STORY 100: The 10-Ton Runaway

Celebrating 365 INFANTRY's 100th Story As Only We Can...Something Going Wrong!

If I hadn’t checked the numbers, this milestone would’ve passed me by, because that’s how easily I get lost in the making of 365 INFANTRY. The story’s title is something of a metaphor for the series: a massive project that, when set loose, will not stop for love nor money.

To celebrate this tenacious little production, we’re doing as all good publishers do, and gathering all our favorite characters for a crossover. For regular readers, you’re in for a treat, as everyone gets a chance to shine and play off each other.

For newbies, consider this your sample platter. A bit of sci-fi action, a bit of suspense, and a heaping helping of humorful banter from a wild pack of hot-rodding, hog-riding, heavy-metal loving hounds. And as the old saying goes, here’s to 100 more. As always, enjoy!

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“It’s always somethin’ when I’m in town, ainit?”

Lita smirked as her blood-red Beetle bolted past cacti and brush on her way to the “honeymoon.” Front row seats to see the love of her life play with his big-name band, and the two get to do what they do best after hours.

That was until Mr. Ridgefield came calling.

“Babe, the concert’s still on, Harry and Rory can’t wait to see you, I’ll give you everything I got in our room at Doc’s, but I just need you to help us wrangle that loose cannon!”

Compared to their other rendezvouses, it wasn’t that much for Nic to ask, and sure enough, the Missus obliged.

“Patch me into Knox, honey.” the dark gray punk chuckled. “How’s the big cheese at Base?”

“Would do a helluva lot better if my tools didn’t keep jumping up on me.” the gravel-voiced General answered. “Thanks for helping Lita.”

“It ain’t help ‘til ya tell me watcha got for me?” she shot back.

With a great sigh, the General relayed the whole story. “Your hubby and I were getting final touches on a hovering M103 to fill out the tank fleet. Radio and satellite interference set the thing’s autopilot bolting from dry-dock. No signs of Black Country interference, so we think the dumb brute’s getting pulled every which way by mixed signals from the Outposts. We cut off all lateral communications, kept things to our P2P system, but she’s still raining hell out there. I got Lieutenant Gibson Blanc and Commander Douglas leading an away-team to manually disable it.”

“Right then,” Lita replied, flattening the throttle with her sandaled paw. “What can I do?”

“You’re on our broadband signal list, so is Valentina Cazador and her Hunters. They should be in your area based on our Third Sector scans. Grab them on your way through and catch up to these coordinates. We’re gonna use y’all like magnets to push against the tank’s receivers. Hopefully we can box the thing in and get someone on there to disable the sonofabitch.”

“And what do I do when I get there?” she snorted. “Ask ‘er nicely to stop moving?”

“Sit pretty with the Hunters and wait for the cowboys to come through.”

“Boys, I ain’t ever gonna know how the hell you keep up with all this crazy shit. Lita’s O & O.” She hung up and made tracks for the coordinates downloaded by Infantry HQ. First stop was picking up the hunters.

When she arrived, the white wolf Valentina and her gray husband Brennus were going over a map of Old World landmarks, while the exotic red lovers Marcus and Sabina were reading in the backseat of their smiling, cream-colored DeSoto Adventurer.

The buff hound lowered the book and chuckled. “I think I’d make a pretty good Jeddak.” He nuzzled under his woman’s long brunette locks. “I sure got the best princess around.”

“Formosa.” she smiled, “It’d be a beautiful reign. The red sands up where Brenn used to live might make for a good start.”

And of course, it was on the warriors’ off-day that the news of another job came hurtling towards them in the shape of a crimson-colored Volkswagen.

“Is it time yet?” Val asked flippantly, jade eyes still surveying the map.

“How you know it was me?” Lita snickered.

“Hun, your boy’s muffler sounds fit to shit bricks.”

Instead of taking offense, the mohawked punk merely giggled at the remark and relayed the goings-on to the Hunters.

