CARS NEED LOVE, TOO

Chapter Two

           

Once upon a time, Starsky had believed he was prepared for any catastrophe that could strike Bay City.  Hurricane, tornado, earthquake...  All he had to do was report in at the precinct.  He might end up on the riot squad, or maybe he’d be handing out food rations, or loading refugees onto a bus.

 

But no electricity meant no television, no radio, and no phone.  The mayor couldn’t talk to the chief of police.  The chief of police couldn’t talk to any of the captains.  And the captains couldn’t reach their men.  Starsky had no idea where he should be, or what he was supposed to do.

 

This time when Starsky opened his front door, he saw a red glow on the horizon, dimming the stars.

 

He shifted his melting tub of chocolate ice cream to his other arm.  "What time is it?" he asked Hutch.

 

"That’s not the sun," said Hutch.  "Something downtown is burning."  He was carrying the rest of their beer, and chewing on the last slice of pizza.

 

As soon as Hutch spoke, Starsky realized he could smell smoke.  A sick feeling settled into the pit of his stomach, and he regretted the beer he’d had for breakfast.

 

"I want to know what the hell’s going on," he said.  "I want to know who did this to us.  Was it the comet?  Or is it communists?  Do they have some kind of secret weapon that makes electricity go nuts?  Or, or aliens!  It could be aliens, right?  Maybe that wasn’t a comet at all last night.  Maybe it was an alien spaceship.  A communist alien spaceship."

 

"Maybe we brought it on ourselves," said Hutch, following him down the stairs to the street.  "We became too industrialized, too dependant on machines.  We tried to make everyone into numbers and now we’re getting our just desserts."

 

"I like the communist aliens better."  Starsky patted his jacket, feeling the reassuring weight of his gun.  "We can fight—"  He cut himself off.  "Hey, someone’s trying to steal my car!"

 

The Torino was rolling slowly down the street in front of the house.  At Starsky’s shout, it sped up.  Starsky dropped his ice cream and broke into a run, trying to head off his car.

 

Behind him, Hutch was shouting, but Starsky couldn’t spare the time to stop and listen.  His entire focus was on his car and the suicidal moron who was trying to drive off with it.

 

He must be a very short moron, thought Starsky as he skidded to a stop in the middle of the road.  He was looking straight into the front windshield—and right out the back windshield at the glowing horizon.  He couldn’t see the driver at all.

 

The Torino slowed.

 

"Damn right, you’re giving me my car back!"

 

The Torino stopped.

 

Starsky took a step forward.

 

The Torino backed up.

 

"Hey!"

 

The Torino accelerated rapidly backward.  It reversed into a turn and bounced up onto the sidewalk, circling Starsky.  He waved his arms, frantically.  "Careful!  You’ll wreck her suspension!"

 

"Starsk, get out of the way!" shouted Hutch.

 

Starsky turned to see Hutch holding his Magnum, trying to get a bead on the car.  The beer was on the ground at his feet.

 

"No!  No, no, no!"  Starsky jumped between Hutch and the car.  "You are not shooting my car!"

 

The Torino’s engine revved, and to Starsky’s ears it sounded suspiciously as if it was blowing a raspberry at Hutch.  He turned and pointed at the car.  "Stop that!"

 

Starsky knew he had to put an end to this lunacy before Hutch began blowing giant holes in his baby.  Spreading his hands and trying to look as non-threatening as possible, he approached the Torino.  "Look, buddy," he said loudly.  "I don’t know who you are, or what game you’re playing, but I need my car back.  Now!"

 

The car wobbled uncertainly, as if the unseen driver was alternately stepping on the gas and the brake, silently debating whether to make a break for it.

 

"I promise," said Starsky, still moving closer, "I won’t arrest you.  We’ve got bigger problems than some joy rider."  He gestured down the street.  "Can’t you tell the city’s burning?  There are people down there who need help!"

 

The Torino’s engine slowed to an idle.  Light flooded the interior, though the doors remained closed.  Starsky waited tensely for the midget to emerge.

 

And then he waited some more.

 

"Well," he asked finally.  "Are you coming out?"

 

There was no movement in the car.

 

Hutch walked up beside him, gun still in hand.  "There’s no one in there."

 

Starsky leaned over the warm hood and peered into the interior.  Seeing nothing, he moved around to the side and stuck his head in the window.  "Where did he go?  I was watching the whole time!"  He straightened, a new thought occurring to him.  "Uh, Hutch?  You don’t think she was, uh, ...driving herself?"

 

Hutch’s bark of laughter made him jump.

 

Starsky crossed his arms defensively.  "You don’t have to be like that."

 

"Aw, c’mon!  Be reasonable, Starsk.  Exploding light bulbs are one thing, but cars don’t drive themselves.  Next you’ll be telling me she’s alive!"

 

The Torino abruptly shifted gear and shot forward three feet.

 

Hutch yelped.  "Ow, dammit!  She just drove over my foot!"

 

"Hah!" said Starsky, victoriously.  "Not only does my car drive herself, but you called her ‘she’.  I heard you!"

 

Hutch hopped on one leg, trying to hold his left foot in both hands.  "Someone’s playing a trick on us.  They’ve got your car hooked up to a radio remote control and they’re making it do things."

 

Starsky patted the Torino’s trunk.  "You’re a good car, you know that?  You’re a very good car."

 

The Torino purred.

 

"That car could have broken my foot," snarled Hutch.  "I mean, whoever’s controlling that car could have broken my foot."  He gingerly set it down on the ground, making ‘owwie’ noises under his breath.

 

"But it didn’t, did it?"

 

"Maybe it did!"  Hutch gingerly took a step forward, as if expecting his foot to shatter at any moment.

 

Starsky patted the Torino again.  "Good car!"  He looked around, taking in the dark silent streets.  "That’s weird."

 

"What?"

 

"Where is everybody?" asked Starsky.  "I mean, all the yelling we’ve been doing, why hasn’t anyone gotten up to see what’s going on?"

 

Hutch stared suspiciously at the Torino.  "I don’t know.  They’re probably still asleep."

 

"I hope so," said Starsky.  He hesitated a moment, uncertain what to do next.  He wanted to knock on his landlady’s door and make sure she was safe.

 

On the other hand, if he knocked on old Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s door, her first action would be to sit up in bed and reach for the light switch.   Starsky didn’t want to be responsible for electrocuting an old lady.  Better to let her sleep.

 

"C’mon, let’s go," said Starsky.

 

*

 

Hutch was quite sure he didn’t want to climb inside the car, but then Starsky made chicken noises at him.

 

"When the guy with the remote control takes over this car and drives us off a cliff, I’m blaming you."  Hutch put the case of beer in the back and then eased himself into the passenger seat.  He pulled the door shut and pushed the lock down.  It immediately popped up again.

 

Starsky smacked the dash.  "Hutch is our friend.  Behave!"

 

The lock clicked down in a way that Hutch could only describe as sullen.

 

"And that’s not even logical," protested Hutch.  "Your doors aren’t connected to the electrical system of your car at all.  How can it control its own locks?"

 

"Who’s a good car?  Whooo’s a good car?" cooed Starsky, speaking into the radio.

 

Hutch closed his eyes for a moment.  Then, very calmly, he said, "I know this may seem like a dream come true, but your car is not alive."

 

"Define alive," said Starsky, as the Torino picked up speed.  "She definitely knows how to move."

 

The stoplight at the bottom of the hill was dark until they approached the intersection.  Then it glowed green for a moment before switching directly to red, skipping amber entirely.  The bulb popped as they passed through the intersection.  Starsky ignored the faint tinkle of glass hitting the car roof.  "Well?"

 

Hutch reached back to his premed biology classes.  "Living things breathe."

 

"My car has an air intake valve," said Starsky, his fingers lightly caressing the steering wheel.  "The air mixes with the gas to create combustion.  If that’s not breathing, I don’t know what is."

 

"Stop the car," ordered Hutch.

 

Starsky immediately hit the brake.

 

Hutch climbed out and crossed the street to a telephone booth, where he’d seen a figure slumped on the ground inside.  The man looked as if he was simply sitting, but up close Hutch could see that his face was purple and his eyes were staring blankly.  Hutch touched his neck, but the chilly skin made it obvious that he wouldn’t find a pulse.

 

"Is he alive?" called Starsky from the car.

 

Hutch shook his head.

 

"What killed him?"

 

Hutch looked at the phone dangling at the end of its cord.  He could hear a dial tone.  "Feel like making a call?" he shouted back to Starsky.

