The Winter Wasp (Ch3)
Two men speed down a long Kansas road in 1918. One is dying, and the other is dying to get back to 1946.
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“Riders on the storm…into this house we’re born…into this world we’re thrown…”
Dr. Michael Andersen had been quietly singing that tune for the last two hours and although the lyrics were intriguing, his droning was getting on Patrick Conlin’s nerves. His nerves, which he thought had stood the ultimate test during a combat mission with enemy fire singeing his hair, were now picking up so many different signals that he thought he’d hit maximum overload and just explode. When he caught himself thinking of casual, day-to-day thoughts, such as his empty stomach rumbling or the need for a nap, his mind jarred him into the present, that was not the present at all. This is 1918, his mind whispered. You’re not even born yet, my man.
Dr. Andersen reached toward the heating vent with long white fingers that looked to Conlin like the whittled sticks he and his brother used for fishing poles when they were kids during their Hudson River expeditions. The heat had been on steady since the beginning of the trip two days ago, softly blowing warm air that changed the season of the car’s interior from winter to tropic. Conlin sweated under the scratchy cotton overcoat that had belonged to his father and he couldn’t help pulling at the neck of the ill-fitting dress shirt. He longed to turn off the heat, but each time Andersen shivered Conlin knew that deep in the man’s body there was a cold that wasn’t going to be expelled by any artificial heat.
“You alright?” Conlin asked, eyes flashed right, seeing only those long, white fingers. The road ahead was so empty that the chance of anything crossing in front of them was slim, but Conlin would rather have watched the road than to come to terms with what was happening to Andersen. Desolate. This road gave that word its meaning, but Conlin had found that the word was also a feeling, a feeling of being in a world where one didn’t belong.
There was another reason why Conlin couldn’t pull his eyes away from the road. It was awe. Not with the trees or rocks or roads or the other million little things that were the same as always. It was awe because he had crossed over from the year 1946. Nineteen-fucking-forty-six!
The man next to him paused in his singing and groaned softly. Can’t waste time thinking about it now. Andersen was sick, and getting sicker. “You alright?” he asked again.
“I’m fine. Pull over when it suits you. I have to go.”
“Alright. Eyes could use a rest.”
“Do they hurt? Sometimes it takes a while to adjust. Few days…few weeks.”
“No. Just tired, that’s all.” Conlin eased off the gas and the engine changed its sound ever so slightly, from the high-pitched whirr to a lower register. He swung the car off the packed dirt road that had been hardened to the consistency of stone by countless rains and winters . He stopped the engine and the heavy sounds of rushing wind that moved unencumbered through thousands of miles filled the void.
Dr. Andersen climbed out of the car, holding onto the roof as he removed one long leg after another and finally stood, swaying slightly, one hand holding that ridiculous boater hat that made him look like one-fourth of a barber shop quartet. The hat threatened to exit its landing spot, the wind vying for the real estate of Andersen’s head. Conlin studied the head through squinting eyes, marveling on how white the hair had turned in less than a month. The hair was the color of nothing and on anyone else it would be shocking but this cat was very white to begin with. Now the black overcoat made Andersen look like a ghostly undertaker. “I’m just tired,” Andersen said again, moving away. “I’m alright.” He walked away from the road, not quite picking up his feet, and after twenty paces stopped to relieve himself, the weak stream of urine splattering on the dusty ground in the watery sunlight of late afternoon.
He’s not alright. Conlin’s head shook and the corners of his mouth turned down in sharp angles. He’s not alright and getting worse by the hour. As the journey from Philadelphia to Kansas stretched into days, Andersen’s breathing grew more and more labored and small wheezing noises began to issue from his chest. When a coughing fit hit, the sound was like artillery practice and Conlin thought that eventually Andersen would open his mouth and his entire insides would come forth, splattering the white interior of the car.
Conlin crossed the deserted street and navigated around thorny and brown vegetation, taking a solitary moment to clear his head and stretch stiff legs. He needed a break from worrying about Andersen even though he thoroughly liked the man. Despite the vast difference in education, Andersen spoke plainly and never talked down. Conlin had noticed that right away when the group had first come together, and he had surmised it were a manipulative tactic to gain their trust. But after this trip he knew the man was genuine. And after the sacrifice Andersen had made, he didn’t just trust him, he admired him. And admiration wasn’t something Patrick Conlin handed out easily.
