Primal Gambit

Chapter 45: Shift Finds His Wheels

Shift walked with a limp. It was the best he could do since the incident in The Yard. Part of him wished he had died right there, out in those fields alone – sustaining a different type of existence as the vicious wild dogs, ridden with mange, ripped his limps apart and gnawed on the bones. It was unlikely that he and his partner would succeed in capturing the man who had been kidnapped once by one of the most lucrative corporations in the States, then breached again by a pair of professionals. If the mysterious party could slip into Marcotte undetected and leave without a trace, how was he supposed to find them – even with the aid of the man he had come to know as Renault?

Each step brought a twisting pain that crawled up his nerves and muscles, aching to his core: asking permission for him to collapse right there in the street. The road, with its broken asphalt and tilted streetlamps, was just one of the many that connected the Inner City to The Outskirts. Directed by Darwin, Shift was certain the mechanic would not let him down. What difference did it make if he could walk or not? It was his right leg that had been mangled, not the left. If it were reversed, he would have to contemplate rescinding the offer to ensnare the man for Darwin, unable to drive, and head back home in search of aid to rearticulate his shifting foot.

He could still drive, which meant he was still able and ready to earn his share. If he abandoned Renault and the mission, his mother would most certainly succumb to the illness; Shift would have nothing to arrive home to. In the States, let alone the world, money was power. The man with the tough outer shell was beginning to let his emotions get the best of him. Failure was not an option.

Before him, echoing from the open garage doors were spinning power tools. The small spurts of power were recognized by the slow-stepping man, who had grown up in garages since he was a teenager. It made him feel comfortable, and as he neared the building the rich scent of raw metal and rubber permeated his senses. The day was young and the sun had just begun to rise. At midday Shift had planned to meet with Renault to discuss their plan of action – therefore the visit to the mechanic had to be short. The driver would not mind spending the rest of his life in that confined, oil-spilled garage.

As he entered, a man slid out from underneath a raised pickup truck. The portly fellow's face was hidden beneath a welder's mask, which he promptly lifted as he pointed at Shift with a wrench that probably never left his body.

"Hey, you Shift?" He grumbled, lighting a smoke with the blowtorch in his other hand. The tobacco hung from his cracked lips as he motioned for the driver to answer. Greasy hair and a tank top drowned in oil, the man was not a looker.

"Yeah, Darwin contacted you?" Shift spoke quietly, unable to shake the feeling that he had been followed since being discharged from the hospital. He was struck with curiosity as to why the mechanic lacked a respirator.

"Didn't catch the guy's name. Only thing I caught was the amount of money he was willing to drop. You, my friend, are in good hands." The mechanic coughed on his own laughter before dragging the cigarette.

"I'm Kanon – no, not like the camera your great grandparents used to own or the first artillery ever designed. If you're pronouncing it like either of them you're pronouncing it wrong. Ka-non. I'm the lead mechanic here." He spelled it out. Shift hadn't planned on repeating it, regardless of whether he knew how to pronounce it. With any luck he would be on the road and on his way to Renault within the hour.

The foreign driver remembered the sign dangling on hooks in the wind: Lucky K's Garage.

"So, what do you have for me?" Shift grunted. As the two left the garage and moved into a small office, one that was properly oxygenized, the foreigner removed his mask. Before the mechanic could respond, Shift cut him off:

"Why aren't you wearing a mask?"

"I've grown up without one – sure it has its adverse effects but I can walk outside without having to strap a rubber to my face." He said, chuckling at his word choice. Kanon's lack of mask and constant exposure to the elements had conditioned his lungs to the air, but the pollution still ravaged his body in the form of deteriorating internal organs and an increased rate of aging.

"Anyways, I have a real treat for you!" The glee in the mechanic's voice rang out as he tossed the blowtorch aside.

"Your guy sure did take care of you – paid us to work on something special. As I understand it, your last job had you tracking a bird through the sky in a jeep. No easy task, there – bet it left you in the dust, like a child lost and alone in the desert – no aim or direction. This time it'll be different." He coughed on the tobacco, releasing a plume of smoke directly at Shift.

He riled – face contorting in disgust. His father smoked in the evening sun on the porch when he was a child, though back then it didn't bother him in the least. Much the opposite, he found comfort in the rustic aroma – in knowing that his father was close.

"What is it?" The foreigner was growing tired of repeating the same question and getting nowhere. He was hoping that with enough repetition he would finally be sitting in the new vehicle.

"Ah, come with me. She's out back." He grinned, making Shift wonder why they entered the office in the first place. There was no paperwork to be filed, nothing for him to sign. The entire visit laced him with confusion.

Shift reattached his mask as Kanon led him to the back of the shop. The backdoor jangled as it opened, the bright sun hidden behind gray clouds that spit a light dusting of snow to the Earth. Drilling sounds in the garage were muffled by concrete as Shift was met by a sizable object hidden beneath a patched together, cloth tarp.

"Feast your eyes – on Gretel." With a few tugs the sheet was drawn from the vehicle.

"My guys named her as they worked on her. As she began to take shape, they couldn't help coming up with a title to match her identity. Her ruggedness is matched only by her utilitarianism." Shift was taken aback by the mechanic's vocabulary, but more dumbfounded as to how the vintage car landed in Kanon's possession. He was sure that they had all been chopped once the series was discontinued.

As Kanon stood with his arms crossed, listing off the various modifications that had been made to the classic American muscle car before them, Shift could not resist being drawn closer. He didn't need to listen to the man behind him – he could have learned the statistics by simply lifting the hood and studying the various components.

The car looked as though it had been mangled together by the chop shoppers in The Yard. It worked to his advantage, lending him the ability to disguise himself if he ever entered the junkyards again. It was spray-painted in two tones: a vibrant orange that complemented a flat charcoal coat. The doors and windshield had been replaced by steel grates, which would surely protect Shift were he to roll her. Solar panels and antennae paneled the roof.

"It'll do. Where did you find it?" Shift asked. He remembered sitting in a similar car during his teenage years, racing the winding backcountry streets of Malta to help provide for his family. It reminded him of his youth, of a much simpler time – devoid of chaos, until his father fell ill.

"It'll more than just do, my friend. Found her in The Yard before the chop shoppers could get their grimy paws on it. Animals, they'd have torn her to bits." He cursed under his breath.

A foreign looking projectile weapon system was latched onto the car where the passenger-side mirror belonged.

"What is that?" The foreign driver pointed a gloved finger towards the weapon.

"That there, Shift, is a net-gun." Kanon grinned, spitting out his cigarette.

Shift knew that this job required him to hunt a man down, but he was not expecting Darwin, a man based around morals and fighting for the rights of the people who had been wrongly treated, to permit the use of such a dehumanizing weapon. Snaring a man with a net meant he was more animal than human.

Was Arthur Shuke a man, or had he let go of the burning tether to humanity – regressed so far into primate circles that he was no longer human?

Only time would tell.