 

"Hell no!"

 

Hutch walked back to the car and slumped down in the passenger seat, massaging the bridge of his nose.

 

Starsky picked up the radio handset and pressed transmit.  "This is Zebra Three."

 

A burst of static answered him.  Starsky frowned and replaced the handset.

 

The Torino continued down the street.

 

After a moment Hutch said, "Living things eat."

 

"My car consumes gasoline."  Starsky stopped the car again, barely a block further down.  There was a body lying over the threshold of a restaurant door.  Neither of them got out of the car for this one.  From the amount of blood pooling blackly beneath her, it looked as though the woman had bled to death.  There was an electric egg beater in her hand.

 

Starsky stomped down on the gas, and took the next corner at speed.

 

"Living thing grow," said Hutch.

 

That gave Starsky a moment’s pause.  "My car’s already full grown."  But he sounded less certain.

 

They didn’t stop for any more bodies.  They didn’t even slow down for the man in the bright yellow vest of a city worker, dangling limply from a stoplight.  A cherry picker lay on its side nearby, tangled in broken power lines.

 

Other than the sparks of electricity snapping brightly at the ends of the downed lines, the street was dark.  Shattered neon signs hung above the sidewalks, and colored glass glittered on the concrete.

 

Hutch stared grimly ahead.  "And living things procreate.  So there you go, the day this car lays an egg, that’s the day I’ll accept that she’s...  I mean it’s alive."

 

"Hah, you said—"

 

"I know what I said!"

 

As the night faded, orange light crept over the buildings.  And though they searched, Starsky and Hutch did not see a single living soul out on the streets. 

 

Starsky fussed with the radio as he drove, trying to raise something other than static.  "All units, this is Zebra Thee.  Someone, anyone, talk to me!"

 

As they passed an alley, something caught Hutch’s eye.  "Stop the car!"

 

The Torino jolted to a halt.  "What?  What?"

 

"I just saw another body."  Hutch reached for the handle of the door.  It was locked.  “And I think I saw something alive, too.”

 

"Where?" asked Starsky, reaching for his own door.

 

"The body was in the alley.  Someone was dragging it.  I can see blood on the sidewalk."  Hutch tried to pull up the lock.  The button slipped from his fingers, apparently stuck in the door.  "What the hell’s wrong with this car?"

 

"C’mon, baby," said Starsky.  "Open your doors.  This is our job, remember?"

 

Hutch was not at all surprised when the lock on Starsky’s door popped up first.

 

*

 

Starsky was beginning to worry about his partner.  Hutch drew his gun and climbed out of the car, muttering under his breath.  When Starsky got close enough to hear, he realized that it was a repeated litany of, "There’s an explanation for everything.  There’s an explanation for everything.  There’s an—"

 

"There’s no place like home," interrupted Starsky.  The way Hutch was talking he wouldn’t have been particularly shocked to see him pull on ruby slippers and click his heels together three times.

 

Hutch’s eyes were showing entirely too much white around the irises, but all he said was, "That works, too."

 

Starsky heard the sound of a motor and glanced back to see the Torino rolling slowly up behind them.  He decided not to tell Hutch.  Whether or not she ever laid an egg, or had babies by any other means, his car was indisputably alive.

 

And she liked him, which meant a lot.  He couldn’t imagine what he’d had done if the Torino had shared his clock radio’s opinion of him.

 

Hutch stopped just short of the alley.  "It’s definitely blood," he said quietly.

 

Starsky moved up next to the wall, and peered into the alley.  Deep in the shadows, he could hear a car engine rumbling.  As Hutch moved out of the line of fire, Starsky shouted, "Police!  Come out with your hands up!"

 

The engine revved once, and then resumed idling.

 

Starsky looked across the mouth of the alley at Hutch.  "Did you see who was dragging our victim?"

 

Hutch shook his head.

 

"Right," said Starsky, feeling the small hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand up.  "Cover me."  He stepped out from behind the corner, his gun trained on the sound of the engine.  "This is the police!"

 

Behind him, the Torino roared.  It charged into the mouth of the alley, forcing Starsky to leap to the side.  The shadows were blasted away by twin beams of headlights, and a vision of horror was revealed.

 

A garbage truck crouched malevolently, half turned across the width of the alley.  Starsky guessed that the broken body under its wheels had to be the one Hutch had seen.  But that wasn’t the only one.  A pair of bloodied legs in green trousers were stuck in the jaws of the garbage compactor, while the corpse of a second garbage man hung halfway out of the door of the cab.  He’d been decapitated.

 

"Oh, shit," said Hutch quietly.

 

The Torino revved aggressively and backed up.  Starsky didn’t need a second invitation, and he was relieved to see that Hutch didn’t either.  They scrambled inside the car.

 

The garbage truck turned ponderously in their direction, the body of its latest victim dragging under its chassis.  Starsky hit the gas, and the Torino reversed out of the mouth of the alley into the street.

 

And then almost immediately Starsky hit the brake again.

 

Other cars and trucks were slowly emerging from the alleys and side streets along the road.  In the growing light of the day, it was obvious that they had no drivers.  Or at least, thought Starsky noting dark stains on the grill of a Cadillac, none that were still living.

 

Hutch rolled down the window and drew his gun.

 

"Aim for the engine block," advised Starsky.  "If you go for a wheel, you might miss and that’d just make them madder."

 

The strange cars were blocking both ends of the road.  Starsky pointed at a yellow cab at the edge of the sidewalk, and raised his eyebrows.  There was a gap between the cab and the building which looked just big enough for the Torino.

 

Hutch nodded.  He took careful aim, and squeezed off a round.  As the gun kicked back in his hand, Starsky gunned the Torino toward the cab.

 

Hutch fired again as the Torino jumped up onto the sidewalk.  A second bullet hole appeared in front of the first and the cab’s hood popped open with a squeal and a burst of steam.

 

“Got him,” shouted Hutch, triumphantly.

 

Around them, engines revved in a furious chorus.

 

Starsky gritted his teeth at the sound of brickwork digging gouges into his door as the Torino scraped between the wall and the cab.  "Oh, baby, I’m sorry," he told his car.

 

"Why?" asked Hutch, firing a round at the cars behind them.  "It’s not like you made any of this happen."

 

Starsky glanced in the rearview mirror.  They were being pursued by at least four cars, and one flatbed truck.

 

"Oh, you were talking to your car," said Hutch, sounding disgusted.

 

"Not one word," said Starsky sharply.  "I don’t want to hear one bad word about this car.  She saved our lives!"

 

Hutch cracked his Magnum and looked into the chamber.  "I’ve got four shots left.  What have you got?"

 

"One clip, eight rounds," said Starsky.  He glanced at Hutch.  "Want to try running for it?"

 

"Yeah."  Hutch’s grin was shark-like, all teeth and bloodlust.  "Let’s show these bastards what a real car can do."

 

*

 

The Torino took the next corner on two wheels, and behind them Hutch saw the flatbed truck roll.  The bed of the truck landed on a Gremlin which had been following too closely, and crushed it flat.  Leaning out the window and looking back, Hutch saw the truck jackknifed across the road, its cab buried in the remains of the Sex-o-Rama’s front window.  Its wheels spun in angry futility.

 

Three smaller cars swerved around it, still in pursuit.  Hutch pulled his head back into the Torino and braced himself against the dash.  His stomach lurched miserably with each turn, and he desperately wished he hadn’t had pizza and beer for breakfast.  He could hear the remaining cans rattling in the back.

 

Hutch swallowed hard and then yelled, "You know what?"

 

Starsky’s attention was riveted on the road ahead of him.  He didn’t answer immediately, instead taking a sharp turn onto the plaza and heading straight for the wide steps up to the street above.

 

As the Torino bounced up the stone steps, he said, "What?" 

 

"I—th—th—think!"  Hutch’s teeth were clattering together as the top of his head repeatedly hit the roof of the car.  "You sh—sh—sh—should!"  The Torino finally reached the top and spun out onto the street.  "Have left the seatbelts in!"  He swallowed again, feeling distinctly green.

 

"But we never use them!"

 

Hutch closed his eyes as Starsky took the next corner on two wheels, swerving into a narrow alley.  He opened them again only to see what appeared to be a solid wall of cardboard boxes bearing down on them.

 

Oh God, thought Hutch.  He had only a fraction of a second to brace for the impact.  He could feel Starsky fighting to keep the Torino under control as boxes bounced up onto the hood or were crushed under its wheels.

