Who Is Brian Quinn?

Wooden Leg - Crash Landing - The Planet of New Jersey

"Where's your sister?" asked Beardsley.

"Upstairs," replied Dolores. "Wrapped in sweaters, sleeping."

"Sounds precious," remarked Beardsley. The two stood on the porch. A light rain fell, making muted ticking noises on the surface of the surrounding water.

Dolores had on her moon boots with pink leg warmers tucked into the tops, a pair of white furry earmuffs that made her talk louder. Beardsley had his hands in his pockets looking tight lipped and slightly winded.

"Did you run all the way over here?" Dolores asked.

He wagged his head, "Not all the way. Most of the way. Where's your brother?"

"I don't know," she said. "He hasn't been home since yesterday. Is something wrong?"

"Want to go on a little trip?" Beardsley looked away and smoothed his hair along his temples.

"Not if it's going to be like the last one," she replied.

"It'll be nothing like the last one. Believe me."

She smiled and pulled her cardigan lower around her hips. "Cold today," she said.

"Cold everyday," answered Beardsley. "Go put some clothes on. Don't let your mother see you leave. Or Moony."

She scampered back into the house letting the screen door slam shut behind her.

Beardsley's car had flooded about twenty blocks away, water pouring in around his feet up to his ankles. Steam poured from the engine and the whole surging hunk of metal had swam to a stop. "I guess that's it," addressing the windshield. He crawled out the window and pulled himself up on the roof of the car. Surveying the rest of the neighborhood he spat into the murky water. "Guess I'm walking," he muttered to himself then began hopping from car to car. Derelict vehicles sat submerged in water all along the street. He jumped from hoods to trunks to the next hood and so forth, making his way down the avenue. Coming upon a stretch of cars tightly parked he had begun to run, leaping from chassis to chassis. As his feet hit, the cars would shudder, sending out ripples on the endless water all around.

Dolores reappeared wearing a white fuzzy scarf and a mini-skirt.

"I meant to return this," remarked Beardsley. He fished around in his coat for a moment. He held up the cleaver, a layer of dried blood remained on the blade from Gregorio's hand.

Dolores made a face. Her thick blonde hair was up in two buns on the sides of her head. "Beardsley, don't. That's disgusting."

He grinned and slammed the cleaver into a rail post on the porch. The blade stuck in the wood, the handle quivering. "No car. Damn thing flooded up the road. Gonna have to hoof it."

Dolores nodded and made her way down the steps and into the water.

"Here," said Beardsley turning and standing in front of her. "Hop on."

She flung her arms around his neck and jumped onto his back, her thin legs wrapping around his waist. They made their way to the nearest car and Beardsley let her down on the hood.

"We're going to the wharf," he said as they tramped from car to car.

"What for?" she said.

"We need to find your brother."

"He's at the wharf?"

"No. We need a boat."

"A boat?" she said.

"Yes. A boat."

"What kind of boat?" she asked.

"Whatever kind they still have."