Down Jersey Drive-shaft

Chapter Twenty Six: Pincer Movement

Wilkes straightens his army ant helmet and thanks God. Minutes ago, they exited the old house full of paranoia. Then came the hullabaloo, a maddening hot jazz one note puncturing the chords of sanity. The Noise. Falling to the ground, Benny reasoned only the helmets were keeping the two conscious, slapping down Wilkes' as he was about to remove it to check on their people. Good save, Brown Bear.

He nestles into the cockpit of the Helldiver, Doctor Sadie Zafra (so she says. Wilkes also isn't so sure) and Turner KO'd in the back seat, a tight fit but a fit nonetheless. Deep breaths. The Noise manages to still pierce his ear lobes, a nagging pig squeal. But it's faltering. Wilkes slaps his chest, waits for the heart to slow. They just about died inside, then outside. Come on, nerves of steel!

There it is. Anger, as necessary to warriors as air, fires up the throat. Remember what happened. Lives lost. Love lost. He taps the jacket before unzipping it to dig into a pocket. Out she comes. A photograph, black and white, crease lines at the bent corners. There's a plane in the photo, a swarthy Ford Tri-Motor, banged up by a dozen adventures. Stepping out the door of the aircraft is a woman. She's vibrant, blond hair blown over a triangular face, coveralls and leather jacket soiled. The world in the photo holds limitless fun. He can't even recall that world. The two of them shared unbelievable escapades. He can't bring even one to the forefront because the joy is a murky tarpit. Slicks shot it down, shattered them like glass orbs on the street. Who was she? Who was he back then?

"Kathy...the drinking...so trivial now."

Rage heats up the blood. Carson feels the hurt load up like rounds of ammo jammed up his spine. There used to be a carefree attitude in the world, one that carried Wilkes and his love around the world. Those paradisiac days were done in by Hitler, by Mussolini and now by Motherville.

Bastards. Why do you have to take everything?

He's ready to open fire until everything made of metal within a hundred miles is reduced to poker chips. He shoves the stick of the Helldiver, and the machine takes a step forward.

"Benjamin, are you ready to push on?"

There's a snarl in that question.

***

The targeting scope sits just left in his line of sight as he gazes out the cockpit. Benny has stared at the city forever, until it ceased to be, became first a blur and then nothing. Wilmington splits into a kaleidoscope of radiant pinpoints amidst waves of black anguish. Life is unreal. He stops being. Time lapses to zero. No Earth. No war. No Benjamin Haskins.

At first he did so to tough out the pain, a trick acquired in the last great War to End all Optimism, but a partial hit of morphine in the mostly cleaned out wound helped that (keeping a vial on him being another trick). But once he groaned from hoisting Traveler Gray into Milkman, thoughts wisped away from the wound, the last shootout, having an aerial legend in their midst. Aggravating ringing of the eardrums. One point mattered above all.

"Please God, let Frederica be alright."

He feels it right to speak her birth name, uncertain as he is if the Lord responds to nicknames. Prayer comes easier once dire straits are present. He rubs the many buttons and control stick to come back to the physical world.

Nothing. Gray. Light. Color. Sound. Touch. City. Plane. Numb pain. Warfare. Get to jumpin'.

"Benjamin, are you ready to push on?"

Breathing, the final stage of existence, kicks like a mule. Benny taps his helmet. He remembers a ringing, but it's like recalling a dream from childhood: warning his brother to keep the helmet on, three people passing out, bloody noses. When did these events occur?