 

A brief squeal of tortured metal and then the Torino popped out of the alley onto the street.  Hutch looked back, his stomach in his throat.

 

"How many now?" asked Starsky.

 

"Two," said Hutch.  "A Ford station wagon and a Chevy Malibu."

 

Starsky swung around the next corner and immediately hit the brakes.  Still looking back, Hutch lost his grip and his ribs hit the dashboard with bruising impact.  "Ow!"

 

"Oh, man," said Starsky, sounding awed.

 

"What?"  Hutch twisted, trying to untangle himself.  Behind them, their pursuers had also stopped.

 

He instantly forgot about them.  In the road before him were two big red fire trucks.  And they didn’t look pleased.

 

*

Chapter Three

           

Starsky heard Hutch say, "Oh, shit," very quietly.  The Torino vibrated under his hands, and entirely by herself she shifted into reverse.

 

Then something caught Starsky’s eye.  He blinked, and leaned forward, peering through the windshield.  "Look!  They’ve got people with them!"  There was a man on the sidewalk, behind the trucks, and more clustered in the door of a grocery store.

 

"Prisoners," said Hutch.  "Snacks.  For later."

 

"I don’t think so."  Starsky shifted the Torino back into drive and pulled her over next to the sidewalk.  One of the fire trucks rolled slowly toward them, menace in every rivet.

 

Hutch held his breath.

 

The truck rolled right past the Torino.

 

The threat wasn’t aimed at the Torino or her occupants.  It was focused on the two cars behind them.  They backed up.  The truck advanced further.  They backed into the intersection.  The Ford was the first to turn and flee, followed a moment later by the Chevy.

 

Starsky rubbed the Torino’s steering wheel.  "I love you," he said.

 

Hutch made a choking sound and quickly opened the door on his side.  Starsky glanced over to see Hutch with his elbows on his knees and his hands cradling his head.  He patted Hutch’s back.  "Would some beer settle your stomach?"

 

Hutch groaned quietly.

 

"You got a good one, huh?" said a voice beside Starsky’s window.  He looked up to see a man in a fireman’s uniform standing beside his car.  Behind him was a small crowd of people—a couple of women, a kid in a baseball cap, and an older guy in his bathrobe, his uncombed gray hair sticking out in every direction.

 

Starsky opened the door, and climbed out.  "You guys okay?"

 

"Depends what you mean by okay," said the old man.  He nodded at the pair of fire trucks which had now reversed and were blocking off both ends of the road.  "The world’s gone crazy, and we’re holed up in a grocery store.  But the trucks are looking after us pretty well."

 

"Couldn’t help Tong La," said an Asian girl.  "The electric knife got him."  There was blood on the front of her shirt and the dried tracks of tears on her cheeks.

 

Starsky suddenly recognized the neighborhood.  This was Bucovetsky’s Grocery, and there was Tong La’s, across the street.  "Oh, man, I really liked eating there."

 

"Have you heard anything?" asked a middle aged woman, urgently.  She had an arm wrapped around the boy in the baseball cap.  "Where are the police?  Is the government sending any help?"

 

The fireman looked irritated.  "I keep telling you, the government can’t do a blamed thing without communications.  We have to dig in.  Fortify ourselves."  He looked first at Starsky and then at Hutch, who was now leaning on the roof of the Torino.  "You two staying, or going?"

 

"Going," said Starsky.  He turned to Hutch.  "We’re close to The Pits."

 

Hutch nodded.  "Look, just sit tight," he told the crowd.  "I’m sure the authorities are working on a solution right now."

 

The fireman snorted rudely.  But no one made a move to stop Starsky and Hutch as they climbed back into the Torino.

 

Starsky suspected they were just as happy not to have to share their supplies with two more people.  He glanced back and saw that the fireman and the old guy were working together to bring down the shutters on the grocery store’s windows.

 

"I knew fire trucks would be good," Starsky said.  He waved at the trucks as they drove past.

 

"It’s in their nature to protect people," said Hutch, leaning back in his seat with his eyes closed.  He looked pale.

 

Starsky grinned.

 

"Or it would be," clarified Hutch, quickly.  "If they were alive.  Which they’re not!"

 

"Give it up, buddy," said Starsky.  "There’s no master controller with a remote.  Machines are alive.  Just accept it."

 

"Never," said Hutch.

 

The Pits was dark, but then so was every other building in Bay City.  Starsky stopped the Torino next to the curb outside and tried to peer down the steps.

 

"What do you think?" he asked, finally.

 

Hutch scratched his chin, the corners of his mouth drawn down.  "I think Huggy’s a survivor."

 

"Lots of machines in the kitchen.  Stoves.  Grills.  Big freezers.  That new dishwasher that sanitizes as well as cleans."  Starsky thought of poor Tong La, killed by an electric knife.

 

"No point sitting here speculating," said Hutch, opening his door.  "Let’s go find out."

 

*

 

As Hutch climbed out of the Torino, he discovered that Bay City’s empty streets were somehow even more unsettling to experience in the light of early morning than they had been at night.  By now there should have been cars and pedestrians packing the road, the sounds of motors and people, the lively chaos of a living city.  Instead, the blinds were drawn and shop fronts were dark.

 

It seemed to Hutch that the very architecture of Bay City was leaning over him threateningly.  The world had moved on and people were no longer welcome.

 

"Oh, will you look at my car!"  Starsky’s voice brought him back, reassuringly normal in its outrage.

 

Hutch shook himself.  "What’s wrong with it?"

 

Starsky threw up his hands.  "What’s wrong with it?"  He dropped into a squat and ran his hand over the fresh gouges in the Torino’s side.  "You poor baby, does that hurt?"

 

"Of course it doesn’t hurt," said Hutch.  "Cars can’t feel anything!"

 

"Don’t listen to him," said Starsky to his car.  "First chance I get, you’re getting a brand new paint job."  He looked over his shoulder at Hutch.  "You know, you’re really lucky we left your car at home.  For all I know, it’s prowling the streets right now, looking to exact vengeance on you for the way you’ve been treating it all these years."

 

"My car wouldn’t—"  Hutch paused and glanced nervously up and down the street.  "Would it?"

 

"You should have repaired the dents, like I told you to."

 

"But I love my car," protested Hutch.  "It has inner flash."

 

"It’s fast and sturdy," agreed Starsky.  "But you keep stepping on the hood and throwing garbage in the back seat.  I doubt that builds respect."

 

"I don’t know why I’m even having this conversation," said Hutch.  Turning, he hurried down the stairs into The Pits.  Trying the door, he found it locked.  He banged on it with the side of his fist, and shouted, "Huggy!  Are you in there?"

 

There was no answer.  He pounded again.  "Huggy!"

 

The door opened a crack, and a shotgun muzzle pointed at them.  "Be you man or machine?"

 

Starsky reached past Hutch and pushed the shotgun up so that it was no longer pointing directly at his partner’s face.  "Huggy, it’s us!"

 

Huggy peered suspiciously around the edge of the door.  "Don’t you know it’s dangerous out there?  Get inside!"

 

The door opened, but only enough to allow them to squeeze in.  As soon as they were inside, Huggy slammed the door shut and bolted it.  "What’s with all the bellowing on my doorstep?  Are you trying to attract unfriendly eyes?  Next time, come round by the back and ring the delivery bell like civilized people."

 

Hutch blinked for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior.  It looked almost like business as usual for the Pits.  Patrons were huddled over tables lit by candles in red glass jars, nursing mugs of beers.  It was cold in the room, and he realized that the heat must be off.

 

Huggy led the way back to the bar with his shotgun over his shoulder.  "Hutchinson, have you been actively pulling your hair out over all the chaos on these city streets, or were you in fact attacked by your own hair dryer?"

 

Hutch clapped a hand over the sore patch behind his ear.  It felt as if it was scabbing over.  "The second," said Hutch, grimly.  He’d really hoped it wasn’t that noticeable.  With his luck, the follicles had been permanently damaged and would never grow back in.

 

"Huggy, I’ve never seen you with a gun," said Starsky.  He sounded shocked.  "Don’t you have some sort of philosophical objection to them, or something?"

 

"I philosophically object to being attacked by my blender," said Huggy.  "Though if that were all, I still might not have exercised my constitutional right to take up arms.  But right after the blender, there was the angry freezer, the killer coffee maker, the homicidal toaster, and then the big ass range stove got in on the action."

 

Hutch stared at Huggy.  He appeared nonchalant, but from the sound of things, he’d had a far more harrowing night than either himself or Starsky.

