Down Jersey Driveshaft

by William J. Jackson

  "I mean, might as well take advantage of whatever power is in the engine. Right? And, may as well be happy. I'm happy, and who knows how long it will last."

  "It's...it's..."

  Crank hugs her pal. "Amazing, huh? And, I ran this puppy through the car's engine. Surprised? This thing wraps around the diesel parts, but with the connection, I'm estimating a hundred and fifty percent efficiency on fuel expenditure. I didn't have the heart at first to rip out the engine, and had the glowing alien one strapped around, basically useless until I could work out how to merge it. Benny brought up the mental diodes in Milkman and whammo! Boom! Pop! I had it. Now she's a fireball. Bits of the alien energy enter the pistons, really increasing combustion! Grazia salvifica, I call it. Our saving grace."

  Skinny touches the engine, shocked by the cool of it. "It might be that, Sister. It just might."

  Man, what a difference a shave makes!

  Benny looks at himself in the mirror. Traveler's office nets it's own bathroom, albeit a teeny weeny model. Benny grips his newly scalped chin for an inspection, rests the razor on the flat sink. Clean? Check! He steps back. Flat gut? Not so check. Have to rectify that, if I'm gonna fight on and romance a young girl. Benny slaps his abdomen, sucks it in, and throws on an undershirt, flexes. Least the biceps are at premium.

  Stretching (ouch!) as he leaves the water closet for the office, Benny looks at it like it's brand new. The darkness is gone. All he sees is memory. On the floor, Crank stood on his back, used her wiggly toes to get that knot out. In the chair, they kissed for three eternities. How he managed to nab a gal like Frederica Musa is beyond comprehension.

  Well, she nabbed me.

  So what that he hasn't left the office? The guys will be alright, and probably don't want to see his big mug anyway. Gotta get the mind ready for hell and high water, sweep out the cobwebs. The past night, no nightmares, no wicked memories chilling the spine. Love is the answer, huh?

  Love is the answer.

  Whenever Crank ventured away, Benny hit the books. Coursey kept meticulous records of activities, stolen documents from other ST facilities. In a secret compartment of the desk (third drawer-bottom right, for those wanting to know) a series of memorandums in German gave Haskins and Crank pause for a full hour. Couldn't read a lick of it, but scary stuff nonetheless. Swastikas do not make for a happy evening.

  An image of a wedding ring on Crank's finger crosses his mind. Whoa there! Brakes! Gotta take it slow. Crank is young and moves quick.

  I'm old, and played out. Right?

  He thumbs through papers, gobbles down a cold meatball, then catches on to a novel idea. A hot second later, Benjamin is on the floor, getting reacquainted with the fine art of sit-ups.

  “One! Two! Three…”

  "Artie, did you hear what I just said?" Martha Silverman yells across the kitchen.

  Artie Silverman puts down the now empty glass of tap water. He's fifteen, curly haired, scrawny, brown eyes losing their light by the blink. He sets down the glass.

  "Artie! Get the roast out of the oven while I'm mixing this batter!"

  Artie turns on a dime, ignoring the placid view of Chestnut Street out the kitchen window. The sunlight means nothing. The roast means nothing. He angles to the white stove before turning again.

  "I hope we won't have trouble this time with your Uncle Josiah. Last New Year he caused quite the stir. Your father had better keep him on a tight leash this time."

  Artie ignores her. Human speech means nothing. The bread knife in the sink means something. He acquires it and moves behind mother.

  "Conquer the county seat."

  "What, dear? Is this a new game you..."

  She turns right into the blade, angled up so the dull curve is back, the blade at ready. Artie walks forward, plunging the knife in stuttered, slit-bubbling motions. Mother loses her inner glow. Like Artie, her eyes are dead.

  Artie backs away, letting mother sink to the ceramic tiles while he makes for the door. In a cold manner, he puts on the Salem High School jacket, trusty blue and white Rams, and exits the house.

  It is sunny and breezy. Artie stands on the broad porch of his Queen Anne home, and looks right, then left. Neighbors step outside. A seven-year old girl to the right. An elderly man to the left. Both have blood on their hands.

  "Conquer..." says Artie.

  "...the county seat," the trio say as one.

  They head out on Chestnut, where the trees provide ample shade and crows caw in abundance. They make for Broadway, and are followed behind by other Salemites, just as cold, equally bloodied.