“Christ!” Val snapped. “I wish they would get that damn invasion underway or I’ll come in and—”

The words lodged in her throat as the warm, soothing arms of Brennus embraced her. He worked those charming brown eyes of his over her as she leaned into him.

“It’ll be there.” he grinned. “It’s been there before us, and it will be there for us. Let’s help ‘em make sure they don’t lose any progress.”

Val sighed. “And that’s why we’re a team, handsome.” She nuzzled at his chest before looking back up at the rest of the group. “Up and at ‘em, lovebirds,” she barked. “Load these numbers in your GPS!”

The quartet locked in the coordinates and bolted for their designated spot in Sector 300. They formed a police blockade and tuned their official Infantry frequencies.

True to Knox’s word, it was the easiest part of the mission.

“BANG ‘EM TO RIGHT, LADS!” commanded M.A.D. Dog Douglas as his Moto-Corp troop veered towards the speeding heavy hovertank. The large, molded tank body of the camouflage-beige M103 lurched away from the troop, engines groaning like the belly of a great steamship. It kept the same duck-tail slope of its turret’s rear, but in lieu of treads came the ultrapowerful hover engines, units recovered from enemy craft. And yet it seemed that it was more than just the engines making the beast a part-time enemy of the Force.

It was on the tank’s back side that Evelyn Blanc floored her slender AMC Rebel Machine in reverse, the mean black-and-bronze muscle car roaring with a mechanical glee.

“Up you go!” the husky earth-toned wolf smiled.

“Thanks babe!” A wild-eyed Gibson Blanc leapt out of the passenger-side window and onto the tank’s side, with steeled hands and reinforced nerves, clinging to the rail.

“Don’t make us do anything we don’t have to,” he muttered to himself, a vain soothing to the unheeding metal beast.

Evelyn whipped her car around, now facing forward, while Gibson climbed the ladder, and made it to the turret.

The Lieutenant flicked down the mic of his radio headset. “Alright Ridgefield, tell me what I gotta do,” he barked into it.

“Punch 1628 into the pad on the turret’s door panel.” the engineer answered.

Gibson acknowledged and as soon as he made way for the panel he caught the tank’s wildly swinging barrel across the chest. He let out a cry of pain and clung desperately to the massive gun as it traversed over the side. He found himself hanging on for dear life over the tank’s side, his legs dangling mid-air over his own troops.

“HANG TIGHT PAL!” roared the gray commander from his blood-red bike. “SWING LEFT, CORP!”

The pack of motorcycles swerved away, sending the speeding tank lurching towards Evelyn Blanc. The turret swung Gibson back over onto the hovertank’s body. Throughout the frenzied display, the soldier managed to straddle the barrel and crawl along as if climbing a rope in training. When the turret swerved to threaten his lover with the suspended soldier, he was already well on top of the tank’s superstructure.

He found the exterior panel and with a swift punch of his thumb, entered the passcode was entered and the door slid open. Gibson dropped himself down the dark cavern and into the turret’s driver-seat, landing harness-boots first on the thin metal pedals, and quick to grab hold of the levers as they flailed wantonly on the transmissions’ whims.

“In ‘ere now, Ridge.” Gibson sighed. “Gimme everything to stand ‘er down.”

“It’s called the dip-switch shuffle, kid.” the black-furred chief hollered. “Play it on the panel on your far left. Goes a little something like this.”

50 switches to set right with five positions on each; 200 chances to get things wrong as the pads of the tan wolf’s fingertips sweated profusely. The only time he broke away was to yank a steering lever should he see the tank heading for trouble. By Switch 10, he had to swerve to avoid Outpost 224, the tank’s leviathan barrel scraping the lookout tower with a sparking shriek. If he couldn’t course correct, the tandem efforts of the gray-furred biker and his best bitch behind her Rebel Machine’s wheel would have to do. He prayed under his breath between each flick of the switch as the turret became the oven to end them all.

