VI. In the Crack of the Highway
VI. In the Crack of the Highway
Where Blood and Steel Flow Freely...
“GODDAMNIT YOU’LL KILL HIM!” she cried in horror. Before her the red wolf flailed in vain, his fists and kicks useless against the flogging of the towering gray's bullwhip. It snapped around the red's neck, the leather clenched tight as the scavenger squeezed and squeezed. He savored every succulent second of pain he brought until the poor bastard's eyes rolled back and his struggle ceased.
The red wolf slumped, his head landing smack on a crack in the highway. His pompadour-like scruff was a mess of bloody fur, dusted by the sudden blast of a tailpipe. The steel-colored machine tore off into the distance, the hyena cackles of the whip-wielder’s cohorts echoing over its mufflerless roar, and the rattle of an overstuffed trailer.
The red’s lover, a slender gray herself, came to his side. By the grace of God, he wasn’t dead, just out cold. Out cold in the middle of the desert, with their beautiful deep-blue Cobra damn-near gutted on the side of the road. She propped up his limp body with her own from under the shoulders, and helped him back to the driver’s seat.
It would be a while before he came through, the long hours dragged by the sun’s ever-creeping descent. All she could think of was everything they had planned and hoped for, all ripped and torn away.
They’d been honest in their forage for iron and steel. It was always the derelicts they asked for, the junkers no one wanted. They had always been decent enough to ask, and twice as decent if the answer was no. And yet, here they found themselves the victim of the very same behavior they so loathed. And it had almost cost them the love of her life.
Just as she thought it was all over, the sun set to kiss the desert soil, she heard a roar of engines, and saw at the head of a metallic pack, a giant beige Humvee. Behind that a Mustang, and behind that a Space Age DeSoto, all too well-kept to be any of her kind, good or bad. And much to her surprise, they were pulling off to the side of the road, right in front of their Cobra.
Valentina was the first out, the red couple Marcus and Sabina, then Brennus.
“Is he alright?” Val asked.
The gray scavenger let out a meek “I don’t know” before going to pieces. Sabina came to tend to the gal while Brennus checked the pulse of the red scavenger.
“I think he’s gonna come around any moment.” he said softly. Sure enough, the scavenger did. “I’ll fucking kill ‘em” were his first words.
Marcus joined Brennus in checking the hound over as he came to. “Kill who?” he asked.
“Glenn Atwood.” he groaned, shaking his head. The scavenger felt his lover fall onto him. “Easy Doll, easy.”
Val hit the couple with two questions. “What you got for names, and what’s this Atwood’s deal?”
“Ed Baxter,” the red replied, running his paws through his bloody scruff. “My gray gal’s Doll Harris. And Glenn Atwood is a punk sonofabitch. The kinda cat you wouldn’t spit on even if you were an inch from him.”
“He the guy who did…this?” Marcus asked innocently, gesturing towards the battered and beaten Cobra. Baxter nodded.
“All the work, all those plans.” Doll wept, the soft hand of her man caressing her gently. “And they almost took him too.”
“With bastards like him on the prowl,” Baxter growled, “No wonder most cats’ll spit on us when they find out we scavenge.” Sure enough, the last word sent Marcus, Sabina, and Val’s ears bristling.
Brennus was quick to calm everyone. “I think we can help you to a mechanic’s shop. And I think, if everyone pulls together, we can fix Mr. Atwood for good.”
Once the sting of the word vanished, all three of the disgusted wolves returned to their senses. “I got a tow-rig on my Hummer.” Val offered.
“And you got a free pick of who to ride with.” Brennus added. “Room in all three. Depends on how you wish to travel.”
“Mind if I ride in your ‘Stang?” Baxter asked. “Ain’t been with a rod like that in a long while.”
Brennus smiled. “Sure thing. Let’s get everyone going.”
Just like that, the Cobra was hooked on Val’s Humvee, and Ed rode shotgun with the kindly gray wolf, his lover sat in the back. The entourage knew just the wolf to take the ride to without getting their heads torn off: Eric.
When they made it to the elder red wolf’s cozy autoshop, now refurbished after their bout with the nanobytes, the grease-furred mechanic welcomed all with open arms, guests very much included. His customary round of coffee helped smooth things over and get everyone talking.
“Cobra ain’t gonna be too bad a fix.” Eric nodded. “Just be glad they ripped at the ornamentals and not the engine. Hell, if they left the pedal assembly and the gearshift, you probably coulda drove here.”