 

Huggy continued.  "One of my patrons kindly went out to his car to get his shotgun.  Sadly, his car had other opinions on the matter, but before he died he managed to bequeath his weapon to me.  One good shot to the breaker board deprived every machine in this building of electricity."  He leaned over the counter.  "The dearly departed is currently on ice in my freezer, which is freezing no more.  Will you be arranging for someone to pick him up?"

 

“We’ll try," said Starsky.

 

"We haven’t been able to get through on the radio," said Hutch.

 

"So long as you try.  I have a suspicion the health inspector frowns on corpses in the kitchen."  Huggy set the shotgun down behind the bar and wiped his hands on a towel.  "Now, what can I get for the two of you?"

 

"Information," said Hutch.  "And a hat."

 

"Food," said Starsky.

 

Huggy reached below the counter and came up with a basket of pretzels.  He slid it across the bar to Starsky.  "Food," he said.  Turning to Hutch, he added, "I regret to inform you that I am not a haberdasher.  And if you’re looking to me for an explanation regarding this craziness, you’ve come to the wrong man."

 

Hutch snagged a handful of pretzels, ignoring Starsky’s growl.  "No, we’re just wondering if you’ve heard anything on the grapevine about how widespread this might be.  Whether the military’s mobilizing.  Anything from the mayor?"

 

Huggy rubbed his hand over his lower face.  "Well, the mayor’s dead.  Rumor has it he and his girlfriend were done in by an electric sex toy."

 

"Are you sure that’s a real rumor?" asked Hutch, chewing on a pretzel.  He hadn’t realized until that moment just how hungry he was.

 

Huggy shrugged.  "Well, I haven’t seen the cat with my own eyes, but that’s one of his personal aides over there."  He nodded toward a dark corner, where a man in a three piece suit appeared to be drinking himself comatose.  "Claims to have found the mayor in flagrante, in mortis."

 

"What about the Donner, uh, I mean the chief of Police?" asked Starsky, his mouth full.

 

"I know who you mean," said Huggy.  "Donner and Blitzen and all the rest of our reindeer in blue are said to be holed up in Parker Center."

 

"Great!" said Starsky.  "We should head over there."

 

"I wouldn’t recommend it," said Huggy.  "The black and whites have that whole section of the city pretty much sealed off."  He shuddered dramatically.  "You ain’t seen nothing until you’ve seen a pack of them chasing some poor soul with their sirens blaring and lights flashing.  Like seeing the hounds of hell come to life."

 

"Oh, no," said Starsky, sounding anguished.  "That’s not right!"

 

Hutch stole the rest of his pretzels.  "Starsky, just because they’re cop cars, doesn’t mean they’ll be good."

 

A man at the end of the bar spoke up.  "Goddamn Donner doomed us all!"

 

Hutch squinted, trying to see the speaker.  "Richardson, is that you?"

 

Richardson turned around on his stool.  In the flickering light Hutch could see that he had one arm splinted and tied to his chest with torn strips of plaid patterned sheet.  "Donner saw the machines were going crazy, so he ordered a bunch of us to go down and take the distributer caps out of all the cars.  They were quiet until we took out the first one, and then they all went mad."

 

"Aw," said Starsky.  "Why’d he have to do that?"

 

"Doesn’t sound like such a bad idea," said Hutch.  "The chief’s mistake was thinking they’d sit still for it, that’s all."

 

"It’s a terrible idea!"  Starsky jumped off his bar stool.  "If we had those cars working with us, we could round up the rogue ones.  We could get this city back in order!"

 

"The ambulances are still on our side," said a woman at a table nearby.  She was holding a baby wrapped in a pink blanket.  "That’s how her and me..."  She nodded at her sleeping child.  "That’s how we got out of the hospital."

 

Starsky walked over to look at the baby.  "She’s cute," he said.  "What’s her name?"

 

"I don’t know," said the woman, who Starsky could now see had streaks of gray in her short, rumpled hair.  "She’s not mine.  I was just going in to get my tubes tied, because my husband said we had too many kids.  Guess we got one more now, hey?"  She laughed, the sound harsh and startling in the quiet room.

 

"Is there food for the baby?" asked Hutch.  He could see a bottle on the table, but it was empty.

 

"I sent a couple of the young guys out to gather supplies," said Huggy.  He nodded towards a group of tables pushed together near the door.  The men there held up their mugs in a salute.  They wore vests marked with a wide assortment of biker gang insignias, several of which Hutch would previously have assumed were completely antithetical to the others.  "They raided a grocery store."

 

"Are your bikes loyal?" asked Starsky.

 

"Mine is!" said one young man.  Two others concurred.  The rest of the men at the table scowled or looked away.

 

Starsky rejoined Hutch at the bar.  "So there’s ambulances, fire trucks, a few bikes, and a couple of cars."  He counted off on his fingers.  "If we could get the squad cars to calm down, we might be able to start bringing supplies in to people.  Or we could move people out.  I mean, we don’t know if this is happening everywhere.  Maybe it’s just us."

 

"Or we could just stay right here until it’s all over," said Hutch.  Huggy handed him a beer, and placed a second mug in front of Starsky.  "Thanks."

 

"I want to get a good look at those black and whites," said Starsky.  "They’re going to be running out of gas soon, and we might be able to use that to bargain with them."

 

Hutch drank his beer.  It felt good to be sitting down enjoying a drink without anything trying to kill him.  The small electrical burns and glass nicks on his fingers were stinging, and his back felt bruised, not to mention the spot on his scalp where his hair had been yanked out.  He deserved a break.

 

"The thing is," continued Starsky, drumming his fingers on the counter, "we can’t assume that anyone’s coming to rescue us.  We have to be prepared to look after ourselves."

 

Hutch couldn’t cope with Starsky’s enthusiasm for making post-Apocalyptic plans.  He turned to Huggy instead.  "What about Dobey," asked Hutch.  "Have you heard anything from him?"

 

Huggy shook his head.  "Sorry, my man.  Not a word."

 

Starsky drained his mug of beer and then set it down firmly.  "Well, I’m done!  C’mon, Hutch, let’s do some scouting."

 

With a sigh, Hutch stood up.  Starsky was right.  They couldn’t just hide in The Pits while the world fell apart around them.  "I think your plan stinks," he told Starsky.

 

Starsky’s face fell.

 

"But it’s the only plan we’ve got," said Hutch.  "So let’s go check out some cars."

 

Starsky brightened.  "The black and whites weren’t always bad," he said.  "I’m sure I can figure out a way to bring them around."

 

*

 

The light of day was blinding after the dim, smoky interior of The Pits.  Starsky blinked for several minutes before he realized that the Torino was not where he’d left it.

 

"Great, it’s wandered off," said Hutch.  "You’re going to have to start chaining that car to a telephone pole."

 

Starsky grimaced.  "I wish she wouldn’t run around like that.  Her gas tank is half empty already, and I doubt the pumps are working."  He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly.

 

An engine revved in response  Starsky whistled again, and the Torino zoomed around the corner and up the street, stopping before them with an air of obvious good humor.

 

"Hey, baby," said Starsky.  "What have you been up to?"

 

The Torino purred.

 

"I hope you weren’t talking to any strange cars," said Starsky, walking around to the driver’s side.  "You know they only want one thing."  He sat down behind the wheel.

 

"And what would that be?  Sex?" asked Hutch, irritably.  He yanked on the door and found it locked.

 

"C’mon, let him in," said Starsky, grinning.  "I know he’s a pain in the butt sometimes, but I really like him."

 

There was a moment’s pause and then the lock popped up.

 

"Starsky," said Hutch, climbing inside the car.  "You keep talking to this car as if it understands English."

 

Starsky paused, his hands on the wheel.  "Well, she’s acting like she does."

 

Hutch shivered, uncomfortable with the idea of the car listening in on everything he said.  "Dogs behave like that too, but they’re really just reacting to body language and tone of voice."

 

"I’m sure she’s smarter than a dog," said Starsky.

 

"If we’re going to do anything with the cars in this town, we’ve got to know," insisted Hutch.  He leaned in close to the dash.  "Hey, jackass," he said sweetly.  "Who’s daddy’s homicidal little jackass?"

 

The car’s engine purred contentedly.

 

"Okay," said Hutch, straightening in his seat.  "I think that establishes that she does not understand English."

 

"Or maybe she just doesn’t know any bad words," said Starsky, scowling.  "Because she’s a lady, and ladies don’t use words like that.  And by the way, you’re an asshole, Hutch."  He wrapped his arm protectively around the steering wheel.

