Down Jersey Driveshaft

by William J. Jackson

  An impossible forest ripens, only to succumb to the might of a million axes.

  Roads on concrete stilts bear the weight of vehicles unfamiliar.

  Planes soar lacking propellers.

  Men, long in hair, frilly in shirt, chop down ancient trees.

  He hears smacking sounds. Then...

  A slap to the face does the trick. "Sorry. Me and the boys were losing touch too. Came to just in time but you were..."

  Fuse grips the wheel. He doesn't get mad. The smack was a wake up call. "No worries. What in the world--? Correction. What out of this world..." Deep breath! Let the words sink in. "...do we have here?" Powder has his hands feeling like they're dancing the Waltz on Venusian clouds.

  Broadway creaks up ahead. Slicks are marching along.

  Soldiers take crouching positions behind the car. One runs to the tripod. Fuse sees the coming forces in the dozens.

  "Guess we find out now or never what this old girl can do."

  Key in the ignition, he turns it. Holds his breath forever.

  Slicks raise their weapons.

  Everything goes white.

  Chapter Twenty Four: Radio Frequency Negative

  "I see it, but I can't believe it..."

  Mouths agape, the surviving soldiers at Fort Mott forget themselves. Five scampered out one of the fort's hideaways at the western basin of its hillside, a narrow hall ending in minimal toilets. They endured the odor, crouched down in dread after running out of ammunition. Bullets gone. Brothers dead. Warmth lost. Hope evasive. The choking cologne of burning war machines burns nose hairs and stings the eyes.

  But they endure. After the explosions died out and the crackle of fires diminish, they step over the husk of a fizzling Slick at the entrance. Weary, groggy, two men bandaged at the left arm and waist, one using a tree branch as a crutch. They made it. Fort Mott made it. But the sight they see almost knocks the olive paint scheme off their M1 helmets.

  Over the bunker hills and observation platforms looms an Eiffel Tower of sorts in the Delaware River. It is as black as the several plumes of smoke nearby and rising out of Wilmington and distant Salem. Metallic planks of alien material jut in and out of each other without rivets, without a defined pattern.

  "Gotta be, at least, three hundred feet high..."

  The others are too busy gaping at its uneven appearance. They can only wander around wreckage to get closer to the river. There it is. No more than eighty feet or so from Pea Patch Island and its Civil War fortification. At the base, it looks like a cyclone wreck, metal bent around into a broad islet with six narrow docking piers. As the tower ascends, it separates into three distinct crooked pillars before rejoining a hundred feet up. From there it narrows into a wrist before spreading out to form three fingers and two opposable thumbs. At their tips, communications dishes spike out like the petals of ruthless black dahlias. As the sun again dares show its face, the tower blights a shadow over the men and the pockmarked battleground.

  GI's literally lack the words to express this moment.

  The tower darkens an already bleak day. It continues to squeal and grow. Three hundred feet. There hundred and eighty feet. Four hundred. Each growth spurt brings about a series of shrill cries from the metal.

  Then the dishes high up begin to scream...

  Big pistols go off, putting cookie cutter holes in Slicks as Benny and Carson kick in the door. Both men drop to their stomachs on entry as a hive of rounds fly past, biting off chunks of door frame, knocking out hinges. Slicks are tumbling down the narrow stairs in catastrophic cartwheels, stripping off wallpaper..

  "Darn things look like swastikas on the way down!" Benny snatches Wilkes by the collar to get him up faster. The space between the stairs and door is slight indeed.

  They evade the smoking garbage, reloading as they get to their feet and check the first floor, yelling in high whisper.

  "Bathroom clear!"

  "Dining room clear!"

  "Kitchen clear!"

  "Study clear!"

  Over their heads, the ceiling creaks. Slicks up above are roving, but not coming down. Benny gets an itchy trigger finger.

  Wilkes observes dust falling from the ceiling, the dull brass chandelier twitching. "Should we go up after them?"

  "Whatever's in that room above is important. Gotta be our people. They've surrounded them by now. Need to draw some out." Benny slaps his hurt leg. "I'll go up and open fire, draw one, maybe two, out into the hall. You hang back and fire from, let's say three steps down. Hit 'em in the leg joints. Good?"

