The Gray Machine

Rabbit, Abandon

It was the afternoon of the 249th Independence Day of the United States of America, or 250th, depending on who you asked. On a lost stretch of I-550, somewhere east of the Navajo Trust, where the desert kicks and screams in silence at the blue sky, Jerry's Ego played Raziya & the Sings.

The red, not-quite-legal '73 International Harvester he was driving—loaded up with 20th century Harley Davidson Softails—ran over a white rabbit.

The kid in the leather jacket swore and grimaced, and then after a minute and a glance over his shoulder, he downshifted. Jericho Ross' Ego had been cutting in and out for the past three hours. Either too much booze or his cousin's smack to the side of the head had caught up with him. He'd been hitting himself on his left temple, trying to get the damn thing to either work or break because the jarring on and off was giving him a migraine. The weight of the absurd rig dug into the thin shoulder of the rough road, skidding over the edge. It didn't matter. There wasn't another car within a hundred miles.

The little computer chip under Jerry's scalp rambled on as he stuck his head out the open window, seeing the tiny white body lying prone about fifty feet behind. He batted at a malfunctioning ad for Premium Blue Jupiter Hawaiian Kush that kept jumping into the center of his field of vision.

"When progress burns the night's bright trail," went the retropunk-qawwali fusion tune playing in his brain. "Lost tracks to where the sky grows pale..."

It was 2032. He was supposed to be thinking about his future and dodging the draft, about overpopulation and gasoline rationing and building a competitive eyeshot portfolio for his outlink resume, and all that, but he was thinking about antique bikes, girls, New York City, and the end of the world. Both of the windows were down, and he'd been doing about eighty, the wind ripping his ragged blond hair and road trip trash around in a mini-tornado. I'm gonna get lost in the sands of time.

He hadn't seen the white puffball until it was practically under wheel. Poor little guy never stood a chance. It never occurred to him to consider what might have spooked the critter.

"Only embers between the beast and the rail..." sang his Ego.

Reminded of his mobility predicament, the big red cast on his left foot stung and ached from the heat. Jerry reversed and skidded forty or so feet backward.

The blacktop was rough, and it burned the naked, dirty toes sticking out of the end of the grimy red plaster cast. They could put ads for Blue Jupiter in your brain, but a goddamn shattered ankle was still a shattered ankle. Show me a seventeen-year-old kid who can afford to download enough Ego-codone to shut down a cough, let alone a smashed foot, and I'll show you my mint condition Black Lotus.

He tried to swipe off the Ego song in his head with a batting gesture, but the audio interface that hovered in the bottom left corner of his sight was frozen again. Seething, he leaned against the hot cab, surveying emptiness.

The rabbit was on its side, looking peaceful. One eye had been replaced with a dark puddle of blood. The breeze once again ruffled the tiny hairs on its pink ears. Something catch in his throat.

"Freedom..." the song bore on.

Flying into a rage, Jerry punched himself in the temple hard enough to make his brain shoot sparks, until the visions and golden oldies cut out altogether. The resulting silence hummed with deafening intensity.

He'd been too busy telling himself none of it mattered—where the bikes came from, how Rick could afford them. He was stuck on what his dad would say. The Senator would spout eight ways Jerry was doing fucking this deal up, or just plain thinking too small. Never mind whether the whole thing was actually right or wrong. None of that from his old dad.