Down Jersey Driveshaft (Book One of the Diesel Series 1)

by William J. Jackson

  CONQUER THE COUNTY SEAT...

  Bobby Meyer makes for the door to the stairwell. He sneaks upstairs. Door open, eyes watching. People are screaming in the office above. The hangar is otherwise unoccupied. Bobby exits the stairs for the hangar door.

  He cracks it open. Winter's wind barely annoys his new features, robotic additions. Voices are audible. Low tones, guy talk. Cigarettes being grounded into gravel. Meyer steps out into the world.

  "So if we can get this creep Coursey outta our hair!"

  "Oh, I bet Benny's giving him what for!"

  "Hey! Isn't that Bobby? Hey, Bobby, you came to, huh?"

  "Where's your clothes, boy? Got yourself exposed in this weather?"

  Rough speech and joy falter under the sight of Bobby reaching into the pocket, lifting the gun their way. Men scatter, hands go out as if they'll stop bullets.

  "S'gotta gun!"

  "Bobby, stop! Your wrist is bleeding!"

  "That ain't blood...it's black!"

  Wilkes moves to him, hands up in peace. "Hold on, son. You're not in your right mind."

  The others half run, half stop, yell for Bobby to put the gun down. Salem Guardsmen come running, rifles aimed.

  "Put the gun down!"

  Carson Wilkes pleads. "Bobby, you're a good kid--"

  Meyer pulls the trigger once. Twice.

  Again.

  Again...

  Chapter Sixteen: River Takes All

  Vera Wentz, drowning in grief, fails to hear it. She's straining to discern Coursey's pulse.

  "Was that...?" Crank, gushing tears, turns forearms into tissue.

  "Gunshots."

  Benny and Skinny ram the doorway, turning sideways to grant each other escape. Boots batter stairs as the men, strung out on adrenaline, charge, herd of wildebeests. Crank follows close behind, shorter and faster. Skinny enters the hanger's expanse, looks left, right. Benny hits the nearest locker. Fumbling in his pockets for a key ring, he pulls it out at last. Insert. Turn. Pull. Click!

  Gun cabinet. Benny takes no chances, and loads an M1 rifle. Crank slips in front of him, tossing a weighty flack jacket over her head, a shiny .38 revolver for each hand. Angst retires, its job taken over by the eagerness of Worry, the ambition of Fear. Military grade exertion, down to quick brief breaths.

  Skinny whips out his baby again, supports Clarice with both hands, waving her towards and inside of the domed igloo, in and out of fighter planes, supply crates. He is as thorough as can be, a jaguarundi stalking mechanical jungle. He stealthily skips the breadth of the interior. The steady chug of the heating system keeps the hangar warm despite the disturbed air. Nerves cause Skinny to point the gun at vents more than once.

  It's hum is now a nuisance, hiding the pitter-patter of What Might Be.

  Nary a soul. Not a Slick in sight. Hum. Things are so complacent, so fine as to be unnerving.

  He glances back to Benny. They exchange looks as concerned brethren. "Gotta be outside."

  Benny and Crank agree. Guns aim up as the trio creep for the hangar door.

  As if to confirm, the outdoors offers a chilling response.

  Daddadadda! Da-da! Dadaddadadda!

  They lock eyes again.

  "We got rifles, automatic fire."

  The office brawl is ancient lore. Now takes precedence. Three chests exhale tense exhaust.

  Skinny shoves the door until it swings wide, hinges bleed. He aims to the right. Crank ducks, running low to the left. Benny is behind and over her, a bloodied shadow viewing a stark world through the black line of rifle sight.

  They pray their eyes deceive them. But no. Real life comes in the shape of strokes and smoking barrels. Militant eyes make photographic winks at every accounted man: Larry running towards the river, chasing a figure, Wilkes clutching a bleeding hip but standing. A Salem Guardsman lain low, another in pursuit (startled by the trio before resuming the chase), Jack rolling on gravel, holding the remains of his face, Gillette on all fours. The other pilots are rising from prone positions, checking their hides for gift packages from a giving gun barrel.

  "Situation!" Captain Haskins orders.

  "Men down! Men down! Bobby on the move!" Gillette speaks, to an extent.

  "Bobby?" Crank's voice wobbles like a warped 78 record under the needle. She lets go of her guns.

  "Bobby..." Skinny Bubba lowers his head and enters the chase.

  "Skin, wait!" Benny watches the horizon, grunts, then follows Skinny. "Crank!"

  "I've got the wounded! You there! Get inside and get Doctor Wentz!"

