Disclaimer, as before: Cars, the characters, and related indicia thereof, belong to Disney and Pixar: Henry belongs to me.
Boost was not a happy tuner.
Cruising—even during the day—without DJ's tunes was kind of lame, and he had nobody with him but Snot Rod to set up any kind of fun. He'd halfheartedly run a Camry into a ditch thirty miles back, and felt vaguely weird about it.
Snot Rod wasn't helping either. The 'Cuda had been falling behind—on the highway Boost normally rolled at eighty at least, and Snot Rod kept driftin' back into his rearviews before another calamitous sneeze rocked his blower wide open and shot him back up into position with the Viper. Boost was no doctor—hell, never paid attention to them in the first place—but even he could tell the Rodster was not in good shape. His breathing had a snory, thick quality Boost didn't like, and the sneezes sounded like they really hurt. Snot Rod hadn't even offered any commentary on the Camry's ditching, and that was out of character for him too.
He spoke up now, though, in a thick congested voice, pulling up beside Boost. His engine was knocking. "Boost, man?"
"Yo, what up." Boost narrowed his eyes.
"DJ an' Wingo got nabbed by that Sheriff dude. We going back to bust 'em out?"
Boost's lip curled. "Slow-bumper twinkies deserved what they got, yo. I ain't puttin my aft to the grinder for 'em."
Snot Rod rolled in silence for a couple of miles. Then, "Boost, man?"
"What."
"That guy we rolled. The 'Stang. You think he's dead?"
"Chrysler, whaddaya think I am, some kind of psychic? I got no clue! Now shut up and cruise!"
Miles passed, punctuated with Snot Rod's increasingly heavy sneezing. He was coughing, too, his engine chopping and missing.
"….Boost, man?"
"What."
"…I don't feel so good. Can we, can we stop for a sec? I can't breathe."
Boost cut his eyes sideways to the orange 'Cuda and nearly swerved out of his lane. He shut off his own CD changer. Snot Rod's eyes were barely open, brilliant and glazed; his mouth was open, his blower butterflies wide as they could go.
"Yo SR, man. You okay?"
"I…I dunno," Snot Rod coughed. "Feels like, like I got stuff in my carbs. Hurts, Boost…"
"Pull over, man. Now." Boost didn't know where the words came from, but they came. "You're sick. I'ma get someone." Who? he wondered. He hadn't meant to tell the Plymouth to stop, and definitely hadn't meant to tell him he would get help: they were miles from anywhere, in the middle of the Chryslerin' desert, and Boost didn't know how far the next rest station might be.
Snot Rod obeyed him without complaint, though, almost instantly slowing and lurching onto the hard shoulder. He came to a stop in a heavy fit of coughing that sounded to Boost like it hurt.
He pulled over a little in front of the 'Cuda and backed up to sit side by side with him, reaching out a tire to test the Plymouth's temperature and snatching it back with a stream of invective.
"….Chrysler, man, yo burnin' up. Why dincha say somethin' before? How long you been feelin' bad?"
Snot Rod sniffled miserably. "Since…uh…since before we rolled that dude. The Mustang. Outside of Flagstaff."
"Whynahell dincha say somethin'?" Boost demanded. Snot Rod coughed and shivered, pulling back from him.
"You guys were all….on a roll. And I'm always sneezing. I din't want to, uh, bug you."
Boost let out another rocking and rolling string of expletives, and lit his engine again with a roar. "Man, you even dumber'n you look. Aight, we're goin' back."
"….back?"
"Yes back! Man, you sick, Snot Rod. I ain't ridin witcha in that condition. We're goin' back and your ass is gonna get fixed, you hear me? And we can bust out DJ an' Wingo while we at it."
Snot Rod was silent for a little while, and then gave vent to an almighty sneeze, flames roaring from his exhausts. "…uh…Boost…I'unno if I can make it."
"Sure y'can. Come on, boogersnot. I ain't leavin' ya on the side of the road for no cops to pick up."
Slowly, painfully, the 'Cuda and the Viper slid back on the highway, and pulled a thoroughly illegal U at the next sliproad.
"Radiator Springs Traffic Court will now come to session! All rise for the honorable Doc Hudson!"
There was a chorus of tire-squeakings and shock-groanings as the various residents rose to salute Doc on his way to the judge's bench. DJ and Wingo stood behind the defendant's line, as they—and their friends—had stood so many times before.
Doc rolled to the lift and leaned over his podium. "Order," he said. "Now, this would be the…sixth time, Sheriff? that you and your hooligan friends have been called up before me for disturbin' the peace and disregarding traffic laws. Do you have anything to say for yourselves?"
There was a steely glint in the Hudson's eyes that neither of the tuners liked one little bit. "Uh," said Wingo.
He was saved from further conversational attempts by Mater, who threw open the courtroom doors. "Hooo-EEEE," the tow truck offered. "Doc, I'm mighty sorry ta interrupt yer law-givin' and stuff, but y'alls might want to save this fer a mite later. You got yerself another patient."
Doc blew his horn to quiet the room. "Mater, what's the meaning of this?"
"The meanin' is, uh…" Mater had to think about that. "The meanin' is that that other shiny glowinnadark car's back an' his buddy, an' he ain't lookin' so hot. Y'all might want to head on down to the clinic, Doc."
Wingo rose on his tires. "Boost? He came back for us?"
"That's what I done did said," Mater told him, annoyed. "An' his friend."
Doc was already easing down the lift. "All right, all right. Court adjourned for one hour while I figure out what the hell is goin' on here."
Wingo and DJ looked at one another, both surprised, frightened—and pleased.
"He's got a nasty infection," said Doc, turning to the three tuners. "And Chrysler only knows why I let you three in here, after all you've done to this town. You got five minutes, then I'm havin' you all towed to the impound."
Boost looked thunderous, but said nothing. Behind him, Wingo and DJ chafed at their yellow parking boots.
Snot Rod lay on the lift with his wheels dangling, almost touching the floor. Doc had pulled the supercharger's cowling, and it looked more monstrous than ever, jutting out of the orange hood like some kind of bizarre alien. The butterfly valves were pegged wide open to help him breathe.
He blinked slowly. "….guys? Wha….what happened…?"
Wingo winced at his voice. Snot Rod sounded more congested and miserable than any of them had ever heard him. "Uh, dude, they caught me an' DJ and you guys got away. Only I guess you got sick and Boost pulled you in for the Doc to fix ya."
Snot Rod blinked again, and drew a breath—and started to cough, heavily, a deep wretched cough that sounded as if his whole manifold was shaking itself to pieces. When he could finally speak again, he mumbled something none of them could catch.
"Yo, SR, what was that?" DJ asked.
"I said….uh….thanks. Uh. For, bringing me here. Or something. I feel weird, guys. All…..swimmy. And it's so bright."
The tuners exchanged glances. "Naw, man," Wingo said. "'s all cool. You just, uh, feel better."
Boost hadn't spoken since they'd come in. He merely stared at the orange Barracuda on the lift, his eyes unreadable. Neither of the other Road Hazards wanted to ask him what was on his mind.
"That's enough," said a low voice from the doorway. "Out, all of you. He needs to rest."
It was something of a small miracle that none of the three tuners even put up a fight. They limped, boots clonking on the floor, one by one out of the clinic.