  Wilkes eyes that bad leg. "It should be me going first. Matter of fact--"

  "Uh-huh! I give the orders her ‘til I'm dead and gone. Got it?" He doesn't wait for the answer, but about faces for the stairs to begin the ascent.

  Of course, the steps creak. Wilkes detaches a machine gun from a fallen Slick with surprising ease. Turn left. Click! Slide down. Click! Man with a plan. Benny's grin shows approval while hiding Benny's increasing pain. He limps to the top step.

  All is still. Wilkes waits three steps down, finger on the trigger, barrel just above the floor. Behind Benny is a little square window. He witnesses a variety of closed doors, five in total. Heavy Slicks have scuffed the ancient wood floor to pieces. Breathing sounds off like foghorns in the silence. Benny sweats.

  He takes one step. The floor groans as if it will soon give way. He waves fingers back at Wilkes. His brother knows the call, and hands Benny his own big pistol. Benny points two guns forward and creeps. Creep. Creak. Creep. Creak.

  Third door bursts open. At the glint of the first gun barrel, Benny lets off shots and charges. The first Slick visible leans forward to follow suit. Benny blows out its red eye, hits it enough to angle the machine sideways. Machine gun rounds riddle the opposing wall and their roars rend Benny's ear as machine tackles man. Benny ends up on the bottom, plugging Slick in the gut, a point blank shot against a metal body making a deafening bang. He ignores the ear burn, the weight on his chest and leg, watches the light fade in the green signal eye. Scissors clip uselessly by Benny's head.

  Calamity of metal in the room brings Wilkes up with the heat. By the time Slicks have rounded furniture to reach the door, the feisty Canadian is spraying the place with war confetti.

  CHUG-CHUG-CHUG! Bravery unquestionable. He doesn't count the number of machines in there, only the junk flying to and fro. Gunpowder gives the hallway a pungent scent.

  Ammunition spent, Wilkes drops the weapon. He turns to get the Slick off his brother and that's when he sees it. Bullet holes, so many they form spirals on the wall behind him. Then he feels the wetness, sees his jacket ripped, pants torn. Bullets grazed his chest, waist and left boot. Close shaves all around. The world gets heavy as his nerves begin to fray, skin whitens and freezes over. Death came for him in the shootout. She almost had her man. Almost.

  "You did great, Corporal. Great! Gimme a hand here."

  Two sets of exoskeletons pry the Slick off Haskins. As it goes up and over, Benny cries out. Lifting Slick reveals a surprise, a sharp shard of its blown open body suck-slurps out of Benny's leg. Yes it is...

  "The same leg! Same...freakin'...spot!" He grunts with clenched teeth as blood bubbles up from the wound. He throws fits of anger and agony sitting there in the dusty, shot up hallway between the wallpaper debris, the metal and scattered shells.

  Wilkes pounces on the wound, applying pressure. One hand pushes hard in tune to the snarls of Haskins. The other fumbles for a bag of clotting agent. It finds it in the jacket pocket, powder spilling out from being shot. Wilkes tears open the pants, lets the agent fall on the wound. He is focused on the task at hand until footsteps entice Benny to raise the guns.

  "Don't shoot!" A woman in a dirty lab coat, brown hair scattered to the four winds, ducks behind an antique chaise. "I'm Doctor Zafra of the Exotic Planes Institute. I'm here with--"

  Benny starts seeing pink elephants holding sickles. He struggles to stay conscious. "That ain't the name I was giv
en for the lady from EPI. Sure you ain't remodulated?" He belts out a laugh as vision turns from crystal clarity to cotton candy fluff. He heard recently the lady's name was Peggy or Patty or something, but the injury demands caution.

  "Sadie Zafra. My teacher, Polly Sorbonne, whom you may have been searching for was killed during our kidnapping. I'm here with Traveler Gray and Mister Turner."

  Two others join the lady. Wilkes uses strips of pants to tie up Benny's leg. "We have to get you to a medic. That wound needs cleaning." Both he and Benny eye ol' Slick. That jagged edge? Dripping blood and slippery, gooey oil. Benny looks more pallid than Wilkes, but howls hard and stands up using the wall and the one good leg. "We have to move!"

  Even injury can't hide their awe on seeing Roscoe Turner. Jaws fall. Tall, moustached, handsome, a sharp shark gray suit and a worn out fedora he brushes gently before placing on his head. The guy's aviation royalty, a glowing Henderson Trophy practically hovers over his head.