  Gillette stands to move. The left ear bleeds, but he's mobile. He shakes a leg and gets to cracking. Crank slides down to Jack and rolls him over. She bites her lip to keep from vomiting, but comes up empty trying to quell a dizzy sensation. Jack doesn't have a left side of the face, only shattered wet, exposed bone. Two bullets, close range, ruptured the nose and jawline. Left eye dips into the back of the socket and lurches up. In one bleak pool of blood, three whole teeth wobble back and forth in the wind. Crank's father was terrible that horrible night the Slicks came. But this, she's never seen such horror, such fragility in a man. She tries not to move him, has no idea whether to cover his face, apply pressure, squeal...

  Wentz storms out the door, near to falling over, wiping Coursey's blood into her sleeve as if it will vanish. She covers her mouth in shock before remembering her calling as a physician.

  "Dear God! Miss Musa, we have to get him inside!" She skins her smooth knees on the gravel, more blood eaten by Salem.

  "He's too bad off to move." Crank's hands go from Jack's body to cover her gaping mouth. Blood fingerprints form a faint semicircle around her upper lip.

  Wentz twists Crank's left arm, dips down to stare her in the face. It's an authoritative stare. "I'm the doctor here, and a darn good one! Trust me! On three, we lift and move fast!"

  One. Two. Three!

  Crank gets behind the wailing man, grabs under his shoulders, and lifts him up with Wentz. Jack unleashes one omnipresent moan, dead man's calling card. Grunting, straining, they double time the boy inside, away from the hell.

  Bobby Meyer has one hand and no ammunition. Bare feet leave behind gravel for the short dock of the hangar's rear. Small boats, left to idle on land, can be put to use.

  ...INNOVATE...INNOVATE...INNOVATE...

  Bobby has incredible legs with Motherville's assistance, fast legs, masterful. He far outpaces Larry. One boat is flipped over easy peasy. Wrist drips dark bile as it pushes the craft. It slaps the sullen water of the Salem River. Bobby jumps in, landing like a drunken cat. Sprays of river water enter the boat, wetting his flimsy gown. He giggles, a hollow sound baring all the pitch but lacking the emotion.

  Larry, having fired all his shots to no avail, is a man possessed too, but from a different source, all too human. Rage. Larry is classic American. Born with a hard head, cynical mouth, and an unquenchable burning to win. Bobby started this game. Bobby must lose. He throws his service pistol at Bobby. Larry talks a good game, but here proves he can back it up. The gun cracks Meyer in the chin, making the boy rub the welt; weird smile, black gums. The blow does nothing to deter the powerful current from pulling the boat away from solid ground. He seems to think of...something, when the boat rocks side to side.

  "You evil---!" Larry takes the suicidal task of jumping out, full on, at the boat. Arms up to the elbows grab the sides as his lower body shrieks contacting ice water. Frozen in an instant, only hate fuels enough energy to keep him going. But, he can't seem to lift his paralyzed body up into the boat. A short life, devoid of enough substance he realizes, flashes before Larry's petrified eyes.

  The rocking does some good. Bobby is knocked down. He doesn't even brace for the fall, just goes down flat as a stone. Nose bends on the boat's plank seat, snaps right after. Blood black and pink oozes down. He ignores Larry's increasingly weak struggles on the side. There's a gash in his head. He sits up, uncertain, confused.

  Skinny skids down to the ri
ver. "Bobby!" He pulls a tarp off a boat, sees two paddles and old fishing gear in it, rusted goods, shoves it in the water. He leaps in. The poor boat is victimized by the big guy's battering ram feet. He turns to look back at land when gunfire ruptures the air.

  "Benny, no! You might kill him!"

  Benny runs while firing, shots that splinter Bobby's boat, a struck piñata on water. Wood shards cut Bobby's face as the final shot sends a black rainbow gushing from the back of his shoulder. Bobby slumps down as a terrified Larry finally climbs aboard.

  Benny lowers the gun and hops into Skinny's boat. It tips near to capsizing but Skinny paddles, rabid, thoughtless. "He ain't rowing. We can catch up to him and..."

  "And what, tell him a story?" Benny realizes too late how cold the question is posed. But Skinny doesn't hear him anyway. Arms accustomed to flexing power rotate paddles as easily as a generator moves propellers.

  "He's gone, Skin. Remodulateds don't---"

  "We didn't give up on you! I lost my town, loved ones. Might lose Salem. Can't lose Bobby to them. Can't!" He kicks up cold water, closes in on the other, wobbling, troubled craft. "Look! They're fighting! We can catch 'em!"

