Chapter 20
It was 4:05 before I saw Ellie after the paramedics checked her in. And in that time all I could do was pray. When they finally moved her into her room, I was at the doctor's heels wanting to know her condition.
"It isn't looking too well". The doctor said bleakly, "When we checked her over we found that in addition to a compound fracture of the forearm there was also internal bleeding, and she had torn ligaments in her lower left leg. We were able to stop the bleeding and stabilize her, but unfortunately she's managed to slip into a coma. We don't know when she'll come out of it".
As I listened to this, my heart beat slower and slower, and my blood became as thick as frozen axle grease.
You'd think that'd be enough, but that was before I got a closer look at Ellie:
Her lips were encased in the bezel of a long breathing tube, and there were more wires and equipment hooked to her than the shuttle.
Her arm was in a cast, and her leg was in a brace.
Worst of all, from somewhere I dared not look, I heard the sound of a heart monitor and a breathing machine; for a brief second I was transported back the last day I saw Uncle Fred in something other than a casket.
It was then that I felt my life finally crash down around me.
When you're in a hospital at 5:07 in the morning, hopped up on the mix of jet fuel and toilet water they refer to as coffee, the mix has a way of doing a tap-dance on your attitude.
And with the news I'd received I was riding that thin line between being scared for Ellie, and boiling inside at the question of who or what did this to her. In fact, I was almost waiting for someone to give me that all-too-familiar push.
I'll bet that by now you're thinking the people to deliver that little nudge would be arriving by that time.
And you'd be right.
I don't know how they found us, but they did. And if you don't think they'd be so frigid under the circumstances, then I must have failed to give you a better picture.
The head of the coven spoke first.
"I should have known she'd try something stupid". She hissed to the others. "Why she ran from the house, I don't know".
"Well it looks like this creep landed her in the hospital anyways". Lynnette sneered with a needle-like finger pointing to me and a pukey little grin.
"So he has". Mona hissed smugly, "Oh, well, I guess it saves me the trouble of waiting for him to botch up".
It was then that something within me snapped. For a brief second I was sixteen again and Walt was by my side, his growl shaking the windows. Heck, I could even feel the fur on his neck pressed against my knuckles.
These three whores had finally started me down the war path, and this time nothing would be able to defuse me. Leastways that's what I thought before, well…
What happened that morning has been called, "divine intervention", and it's a fitting title:
I was just getting up to raise cane when I saw something through the window, namely the red paint of a visitor's Cadillac sidling by in the parking lot.
In a curdling instant a single thought boiled up in my mind, filling my mouth with bile and causing me to shutter.
What would bring me to this state? Well if you'll remember that dream I spoke of you might be able to put it together, but I'll give you a hint anyways:
In the dream two things disappeared, and my car had already bit it….
"Sonofawhore". I rasped through clenched teeth.
I then slowly craned in to give Elvira a final kiss, and with grim determination I rose and quietly marched out the door, disregarding the evil looks from the gargoyles; they'd ceased to be a threat.
I went out into the street and hailed a cab, and after a few minutes I was on my way to my shop.
***
It was 6:27 when I arrived. The sun was just starting to rise in the cold November sky.
With no trace of emotion I doled out the fare to the cab driver and then briskly ambled up to the doors of the garage. With a flick of the wrist I took the key to the customer entrance out of my pocket, and I entered the shop.
At first I was afraid that I wouldn't be alone, but when I flipped on the security lights the only thing I saw was the dark shape of the wrecker.
This caused me to let off a sigh of relief, and I stepped across the floor into the office. Once inside I sat down, propped my feet on the desk, and after a bit of meditation, I commenced to forming my battle plan.
***
About an hour later, I still hadn't thought of anything. All I could do was let my eyes wander around the shop, and that's when I happened to see a ragged old poster for a long-past Demolition derby hanging over the door.
I'd never really liked those things up till then, but that didn't stop me from riding out with Uncle Fred to haul out the wreckage.
On those trips we'd hitch up a long flatbed and haul them away three at a time. The ones that ran we'd overhaul with parts from those that got blasted, and after a couple of safety tests we'd donate them to the Salvation Army base uptown.
As I remembered one of those runs, the brick dropped:
It was an idea so simple, yet it hit me hard.
