Down Jersey Drive-shaft

Chapter Twenty Three: Bleeding Frequencies

Larry stares at passing skies, oblivious. A perfect shade of blue tinctures his bottom lip. Kids are aghast in the back seat.

Skinny doesn't pause to make the left on Broadway. But he does apply sudden, ample pressure on the brakes, holding Larry in place. The kids zoom forward, bouncing off the back of the front seats like billiard balls. Skinny brings the car to a dead stop, but not due to Slicks, or even blood loss. Larry watches it and grunts. The kids see it too. Skinny gets out of the Aerosedan, groaning in pain.

It's snowing.

In one small area of the city, snow white and gray and unlike snowflakes altogether drifts in the wind. It coats the spacious brown Victorian home, the street, post office...

"Crank? That Crank's car?" Skinny feels tingly inside as snow meets skin. He rubs it between thumb and index finger. They twitch. "Nobody...? Hey! Fuse!" He sees the truck through the soft blanket of this queer weather. Fuse stops cold.

Roy Fuse stops setting up a tripod of exotic machinery to scan an indistinct horizon. "Skinny! I just sent some guys out-- oh, God! What happened? Medic!" No more stopping. Fuse burns rubber.

Skinny walks to meet him halfway, but his legs quiver. The body increases in the numb feeling, while his back boils from freezing. The street looms closer. Fuse changes in Skinny's sight as he closes in. He's an ST warrior, a samurai, a Victorian woman in purple adorned with weaponry. He's convinced death is imminent. His eyes must be lying to him. The static cloud about them makes the world flicker every second.

Fuse catches the burly soldier right on time. "Skin! Skin! Can you hear me?" Skinny widens the stare but the eyes don't really see what's before them. Fuse gently slaps the man's face while rubbing his own eyes. Skinny shifts, the face is different men, variant races, ones known and unknown. Fuse shakes his head. Clear out those cobwebs. "What the heck is going on?"

The medic skids to a halt, barely avoiding breaking his neck. "This stuff's slippery! Some kinda fuel?" He stabs Skinny with a syringe of potent morphine, turns him over to assess the cut.

"Something like it," Fuse mumbles. The eyes are doubtful but the mind wonders. "Fuel for imagination..."

"What?"

"Nothing. Hey! There are kids in the car! You got Skinny?"

Medic nods. "Spine isn't hit, only muscles. He'll make it." Fuse races to the car, stunned at first to see Larry sliding off the front seat. Day just keeps getting better. He rips open the door and children pour out, tears plunging Niagara as they grip this welcome stranger. Fuse hugs back, while angling for his comrade.

Larry is colder than today's catch. "Medic! Hey, you guys! Get these two in the truck and to the bank! Now!" That last word reverberates down the street. Soldiers double time it with sulfa powder for possible infection, bandages, cots to move them. Fuse supervises the move. Fluid. Rapid. This is not Roy's first rodeo by far. It takes little to convince the kids to go with the truck full of brave soldiers. It takes off, leaving Fuse and three soldiers behind.

It vanishes in the white fall, this Army truck that appears like a Conestoga wagon, a draft horse, a car with a front propeller as it rumbles down the road. Fuse almost rubs his eyes again, sees the glimmer of white on fingertips. "Maybe not."

"Now, maybe we can look into La Donna. I've a feeling she holds the key to winning this war." Popping open the door, Fuse gets in behind the wheel. Hands go numb. Salem through the windshield changes. It takes time for the eyes to realize time is the issue. Salem flickers like radio static.

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.

Slicks raise their weapons.

Everything goes white.