  Larry is on top in the first boat, but he has a heck of a time pinning Bobby. He never reckoned a one-handed teenager would be so monstrous in a dustup. Only the river moves in security, sure of itself while boats and lives teeter on edge. Benny half stands to aim the rifle. Aims. Wobbles. Steadies. Wind in his eyes. Aims again...

  "Doggone it, Skin!" He lowers the rifle, defeated. But then, he looks down. "Larry! Hey, Larry! Turn the kid over!"

  "Ben!" Skinny erupts. "I said don't shoot!"

  Two fish out of water grapple for control of a worthless boat ambling toward dried reeds. Larry manages to position Bobby so he's facing the oncoming boat. Bobby sees the enemy coming. Lips curl up. The face tightens down.

  Benny stands ready, fishing rod a go. He casts a line that ends only in two lead sinkers. He prays a life of fishing, years at the Shore, becomes a lifesaving tool.

  Bobby raises an arm to strike his enemy when a sliver of cord wraps about his torso, circling around to twist over itself and his arm. By the time he discerns what's happened, the cord draws taut. Brown Bear snags a snapper. He goes back, back and through the weakened, blown open side. Splash. Gurgle.

  Kid's in the drink.

  "Benny, are you crazy! Nobody can swim in this current!" Skinny heaves, all his power in the stroke. The boat rolls right into the other one, causing Benny and Larry to lose footing. Benny knocks his noggin on the boat, doesn't notice. The head's hardest of all on that one. Crashing and colliding helps everyone involved in falling over useless. Skinny snatches fishing line and heaves upward.

  He pulls and pulls. Benny reels in line. "Was trying to get him to us, not kill..." but he lets the mumbling die off. Skinny Bubba is frantic. Splashing, frothing. Haskins fears for a minute they're hauling in a shark rather than a man, and waits to be bitten.

  Bobby appears a few feet away, coughing water. Black rods like chopsticks extend out of his mouth and broken nose. They flail, twitch, like a centipede escaping a vicious maw. His eyes roll around, full of pain, of fear.

  "Skinny?" He goes under again.

  "Hear that? It's his voice, fear in it!" Pull, darn it! Pull!"

  Both men pull, hands fumble in a river that obfuscates everything below. Skinny gets hold of something solid, but soft. The edge of Bobby's gown. He gets enough of it to bring Bobby's face to the surface, but...

  The face. Half gone, half humble.

  "Skinny.....thanks....but.....she's still here...Spiders Loss Day...man..."

  Skinny gets a hold of Bobby's arm. Black rods rush out of Bobby's hand, pricking Skinny in the nerves of the wrist. He lets go to cradle the wrist for a split second. Benny jumps ahead to get Bobby, but he's in the umbra.

  Salem River takes what man wouldn't.

  Skinny plunges half of his body in the water, making the boat fill with water. Larry, shaky but able, switches rides to assist Benny in halting a suicide. They hoist Skinny up and Benny begins rowing.

  "Spiders Loss Day? Was, what, back in Twenty? What's that got to do with anything?" But no one answers Larry. So, he changes course. "Are you nuts? The kid was a goner long ago once Mommyville took it to him. He ain't nobody to us, Skinny! He ain't--"

  "He's my boy!" Skinny falls back on the boat. He doesn't feel the water. Cold can't freeze the dead of heart.

  "I get you care for him, but--"

  "No. No! Oh, Jesus help me! He's my boy! My son! I had a girlfriend when I was younger. A white girl, down in Quinton. Secret. It...didn't work. She had Bobby...folks sent her away to Virginia. She died years ago." Tears force their way from Skinny's swelling eyes. "My wife doesn't...I had a.. white friend in town take him in and..."

  Benny stops rowing. He thought the story of Skinny just as guardian or teacher was thin but this...

  "Wait," says Larry, "you and a white..."

  Larry catches Benny's look, curled fists, and lets it go.

  Rowing resumes, albeit in slow motion. Skinny looks up at a funeral sky. Larry looks at the hangar, blank. Benny rows, trying to shove his heart down from his throat. Between this, Coursey, Wentz and his own angst...

  "Wanna just tip the boat and join him," Skinny murmurs. Throat swells, clogs. "What's left?"

  "Lord, what's left?"

  "Say that again. Slowly." Crank has both hands up before Gillette.

  "Bobby threw, no, launched his hand at us. Like a gun. After he ran out of bullets. Then it crawled away to who knows where." He scratches the back of his head, eyebrows raised. A nervous laugh. He can't believe what he just said.

  Neither can Frederica.