 

Hutch opened the car door.  "Let’s do some more tests."  He walked around the car and stood by Starsky’s door, waiting expectantly.

 

Starsky reluctantly climbed out.  "You’d better not do anything bad to this car."

 

"Trust me."  Hutch grabbed him and maneuvered him in front of the Torino.  "Okay now, tell her to come around to your right."

 

Starsky gave him a puzzled look and then shrugged.  "Come on, baby," he said, swinging his right arm out.  "Come on over here."

 

The Torino obediently drove around him and stopped on his right.  Starsky beamed.  "There you go.  She understands everything I say."

 

"Now tell her to back up to where she was, without waving your arms around."

 

Starsky stuck his hands in his pockets.  "Okay, baby, go back to where you were."

 

The Torino purred, but didn’t move.

 

"Come on, baby," said Starsky, encouragingly.  "Go on back.  Right where you were before."

 

The tone of the engine changed slightly, hiccupping uncertainly.  The Torino rolled a few feet forward and then stopped behind them.

 

"Now tell her again," said Hutch.  "But this time use gestures."

 

Starsky turned to face the car.  "Come on, let’s go around this way."  He swung his arm widely, and the car followed his gesture, rolling all the way around until it was in front of them once more.

 

"Good girl!" said Starsky.

 

The nose of the Torino bounced once in happy agreement.

 

"Starsk," said Hutch.  "That’s nothing but a big, dumb dog on wheels."

 

"No," said Starsky, firmly.  "That’s a big, smart dog on wheels."

 

"What it means is, we’re not going to be negotiating with the cars in this city.  We can’t just stroll up to them and say ‘we’ll give you gas in exchange for your co-operation’."  Hutch reached for the door of the Torino.

 

The Torino rolled backward, moving the handle out of his reach.

 

Hutch closed his eyes and counted to ten.  "Starsky, please tell your car to let me in."

 

Starsky strolled over to the Torino and gave the roof an affectionate thump.  "C’mon, baby, let Uncle Hutch in."

 

Both doors unlocked, smugly.

 

Once they were inside, however, Starsky didn’t immediately hit the gas.  He sat with both hands on the wheel, frowning to himself.

 

"What?" asked Hutch, finally.

 

"It doesn’t make sense," said Starsky.  "My car doesn’t understand English, but my clock radio does?"

 

"What’s your clock radio got to do with anything?"

 

"When I woke up last night, it was telling me to die."

 

"What?" said Hutch, again.

 

"It was telling me to die," repeated Starsky.  "In big red letters.  D-I-E.  Die.  Which means my clock radio speaks English, right?  How can my clock radio be smarter than my car?"

 

"Is that the new one you bought?  The one made in Japan?"

 

"Yeah."

 

Hutch shrugged.  "Maybe they make machines smarter in Japan."

 

"I don’t buy it," said Starsky, scowling.   "Maybe it’s not that my car doesn’t understand me, maybe it’s just that she has her ears on the inside.  She couldn’t hear me when I was standing out there."

 

Hutch leaned forward, toward the radio.  "Who’s a freakish violation of all the laws of nature?" he asked, pleasantly.

 

Starsky smacked the back of Hutch’s head.  Hard.

 

*

Chapter Four

           

"We need gas," said Starsky.  "And the one place I can think of that’s got gas is Merle’s Garage."  He palmed the steering wheel, taking the corner smoothly.

 

Hutch was less certain.  "It’s an auto repair shop.  That means it’s packed full of big machines."

 

"Merle’s cars won’t have turned on him.  He loves his cars!"

 

"Maybe his cars wouldn’t have, but what about the acetylene torch?   The hydraulic jack?"

 

"Merle’s a survivor like Huggy," said Starsky, but he sounded doubtful and the Torino slowed.

 

 "And what about the cars he’s using for scrap parts?"  They turned a corner, and Hutch could see the garage’s fence down at the end of the road.  "Junkyard dogs are mean enough.  I don’t want to meet a junkyard car!"

 

"Not alone in a dark alley, anyway," said Starsky, distractedly.  He pulled up in front of Merle’s Garage.

 

Just inside the fence, cars were circling.  Several seemed to spot the Torino and pulled up close as if to get a good look at her.  Behind them, the main garage had been reduced to a blackened shell, and thick black smoke still billowed up from the ruins.  A single corrugated storage shed was the only survivor of the fire.

 

Starsky got out and walked slowly along the fence.  A tricked out Chevy with a leopard skin interior followed him.  "I can see some gas cans."  He pointed to the shed.  "There’s two over there, beside the door."

 

Hutch opened the door of the Torino and looked where Starsky was pointing.  "I see them."  Climbing out of the vehicle, he swallowed nervously.  The cars were staring blankly at himself and Starsky, their headlights glaring.  "It’s impossible, Starsky.  Let’s get the hell out of here."

 

Starsky cupped both hands around his mouth.  "Merle!  Hey, Merle!  Are you here?"

 

A chorus of honks and beeps answered from the yard.

 

"Merle!"

 

More noise from the cars, but no human response.

 

Hutch saw Starsky’s face tighten in grief.  The lump in his own throat made it impossible to speak, even if he could have thought of anything comforting to say.  Wordlessly, he patted Starsky’s shoulder.

 

Starsky took a deep, shuddering breath.  "Okay, let’s get that gas," he said.

 

"How?" asked Hutch.

 

Starsky turned to look at him.  "I was hoping you had some idea.  They’re like dogs, right?  I don’t like dogs much, but I like her."  He tilted his head at the Torino.  "So tell me about dogs and maybe I’ll understand what makes them tick."

 

"They’re pack animals," said Hutch.  He thought back to the dogs which had lived on his grandfather’s farm.  "You have to establish yourself as a leader, or they’ll think they can push you around."

 

"A leader is what?" asked Starsky.  "Bigger?  Stronger?  Meaner?"

 

"No."  Hutch shook his head.  "A leader is just a leader.  When I was five, I could boss any of the dogs on the farm around, and they were all bigger than me.  My grandfather made sure they knew I was higher in the pack order than they were."

 

"How did he do that?"

 

Hutch tried unsuccessfully to remember.  "I don’t know.  I don’t think he did anything.  He was the boss and no one questioned it."

 

Starsky took a deep breath and stared at the cars on the other side of the fence.  He blew the air out slowly, puffing his cheeks out.  "So they’re like dogs, but they’re not dogs.  Which is good because I don’t like dogs.  Dogs bite.  Cars on the other hand..."

 

"Will run right over you and crush you into the pavement," said Hutch.  "Starsky, you can’t seriously be thinking about going in there!  Remember those cars we met earlier?  The ones that tried to kill us?"

 

"That’s because we ran," said Starsky.  "If you run from a pack of dogs, they’ll just chase you down and kill you.  But as soon as those cars saw the fire truck, they backed right off.  They respected that truck."

 

"So let’s go back and get one of the fire trucks."

 

Starsky shook his head.  "No, those trucks are busy putting out fires and keeping people safe." 

 

The car with the leopard interior was right up against the side of the fence now.  Starsky reached through and stroked the hood of the car.  It rumbled pleasantly.

 

"Your hair dryer suckered me in just like that," said Hutch.  "It acted all sweet and then it tried to eat my hair."

 

"Yeah," said Starsky, still staring at the car inside the fence.  "I didn’t want to mention it earlier, but that thing really scalped you.  You’ve got a big bald spot just behind your left ear."

 

Hutch immediately felt the side of his head.  "Where?"

 

Instead of answering, Starsky yanked open the gate and stepped inside.

 

Hutch choked back a shout.  He didn’t want to distract his partner.  Starsky looked very small inside the compound, in just his blue windbreaker and jeans, facing down the pack of cars.

 

Eight of them closed in on him.  There were more in the back, but they weren’t moving.  Either they were too damaged, out of gas, or they simply weren’t interested.

 

The cars formed a semi-circle around Starsky.  He regarded them steadily, a look of fierce concentration on his face.

 

A lemon yellow Pinto was the first to try approaching him.  The moment it nosed forward, Starsky pointed at it and said, "Hey!"

 

It stopped.

 

Starsky walked toward it.  "You’re going to respect me," he told the Pinto.

 

The Pinto backed up.

 

"Hey!" said Starsky again.

 

The Pinto stopped.

 

"Yeah," said Starsky as he approached the Pinto’s door.  "You’re a good car."  He tried the door and found it unlocked.

 

Starsky turned and gave Hutch a jubilant thumbs-up.

