So here I was. Will Pocket, newly-deemed renegade adventurer, clinging for dear life to a getaway mattress by the riverside. I was dizzy and had no clue what to do next.
That’s when I heard laughter. A large shadow came over me.
“Hey, it’s you again,” said a big man wearing copper-plated knuckles. “Do you need some more help?”
I rolled upon my back and peered past his face into the sky. “I dare say I do.”
I could've said no. I could've said a lot of things. Impractical as it may sound, I was fairly confident that I could have never moved an inch at all, not ever again, and could choose to spend eternity glued to the mattress by the river. Make myself into some bizarre living monument, an unburied grave left alone in this world. Besides, the mattress, now that it had stopped moving, was unspeakably comfortable, stuffed to the brim with some sort of feather. No, not a bad grave at all. What do most of us get, after all? An oak box under some dirt? That's lousy. Cramped, dark, absolutely no view. Not like this. The breeze was good, the tree that stretched over me twisted its branches into unique shapes, very pleasant to the eye, and the hushed bubbling of the river floated in the back. I could do far worse. And if I ever became sick of the view, well, I was on the feathers. I could just sleep the rest of my existence away. Hop off somewhere unseen and entertain some dream until I got bored with it. Just let my mind roam pink and yellow fields of imagined cotton while my body sticks around here to collect dandelions. It's kind of romantic. Maybe I'd rise to some lesser British myth. The Sleeping Man by the River. A loafer in the wind, rolling along with the seasons in measured time with this world.
But as it was, I didn't decide that. I instead got off of the mattress and shook off another round of dirt, another layer of collected earth from my body. Damn, thinking on it, I now remember that I had meant to write a poem upon this, on how...what was my musing? Something about living and traveling and being outside and carrying pieces of this world around on your clothes. I should have written it down.
“So...you had a poem about dirt?”
“Not just dirt.”
“And about being dirty.”
“Well...you know...Alan...there's a significance in it.”
“Then why do we wash?”
“Ah! Now that is a provocative question!”
“In that case, I take it back.”
I rolled my neck and looked at the large-framed man who was now kicking the corner of the mattress with his boot heel.
“That's a nice ride,” he said. “Did its tank run dry out here?”
God help me, I could not tell if he was joking or not.
“Couldn't say,” I uttered. “This was my first time driving a mattress.”
He laughed and slapped me on the shoulder.
“You don't remember me, do you?” he said.
“Well...”
“The other night. You were running. I was vomiting. The Happy Machinist Tavern, remember?”
“Oh, right.” That business with the carriage owner wanting to beat me into submission. The swaggering brawler-turned-pretzelmaker was just as intimidating in the daylight, yet there was something strangely inviting about him.
“Heh,” the man said. “That's funny. I was stinkin' drunk and you don't remember.”
“No, no. I remember. I've just had a lot of people want to attack me in the last few days, so it slipped my mind.”
“Ah, you in trouble with the cops?”
“A bit, yeah...look, I can't really talk now. My friends are off and—“
“Oh. Were they in that smoking wagon?”
“That's right. They're kind of in a bind.”
He snorted. “No kidding, they're in a bind. They had a pack of Motorists following them.”
“Motorists. Can you tell me what exactly they are?”
“The Motorists?” he repeated, spitting. “Nothing but a mangy pack of rat bastards.”
“Wonderful,” I said to myself more than him. “So now what?”
The brawler cracked a few stiff joints and leaned against the twisting tree. “Well...you want a ride?”
Minutes later I was clutching the rounded lip of a rattly sidecar, watching the screws that held its sides together roll loosely in their place. This slightly rusted sidecar was attached to a dilapidated brown motorbike that moaned as it chugged little steam puffs out of its back pipe.
“Sorry I didn't have another helmet,” said the driver, tilting the vehicle quickly down the road. His head was strapped into a dented, black cooking pot and his sharp-pointed hair stuck out from beneath.