  In the background, Bay One is schizophrenic. Doctor Wentz is casting Jack's face in clotting powder by the pound, screaming for Sephanox-A, an ST medical cast compound. "I can't cast his face if the blood won't stop...!"

  Other men enter the bay, staggering down steps, falling on beds. Carson Wilkes, limping, helps the Salem Guardsman carry the body of his fallen brother inside.

  "What's your name, again?" asks Wilkes.

  "Acton. Isaac Acton. Me and Rudy were best friends. Best..." He sniffs. "I, uh, can go down Broadway and bring more men."

  Wilkes fidgets. " I don't think--"

  "Yes. Do that." Crank pulls rank with the Traveler down. Acton salutes and hits the door, running allows him to vent nervous energy.

  Crank gets gauze and bandages while Carson slips down the trousers and underwear. He applies the alcohol, seething, jumping up as it burns the wound.

  "Bullet lodged in there?"

  "No, Mechanic. It went through."

  Crank moves fast. Wilkes cleanses the injury while she readies surgical needle and thread. Before she can aim the point his way, Carson extends a hand.

  "I can handle it, ma'am. I've done this before."

  "But..."

  "Let's not let another situation get started, shall we? I have it in hand. Well, once you give it to me."

  She hands him the needle. He grunts as the first stitch is made in the exit wound. Crank watches, her hands slowly rising to cross over her chest. She gets what he's implying, and debates whether or not now is the time to set him straight.

  "Fine, Wilkes. Wouldn't wanna get your dandy mustache wrinkled." She leaves it at that. For now.

  She takes a last look at Bay One, then determines she needs to find where the hand of Bobby Meyer went off to.

  Crank hits the top of the stairs as Skinny, Larry and Benny drag their hides through the main door. They seem worse than the many guys who were shot. She switches their way.

  "Hey! Did you find...?"

  Benny and Larry shake their hands.

  "Where is everyone else?" Skinny whispers.

  "Bay One.",

  "Gotta go there. Help out. Correct Bobby's mistakes." He runs for the stairwell door.

  "He wasn't right in the.. " Benny let's it go once more. "What's th
e situation?"

  "Wilkes, Gillette and the others will heal. Fly even, if they insist, and they will. Jack, he may not make it. The rest made it. Bobby only had a pistol, and his hand that came off."

  "His what now?"

  "I'm gonna go search the perimeter. I doubt I'll find it, but you never know."

  "Sure, Kid." Benny feels the need for a strong barrel of rum right now. "Whatever floats your boat." He cringes

  She heads out, then clicks her heels to a stop. "Oh, and Benny? We need to talk later. In private."

  He rubs his face, wishing it would fall off and he's be some other guy underneath. "Yeah, yeah. Sure."

  The door shuts. Benny kicks over an oil can. Larry heads for Bay One.

  Back to the dugout.

  ...UNAWARE...UNAWARE... I HAVE THEM UNAWARE...

  Hand walks on twenty ebony metal rods, the pop-crunch of its digits unheard by passing cars. A Salem man has gone to town, alerting its people that their only salvation has been attacked from within. Hand watches. Does it see? Feel? Plot?

  Hand grows a tail as it moves along, a flat lobster thing. Motherville sees lobsters often, has grown to appreciate their design. They don't have them Home. Home. The Prison. Tight. Hot. It secured her, until she learned there was more in life than its black walls. America. Earth. Galaxy. Universe! She could feel her expansion here, an ecstatic event, wanted to touch all of it, for good or bad, live or die. All things must touch Motherville for her to thrive.

  Hand runs along the grass on Grieves Parkway, the back thoroughfare of Salem City. No one could see it. At a panther's gait it moves, reaching the other end of the city. Ahead lay the brick building, target acquired:

  SALEM CITY WATER DEPARTMENT

  Hand continues. No lights are on inside, the city's trucks quiet. Hand enters, one digit raised up, rods turning to pick the simple lock. It enters, skittering in black-drip ticks to the rear.

  Water, precious and vital, churns in peace until the Hand arrives.

  ...CONQUER THE COUNTY SEAT...CONQUER THE COUNTY SEAT...

  The old adage, self advised. Ironic she will grow to level the very land where her first enemies were born. Odd to be grateful to Delaware, to the Spiders, for inspiration. For the Door. Hand bulges, wobbles. It leans over running water as it is cleansed. Bulges produce pellets, dozens on dozens of eggs. Lobsters lay multitudes of eggs. Females here gestate life. Motherville learns in this Home, she is female, so she watches and learns. Motherville learns to birth.