At the outskirts of Sector 300, the blockade of four cars had become a half-mile-wide string of trucks, rat rods, beat-up muscle cars and motorbikes of every make, model, and weapons-class imaginable. Leading the organization efforts was Captain “Grim” Herrera, the gothic vaquero positioning his topless dark blue truck alongside a Red Devil he knew all too well.

“Tell me Grim, ol’ buddy ol’ pal,” Lita chuckled, Birks kicked up on the steering wheel of her Bug. “This what that Centurion was like?”

“More or less, Guerrera Hermosa,” he nodded, polishing the barrel of his mighty .50-cal rifle. “Only difference is we stretched for a solid mile, and we drove with our boots on the throttle.”

“Well sorry I gotta stretch my legs somehow!” she sniped back.

She was met with the Scout’s driver seat sliding back, and the heels of the black Captain’s steel-capped, concho-emblazoned boots resting at 6 O’Clock on the wheel. “Just keep those red eyes peeled, Chica.”

The relaxation lasted all of five minutes before the stampede raced into town. The hovering M103 roared into view, the oversized ping-pong ball vainly passed between the signals of Commander Douglas’ forces and the signal booster of Evelyn Blanc’s nimble street machine. Still in the hot seat was Gibson, the Moto Corp lieutenant double checking every single switch the arrangement before giving the red master switch a final flip.

“45 to 2, 46 to 3,” Gibson muttered feverishly, hands flying over the controls.

“COMPANY, ROLL OUT!” barked Captain Herrera. “BOX ‘ER IN!”

The whole half-mile ensemble moved straight as an arrow, rolling steadily towards the violently swerving military machine as it passed back and forth between the fields of its two guiding forces.

“C’mon Gibson.” Evelyn growled, gauze-wrapped hands clutching the wheel.

“Cazador, move your crew to the tank’s 6.” ordered Herrera

“On it Captain.” Val answered. “Brenn and Marc, Incendo.”

The black Mustang, the smiling DeSoto, and the sandy Humvee, backed up by a mighty handful of marshaled Auto Corpman, roared into position as the three gladiator drivers hung tight.

The force of all four sides soon set the automated beige tank spinning wildly, gaining speed and becoming a wolven centrifuge for the lone lieutenant caught inside. He was slapped against the chair and held by the G-forces as Chief Ridgefield’s cry of “Go for it!” boomed over his headset.

Straining to peel his hand off the right wall, he dove onto the switchboard and came down on the blood red master switch with everything he had. In the mother of all brake checks, the beige hovertank whipped into the ground, the turret sparking and the main body erupting at the sides as panels blasted off.

“GIBSON!” Evelyn shrieked in horror, slamming the brakes and diving out of her car. The flames and sparks tore at the machine’s sides, making it impossible to reach the tank’s utility ladder, and to Gibson trapped in the turret. For a moment, it seemed as though it was going up in the same electric blue fireball that the Force had made of so many enemy craft.

“Fire tenders are on the way,” Herrera calmed over the radio. “If you have any sense in you, STAND BACK. Pray and let Dio do the rest.”

As the sparks and fire gave way to smoke, one final horrifying sound capped the display off: the turret entrance panel blasting off in an echoing shriek. It could only mean the tank’s final detonation as everyone fell back and away from the smoldering machine.

Instead, a coughing and spluttering Gibson Blanc emerged, sooty from the smoke and grateful for the sweet relief of the desert air. He was welcomed by a chorus of relieved sighs and the mad hollers of glee from his fellow Moto Corpman. The second the fire tenders arrived, a ladder truck helped bring the Lieutenant down from the towering machine. The first one to him upon reaching terra firma was his dear Evelyn, who had all fours wrapped around the coughing soldier, and locked her muzzle onto his tight.

“Easy Teddy, easy.” he guffawed between gasps of air. His lover snapped the bandana off her head and wiped away his singed cheeks.