 

"Behind you!" shouted Hutch.

 

Starsky whipped around and found a black Volvo bearing down on him at speed.  He scrambled up onto the Pinto’s hood and the Volvo turned at the last moment, dinging the Pinto’s bumper.

 

Starsky slid with the impact, rolling off the Pinto onto the ground.  He immediately bounced to his feet again.  "Hey!" he shouted at the Volvo.  "Back off!"

 

The rumble that issued from the engine sounded more like a snarl to Hutch than a purr.  Evidently it sounded the same to Starsky, too, because his back became very stiff and he growled right back at the machine.  "Don’t you give me that!"

 

Amazingly, the Volvo backed up a couple of feet.

 

"You," said Starsky to the car, "belong to me!"

 

Hutch, almost without realizing it, had drawn his gun and moved right up to the fence.  He now had it pressed sideways against the chain links.  He waited tensely.

 

"Matter of fact," said Starsky, propping his hands on his hips and looking around challengingly at the other cars, "this whole damn yard belongs to me!"

 

The space around him widened, the Volvo pulling back with the others.

 

Starsky nodded.  "That’s right."  He marched over to the gas cans and lifted one.  After a moment’s thought, he put it back down.  Opening the shed door, he looked inside.  Then he waved at the Volvo.  "Get over here!"

 

It hesitated.

 

Starsky snorted and walked up to the Volvo.  He smacked the hood and said, "Come on!"

 

Hutch tasted blood and realized he’d chewed through his bottom lip.

 

The Volvo followed Starsky over to the gas cans.  When he pounded on the trunk, it popped open.  With a grunt, he lifted both cans and slung them in.  Then he went into the shed and brought out two more, one in each hand.

 

One more trip and there were six cans in the trunk of the Volvo.  "Let’s go!" said Starsky, and the Volvo followed him back to the gate.  The other cars backed up to make room.

 

Holstering his gun, Hutch opened the gate and helped Starsky unload the cans onto the sidewalk.  "I don’t believe it," he said.  "I just don’t believe it.  You’re like some kind of Mystical Car Guru."

 

"Well," said Starsky, "I think you’re probably right about the junkyard cars.  But Merl wouldn’t have left any of those with full gas tanks."  He waved his hand back at the cars gathered inside the fence.  "These are all cars he’s worked on.  They’re good vehicles."

 

"But when that Volvo almost clipped you," began Hutch.

 

It was as if Starsky had forgotten all about his close call, until that very moment.  His complexion took on a greenish tinge and he sat down abruptly on the sidewalk.  "Oh, man, Hutch.  For a moment there I really thought I was dead.  I kept seeing that garbage truck chewing up those people."  The Torino nosed over and he patted her hood.

 

Hutch sat down next to him.  "They’re not all going to be good cars, Starsk.  Some of them are going to be just born evil."

 

"Interesting phrase you chose there," said Starsky, glancing at him.  "Born evil.  These cars..."  He waved a hand over his shoulder and was rewarded with a few scattered beeps.  "Something happened last night and a whole new species got born in this city."

 

"The comet," said Hutch.

 

"Yeah."  Starsky stood up and grabbed a gas can.  Taking it over to the Torino, he began to refill the car’s gas tank.  "What’s next in our plan?"

 

"It’s too bad," said Hutch, "that we can’t just stuff everyone into the Pits and throw beer and pretzels at them until the Apocalypse is over."  He stood as well, and retrieved a can of beer from the back seat.  It fizzed as he opened it, spilling over his hand.

 

Starsky took it away from him and drank deeply.  "I wish you hadn’t reminded me about the pretzels.  I’m starving."  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and handed Hutch the half-empty can.  He returned to gassing up his car.

 

Hutch looked around, and spotted several small shops across the street.  The hand lettered sign in the window of one promised fireworks and cigarettes.  Next door to it was another advertising fine liquor and snacks.

 

"Do you think you can survive on MoonPies and Mescal?"  Hutch shook his head.  "What am I saying?  That’s your fantasy breakfast."

 

As he walked away, he could hear Starsky saying, "You just wait, Hutch.  Someday you’ll be telling your grandkids stories about the magical chemical foods we ate before civilization ended.  And they won’t believe you!"

 

Grinning, Hutch headed straight for the more likely looking of the two stores.  He was halfway across the street when a shotgun blast cracked the silence, reverberating through the empty street.  Buckshot burned past his cheek.

 

"Jesus Christ!"  Hutch hit the pavement hard.

 

"Huuutch!" yelled Starsky.  Behind him, motors revved angrily.  Something hit the fence hard, making the chain links rattle.

 

Hutch lifted one hand, cautiously.  "I’m okay!"  Chin scraping the asphalt, he tried to see where the shot had come from.  The shop door was cracked open a few inches.  "Hey, you!"

 

"Traitors!" shouted a voice from the store.  "Commie bastards!"

 

Hutch started to push himself up.  "Look, we just want—"

 

"You’re in cahoots with the machines.  Don’t tell me you’re not.  I saw you talking to them!"  The shop door swung open and a man with thinning dark hair stepped out into the light.  His shotgun was aimed at Hutch.  "You—face down!"

 

Hutch flattened immediately.

 

"Drop the gun!" shouted Starsky, from behind the Torino.

 

The man shook his hair.  "No, I don’t think so, son.  If you don’t want to see your friend properly perforated, you’re going to put that weapon down and kick it over to me."

 

Silence.  Hutch couldn’t see Starsky, but he could feel him thinking, weighing their options.

 

The shop owner raised his shotgun.  "So be it.  One less traitor in the world...."

 

"Okay, okay!" shouted Starsky.  "I’m putting down my gun.  See?"

 

Hutch heard the sound of metal on concrete, as Starsky kicked his gun to the side.

 

"Well, well," said the man, conversationally.  "What’s the going rate for selling out the human race?  Did the machines offer you riches, or was it just your life?  You two don’t look smart enough to be in league with their communist puppet-masters."  He walked up and stopped a few feet from Hutch.

 

"We’re not traitors," protested Hutch.  "We’re cops!"

 

"I know what I saw.  You two boys were in that yard there, getting your orders from the vehicles."  The shotgun swung between the two of them.  "By rights, I ought to blow you both to kingdom come."

 

The Torino growled.

 

"Stop that!" said Starsky to the car.

 

Hutch saw the shotgun come up.  "Mister," he said, quickly, "the cars aren’t that smart.  They’re like dogs.  Starsky gives them their orders, not the other way around."

 

The man frowned.  "If you think you can talk me around—"

 

"Someone’s coming," interrupted Starsky.

 

Hutch braced his toes against the cement, waiting.

 

The shop owner scowled.  "Don’t think I’m falling for that old chestnut.  I wasn’t born yesterday!"

 

"No, really," insisted Starsky.  "Someone’s coming.  Can’t you hear them?"

 

Hutch was impressed.  Starsky really sounded convincing.  He was almost tempted to look for the approaching vehicle himself.

 

The gun wavered slightly, and started to turn.  "More of your mechanical pals, coming to rescue you?"

 

For a split second, the shotgun wasn’t pointed at either of them.  Hutch launched himself forward into the man’s knees.  He heard another deafening explosion as the shotgun discharged again and then he was on top of the shop owner with his hand wrapped around the hot barrel.  He wrenched the weapon out of the man’s hands and flung it away.

 

Straddling the shop owner’s chest, Hutch grabbed his collar and pulled him up.  "You’re damn lucky we’re too busy to haul you in, or I’d have you arrested for pointing a gun at a police officer!"

 

"Hutch, Hutch!" interrupted Starsky, sounding panicked.  "I wasn’t kidding!  Someone’s coming!"

 

"What?"  Hutch looked up, just as a large fleet of cars, headed by a tow truck, turned the corner.

 

"Oh, boy," said Starsky.

 

*

 

Starsky could feel his heart pounding as he faced down the pack.  Determined not to show fear, he almost fainted when a familiar face leaned out of the window of the tow truck.

 

"Starsky, my man!" called Merle.  "It’s good to see you.  Why is Hutch beating up on my neighbors?"

 

"It’s a misunderstanding," shouted Hutch.  He leaned down to look into the shop keeper’s face.  "Isn’t that right?"

 

The man nodded reluctantly.

 

Grinning, Starsky ran over to the side of Merle’s truck.  He jumped onto the runner and hooked his elbow over the edge of the door.  "I thought you were dead.  Your whole place burned down."

