new hatch ahead to close, and yanks the stick. He really guns it on the takeoff this time around. S-47E zooms up and away much like it had during the Immelman maneuver, but from the ground. Benny takes the plane right up and between the incoming Slicks. It's a drastic option, but one that succeeds in breaking up their formation. He performs a perfect suicidal distraction, body pressed into the comfy seat by gravity's chokehold. First, Benny passes the horrendous buzzing, then listens as those gnats fall quiet, before growing louder in their attempt to change course and catch up.
"Godspeed, man. Godspeed!" Johnathan Coursey ducks like a true coward, and flees into the hangar.
Penns Neck Bridge links Salem City to the old Swedish built town of Pennsville. It's a heavy thing that spans lightly over the river, a concrete and asphalt thruway with a steel grated center. The center is a drawbridge, operated by the gargantuan rectangular counterweight above the bridge. A railed walkway is on either side. On a warmer day, men might be seen fishing here, hoping to bring up their lines after a hearty fight with catfish, shad and other delectable species of fish. But the bridge does not host fishermen this chilly day, or even automobile traffic, except on the Pennsville side. Folks driving from the Pennsville side soon U-turn like mad seeing what transpires on the bridge this day.
Only one car is on the Penns Neck Bridge, in park on the steel center, steaming, driver's door wide open. Ninny is out and jogging, his bad knees make for poor running. He holds a Thompson submachine gun, a weapon he kept from the days of bootlegging in his youth. Sad truth is Ninny never fired the gun until this day; it had always been for intimidation.
He fires wide at the threats. Slicks with the small propellers are climbing up the bridge pillars, tick-tock Army ants, black beasts on an off-white surface. As soon as Ninny drove to the middle minutes ago, Slicks shot the radiator of the Fleetline. Ninny, unaccustomed to warfare, followed the path of least resistance. His goal is to get off the bridge.
Crank is flaming down Front Street, running through the red light where it intersects West Broadway. She's leaning heavy on the steering wheel, terrified. Her reason is right ahead, on her left. La Donna zooms by the tiny white buildings, the oval sign ahead of them labeled AMOCO GAS and its bulky cylindrical gas tank in the back near the river. Crank careens around the bend to the bridge. She's sure the Slicks will blow up the gas station, cause an awful mess.
She sees Ninny making a slow getaway, firing behind his head, hitting next to nothing. Slicks are in a 'V' formation on the bridge, dozens of them, even more on the Pennsville side by the sandy bank, creeping between the beige reeds.
Frederica wants to panic. Her heart palpitates. No. I am not Frederica Musa. I am Crank. Mechanic Crank. She inhales. Her right thumb toggles the positioning of the rear machinegun, still up over the roof, while her left hand grasps the handle to roll down the window.
She sticks her neck out. "Ninny! Duck!"
"What?" he can barely hear her over the Tommy going off by his ears. Slicks fire single shots behind his feet.
"I said ‘duck’!"
"What?" Ninny sees the car's big gun angle his way. He gets the message loud and clear.
He hits the street right before La Donna begins a hard drive on the bridge. The machinegun rings out a malignant melody, this time beginning with the mass of robots in the center. Crank's aim is dead on. Slicks explode, Slicks lose lenses, and Slicks try to cheat death. A few do, but many pay the price for standing idle. Emboldened by the breathe-aim-fire-repeat mantra, Crank steps on the gas. La Donna revs, her supercharger engine purrs, powered by a hundred electrified hellcats. She moves ahead, driving to the middle of the bridge, firing at the fleeing Slicks. She's more in control. Piecemeal obots with their greasy digits try to clamp down on the hood but get bumped or blown away.
More of Motherville's finest appear, climbing over the railing, but coming up behind Crank. She drives to the center of Penns Neck Bridge. More Slicks arrive. The bridge teems with clicking sounds and sporadic gunshots. Ninny fires at them from Front Street, but he couldn't tickle an elephant if one was sitting on his chest. Crank battles on, her cool battle demeanor slipping by degrees with every scratch of paint, every dent in the scarab beetle hood and roof. Slicks pour it on. Crank fires and fires and fires...and then the machinegun spins empty.
Overhead, Slicks previously in a flight response stop and turn
back. All red eyes focus on Crank. She presses the switch for the gun again and again. Nothing.
"Perché io?" Crank puts the car in reverse, fully backing into the robots behind her. Some crash, others jump clear. She wrangles the gearshift like a racing pro, back into first gear. She dashes forward, swerves, then slams the brake, allowing La Donna to spin, its backside smacking Slicks, the swinging machinegun adding insult to injury. She applies enough gas and brake to keep the spin alive, a vehicular dance to keep the Slicks jumping.
Suddenly gunfire breaks through the sound of the car screeching. It's Ninny. Finding some nerve left in his withered body, he comes charging up the bridge, this time actually hitting a few of the enemy.
"I got yer back, Crank! I got ya!" The guy's no saint but he can't leave a girl alone to fend for herself.
One Slick, able to leap out of La Donna's path, eyes Ninny. It raises its arm with the caution of a sniper while its big lens zooms out. Ninny moves on, coming to within twenty feet of the demolition derby. He takes his last shot as the watchful Slick takes its first. One shot hits a Slick hanging on the car's bumper, legless. Sniper Slick places one round clean into Ninny's pelvis, splicing the bone. Ninny doesn't even get the opportunity to fall down. Sniper jumps into his face, grabs the poor guy by the scruff of his neck and tosses him. Splash. Man overboard.
One Slick climbs with more ambition than most. Wet and slippery, it finds its way to the tower, the master controls for the drawbridge. There's a poor older man in the tower, huddled under the controls, petrified. He doesn't stand a chance. One shot fired, and Slick seizes control.
On the tenth rotation, Crank is erratic. She's taking down the growing masses, but the drive is made bumpier by collateral damage, and angular by the rising drawbridge. She's winning the day but can't get off the ride. That's when the windshield cracks. A dark form slams into the front, cracking glass, forcing a scream out of Frederica's mouth. It's Ninny's soaking body that strikes the glass. His eyes are wide open, face affixed in a way to say 'I'm sorry' as his head slides downward. Blood streaks fill in the cracks. Crank doesn't realize she's stopped driving, come to a dead stop. Her baby leans to one side.
Down Jersey Driveshaft (Book One of the Diesel Series 1) Page 7