  People begin to scream. Many hide from their loved ones. The police are called, their telephone lines backed up to the next year with the same, horrible cries.

  "My family is trying to kill me!"

  The police can't respond. The police station, you see, is where Artie and company are heading...

  Chapter Nineteen: Start Your Engines

  John Crowe can't keep from having stray thoughts. That's odd considering the day he's having.

  SALEM P.D, emblazoned on the side of the three-wheeled Harley Servi-Car police motorcycle, whips down and around the bend along Route Forty Five, past the few homes remaining of what was once Claysville. Muddy swatches mar the surface of the bike, with a dent to boot. Officer John Crowe slides the bike off the road and into the reeds just before the roadblock up ahead. A middle-aged man long on experience, gray hair to prove it, he watches occasional automobiles slow down at the roadblock before turning around. Folks want to hit Route Forty Nine in the center of town to take it to Bridgeton, Vineland, Cape May and such. They won't be going today. They may not drive through here ever again.

  Salem is no longer driver friendly. Nor is it accessible by train, as the Pennsylvania-Reading shut down the stop down the road on Grant and Hubbell a month ago, by order of Governor Walter Evans Edge. Town may as well be in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. No welcomes, no warmth, all hardness. Motherville has cut off the county seat.

  Crowe knows this all too well. In the cycle's round mirror he notes a blue tinge to his lips. Resting over the handlebars he pulls off a leather glove to touch his face.

  Ouch! Got a real shiner. Haven't had a black eye since...can't rightly recall. Can't believe Bill Harrell tried to shoot me, and his wife! His face...haven't seen a face so empty since those starving Jerries at the end of the last war. Whole town is going mad!

  John pulls out his service pistol, holds it like it's cursed, limp in his hand. Gonna be a sad report to make. December Thirty First, shot and killed a farmer, and one of my best and dearest friends...

  The cycle drones off. Crowe hates the tightness in his gut where Bill rammed the butt of a rifle. He's glad he saved Ellen, Bill's wife, from her husband's rage and dropped her off at the general store way out in Alloway. Still can't rationalize just why he didn't bring her into Salem City. Gut instinct? All he did in Alloway was rattle a beehive. People there had a million questions, questions he hadn't the time to answer...

  "This a German plot or sumpin'?"

  "Find my pigs yet? One a' them Slicks busted up my fence an' let 'em run off! One woulda been winner at next year's County Fair!"

  "They'll be coming' to get our farms to starve us an' feed themselves! You watch just yet!"

  "Men need to go an' get their guns, right? Keepin' my twelve gauge by my side..."

  "Bet it's government experiments! Never did trust Roosevelt! Darn near a Commie himself!"

  "Is it in the air?"

  "The water?"

  "Got a cure?"

  "Gonna shoot half a' Salem County 'fore all's said and done!"

  Yeah, John left Alloway in a tizzy alright. He feels bad for dropping such a mystery on them, but more so, he mentally claws out of a puzzling grave of enigmas concerning Bill Harrell's rage. Rage? Nah. More like a...a...cold decision to kill her. He allows the realization to sink in. It doesn't. Did he have a breakdown? Never said anything about having troubles. No liquor, he's
been sober going on twelve years. Woke up fine, said Ellen. Strange. Strange and deadly.

  He wants to rest. He wants to go home and see his wife and daughter. He needs warmth and hot chocolate! But daughter Dottie is in Indiana, far from Salem where strange is the usual now. Strange...

  This related to those robots?

  John shakes off the inquiry. How does it relate? Salemites have fled from the Slicks, even a bizarre duo of men lacking feeling, a professor and a young guy with roughed up faces. But this?

  Maybe, John. Maybe.

  Then shots are fired. In town, beyond the tracks and the bridge over Fenwick Creek. More shots follow. John Crowe tenses up, forgets his aches and pains. Gloves back on, he smothers his mouth so hot breath warms iced lips. Kicking down the starter, he revs up the motorcycle, zooms into the road between cars on the U-turn.