“That's all right, Eddie,” I said, a little wary. “I'll just be careful.”
Eddie Gearhead pumped a motivated fist to the sky and squeezed the throttle. Eddie Gearhead, the name he had given me. I don't think Gearhead was his proper name, but he didn't seem too keen to go by anything else, so I accepted it. Besides, it had a timely flair to it, and as a self-proclaimed bard, who was I to say an imagined name was any less real?
Eddie was an interesting sight. When he met me and my mattress, he was wearing the same copper knuckles he had earlier donned, but the bowler was missing, revealing his unusual hair. It was wild and sharp, sticking out at points and appearing almost like distinct clock hands. Might come in handy, I imagined, thinking on my broken watch. If at a loss for the time, I could prop him up under the sky and read him like a sundial.
“Eddie!” I said, my mind returning to the ride. “Look out for that!”
“I see it. No worry.”
We hit a fair-sized rock and the motorbike bounced into the air and back to the ground like a rubber toy thrown by a spoiled child. The back tire rubbed up some gravel and we slid along the road.
“Careful!” I said.
“I said, no worry. We need to make this trip fast, right?”
“Right...but we need to make it in one piece too.”
Eddie laughed. “I never came in one piece. I've been broken and bruised since I fell out of my mother. That's how life gets you, you know? Not all at once, but over time, over a thousand backstabs and bum deals. Life takes you apart piece by piece.”
“That's kind of beautiful, Eddie. Can I use that in a story?”
“Stop, you'll make me blush.” He bounced us over another rough patch of road. “Story, huh? You some kind of writer?”
“At times. On the streets,” I said, rocking in the sidecar. “Not a particularly successful one.”
“Eh, I'd keep at it. How far has this street-writing gotten you?”
“So far? It's gotten me wanted by the monarchy.”
Eddie chuckled and the bike sputtered. “Piece by piece, man.”
We continued for a bit until I spotted the Marins' caravan sitting overturned and still smoking against a few trees. A few tinted windows were cracked or smashed and there was a greasy black smear across the underside. Eddie slowed us to a stop and I jumped out, shouting for my companions.
“Dolly! Kitt!” I yelled, trying to pry open one of the wagon's doors. “Gren! Are you in here?”
“They are not,” came a voice from the sky.
I looked up. The Marin boys were hanging by their coats over a high branch in the trees.
“Are you two all right?” I asked.
“Not our best day,” Doctor D admitted, swinging slightly in his place.
“I concur,” his brother added.
“What happened?” I asked.
“The Motorists,” Doctor D said.
“They caught up,” Doctor P said.
“What did they do?” I shouted. “Where are the others?!?”
“They took them,” Doctor D said.
“Took them?!?”
“Afraid so,” Doctor P said. “Stuck the men at gun-and-knife-point and loaded them on bikes.”
“And the girl?”
“When they got close, she barricaded herself in the steamer trunk.”
“How?”
“She made us lock her inside. Then we slipped
her the key through an air hole. The Motorists couldn't open the steamer and she refused to give over the key, so they attached the trunk by a rope to a bike and dragged her behind.”
I felt my eyes blacken. There are men of science who would tell you that such a coloration is impossible. It is fortunate that such men had not stated that to my face at that moment, as I would've promptly clawed into their chest cavities and introduced them to their hearts. I could only face the ground, my bangs hiding the morbid intent in my gaze. Blood pushed through my veins.
“I'll murder them,” I said, voice deep and cold. “If they touch them, if I find a single hair out of place, I'll murder them all.”
“Chillingly put, Mister Pocket,” Doctor D said, though not in jest. “I'd be careful of yourself.”
“Gentlemen,” I said back, daggers in my consonants. “I'm not the one who should be fearing me.”
Eddie approached, jaw clenched and eyes equally deep. “Let's go,” he said, his tone gruff and serious.
“Yeah...” I began walking back to the motorbike. “Will you Marins be all right?”
