Page 45 of Red Rooster

8

Farley was the sort of town that Rooster always described as Bum Fuck, Egypt. The kind of town they hurried through, because small places bred tight-knit social circles, places where strangers were noticed.

An aptly-named Main Street took them past a water tower and a tidy row of brick two-story shops, American and Wyoming flags flying at the center of the small, green square. Jake – who’d done a remarkable job of keeping calm during their silent, tense twelve-mile truck ride – finally turned left down a side stride cluttered with small, clapboard houses, chain link fences, and industrial buildings with crumbling facades. He piloted them into the lot of a gas station/garage combo, where several old trucks waited on blocks and a man in a white cowboy hat sat smoking a cigarette and reading a paper beneath the convenience store’s front awning.

“Fucking Mayberry,” Rooster muttered.

“Yep,” Jake said. He backed the flatbed up to one of the garage doors and put it in park. Then he turned a flat, almost bored look on Rooster – who was crammed in the middle seat because he was too protective, and stubborn, and Red loved him for it anyway. “Try not to shoot any of my employees, okay?”

Rooster made a face.

“He didn’t say ‘no,’ so that’s something,” Red offered.

Jake twitched a smile and climbed out of the cab.

When they were alone, Rooster turned to her and said, “Stick by me.” Then, low and frightened, “Please.”

Oh, Rooster. She wanted to stroke his hair, put her arms around his neck and breathe in the scent of road dirt off his throat and tell him it would be fine. Instead, she smiled and said, “Okay.”

He nodded and his gaze flicked out through the windshield, toward Jake who now stood in front of the truck, talking to a scruffy-faced young man with holey jeans and a garage smock. He took a quick, unsteady breath. “Transmission work takes time. Depending on how bad it is – shit, we could be here. I don’t–” He pressed his lips together into a thin, white line. “I dunno,” he murmured. “I just–”

“Hey,” she said, softly, and his gaze came back to her. “What is it you always tell me? This is all wecando, so it’s what wewilldo.”

He’d told her that time and time again, on rain slick roads, the wipers beating across the windshield; in eighties-era hotel rooms while every set of headlights that skimmed across the wall made her jump; in small towns, and in big cities. He pressed onward, again and again, killing when he had to, always keeping her safe. He’d been a Marine for so long, much longer than the war had actually lasted, and she could see the cracks at his edges. Could feel the way the gaps between healings were getting shorter and shorter. He would break – her unbendable, implacable, too-brave Rooster – and she thought he could sense it, too, the way his hand had shook on the gun before, the way he was willing to put at least a little trust in a stranger.

He gave her a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Yeah. Okay.”

He slid over to climb out of the driver’s side and reached back into the cab to help her out with the hand that wasn’t hovering near his gun.

Red stepped down onto the cracked asphalt and was greeted by the smell of motor oil and hot pavement, boiled peanuts and fresh-cut grass.

Fucking Mayberry indeed.

~*~

If it hadn’t been the transmission…

A spark plug, a fan belt, a battery, a fuel pump – there were any number of things that could have gone wrong with the truck that could have been fixed in a few hours – or a few minutes – and allowed them to get back on the road. Put that much needed distance between themselves and Evanston City.

But no. It was the transmission. Because that’s how life went.

Rooster cursed softly to himself, clicked off the flashlight, and climbed out from under the truck.Fucking Dodge, he thought, ready to take on the whole damn Chrysler company for letting him down like this. “Fluid everywhere,” he said in response to Red’s questioning look.

The kid who worked for Jake – his name tag declared him Spence – stood with his hands on his hips, expression somewhere in the neighborhood of regretful and told-you-so. “We won’t know what’s going until we open ‘er up, but–”

“Yeah,” Rooster said, grim.

“I’m guessing I’m gonna have to order some parts.”

“Yeah.” He allowed himself a moment – just one – to wallow in his absolute fury. He couldn’t ever decide, in moments like these, if he was angriest at himself, at the Ingraham Institute, or the world at large.

A very dark, very deeply buried part of himself liked to play the what-if game. What if he hadn’t been blown up? What if he’d finished his tour? He wouldn’t have been living in Deshawn and Ashley’s basement; would never have gone to the Institute hoping to get put on a drug trial; wouldn’t have been there for Red to follow home.

But would she have followed someone else? Someone who wouldn’t, or couldn’t, keep her safe?

She sent him a crooked little smile, now, and he hoped she hadn’t developed the ability to read minds. Not that it would surprise him. He took a deep breath and bundled all his dangerous doubts back up, shoved them into the mental closets where they belonged.

He turned to Spence, shame heating his face. “I’m – I’m not much good with transmissions.”