  John doesn't want to hit top speed, but adrenaline calls. The ride is quick. Blocked off from the outside world, the streets are barren of running vehicles. Dogwood trees pose in black torpor on either side of Market Street, a street that is a mob scene, people in and out of age-old homes. Fighting? Feminine screams obliterate the genteel aura of the town. From the colonial, flat front houses, all the way down to the white home where once the Goodwin sisters ferried escaped slaves North. As far as Crowe can discern, even down to the placid gray stones and cemetery of St. John's Episcopal Church, people are fighting one another. Cutting each other. Shooting!

  Heck, John drives between the carnage, doesn't stop to interfere. Cowardice? No.

  I...can't...this isn't happening! That's Maria Post. What is she doing with that iron?

  He knows most of these folks, and bad enough, they're attacking loved ones first. John meanders down Market, a slowing purr on the motorcycle. Few notice him. His eyes are well trained, quickly detecting two camps of folk. One set is out for the kill and don't pay him any mind. The second set are victims, flailing wild until they perceive an officer of the law. He can't. He simply can't gun down another friend. Does he kill the whole town? People seemingly okay see him, run his way. They turn their backs on their attackers, and some pay for it.

  John lets warning shots off into the air until his gun empties. The mob action halts. Aside from old Esther Gaines (practically hand raised a fifth of the town!) choking on the sidewalk, a hideous quiet perspires from the homes and asphalt. He pulls over in front of stony St. John’s Episcopal, out of breath, a step away from hyperventilating. My God. Children are ducking behind a family crypt! Each person under assault able to comes his way. Those with weapons...

  ...with guns, knives, broom handles, wood saws move into a lineup. A little girl in a flannel nightgown brandishes a bloody fork as she marches down the sidewalk. John recognizes the form. Militant.

  The world is going on?

  "You have to...kill...my son! Oh God! He's gone rabid! I...can't believe I said that..."

  "My mommy is somebody else!"

  "There's sumpin' like a barroom brawl down at Carl's Home and Auto Supply! Ever'one's gone plum crazy!"

  Others shout similar insanities. He has eyes on the armed, however. They stand still, then...

  Another warning shot. John draws their attention. "What is going on here? Everybody stop! Now!"

  Quiet.

  "Conquer the county seat," is their synchronous announcement.

  They march, slow, like wind-up toys from Uncle Adolf.

  Crowe feels a panic coming on. Where's the rest of the police?

  "Okay. Okay! You all run down and get into the courthouse. It's not much, but it's a start. Defend yourselves if you have to. I'm gonna get those soldiers in Barber's Basin."

  "You can't leave us undefended!"

  He huffs. The lady yelling is right. But so is he. "I can't do it alone. Go!"

  They jog at first, these ladies in nice tight skirts, elderly persons, confused, hurt children. Gotta be thirty or more just on this street. John shoves a round into the pistol, fires at the line of attackers. They barely dodge, after the shot, mind you, but follow him.

  Good. Come after me then.

  He rounds Market to Griffith, loads another round and fires, not to hit, but to distract. The silent, emotionless mob stands in the intersection. Some look down Market, the rest at John Crowe. He's thinking, but coming up empty. It comes to him when they speak again.

  "Conquer the county seat."

  This some Nazi invasion? Don't they know where the mayor and them work? There been a bund here the whole time? Why do they want...

  "County seat's moved. Think we're stupid? Relocated the mayor and city council to Barber's Basin!" John has no idea what he's doing, but doing it he is. This is seat-of-your-pants stuff, and he much prefers planning. But it's the thick of things now. More crazy, he stands on the cycle, still as a stiff, allows the mob to walk within fifty feet of him. Then he drops down.

  Vroom!

  Skid, angle, shift, go! John burns rubber down the road. Behind him, the mob starts running, arms flat along their sides. To his surprise, they are joined by other Salemites, each armed, each a blank. Insane persons come in at high tide.

  God grant me strength and speed.

  Barber's Basin might as well be on the far side of the Moon.

  He drives like mad, and here at the absolute wrong time, the words of Dinah Shore's I'll Walk Alone perforate his frontal lobe.

  I'll walk alone because, to tell you the truth, I'll be lonely,

  I don't mind being lonely

  When my heart tells me you are lonely, too.