Valentina nodded. “What I want to know is what we can do about that Glenn Atwood. I dealt with enough jack-off scavengers, but I ain’t ever seen a display like this one.”
Marcus started slid his hands into his shorts before coming out with “Well they’re usually all ali—”
“Hold it right there,” Brennus cautioned. “Pick your words wisely.”
The red tugged nervously at his Hawaiian shirt before finishing. “What I mean is, these cats, the kind that go banging on anyone they care to, they usually got go-to hubs. Little compounds out in the middle of nowhere. I’m sure this punk’s got one too.”
Everyone chewed on the thought for a bit before Baxter came to clear the air.
“I get it.” he said, running his thick digits through the quaffed scruff of his head. “I know what all THIS is. I know it because I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t on the bitch-end of it. What WE do is getting what we need the right way, what THEY do is cold-blooded bullshit. We ask nicely, and we can take no for an answer if that’s the final word. The blood on my hands is my blood. My blood because I been doing the right thing every year I been on the road. And if I could, I’d cut every Atwood down to size with a chainsaw.”
Doll tried to soothe her lover, but Baxter was on a roll. “None of this used to be dirty work!” he roared. “Anyone who ever nicked a spare part off a junker was a scavenger. Only difference is now we live on the road. And I’m sick of bastards like Glenn Atwood giving every wayfarer a bad name. So let’s keep it on the level: I’m a junkyard dog, a creep, a hobo, scum, shit, piss, and the fucker everyone wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole! And I’m all that, because of Glenn Atwood.”
For the hunting party, the air was beyond clear.
“Well then,” Brennus nodded. “Let’s nail ‘im to the wall.”
The Cobra now safe with Eric, the team tried to trace Atwood’s steps from the attack the next morning. The wind hadn’t fully wiped the tracks off the sand, so there was plenty of headway to be made, much of it deep off-road.
The scavenging couple rode with Val this time, who had taken quite a shine to them. Helped that Doll was quite the talker. “We had always wanted a Cobra. Everyone goes on about ‘Vettes and ‘Stangs, the big guy here included, but when I popped the idea of a Cobra, Eddie was all over it. There was this sweet old man who gave us the body after we helped fix up his house, we had a buncha parts from all over.” The gray gal was beaming until the thought of their prized pet laid up hit her all over again.
“I think she’ll be a peach when she’s back on her wheels.” Val smiled. “We ain’t gonna let no one get away with what they done to her or you two. Or to the rest of them.”
“You can say that again.” replied Harris. “Only reason we knew him was by the bullwhip. Heard he cut a cat’s head off with it one time.”
Valentina nodded, and opened the Humvee up wide, the cavalcade behind her throttling up in unison. Baxter got a kick out of the leader’s gusto behind the wheel. “Drive just like a rally,” he teased.
“Only way my old man taught me.” the white wolf winked. As the dusty lines dragged on through the bushes and brush, her mind shifted gears. “This is a crapshoot, but any you remember the old blood-and-oil matches? Bots and rods over in the City?”
At first the couple’s faces were blank, but something came to Doll’s mind. “Didn’t…Glenn say somethin’ bout those?”
Ed shook his head. “Just threatened to throw me in one. Don’t mean much since they was on the tube back when I was a kiddo. Went off around the same time. I’m sure he saw ‘em too.”
Val’s jade eyes leapt through the rearview. “What exactly did he say?”
Baxter paused, cocked his head to the roof of the Humvee, and came down with the answer. “‘I will strap you down and let every bot out West rip you apart in the ass-crack of Comm/Ent.’ Something like that.”
“Where you figure that?” the white wolf pressed.
“Beats me.” the red scavenger shrugged. “How bout you darlin?” Doll didn’t know either. Her dead-end line of questioning came just in time for the tracks to vanish. The trio kicked their brakes and swung their cars alongside one another.
Marcus slapped the wheel in defeat before fixing his boxy shades. When he got out of the cream-colored car, something took hold of him. Not a figure or a force, but a scent. A strange, deranged scent. Like grease, blood, and smoking wire.
“Everyone’s rods alright?” he hollered in a panic, feverishly checking over the DeSoto. Val and Brennus hopped out and checked their beasts; both were fine, though Val could begin to smell the grotesque fragrance herself.
All the same, Marcus grew more and more frenzied. Sabina slid out of the Adventurer, both ring-laden hands taking him by the shoulders and pulling her lover close. “Formosa, darling, what is it?” she asked, holding him tight.
He was shaking fiercely until he realized. “None of our rides are flaming, right?” Val and Brennus gathered around him, Ed and Doll following close behind.