“I believe we are almost free,” Doctor P said, swaying and reaching for the branch. “I can nearly reach up.”
“Here,” Eddie said. He grabbed a string of flags that had been hanging from the caravan and threw the untied end to Doctor D. “Use this to pull yourselves. You'll bend the branch a little, get your feet to reach that corner of the wagon.”
“Thank you,” Doctor D said. “I'd tip my hat to you, but at the moment—“
“Forget it,” Eddie said. “Pocket?”
“Right,” I said.
I got into the sidecar and waited for Eddie to take us away. This time I didn't care about the helmet.
“You get fired up sometimes, don't you?”
“I have my moments, Alan. I'm not proud of them.”
“You should be. If a man has no passion rattling around in his body, what is he? Just a glob of uninspired meat.”
“I guess.”
“So tell me you found the Motorists.”
“Oh, we found them, all right.”
A circle of parked motorbikes filled an open city square. The Motorists, wrapped in their reeking leathers, were parading around, laughing their dim little heads off. Eddie increased our speed and we chugged quickly toward the circle.
“So, I'm thinking,” I said, wind in my face, “we're pretty outnumbered. Our best chance at rescue is probably going to be from creating a distraction then moving in.”
“Distraction,” Eddie said. “Couldn't agree more.” The bike sped up.
“Uh...right. Good. Let's discuss strategy then.”
“Nah.”
“Nah?”
“No need, man.” He unfastened the straps of his makeshift helmet and tossed it to me. “You better put this on.”
“I'm all right.”
“No, you're gunna want this.”
I felt a tightness in my chest and quickly put on the helmet. “What about you?”
Eddie grinned and lightly pounded on his head. “I've got a pretty hard shell up here.”
“You sure?”
He shrugged and switched subjects. “You're in it pretty deep with the King, aren't you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Lousy luck. Okay, when I tell you to, duck down as far as you can into the sidecar.”
“I'm pretty tall.”
“Just do what you can.”
I realized that we were quickly approaching a row of parked motorbikes on the outer edge of the circle and Eddie wasn't letting up. “You aren't really planning on touching your brake, are you?”
“Not really.”
“Okay. What are you planning to do?”
“Distract.”
“Uh...”
“Now! Head down!”
I did as commanded and hugged my knees. The motorbike collided at top speed with the others and Eddie went flying out over the pile to the hard ground. I stayed glued, crashing through the mess and eventually coming to a thudding halt. Dizzy, I fell out of the sidecar and pressed my hands to the ground. The helmet was making my head heavy, so I tossed it into the sidecar and retrieved my proper hat. Another wave of dizziness showed up, so I pressed the ground once more.
Eddie, meanwhile, was in top form. I realized as I watched the Motorists that only a few among them had rifles. Those that did immediately took aim at Eddie after he landed and picked himself up. Eddie waved them on and waited for them to fire. They did, missed, and started clutching their barrels. Eddie made a evil grin.
“Oh, you shouldn't have missed me,” he said, laughing.
The riflemen grimaced and started frantically repacking their weapons. Then I understood. The rifles were old, outdated models and cumbersome to reload. Eddie jogged up to the closest rifleman, a scrawny, whisker-lipped man, and easily snapped the weapon out of his hand. He then swung the rifle like a club, knocking the man off of his feet and into two of his cohorts.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Eddie said, looking back at me. “Go on. I've got you covered.”
I came to my senses and ran. Eddie followed at my side and provided cover. As I darted to the center of the Motorists' circle, he would bounce back and forth, ripping chains out of assailant hands or pounding his knuckles into stubbled jaws.
There, in the center of the circle, I saw it. The Marins' steamer trunk.
The Doll.
The lid was still sealed, but the box was now dotted with bumps, scrapes, and half-drilled pinholes. A clump of Motorists sat on top, with a line beginning behind them. Each had a different tool or weapon in hand. The scene almost revealed a carnival game. Try your luck. Win big and receive the grand prize.
