Vox Mentis

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I set up a discussion thread for those who are interested in talking about goings-on in the story.

Hum a little tune to yourself to distract from all the nothing you're seeing.

You hum whatever comes to mind. Something by the Beatles. You're blanking on the name of the song, but it's one of those earworm ones that never really leave you.

"Stop it." Clanging from the wheel well.

consider running again; then don't

You stop. You briefly visualize running away across the desert, a trail of dust in your wake. Eliot would be really screwed then. Maybe then he'd wish he was nicer to you.

You sigh.

"Fuck!" The tire iron thuds into the dirt.

“Need a hand?”

Eliot's head appears, his face flushed. “They’re rusted on.”

“The lug nuts?”

“Doesn’t matter. We can drive on it.” Eliot stands.

“Did you pull hard enough?”

“Yes,” says Eliot. “I pulled hard enough.”

“Give me a try.”

Eliot rolls the tire back to the trunk. “Forget it.”

“For fuck's sake. I’m not useless.”

“This isn’t one of those games where everybody gets a turn. Get in the car.”

“I will be two fucking minutes.”

“Get in the car.”

“No.”

Eliot looks at you expressionlessly. “Fine.” He tosses you the wrench.

You pull off your T-shirt and kneel before the jacked-up wheel. There's a lot of rust here. You wiggle the wrench onto the top nut and test it.

“Well?” says Eliot.

You swipe your arm across your forehead. “Just warming up.”

“We have a time issue.”

“Jesus, you don’t even think I can change a tire.” You strain against the wrench. “I can do this.”

Some time passes. “Okay,” Eliot says. “Enough.”

“I’ve almost got it.”

“You don't. You’re just wasting time.”

You strain. Something goes crack.

“You’re going to strip it.”

The lug nut squeals. You force it through a revolution, and then it gets easy. You unscrew the nut and drop it to the ground. You have a tremendous urge to glance at Eliot’s face and can’t resist.

“Congratulations,” says Eliot. “Unfortunately, there are three more.”

You brace your foot against the tire well. “You want me to be useless. You love being in control of everything while I stumble around with no idea what I’m doing.”

“No, that’s the opposite of what I want. What I want is to get to Broken Hill as soon as possible, and for you to make a net positive contribution to that goal.”

You release the wrench and bend to inspect the next lug nut. It looks very corroded. You heft the wrench and begin to bang at it.

“This has moved into farce,” Eliot says. “Get into the car.”

The lug nut spits rust. You get the wrench around it and force it around. “That’s two.”

“Great,” says Eliot.

“You need to loosen up,” you say. “You seriously need to take a fucking breath and consider that you’re not the only guy who can do everything.”

“Did you tell me to loosen up?”

You wiggle the wrench onto the third nut. “Is that funny for some reason?”

“When I experience base physiological needs for food, water, air, sleep, and sex, I follow protocols in order to satisfy them without experiencing desire. Yes, it’s funny.”

“You fucking what?”

“It’s required to maintain a defense against compromise. Desire is weakness. I’m sure I explained this.”

“Well, that sounds awesome. That sounds like a terrific life you have there, Eliot.” The nut loosens. “Got you!” you say.

“You want to see what happens when desire overpowers discipline? Get in the car. We’ll be there in about two hours.”

“And you didn’t stop it.” The final lug nut is so rusted you have trouble getting the wrench around it. “You and your protocols weren’t good enough to save my town.” You find traction and pull. “Watch me budge this lug nut, despite my complete lack of discipline.” Your muscles burn. Sweat courses down your back.

“Stop that. You’re going to pull the whole car off the jack.”

“And what about Austen? Twenty years and you never made a move, did you? I bet you never even held her hand.”

“Get in the car.”

You grunt but the nut is immovable. You release the wrench, panting. “You know I’m right.”

“You’re not right,” Eliot says. “You’ve been wrong about everything you’ve opened your mouth to opine upon, up to and including your belief in your ability to change this tire. Get in the car.”

You reposition your feet and grip the wrench. “I am budging... this... lug nut!” You pull with everything you have. Your body shakes. You yell. The nut twists with a squeal and you land in the dust. You scramble back to the tire. “Fuck! Yes!” You brandish the nut. “I was right! I was right!”

Eliot walks around the car and climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Ha,” you say. You pull at the tire and it slides off easily. You change it, collect your shirt, and return to the passenger seat. Eliot starts the engine. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you, because this time the silence is fine.

~

Maybe focus on the sky in case there's an incoming helicopter or something.

“I don’t like that chopper,” Eliot says. It's an hour later. Maybe two. It's hard to tell because nothing's changed. You're driving on a strip of road that folds around on itself, trapped in an endless loop of blistered blacktop.

You lean forward and peer through the windshield. A black speck hangs in the sky ahead and to the right. “That’s a crop duster. They use helicopters for that out here.”

“Where are the crops?”

A good point. The black speck grows. “I don’t know.”

“Bag on the backseat. Get that.”

You twist in your seat, find an old green and black gym bag, and drag it into your lap. It clanks. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Yes.”

“When did you get a gun?” But you know: It was when Eliot acquired the car. You emerged from a restroom to find a bearded guy showing Eliot something in the trunk. They shook hands. Then Eliot had taken his Valiant.

“Take it out of the bag.”

“I’m not going to shoot some crop-dusting farmer.”

“I’m not asking you to shoot anyone. I’m asking you to be prepared.”

“See those poles sticking out the sides? Those are for spraying. Spraying crops.” The helicopter drifts over the road and hovers there. The door pops open. Sun glints on metal. “Or maybe he’s roo hunting,” you say. Eliot hits the gas. The roof barks out a flat impact. Hot air tickles your hair and you look up to see a small, neat blue hole. Blue, because of the sky. You turn and find a second hole in the backseat. “Christ!”

The engine roars. You see the needle tip past ninety miles per hour. The road is cracked and potholed, strewn with sand. One bump and you could roll. You could easily become airborne. The chopper flashes overhead and you glimpse a grizzled man in an Akubra with a rifle. When you turn the chopper is rising in the rear window, peeling after you.

“Okay,” says Eliot. “Now I want you to shoot someone.”