“Everyone’s fine.” Brennus reassured. “Your Lady, my stallion, Val’s Hummer, they are all fine.”
Marcus turned his attention to Ed. “Hey. Where did he hit you hardest?”
The red scavenger was confused, but felt himself over. “GYAH—right there oughta do it. Right on my stomach.” he winced.
Marcus leapt towards Baxter, landing on all fours like a frog. He closed his eyes, nostrils flaring as he drank in the scent. Ed recoiled, but not far enough for Marcus to lose the scent.
“He hit ya there alright.” he growled. “I think I got him by the smell.”
When Marcus stood up, he was surrounded by the most baffled looking pack of wolves he’d ever seen.
“Everyone thinks I gone mad again.” he sighed. He fell back onto the driver’s seat and hung his head.
For a moment, no one knew what to do. Of all the abilities heightened by the Colosseum’s wicked conditioning, elevated scent had never reared its head. Valentina turned to Brennus, who simply cocked his head to Marcus. “You can smell it too, can’t you?” he asked with a sniffle in his voice.
The white leader nodded, walking over and lifting his chin. “It’s true Marc, I smell it too. You ain’t the only one.”
When he looked up, that strange boyhood half of his shone through clear as day. Not a madman’s eyes, not the eyes of the beast when enraged; that rare gentle light that always filled them whenever made something he was proud of or when he held his lover near. “I just never had it ever hit me like that before.” he sighed. “You think it’s something to go on though, right? I ain’t gone off?”
Val gave pause to the thought before answering. “Have Sabina drive. You keep your head out the window and lead the way. Focus all your attention on it. If you’re sensing it so effortlessly now, putting your back into it ought to help us get our man.”
Val got up and let Sabina sit down next to her husband. “Marcus, mi amor, look at me.” The red-furred Latina guided his gaze into her loving eyes. “You just let it get hold of you too much. You have a terrific gift. And we want your help through it. You just have to control yourself.”
She held him tight before sliding him into the passenger seat and climbing behind the wheel. The red couple put on a brave face, and the rest of the hunting party returned to their rides.
When Doll and Ed had returned to the Humvee, there were certainly questions to be had, to which Val regaled the duo of their plight. The torture, the prisons, the black-eyed devils who enabled it all. And at the end, she left the scavengers with a word of warning: “What we are is beyond feral. We don’t know what it means. It is what we live with, him and I. Pray he can keep using it for good. I wouldn’t know what to do with him if he went completely mad.”
The couple were left praying for the length of the chase, the determined hunters now led by a wretched scent.
The DeSoto veered wildly on Marcus’ order, the red working hard to keep his new-found radar on the mark. Sabina, for her part, was as faithful as she could be, her husband finding himself getting closer and closer to the scent. Val and Brennus kept up with the blind chase.
“You think he’s really on it?” Baxter hollered over the Humvee’s roar.
The white-furred huntress nodded. “Contrary to that display, he’s sharp as a tack. A keen eye for detail, and now a keen scent.”
“It’s funny.” Doll added. “Glenn said the Cobra smelled nice. Wonder how far off he was when he smelled ‘er.”
For the moment, Val didn’t dwell on the thought. She hadn’t time to; the compound of Glenn Atwood was in-sight. And while Marcus’ idea of the compound were the usual tents and rods, hurtling into view for all to see was a true compound. One of rusting metal and withering concrete, a private fortress all its own. The kind one could easily set up shop in.
Valentina waved off Sabina, who let off the throttle and let the great sand-colored machine rush past. “If you ain’t already, buckle up” were her last words before the hammer came down again, hands gripping the wheel and claws sunk deep in the leather of her caligae sandals. Closer came the great metal door. In the brief flashes of her mind’s eye, the gate of the Colosseum stood there. Her heel lifted, her grip tightened, her jade eyes could’ve melted through steel.
Off the hinges it came in a deafening crack. She pounced on the brake with both paws, Brennus and Sabina following suit in their cars. What greeted them in the compound was a sight of pure horror. Like a morgue tipped on its side, dead wolven raiders lay all over the encampment’s floor. Stranger still, upon further inspection was that not a drop of metal remained on anyone. Neither necklace nor button were safe, only the rebar in the very walls holding these souls in.
Doll and Ed could hardly bear the sight, but when the red scavenger did, he realized who had been killed. “He did them in. By God, he killed his own crew!” It was a girl in particular that drew his attention, and the sight of a single, devastating wound, carved into her bulbous, lifeless stomach. Doll clutched her own in horror. Marcus and Sabina held each other tight. “His own bitch too.” Baxter seethed.
