Brice Robertson eased his car to a stop
on the shoulder of the highway that led on down and into the town. He sat
there, the powerful engine idling, the throaty exhaust grumbling as if it were
perturbed at him having reined it in. This was his baby, rebuilt from a total
wreck that he had found in a junkyard one day and hauled home. He had put it
into his shop and painstakingly taken it apart and then reassembled it piece by
piece until it was like new. Hell, it was better
than new, certainly better than these new pieces of crap that they dared to
call automobiles.
This was a 1969 Dodge Charger R/T with a
440 magnum, punched, balanced and blueprinted meticulously until the thoroughly
massaged engine put out right at 500 horsepower, even without the squeeze, as he called the polished
stainless-steel bottle of nitrous oxide that rode in the trunk. On the juice,
it was capable of short bursts of well into the 600 horsepower range, more than
enough to blow off any of those challengers that dared to choose him out.
But this car would shortly go into
storage, for it was too conspicuous for the work that he had come back to this
town to do. The gleaming Nitro Yellow Green paint stood out noticeably, and
even if one wasn’t a muscle-car aficionado the billet racing wheels were sure
to catch a person’s eyes.
He ratcheted the floor shifter down into
first gear, checked the rearview mirror to make sure that the highway was
clear, then goosed the throttle just a bit to get her back up on the road.
Tires spun for a moment, then gripped, a light haze of tire smoke drifting
across the highway as he accelerated down the long mile into the town of
Harlton. It was a moment that had been a long time coming, and he was finally
ready for his vengeance upon all those that had ruined his life.
Letting up on the throttle, Brice let
the engine brake him down to the 30 miles per hour speed limit as he crossed
the bridge that marked the edge of the city limits. Many unaware motorists had
been caught there by the local police force, as they didn’t pay attention to
the small sign that advised them of the limit, the inertia of their car keeping
them at a speed high enough for the officer to ticket them.
Most of the travelers were just passing
through and had no intention of returning to fight the ticket, so just paid the
fine and went on their way. It was one way that the city had of filling its
coffers with money, just one of many, some more honest than others.
He glanced up ahead of him and sure
enough, he saw the nose of the patrol truck just barely visible behind the edge
of the other cars parked in the local auto repair shop. Harlton barely boasted
of 2500 residents, most of whom were either in the local nursing home or were
still managing to live in the income-assisted retirement community at the north
end of the town. There was still enough business for several garages to
survive, although each had to add several other services in addition to just
doing auto repair.
One had started selling low-quality used cars
that he pawned off on the locals who couldn’t afford to go to a real dealership
for a car. For a thousand dollars down, he would finance them on one of his
cars. Usually it would barely last long enough for the person to get it paid
off, but that wasn’t any concern of his. Another also sold a few cars from time
to time, but also sold tires as a sideline. In a small farming community, it
really didn’t take too much to earn a good enough living to survive.
Brice glanced down at his speedometer,
more of a knee-jerk reaction than worrying about his speed. He was so in tune
with this car that he could tell exactly how fast he was going just from the
sound she made. He could see that he was doing right on 28 miles per hour, good
enough to slide right on through as he intended. Time enough to take care of
those boys in blue later on.
He was startled as the patrol truck’s
headlights flashed on and the officer pulled out behind him as he passed. Maybe he is a Mopar fan, Brice thought.
That would be just great, to get pulled over just so the guy could get a look
at his ride! He watched the police truck in his mirror, hoping that they would
turn off at the top of the hill, and they did, heading down the street towards
where the police station was located.
Brice let out a sigh of relief, and pushed down on the brakes as
the stop sign came into sight at the junction of the two highways that met and
joined in Harlton before splitting back apart later on down the road. He chose
the smaller one in front of him and headed on out of town towards the Indian
reservation that began just outside of town. Here he would have to meet up with
his friend of many years, the only one that had stood by him throughout all of
the years and the ensuing wreckage of his life.
This town had taken everything that he had had that was good, all
of the joys of his life, and had crushed them. When he had fought back, he had
seen firsthand the depths that those in power in this town could sink, and had
paid with five years of his life in the Federal lockdown in Leavenworth before
he could prove his innocence. He was back now, and ready to get his pound of
flesh that they owed him.
Brice rolled slowly down Jackrabbit Road,
headed for Chiefs’ house. What in the
hell is Chiefs’ first name? he thought to himself as he tried to avoid the
potholes that pitted the surface of the country road. Try as he might, he
couldn’t remember what it was. Maybe he had never even known it, come to think
of it, he had never referred to his friend as anything else but Chief.
After driving deep into the backwoods of
the reservation, he finally came upon the turnoff to Chief’s house. The car
rumbled up the track that led in amongst the trees nearly a mile before
spilling out into a clearing. Before him he saw Chief’s junky old 1955 Chevy
sitting outside of the adobe house that stood there in the center of the
clearing. The last time that he had seen that car he had sworn that it wouldn’t
hold together for another week, yet here it sat looking just as it had 7 years
ago, right before he had been taken in to stand trial.