***
It was October of '91. We'd just loaded a stubborn Jackass of a Mercury Monterey onto the trailer, in behind an obliterated Lincoln and an ancient Rambler that'd dropped its transmission in the first bout. We'd just tied her down when I overheard an official talking to Fred.
"Better make sure no one gets a hold of that slammer." he said, "Ever since some creep pried it out of an impound lot, it's been haunting our rap sheet for years. We've only just managed to catch the punk."
I didn't know what the man was talking about, so I asked Fred what it was and he filled me in.
You see, in the world of demolition, there used to be two types of racers- honest, and then there were the drivers of slammers.
Their cars, much like their skulls, were chugged full of cement, usually packed into special bunkers mounted in behind the grilles, trunk lids, and behind the door panels.
Their radiators were mounted underneath, and lastly they were fitted with strong engines and stronger shocks.
If assembled correctly, those mean machines could meet APC's on their own terms. And that made them illegal.
Of course, if you're in a spot like mine, the law book hucks itself through a plate-glass window.
And after a quick prayer for strength, I began construction.
Scores of days and nights along with gallons of coffee brushed past…my tired mind smoked away in high gear while my body slammed along in Four Low…the only times I stopped were on Sundays and when I went to school…I was nearly broken.
During that wicked time the only things that kept me firing were God's will, caffeine, and the occasional longing glance at Elvira's picture.
It was a monumental task, but by 1:00 on Monday, November twentieth, (three days before Thanksgiving), I was finished.
And what did I produce? Well, it wasn't a Rolls Royce, but it fit my needs. What's important was that in a space of a few weeks I'd crafted an assault car partly of my own image, (The other 10% being borrowed from one of George Barris' designs.)
For the base I used a single axle deuce and a half we'd originally been converting pre-Marceline.
In a flash of madness, the body of a two ton Chevy pickup was fused with the modified tail section of a Thunderbird, and thanks to a metal-spec drill the combination fit smartly onto the Wrecker's frame.
On the front of the beast a set of eight square-lens headlights peered out from a pair of handcrafted fenders, with the grille from a junked Peterbilt stretching upward like a headstone between them.
I'd stayed true to the slammer formula for the most part, the only difference being that I reinforced the poured cement with a double wall of half inch diameter rebars. The paintjob were two shots of black primer and a light masking of fluorescent reddish-orange.
For power I'd modified the stock V-8 Caterpillar Military diesel with a supercharger I'd picked from a hammered racing lorry.
This took a bit of extra plumbing, but soon I had that engine running like the ink on a counterfeit bill, with the transmission yoked to a new transfer case.
To compensate for the weight being pulled I'd also installed smaller gears in the rear differential to increase torque, and larger gears up front to increase speed.
Inside the cab I'd fitted a partial roll cage, a five-point harness, an extra-padded dashboard, and a cloth bucket seat.
After a little rummaging through the stockroom I was amazed to discover an old Steam tractor whistle Fred had bought from a lumber company, who had repurposed it for use as a lunch signal after their last wood burner struck out for the 'Big barn'.
I hooked it to a V-Twin mechanical compressor, (Its power derived from a magnetic propulsion system I'd built using a design I found in a science magazine), and stuck it in the bed concealed by the trunk lid,- which I bolted down and ported near the corners to keep it from blowing off.
There was no radio, but I managed to strap the little Seeburg to the dash, and to get that little touch of overkill I wired it to an old speaker Freddie'd stumbled over one night in Illinois, which I mounted right on the roof after remembering an old poster for a concert.
Also, in order to track possible sightings I wired in a spare CB, and mounted a large whip antennae to the rear bumper.
Furthermore, I mounted spoilers under the vehicle at the rear just behind the rear differential and at the front ahead of the radiator.
The last things I did were rivet on a three inch thick steel bumper to the front, its wedged design inspired by one I'd seen on a movie poster in the paper, and then I slapped on a tag, and stenciled its name onto the fenders.
With that, my weapon was finished. The only thing left to do was get some fuel and find a method of stalking my prey.
I didn't have to wait long, as a forecast of a heavy blizzard came in over the shop radio when I finished. From what I'd been told, most of the killings happened in such weather, and with them also happening in desolate locations I had a rough idea of where to look.
A bit too convenient? Perhaps, but I just viewed it as good luck.
I would have planned my attack that day, but as I sat down to rest I passed out again.