Then came an engine’s rev echoing from behind the compound’s wall.
“Someone ain’t getting out of this easy!” Marcus roared. He leapt back behind the wheel of the Adventurer, Sabina followed close behind, and whipped out and around, leading the charge as the steel-plated Mercury went racing off into the desert. When all three of the hunters’ rides had caught up to each other, Atwood paid them all no mind. He kept his boot down, and his mind at ease, his machine made completely metallic, from the wheels to the furnishings. It wasn’t until he felt the bang of the cream-colored DeSoto on his bumper that he started playing with his new toys. He’d take them off-road, on-road, and off again, he’d give them free reign to fire on him, just to take the chance away with a cut of the wheel. It carried on like this all down the stretch of highway.
Val swung herself out the window of the Humvee, firing at the Mercury’s wheels with her Mars, only to find them impervious to the electric lead. Sabina tried the couple’s buckshot, but to no avail. All Marcus could do was keep his paw down and not let the gray ghoul out of his sight, left waiting for just the wrong move.
It came with a single turn of the wheel. The silver convertible’s wheels locked and the car went tumbling into a roll, the Mercury finally resting on its wheels. Atwood got out, dazed but unfazed, and shook it off. All three cars came to a dead stop. The women had their guns trained on Atwood, while the men got out to hold the hound down. Before they did anything, there were some questions in need of answers.
“This all you wanted that for?” Brennus said, pointing to the upturned car. “You were willing to waste your own posse for it.”
“Not just for her.” Atwood grinned. “For me.” He threw both Marcus and Brennus off of him. The gray wolf smiled, popping his jacket and puffing up his chest. “I need it. The way I’m now. I need it. I can drink it, eat it, but it needs to be inside me if I want to keep on living.
“You ain’t an android?” Marcus growled, blood dripping out the corner of his mouth.
“Just augs.” Atwood grinned. “Might as well be. Who wants to try me? You could’ve run me down, but I got you here, so let’s just go for it.”
Ed Baxter, without a moment’s hesitation, socked the metal hound one in the jaw, only to take two in the gut. Brennus charged on Atwood, his martial skills put to the test in a flurry of kicks and punches before diving into a full-on wrestling match. Atwood found the upper-hand and threw Brennus against the grill of his own Mustang, the thin gray hunter left gasping for air.
Just when Val and Sabina were ready to shoot their way to his weak spot, there came a horrific, savage growl.
It was Marcus. His teeth were barred, his body tensed and shivering, and his claws sharp as blades. He threw his Hawaiian shirt and shades off and onto the DeSoto’s hood. With the brown leather of his gladiator sandals and the beige of his shorts, he cut a barbarian’s profile under the desert sun. “Let me at him” was all the women needed to hear before the red wolf dove onto the metal scavenger.
He throttled him with primal fists and foaming jaws. The metal he bent and tore, and the flesh and fur he shredded. And for all of Atwood’s strength, no matter how many times he slammed the red wolf down on the road, kicked his head, or tried to break an arm or leg, Marcus kept coming back.
When Atwood made the mistake of throwing Marcus against his silver machine, the red wolf grabbed the bullwhip flung from its hook on the shotgun-side door. He unfurled it, and found, there on the grip, a button. He switched it on and heard a buzz. He looked up to Atwood, who realized what the red had learned.
In a single, blistering crack, Atwood let out a metallic howl as his body arched back and convulsed from the electricity. He dropped to the road with a thud. Marcus leapt on him, a knee jammed deep in Atwood's crimson-soaked back, and bloodied paws wrapped around his neck. His muscles bulged as he pulled with all his might. In a short, swift twist, Atwood's head came free and Marcus leapt to his feet in a roar of gladiatorial triumph. The electric raider's head and synthetic spine dangled in the desert sun.
When Marcus looked up to the severed head of the scavenger, he was met with a face that made his blood run cold; the face of a guard. One of the black-eyed devils, those cruel, torturous machines, sat in the blood-stained hands of the feral red hunter. He dropped the head down on the crack of the highway and curled in on himself. He began to weep, a frenetic cry mixing horror, joy, and rage that left the wolf inconsolable, and his Latin lover distraught.
In the heat of his rage, he had unearthed another horrifying discovery; the warriors of the Colosseum were out in the desert. And he had slain one. One of perhaps hundreds. As Val and Brennus joined in trying to snap their friend out of his shock, only one thought came racing across the white wolf’s mind:
The Hunt was back on.