His eyes moved to the car, its long yellow and silver body in such stark contrast to the gray scenery that it was as if a slice of memory had come to life. A Martin Wasp. Out of all the automobiles in the world, it was an uneasy coincidence that he had known this car in his youth. He could see his father coming home from work dressed in his livery uniform, whistling a ragtime tune. Sometimes if John Conlin were in between driving his employers to one of their high-class destinations, he would spot his father from blocks away, cruising the streets in his neighborhood, that black and gold car like a brand-new penny in a handful of rusty nails. A young Conlin would run his hand over the spotless chrome. He wasn’t allowed to touch the interior even with clean hands, but he could look at the dashboard instruments. If he had extra time, his daddy would open the hood so he could explain to his wide-eyed young son how the engine worked.
And because Conlin had seen a car such as this back then, he was able to appreciate the uniqueness of this dashboard. The dials were different. The engine, one that might have gone maybe thirty miles an hour in its prime, now was replaced with an engine Conlin had helped build. This car reached thirty in mere seconds, and where it went from there was in speeds no one in 1918 had witnessed yet.
He pulled the wool coat closed around him now that the frigid air had cooled his hot skin. Hidden in the backseat was his father’s Army uniform. John Conlin fought in the Great War as a Harlem Hellfighter but that unit didn’t ship out from Kansas. It left from the Brooklyn Navy yard. At Fort Riley he would have been a Buffalo Soldier, but he didn’t have the arm patch with the buffalo, so he still wouldn’t have blended in. Dressing in his father’s old livery suit was better. It would divert suspicion on why a Negro was driving a tony car like the Wasp. It would explain why there was a white guy in the seat next to him and maybe, just maybe they wouldn’t attract too much attention when they drove around Fort Riley, searching for Dr. Thrax.
Just the name itself made the hair on Conlin’s arms stand up. He both wanted to find Thrax, and was terrified of doing so.
And the girl, this Theodora Evora. Andersen still had to tell him in full why they were looking for her. They followed her in Philadelphia, trying to stay in the background, but Conlin’s instincts didn’t have to be too sharp to see that the girl wasn’t a dummy. Dr. Michael Andersen wasn’t exactly the slickest person and if Conlin were a betting man, he’d wager that she had spotted the stranger with snow white hair and the wrong hat.
With deliberate slow motions, Andersen sat back into the shotgun seat. He settled back, eyes closed. “There’s a killer on the road…his brain is squirming like a toad.”
Conlin got in and started the engine. It came to life instantly. “You think we’ll find him?”
“Oh, yes,” Andersen said, opening his eyes halfway. “He and I spoke about 1918 countless times. I know his mind better than anyone. He’s here. I didn’t need the machine’s data to know that.”
Conlin drove in silence for a few moments, then said, more to himself, “He could have been you.”
“Or I could have been him,” Andersen chuckled, and it turned into one of those machinegun-fire coughing fits.
“That would be impossible.”
“Anyone can turn, Patrick. We think it won’t be us, but it can happen. That’s human nature.”
Conlin shook his head. “I won’t. Not after what I’ve seen.”
He expected Andersen to agree, but he didn’t say anything. The small shadows from the sparse roadside shrubs were growing long and one side of the massive sky deepened into a dark electric blue. Conlin thought he had fallen asleep. “We only have a few days,” Andersen said, and Conlin startled.
Dates he had had to memorize whirled in his mind like a spiral calendar. “Yes,” he said. “But we need to fail this. Right?” He asked softly.
Andersen shrugged and turned up the heat to full blast. “We’ll see about that. We’ll see.”
READ CHAPTER 4 HERE:
1Riders on the Storm lyrics copyright 1971 The Doors
Well done Alison, great writing, and compelling story! Thank you!
“The hat threatened to exit its landing spot, the wind vying for the real estate of Andersen’s head.”
I like your way of writing.