 

Merle lost his grin.  Seeming to notice the smoldering ruins of his garage for the first time, he slumped down into his seat.  "Man, that just ain’t right."  Straightening, he leaned forward.  "What about my cars?"

 

"They’re fine," Starsky reassured him.  "Where were you?"

 

"Out on a call," said Merle.  He patted the steering wheel of his tow truck.  "Betsy here suddenly developed ideas of her own, and it took us a good long while to get back to the Cadillac shack.  Picked up some new friends on the way."

 

Starsky looked at the vehicles clustered around the tow truck.  There had to be fifteen cars in the pack, all makes and styles, from gleaming sports cars to a battered brown...

 

"Hutch, look!"

 

Hutch was back on his feet, with the shop owner’s collar in one fist, and his shotgun in the other.  "What?"

 

Starsky pointed.  "It’s your car!"

 

Hutch let go of the shop owner and backed up a step.  "Oh, crap."

 

Starsky jumped off the runner of the tow truck.  "But Hutch, it’s your car.  Isn’t that great?"  He stopped in front of Hutch and gestured back toward the assembled cars.  The brown car nosed forward through the pack.

 

Hutch’s face was white.  His mouth moved silently for a moment before he spoke.  "You told me it’d be out for my blood, because I never got the suspension fixed."

 

"No, I said he’d be mad because you never repaired his dents and you always threw garbage in his back seat—"  Starsky paused.  "What do you mean you didn’t fix the suspension?  You were supposed to do that last week!"

 

Hutch looked as if he was searching for a defense, but he was interrupted by a squeal of tires as the Torino shot past them both.

 

The Brown Bomb pulled out from the pack, rear suspension sagging.  The Torino skidded to a stop beside it, with an attitude of what Starsky could only describe as pure joy.

 

"Aw, will you look at that," said Starsky, happily.  "They’re in love!"

 

Hutch wilted, the butt of the shotgun hitting the cement with a thump.

 

Starsky grinned.  "Want to take bets on whether there’s gonna be baby cars come spring?"

 

*

Chapter Five

           

Hutch sat on the front step of Mr. Robinson’s shop with a loaf of brown bread on one side and a tub of cream cheese on the other.  He was using a plastic knife to spread the cheese.

 

Beside him, Starsky had a root beer and a bag of Cheetos.  His fingers were orange with processed cheese powder, the color standing out in stark contrast to the snack’s red and blue packaging.

 

Empty cans of beer were lined up neatly on the curb.  Hutch had a feeling they might be overindulging a bit, but it seemed appropriate somehow, considering that the end of civilization appeared imminent.

 

He watched the Torino and the Bomb turning happy circles around each other in the middle of the street.  The other cars had been secured in Merle’s compound, and he was busy trying to salvage what he could of his garage.

 

"Cheetos," said Starsky, reflectively.  "When the last bag is eaten, there won’t ever be any more.  We need factories to make this stuff."

 

"I’m not sure that’s much of a loss," said Hutch.

 

Starsky turned the bag around so that the Cheetos Mouse was facing Hutch.  "I’m going to miss this little guy.  Just think—no more Pop Tarts, no more Twinkies, no more Dr. Pepper—"

 

Starsky was usually a happy drunk, but occasionally he could get morose.  Hutch hoped this wasn’t one of those times.  "You’re just trying to cheer me up, aren’t you?"

 

Starsky stuffed another cheese puff into his mouth.  "No more vitamin supplements, no more weird food imported from weirder countries, and no more dried kelp krunchies sprinkled on your high fiber breakfast cereal."

 

Hutch searched for something positive to say, since Starsky seemed determined to focus on the negatives.  The smell of smoke was dissipating and the cloudless sky was a startlingly brilliant blue.  "There’s almost no smog today," he offered.

 

"That’s because the manufacturing plants on the East Side have all shut down," said Starsky.  "You should be nice to your car.  He’s probably the last of his kind.  Unless he somehow makes baby cars with mine."

 

Hutch didn’t want to debate the existence of baby cars.  "How do you know my car’s a boy?" he asked instead.  "For all you know, it could be a girl."

 

"He can’t be a girl," said Starsky.  "My car’s a girl, which means your car’s a boy."

 

"Maybe they’re lesbians."

 

"My car is not a lesbian!"

 

"Why not?" asked Hutch.  "Is there anything wrong with your car being a lesbian?"  This was an entertaining new twist on an old argument, and much better than watching Starsky become increasingly depressed over the demise of junk food.

 

"It’s not natural," said Starsky, predictably.

 

"Nothing about this is natural," said Hutch.  "Right now there are machines roaming around acting like they’re alive.  Why should our ideas about sex and gender have any relevance to what they do?"

 

"All I know," said Starsky, "is that my car is a girl and that means your car is a boy.  End of discussion."

 

"I think that’s a very narrow-minded point of view," said Hutch, as he licked cream cheese off his knife.  "It’s not like they have genitalia.  You can’t check under the hood and tell what sex they are."

 

"My car likes men!"

 

Hutch checked his watch.  "It’s past noon.  What do you suppose they’re doing down at the precinct?"

 

Starsky turned the Cheetos bag over and dumped the crumbs into his palm.  Tipping them into his mouth, he munched for a moment before saying, "Probably executing a plan to save the city."

 

"Then we should get over there and give them a hand."  Hutch stood up and waved at the window of the shop.  "Goodbye, Mr. Robinson!"

 

There was no answer from inside.  Hutch suspected Mr. Robinson was hunkered back down behind the counter with his shotgun, muttering to himself about traitors.

 

Hutch dismissed him from his mind and focused on the Bomb instead.  It had stopped playing with the Torino and was now facing him.  Hutch looked at the car and wondered what it was thinking.  Nothing about its metal and glass countenance gave away any clue to what might be going on inside.

 

He took a step toward the Bomb.

 

The car rolled backward, away from him.

 

"Geez, Hutch.  You’re scaring him!" said Starsky.

 

"I am not scaring my car," said Hutch.  He waved a hand at the Bomb.  "Does he look scared?"

 

"Yes, you are," insisted Starsky.  "And yes, he does!"

 

Hutch looked again.  All he saw was a battered brown car, idling in place.  "You know, there was a time when anthropomorphizing inanimate objects was wrong!"

 

"I’m not anthro-whatever," said Starsky.  "That car is scared of you, and it’s your fault."

 

Hutch threw his hands up in frustration, and the Bomb backed up a few more feet.  "Oh, for crying out loud!"

 

"You could start by putting your hands down," said Starsky.

 

Hutch propped his hands on his hips.  "My car’s a goddamn sissy."

 

"Not like that!"  Starsky walked over, grabbed Hutch’s arms and pulled them away from his sides.  "You’ve got to be relaxed.  Non-threatening.  Shake it out."

 

Hutch tried, but evidently it wasn’t good enough, because Starsky stepped back and looked at him frowning.  After a moment he shook his head and said, "You know what?  I think you should turn around so you’re not looking at your car."

 

"You want me to turn my back to that thing?"  Hutch was appalled.  "What if it runs me over?"

 

"See, that’s your problem!" said Starsky.  "You’re expecting the worst.  You’ve got to have a positive picture in your head.  Think of what you want to happen, and then make yourself believe it."

 

Hutch pointed at the Bomb, which promptly beeped at him.  "I am not taking my eye off it!"

 

Starsky paused.  "Are you going to trust me, or not?"

 

Shit, thought Hutch.  He had to say ‘trust’.  With a sigh, he turned around.  It felt wrong.  He could feel the car’s headlights boring into his back, and his skin was crawling.  "I don’t know why I’m trusting you," he said, shakily.  "You’re terrible with dogs."

 

"These aren’t dogs, they’re cars," said Starsky.  "No teeth."

 

"No teeth," repeated Hutch.  Just bigger and heavier and stronger...  He shook his head.  No, he wasn’t going to think about that.

 

"Okay, now call him over to you."

 

"Here...  car," said Hutch, tentatively.

 

"You got to make it sound like you really want him," said Starsky, encouragingly.

 

Starsky’s got a handle on things, thought Hutch.  He won’t let anything happen to me.  "Here, car.  C’mere, car."

 

"That’s better!" said Starsky.  "Keep it up!"

 

"Here, car."  Hutch’s terror was rapidly becoming embarrassment.  He closed his eyes, and continued determinedly.  "Heeere car, car, car.  Hee-yipe!"

 

The Bomb’s bumper touched the back of his knees.  Hutch jumped forward, his heart pounding.