  "Ninety-nine percent increase!" Crank yips. Work on La Donna is running smoother than well greased gears. The Stylemaster doesn't hum, she howls, a dire wolf at the moon. Skinny, once depressed, has swallowed his grief to assist Crank on the finish. While the car runs, he's admiring the armor finish. A car this powerful can handle more weight. They pack on a literal half ton of goodies, and the gal keeps burning Figure-8's into the gravel and dirt outside. Glittery white wisps fume out of the exhaust. Fins accent the back, the chrome figure of a lady brandishing a victory flag the front hood.

  She's a monster.

  "Extra inch of armor ain't slowed her one iota," Skinny tips his cap at the car.

  Crank leaps out of the driver seat. She looks at her baby like a nervous mommy sending the kid to face the first day of school. She observes the enhanced brightness of the headlights, tastes (yes, tastes) the exhaust out of the muffler. It makes her mouth pop and baby hair at the base of the neck curl up tight. Drop. Down to see the axles and driveshaft, wipe a smidgen of mud from the left rear white-wall tire. In the passenger seat, Skinny admires his own handiwork: that windshield is now four inches thick of tempered glass layered in polyvinyl, spritzed in Dupont's accidental miracle called polytetrafluoroethylene. Guess who worked there once and garnered connections? Getting it to the hangar required a midnight escapade on a sailboat, as Wilmington is locked down. No news on the invasion from the deliverers. They slipped in. They slipped out..

  Crank turns up the joy. "Oh baby! I can't wait until--"

  "Until what? We face the craziest army since Flash Gordon conquered the doggone universe?" Skinny stifles a chuckle. He saunters mentally after realizing he actually laughed. "How many Slicks you figure Motherville can afford to throw at us?" His heart clogs up the plumbing of his respiratory tract. Visions of Salem afire dance within Skinny's head.

  Crank slaps his arm. "Ovviamente! That's it!"

  "Girl, have you lost your mind?"

  "Factories!" She's wide-eyed happy, waiting for Skinny to catch on. When he doesn't, the crazed gaze goes numb. "Right?"

  "Factories..."

  "She's gotta build them somewhere! Or, at the very least, she took over one...or more." Down goes one voluminous gulp of tar coffee, sans sugar.

  Skinny gets the lightbulb. "Right. Riiigght! Somewhere there's got to be a Slick factory. Nearby! Maybe on Pea Patch Island, or--"

  "Wilmington. It has to be there. Benny said she has the architects
of ST there. They'd be under heavy guard. City has factories up and down the Delaware and Christina Rivers." Crank pulls lace gloves from her oily hands, washes them in her own strawberry scrub, and then whips a fresh batch of gloves from her tool chest. "Maps are upstairs. Let's go!"

  "Ben upstairs?"

  "Sure. Why?" She turns back. Skinny has lost his sense of adventure again. "C'mon, man! Benny didn't remodulate Bobby. Who's the real enemy?"

  "I know, Crank. I know. But he was so quick to...if Motherville gets in your head, will he be as fast to let you go?"

  "No!"

  Skinny exits La Donna. He gives the mechanic a hardened glare.

  "No."

  More glare follows.

  "Well, come to think of it, if I get remodulated, I'd want to be put down. If it happens, shoot me."

  Skinny waves her off. Now he has a whole new style of giggle, of an uncomfortable persuasion. "Now you're talkin' crazy. Let's go on up."

  "Promise me, Skin."

  Skinny hustles on.

  "Skinny!"

  He's out of sight.

  "Skin? Hey! Wait up! You know you walk too fast, right! I have short legs!"

  Radio Plays:

  ...still no word on whether or not troops will begin returning home after the sudden disintegration of the Axis. Information obtained by Soviet allies report Adolf Hitler has been usurped, his Nazi Socialist Party overthrown. President Roosevelt spoke today from a concealed location in London where he is meeting with Prime Minister Churchill, offering few answers to burning questions about the war in the European Theater, and the sudden invasion of the Jersey Shore by hostile forces...

  (Roosevelt) "...whether or not the enemy has metamorphosed into a new state of savagery, or if only now his true face stands revealed, we, as guardians of civility, must not quench the torch flame of Liberty, nor allow the mechanical ingenuity of evil minds to encumber our resolve. Prime Minister Churchill and I are determined today, as ever, to combat our foe at every turn, in every sea and even on American soil. She will learn of our resiliency the hard way, as did Mussolini, Hitler and all other despots. God save Europe and the stalwart state of New Jersey..."