“Well, well!” said a Motorist with a broken-toothed hacksaw. “Lookie here, boys. The other one showed up. We were wondering about you.”
They turned their hammers and hand-cranks on me, giggling. I looked around for Eddie, but he was preoccupied with two attackers on each of his arms. I balled my fists.
“Oh!” said another Motorist, sliding off of the trunk. “Brave man. You realize we will kill you, right?”
And they came very close to doing so. I was stupid, got caught up in a moment of fictional valiance. In that ridiculous instant, I placed the silly mantle of hero upon my shoulders and took to that old and admired logic that since I was fighting on behalf of honor and beauty and dedication that I would no doubt be triumphant.
The rats beat the pulp out of me.
I was able to block a few of the more potentially fatal blows, but I would have been dead in the streets if Eddie hadn't ran up and knocked them hard to the ground.
“You all right?” he said, helping me up. I spit out a little blood.
“Just sore.”
“Don't do that again, okay?”
“I won't.”
With Eddie standing guard, I knelt beside the trunk and rapped my fingers against the side.
“Dolly...” I whispered. “It's me.”
It was quiet but she eventually spoke.
“Why did you let them beat on you?”
“I wasn't planning to lose. Are you all right in there?”
“No. I want out.”
“Then open up and I'll get you out of here.”
“I can't.”
“It's okay. I'll get you safely away.”
“I...I can't!”
“Pocket!” Eddie shouted. “Look out!”
I looked up just as a Motorist came up behind me and swung a wooden plank at my head. I rolled out of the way just in time and the plank split against the trunk. Eddie's plan of drawing all attention away from me and the trunk were failing.
“Help!” I shouted.
“On my way!” Eddie shouted.
We made a dash for each other, when something sharp and long whizzed between our heads.
It was an arrow.
Looking back in the direction it came, we found a Motorist in a mechanic's uniform aiming
a loaded crossbow at our heads.
“Don't move now,” he said smugly.
Eddie and I lifted our arms in surrender. The crossbowman instructed another Motorist to go round up some reinforcements as well as “the others.” A few minutes later, another squad of them slimed out of the scenery, leading “the others,” who were, as I expected, Kitt and Gren.
“Eddie?” Gren said, staring at us gape-mouthed.
“Gren!” Eddie said with a laugh. “I didn't know you were a part of this.”
“What's going on?”
“Apparently this bastard with the arrows wants to kill us.”
“You know each other?” I asked Eddie.
“It's not so big a city,” he said.
The thugs leading Kitt and Gren shoved them over next to us. The crossbowman smiled, walked over, and pressed the tip of the arrowhead against the side of my head.
“You in the trunk,” he called out. “I've got a proposition for you.”
“I don't want to come out,” Dolly answered.
“Oh, I think you do. See, what I've got here is a nice, clean shot. One shot, all I need. I've got a nice, sharp arrow up against this boy's head and just the right shooting angle to send it in and out of his head and straight through, now this is the best part, straight through the heads of these other louses you've been palling around with. So here's your choice. I can take this nice, tasty shot, have a little fun, or you can come out of that silly little box. How about it?”
And of course, after a moment of quiet resignation, the key to the trunk was pushed out of an air hole. A laughing Motorist grabbed it and swung open the lid.
The Doll, sullen but not cowering, was pulled out of the box and restrained by two men.
“All right, boys,” the crossbowman said. “Prep.”
“On it,” another said.
The Doll frowned and tugged at the arms that held her as five men carried out a spread of mechanical tools.
“Hey!” I said. “What the hell are you doing with those?!?”
“Diagnostics,” one sneered, pulling out a hand torch.
“Here,” the one next to him said. “Help me get this casing off. I don't want to start knocking around the gearwork until I get a good look at the layout.
“Stop it!” Kitt yelled. “What are you going to do to her?”
Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) Page 20