 

"Keep it together," said Starsky, urgently.  "You’ve almost got him!"

 

Hutch turned slowly, his legs feeling like Jello.

 

"Tell him he’s a good car," instructed Starsky.

 

"You’re a good car," said Hutch, awkwardly.

 

"You’ve got to believe it!"

 

"Good car."  Hutch tried patting the hood.  "Good car."

 

The engine revved briefly.

 

Maybe, thought Hutch, it really was a good car.  Hadn’t he always said his car had inner flash?  "Yeah," he said.  "I like you.  We were a pretty good team, huh?"

 

The engine revved a little longer.  Keeping his hand on the hood, Hutch tried walking around to the driver’s side door.  "What do you think about working together?"

 

The lock popped up on the door.  And when Hutch reached for the handle, his car didn’t back away out of reach.

 

He opened the door and sat down in the driver’s seat, feeling utterly drained.

 

Starsky, however, was doing a jig in the middle of the street.  "You did it, Hutch!  You got your car back!"

 

"Yeah," began Hutch.  "I—holy hell!"  The Bomb’s gas pedal had suddenly depressed by itself and the car was now driving itself over to the Torino.  Hutch grabbed the steering wheel and stamped down hard on the brakes.  They screeched loudly as the Bomb struggled to pick up speed.

 

Hutch jammed his toe under the gas pedal and tried to pry it up off the floor.  It was stuck.  The steering wheel jerked angrily under his hands.  "STARSKY!"

 

"Take your foot off the brake!" shouted Starsky.  "You’re stripping his gears!"

 

Hutch could see Starsky in the rearview mirror, running after him.  "Make it stop!"

 

Suddenly the Torino swerved into the road ahead of him, turned sideways and stopped.  A collision seemed inevitable and Hutch closed his eyes in horror, bracing for the impact.

 

The sudden stop threw him into the steering wheel with bruising force, but the anticipated crunch of bent metal and broken glass never came.  Hutch cautiously opened his eyes to see the Torino only a foot from his front bumper.  The Bomb felt like it was shaking, but that might just have been his own nervous system in meltdown.

 

Hutch fumbled for the door and fell out onto the road.

 

Starsky ran up to him.  "Aw, no, Hutch!  Don’t get out of the car.  You’ve almost got it!"

 

"No," said Hutch, picking himself up.  "No, I do not have it.  This is not working!"

 

Starsky’s face fell.  "But it was going so well!"

 

"That car tried to drive away with me!"

 

"He just wanted to visit his girlfriend," said Starsky, sadly.

 

Hutch took a deep breath and laid a hand on the Bomb’s roof.  "Look, Starsk, it’s not the car, okay?  I like this car, as much as I think I can like any car these days.  But I don’t think I can handle a car that drives itself."

 

"You just need more practice," said Starsky.

 

"No."  Hutch shook his head.  "Until things go back the way they were, you’re going to be doing all the driving."

 

"What if things never go back to the way they were?"

 

"Then I’m turning in my license and buying a horse."

 

*

 

"Merle’s alive, Huggy’s alive, next thing you know, we’ll find Dobey and everything will be great!"  Starsky drummed happily on the Torino’s steering wheel as she steered herself down the road toward Parker Center.  The Bomb followed her faithfully.

 

"Everything will not be great," said Hutch, slumped in the other seat.  "The electricity has gone haywire, nothing works the way it should, and there’s no water!"

 

Hutch’s earlier optimism had vanished, something which Starsky suspected might be his fault.  When he was down, Hutch was up.  Now that he’d recovered from the idea that once the Cheetos ran out there’d never be any more, it was Hutch’s turn to feel bad.

 

"Have another beer."  Starsky reached behind himself and handed Hutch a can.

 

Hutch cracked it and took a long drink.  "And that’s the other problem," he said.  "We cannot survive on beer alone."

 

"We’ve also got potato chips, until they run out."  Starsky took a swig from his own can, and felt the soothing warmth of alcohol percolating through his system.  People were smart.  Somehow they’d figure out how to make snack foods, even without machines.

 

"You’re driving drunk," said Hutch.

 

"There’s so much wrong with that statement, I don’t even know where to begin," said Starsky.  He leaned back in his seat and propped a foot up on the edge of the open window.  "First off, I’m not driving this car.  She’s driving herself."

 

Hutch closed his eyes and took another gulp from his can of beer.

 

"Secondly," continued Starsky.  "I am not drunk.  Just a bit...warm."

 

"Oh, yeah," said Hutch.  "That’s really—urp!"

 

They were both jolted forward in their seats as the Torino came to a sudden stop at the top of a small hill.

 

Starsky sat up and looked down the road.  "Oh, shit."

 

*

 

They left the car and climbed a fire escape up to the roof of a brown brick building to get a better view.  Below them, it looked like a parade, except instead of floats and ticker tape, there were just cars and trucks, circling endlessly around Parker Center.

 

"There’s that bastard garbage truck!" exclaimed Hutch.

 

"How do you know it’s the same one?" asked Starsky, craning his head to the side.  "Oh, wait, I see what you mean."

 

The legs of the garbage man were still visible, sticking out of the compactor in the rear of the vehicle.  Its sides were spattered a darker reddish brown than mud.

 

"But why is that the only one?" asked Hutch.  "Where are all the other garbage trucks?"

 

"Maybe the other garbage trucks are good," suggested Starsky, doubtfully.  "Or maybe they all suffer from really low self-esteem, and they’re hiding."

 

"Or maybe just they’re off hassling other people somewhere else," said Hutch.

 

They heard a faint jingle as an ice cream truck split off from the pack of circling vehicles.  It made a break for the open road.  The garbage truck ran up behind it and slammed into its bumper.  Evidently realizing the error of its ways, the ice cream truck obediently fell back in line.

 

Starsky leaned over the low concrete wall at the edge of the roof.  "He’s bullying them!"

 

Hutch grabbed the back of his jeans.  "Careful!"

 

Another car, this one a small green compact, suddenly gunned forward down the street, away from the others.  Immediately three black and whites broke ranks in pursuit.

 

"And he’s got the squad cars doing his dirty business!"  Starsky sounded outraged.  "What gives him the right?"

 

"Um."  Hutch thought that ‘dirty business’ and ‘garbage truck’ sounded like two things that went very well together.

 

Starsky wasn’t done yet.  "Those black and whites ought to helping people, not keeping them trapped inside the station."

 

"How can we tell if there’s anyone left alive in there?" asked Hutch.

 

"We have to get in."

 

"Oh, that’s great."  Hutch sat down on the gravel roof.  "We’ll just walk right in, and inquire at the desk."

 

Starsky sat down next to him.   "Obviously we’ll have to go in undercover.  We’ll have to infiltrate their mob."

 

Hutch considered the idea.  "I suppose we could hide in your car, but what if they smell us?"

 

"They’re cars, Hutch.  They don’t have noses."

 

Hutch threw up his hands.  "I don’t know if they do or not.  Cars don’t have eyes, but somehow they can see.  They don’t have ears either, but they can hear!"

 

Starsky twisted and looked over the edge of the roof.  "I think their headlights are their eyes.  I don’t know where they keep their ears."

 

"Which means they could have a nose.  Or something in their engine could be functioning like a nose."

 

Starsky folded his elbows over the concrete wall.  "Well, even if they can smell, they won’t be smelling much.  Look, you can see the exhaust fumes from here."

 

Hutch looked and found that Starsky was right.  There was a distinct grey haze hovering around the pack of cars, almost as if a small thundercloud had decided to settle down on Parker Center.

 

"Okay," he said.  "Let’s try it."

 

*

 

For once the Torino hadn’t gone wandering.  Starsky found her exactly where he’d left her, at the foot of the fire escape.  The Bomb was pressed up close beside her.

 

Hutch walked around them both, his expression pensive.  "I think we should both try to hide in your car," he said.  "You get as low as you can in the front, and I’ll take the back."

 

"What about the trunk?" asked Starsky.  "She could drive us right up to the front door, and then pop the trunk and tah-dah!"

 

"Did you see how that garbage truck rear-ended the ice cream truck?  Do you want to be in the trunk when that happens to your car?"

 

Starsky experienced a graphically bloody vision of himself folded inside a crumpled trunk.  He grimaced.  "Okay, I get your point."

 

"And if we get found out, we—"

 

"Run like hell," finished Starsky.  "No problem."  He patted the Torino’s trunk.  "This baby’s faster than any of those jokers."

 

"She better be," said Hutch, as he opened the Torino’s back door.

 

*