Brice pulled up next to the ’55 and
parked, getting out and stretching the road-weary muscles in his back and legs.
The lightweight racing seats in the Charger were fine for ¼ mile blasts but
left a bit to be desired for long hauls. He glanced inside the window of the
’55 and just had to laugh. The stereo was still hanging there below the
dashboard, held up by several pieces of baling wire just as it had been when he
had left. He looked up and down at the car, and still swore that if you took
off all of the wire and duct tape and cardboard, there would only be four tires
left standing there.
“Hey, you wanna buy dat ting, or just
admirin’ it!” Brice swiveled around at the shout from the door of the house. A
wide grin broke over his face as he saw his bud standing there in the doorway
with two frosty bottles of beer in his hands. Chief hadn’t changed a bit in
seven years, he swore. The old bastard could have been frozen in a time capsule
for all he could tell.
“I see that some things will never change,
pard!” He reached out to take a beer from Chief, who quickly drew it back.
“You know better than that, gringo, go get
your own! These are mine!” Chief’s face split with a smile as he motioned Brice
in towards a fridge that sat just inside the door in the mudroom. No food was
allowed in that one, only beer and only one kind as well. Chief brewed his own
beer, had always said that no one else knew how a beer should taste. This was
his own private stock in there, and a more potent brew you would never find.
Its one redeeming quality was that you could get drunk on it, as long as you
didn’t mind the taste!
Brice came back out into the shade,
tipped the bottle up and gulped down about half of the bottle of beer. He set
it down on the tree stump that stood there, wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand, and let out a resounding belch. He then wrinkled up his nose and
shuddered as the taste finally registered. He swallowed a few times, then
looked over at Chief. “I see you are still makin’ this stuff out of goat
droppings and lye soap, Chief!”
Chief’s eyes sparkled over the top of the
beer bottle as he looked at his friend. “Yup,” he said. “And this is the good
year, too!” He laughed and tipped his up and drained it. He set the bottle
inside the door and set off towards the big barn that stood out back behind the
house.
Brice followed along, catching up and
walking alongside as they made their way through a maze of old farm implements,
antique gas pumps and a host of items that Brice couldn’t identify. “When are
you going to junk this stuff, Chief?” he asked.
Chief stopped and turned towards Brice. “I
can’t get rid of this stuff, you know that as soon as I do I will more than
likely need it!” Brice reached down and took a hold of a chunk of what appeared
to have been a short section of angle iron, now so rusted that it bent easily
between his hands. He laughed, and tossed it to the side. Chief picked it up
and set it back where it had been. “I ain’t gonna be able to find it when I
need it, if you keep movin’ stuff around!”
Brice had to laugh at his old friend’s
actions, but knew that the man knew exactly where each and every piece of
material was supposed to be in his backyard. He had a photographic memory for
things like that; quick to spot anything that had changed from the norm.
They turned back towards the old barn
now, each of them taking a hold of the large sliding doors and slowly opening
them. Inside, Brice saw some sort of vehicle covered by a large canvas tarp.
Chief crossed the floor to it and began to roll the tarp back. Brice watched as
the front end of a 1976 Chevy 4x4 emerged from beneath the tarp. His grin got
wider and wider as his eyes noticed things here and there that one wouldn’t see
on a normal farm truck. It was taller, having at least a six inch suspension
lift in it and it looked like a two or three inch body lift for tire clearance
as well.
He walked over closer to it, and began a
walk-around as Chief set the rolled up tarp in the corner. Brice leaned down
and looked at the tires, then glanced over at Chief, who smiled back at him.
“CTIS.” He told Brice “Central tire inflation system, off of an Army HUMVEE
that I got from an auction. Four settings here.” He opened the door of the cab
and showed Brice the control panel on the left side of the dash. “Pavement, off-road, mud, and emergency.
You can air up and down on the fly, and if you go too fast for the conditions,
it automatically inflates to the next level. Emergency is only good for about
five miles at five miles per hour normally, but these are no ordinary tires.”
Brice knelt down and looked closer at the
tires on the rig. “Oh man, beadlock rims?” Chief nodded at him. “Anything
else?”
“Run-flats.” Chief told him. “Has a
special support inside so that you can keep on driving even after the tire goes
down, if it even can with the CTIS system pumping it up.”
“What will they think of next?” Brice
asked, shaking his head. Chief just gave him that ornery grin that he knew so
well. “OK, I know you want to spill it, so go ahead.” Chief just motioned him
towards the cab of the modified 4x4. Brice stepped up onto the sidebars that
stuck out from the frame of the truck and slid into the seat.
It felt like he had climbed into the pilot’s
seat of a stealth fighter. Gone were the factory gauges and controls. In their
places sat state-of-the-art digital readouts of basically every function of the
vehicle. Air pressures, oil pressure, speedometer and tachometer, battery
condition, you name it, there was a readout for it before him. He had to
chuckle as he saw one that was labeled “turbo boost”, with another one that
read “NOS pressure”.
“Are these what they say, Chief?” he asked.
“Yup!” Chief smiled and winked.