“Can’t have ya looking like that for the homecoming you’s about to get.” she beamed.

It was a homecoming that came at sunset, booming over a stack of hundred-watt amps as a certain Security Chief, a certain Chief Engineer, and the lone, longstanding Hell Patrol veteran finished a deafening sound check on a massive stage rigged to kill, all outside the neon-glow of a familiar Solar Joint.

“The brown bastard with the Fender is Mr. Harrison ‘Richter’ Garret!” roared the live-wire black cowboy with a white-and-gun-metal bass. “The crazy white asshole slamming away on the kit is one Rory ‘Madskins’ Armstrong. And you don’t need to know who my black sorry-ass is.” Getting the laugh he was after helped soothe any comeback jitters “Speedfreak” Ridgefield had.

“First off, great to be back at Doc’s ol’ gin joint. And not only do we have every asshole who ever set foot on stage with us here tonight, but the man himself with the whole clan is down front row.” Though the old gray goat couldn’t stand up the way he used to, the audience lost it when they saw an 80-something year-old gloved hand throw horns.

“I’m sure his kids won’t mind putting tonight on the house.” Nic teased, knocking back a Jack and Coke.

“KEEP RACKING THAT TAB, RIDGEFIELD!” teased one of Doc’s sons.

“Boy, you wouldn’t have a joint without my good credit!” the bassist shot back. “Also, can’t get away without thanking a certain crazy S.O.B. for saving me one of my metal beasties back at Base. Mr. Gibson Blanc, one of the many fine soldiers among you motley lot.”

The bandaged biker raised a glass as the crowd, fit to go crazy for anyone they were recommended, did just that for Gibson as his crazy-eyed lover nipped at him between swigs. It was a salute that soon broke out into Harry Garret’s guitar screaming away at an old national anthem, the crowd joining in on a star-spangled favorite.

“I’m sure the boss man put him up to that one.” Nic teased, winking down to a certain dark-gray General dressed in a way he hadn’t for many a year: a blue Hawaiian shirt, bearing his metal arm in all its silvery glory, wrapped around a woman; a fringe-jacket-clad Atlanta Westley. To their right was Marcus and Sabina, the red Roman lovers happy to be there, and to their left was Valentina and Brennus, the jade-eyed leader left with one ounce of business still on her mind.

“Mind talking timetable in the morning?” Val whispered through her teeth.

“You bet, just not tonight.” Knox said with a wink. “There are other plans that need tending to.” He buried his muzzle deep in his short red lover’s neck. It came as a shock to all four hunters, one which the posh, Hepburn voice of Westley soon dispersed. “It’s safe to join in, just remember it ain’t an orgy.”

With that, the two couples flanking them joined in their own little moments.

“And of course, my bad bitch from out of town.” Nic smiled, catching a cracking howl from his hippie punk down in the front, echoed by the mob of fans around her.

“You can fuck ‘er later Speed!” Harry vamped to the crowd’s delight. “How bout we blow their ears out instead?”

“Loud mouth’s first!” Ridgefield bellowed, strumming away on his bass. “Who wants to hear Mr. Iron Lungs himself, first eh?”

The crowd’s answer was loud and clear. “Alright then!” came the velcro bark of the bare-chested Armstrong. “Give it to ‘em, Metröpolis. Give it to ‘em, AAAALL NIGHT LONG!”

On the count of four, tapped off by the white drummer’s sticks, the riff boomed over the amps off like a mortar ordinance, and the night had officially begun. For the next four hours it felt like the 4th of July, as every hound in Hell Patrol, fans from across all five corners of the Wastelands, and every hound standing in the 365th (even a music snob like Agent Steele), were blown away by the sheer sonic warfare of five-alarm heavy metal.

THE FUN DOESN’T STOP THERE!

The Bravest Hound on The Airwaves Returns With An Exciting New Soundtrack Album! Alan Firedale: Original Soundtrack Vol. 2 is OUT NOW!