Down Jersey Drive-shaft

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 it 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. 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 on 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 series 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?"

He gets the old girl running, and skedaddles.

***

"Incoming!"

Soldiers push into the bank. In one come Skinny, then Larry. The inside is stomped all over by pale bodies. But to their surprise, every soul in the building is knocked flat out.

"Well I'll be..." Patients bandaged tight and drugged into comas are placed on the floor as GI's scramble about. "Mechanic Crank? She's got a little blood coming out of her ears. Potts!" The GI removes his complicated gas mask with the high antenna headphones and other amenities. "Run over there and snap the docs to life 'cuz we need 'em. Now!"

Potts, bulky but spry, plays hopscotch for those precious spaces of floor visible between fallen bodies. He scoops up a physician, one handed, placing him in a sitting position. Snap. Snap. "Hey, Doc. Doc? Doc!" Slap!

The doctor and Crank come to at about the same rate of bewilderment. Leaden eyes wobble to and fro.

"You hear me, Doc?"

"Mechanic?"

If vomiting is a positive response, then these two are A-Okay. Soldiers recoil fromThe outflow. Potts doesn't make it. He wipes off waste as the room awakens.

Crank finds her feet but not her footing. Boots squeak on scuffed tile. The GI plays third leg as Miss Musa searches for stability.

"Easy, Mechanic, easy. Take it slow. Potts, get the Doc over to Skinny and Larry!"

"My ears!" Crank manages to look at the GI square on. "Do you hear the ringing!"

"No, ma'am. We heard a sound coming in, but we had put on our comm helmets in the truck. Tried to contact the boys at Fort Mott, but no go."

"What?" Crank is a brilliant woman. Lip reading is not on the long list of her talents. She feels her ears, the blood. The slippery feel brings a startled impression to accentuate the negative vibes of confusion, pain and nausea. "There was a sound, no! A...siren, like a weapon!" Eyes bulge. Brain bangs up against the skull. But, she studies the scene: people recovering, spitting up, blood drops. "It got to all of us! Why not...oh! The comm helmet! Got it!" A weak thumbs up is given before she sees the unbelievable and staggers away...

"Skinny! No!" She trembles hands over her brother's large body, as if it will heal him. The doctor slumps next to Crank. Seeing a pale, beaten man before him offers the physician some spark of life.

"Excuse me... miss. Have to...ah...work." Doc smacks the spit out of himself. "Bag! I need my bag and...whatever medical...things are...in the truck."

GI's double time their moves. Physician's bag. Medical kit. White blankets. People shake off the effects of Motherville, absorb the new dilemma unfolding. As they can, hands pitch in.

"Okay, okay!" Doc runs his head while directing traffic. "To my left, bring Skinny and...lay him on his stomach. Put Larry to my right, face up. And someone please hand me a half dozen Anacin!" The men go down easy on cots, their bandages snipped off. "Fine, fine. You boys versed in first aid can assist, ladies as well. I will...move back and forth...stitch Larry...and Skin...I will start and direct your hands on how to continue."

Pauses slow the pace. Folks are reeling. Noise. Blackouts. Bloodstains. Get some pep in your step.

Isopropyl alcohol on cotton swabs cleanses gaping wounds, surgical needles, opens nostrils wide. Doc and nurses wash their hands in it. A small reserve bottle of boric acid is applied to the unsightly laceration on Skinny Bubba. Needles are threaded by nervous but expedient ladies.

"Doesn't appear to be any damage to the spine..."

Citizens dart in and out of the bank to vomit, to cry or scream. Tinnitus is king. The World War took a lot from them. This one is rending Salem's soul. But they shake it off, one by one. Lives need saving. The labors begin.