  "Gentlemen, I think I speak for the three of us when I state how thankful we are for your sacrificial rescue. Two men! What nerve! What bravado! Sadly we lost Miss Sorbonne along the way, and have no clue as to what happened with Mr. Goddard." Apparently the awe is a two-way street. "You must have come in my robotic planes, yes?"

  Wilkes suffers to whine out. "Yes."

  Benny nods, though his head takes time to rise back up. "We can...fit you in our...planes and..."

  "No. No we can't." Wilkes reaches down for the machine gun, handing it to Benny to use for a cane. "One person won't fit. We could fly two back and return for the third--"

  "Too risky." Benny talks through the pain, teeth grinding, pained syllables. "What we...waste time on drawing...straws? Nah. Go as one. Make it...work."

  "What about the LSM's?", Traveler Gray speaks in a high tone. It matches his slight build inside the tight ST uniform. Greasy black hair, big azure eyes, small face and lips. He appears hungry, eager, concerned...terrified.

  Wilkes blinks. "LSM's?"

  "Landing Ship Medium. Draco builds them here in the city down a ways along the Christina River. Mister Turner here had been, as of late, turning some of our tanks on the ships into urban robots."

  Eyeballs pop.

  "What's that now?" Benny finds inner strength.

  Roscoe roves into the hallway. The others follow. "Yes, I've worked hard with Special Technologies to explore land-based applications for the Urban Robot Initiative, or URI. We've some brief success with two M36 models, Guillaume Trench and I. But in the fray, Guillaume--" Turner clears his throat. "A few setbacks with the turret placement and aiming, but..."

  The Brown Bear grabs Roscoe and gives him the double handshake. "Well, put 'er there, pal! You're...aces with me! These tanks are...in one of the ships?" He grins at Wilkes. Wilkes returns the favor as he jabs a needle full of morphine into Haskins’ leg. Hope tickles the air.

  "The last ship there. They lost interest in scrapping and surveillance once we were apprehended. Strange but true. If we can make it there, secure the ship and make it across the river..."

  "Now would be the time, while she is confused." Zafra returns worry to the table.

  "Confused? Motherville? How so?" Wilkes sees the machine as too crafty for befuddlement.

  "Motherville is extraplanar, yes?"

  The soldiers shrug. Dimensional science ain't their bag.

  So she gets down and in the dust she makes a circle with her petite finger. Guys get the feeling this isn't the first time she's had to draw a diagram for the less informed. "This circle represents our entire universe.", She makes several other shapes. Circles. Ovals. Squiggly intermittent lines between them all. "But there are others, some as large as ours, others finite. Energy passes between them all. Sometimes, we believe, certain energies at specific times bond planes together." She stares at them, wondering. Do they gawk for lack of comprehension, or are they wary of her-- "And yes, I am German by way of Spain, formerly a Nazi scientist."

  Benny and Wilkes fidget, but Wilkes takes the news harder. "Look here, we didn't come this far to join up with the Gestapo! And as swell as robot tanks sound, we're only here to rescue you three, not more armament." Benny weakly holds him back.

  Turner and Gray make for the stairs. "We don't have time for this. Germany and Hitler are out of commission so far as we know. Sadie worked for them by force and not due to shared ideology. Traveler Coursey made me his replacement should bad befall him and I won't stand for bickering! Now, can we get to the fighters and then the LSM?" They head down before an answer can be given.

  Wilkes follows. Benny shoves a thumb at the doctor. "Yeah. Yeah, let's go. Doc, you ride with Wilkes. Wilkes...take Turner too. Tight fit, I know, but we walk to the docks. Use the...buildings for cover." He doesn't like this at all. This lady isn't on the list, neither is another Traveler. Fish never mentioned another for this region. But the clock ticks without mercy as the leg throbs in tune to the beat. A migraine swallows up Haskins. One answer begets a half dozen questions.

  "This had better...be...worth it."

  The noise greeting them ends the worrying.

  Tiger Rag! The willow wisp touch of Art Tatum’s digits on piano keys enlivens the bank as the record spins about. Sure, it's got a decade or more of time on it, but the rhythm holds up. It cuts through the heaviness of Salem as gunfire takes back the streets outside. People fret less, help more. At the center of a growing gaggle of strutting ladies, Frederica Musa stomps her feet.

  She dances like a mating bird, hips twitching, arms above her head. The combat boots bang against the legs of cots while women roughly her age shimmy in a more sublime, more controlled sway. Crank doesn't care. Not since the time with Benny has she felt this happy. Music kills the war.

  But her guard doesn't falter, no sir. When the knife blade approaches her abdomen from her right, Crank shoves it aside just in time. A stiff man wrapped in a bed sheet holds the weapon. He stares long enough for Crank to sock him but good.

  "Hey!" The assassin drifts to the floor. Crank's dance partners scatter, all but one, a healthy broad in beige breeches with buttons up the hips and a wool blouse, a sky blue kerchief on her head, turban style.

  "Johnny? Johnny!" The gal looks hard at the dizzy man. She gazes down at her wedding ring, a humble slice of rock. "I thought you were a goner!" Her hands cover a gaping maw.

  Johnny sees nothing but Crank. "Conquer...the..." He lunges again, lazily, a lopsided advance.

  But the missus rocks him with a hard kick to the mug. Down goes Johnny. Clang goes the knife. Missus crosses her arms.

  "Thanks!" Crank smiles.

  "Anytime, honey. Johnny should have stayed dead. A tiger in wolf's clothing is that one, let me tell you! A fool I was..."

  Crank kneels down. Rolling the sheet into a makeshift rope, she ties up Johnny. "A remodulated in here, huh? Hey folks! Hey! Listen up! This guy is remodulated by Motherville! Now, now, don't panic! I need everyone to check the person next to them, make sure they can tell you their name, date of birth, express emotion and--"

  She cups her ears. So do the others. A high pitched wail wipes out every thought, every trace of taking action. Frank's eyes water. Her blood boils.

  The signal is sent...

  Chapter Twenty Five: Rue the Skies

  Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

  ...

  Drop.

  Ping.

  White.

  The purest, cleanest value of white surrounds Roy Fuse. Though his hands firmly grip the steering wheel of La Donna, he can't see or even feel it. White. He can't see the car, the legion of Slicks marching his way. Broadway. Life floats without motion, as if Time packed up its things and got outta town. The bullets skidding off the armor plating. The button Crank installed that activates the alien engine, the button he pushed right before the...what?

  White. Skin foams up under the hairs, the Universe shampooing his dermis with cosmic fuzz. Fuse feels lifted, no, suspended in the world, as if something has emancipated
the shackles of pain, of physics and gravity. Einstein and Newton are suddenly oh so wrong about everything. With it comes a distant thing, a buzz trying to shatter the ears. He hears it, coming close only to get absorbed by the value, fall back and try again.

  What. Is. This?

  White.

  There are black hands in the White. The blackest of hands, levitating in gray ovals across the White. They are held out, palms open, abysmal arms coming into view connected to shadowy forms. Different heights, builds...men. Men? One in a hat. Another drifts above the crowd. Slicks? No. These are men, men in the void, a multitude of figments. Fuse feels but can't think. Instinct screams from his gut to open fire. Ramming speed! He holds back. The brain bubbles up from the the foam. Wake up cerebrum! Thought trickles...

  Think!

  A hand releases the button, shoving it back. The black figures recede and their eyes, evidence of the same primal whiteness, display sensation to Fuse. Is it...

  Concordance? Did I...? Did I make the...right move?

  La Donna revs and shudders. White fizzles out, so much stale cream soda in a brown cola world. West Broadway returns to view. The tongue is abuzz. Slicks? Eradicated. Shadow Men? Gone from the world. White powder stains everything. Fuse's inner ears tickle. He finds Japanese and English roving together in his head, ball players in kimonos, Buddhist newspaper dealers hocking comic books to samurai rodeo clowns. It appears normal.

  No? No. Oh. No!

  Right hand slammed against the face a half dozen times gives Roy the proper focus. "I am in the car. I am on a street in Salem. There is a war going on. Get it together!" He repeats this mumbling three more times. In the distance, the buzzy klaxon sound dies off. He has no idea why it sounded or what it meant, only that--

  "That's not our sound." Oh yeah, baby. He's clear as crystal on this one. Heck, Fuse handpicked alarms before coming to Down Jersey, and that dimming cry ain't one of his. As physical awareness resumes, curiosity blossoms. "Now, where is it coming from?"