{Three months ago}
Just another crashed-out body in a metal graveyard.
The acrid tang of rust, old oil, and rot punched my nose as I wriggled between the hollowed husks of cars long since stripped bare. I was in an older section of the junkyard. Most salvagers didn’t come back here, simply because the carcasses were mostly skeletons, no meat on the bones. But I knew there were still a few treasures to be found.
My headlamp cut a narrow path through the darkness, revealing jagged sheets of steel and shattered glass. Craggy, busted windows. Gnarled frames. Ragged tires, rubber clinging futilely to rims. Only one or two of the post lights in this part of the yard worked at night, and the shadows created between their dim glowing made monsters out of misshapen vehicle parts. The creatures were my friends though. They didn’t scare me. Nothing did.
Well.
Nothing used to.
Now.
Once in a while.
I was fucking scared of myself.
The owner, Otto, only let me play after closing because I paid him a mint. I didn’t like to come during the day, didn’t like to compete for parts. Sure, it would be easier to search in broad daylight, but the hunt was half the enjoyment for me. Working at a deficit kept it from being boring.
Even though the night air was cold, sweat beaded along my spine and soaked through the back of my tee. Three hours I’d been at this already. Endless picking through this automotive cemetery for something I could buy off a shelf reproduction, but that would be cheating. I wanted the real thing. I wanted to refurbish it with my own two hands. The carburetor for the ‘67 Shelby I’d had covered for months was eating at me. Some asshole had slapped on an EFI convertor kit, but I’d ripped the bullshit clean off. The car deserved the factory treatment. A specialized 715 CFM Holley 4-barrel carb with center-hung, racing float bowls. That was the only way the GT350 would see road again. Nothing less would do.
Was this hyper fixation a distraction for real problems?
Yes.
Did it matter?
Not one fucking bit.
I picked my next leaning tower of crumpled cars and parts. After a moment’s planning, I swung open the busted door of a double cab truck and climbed in. Crawling across the bench, I grabbed the manual window lever and rolled the cracked glass down. The beam of the hands-free light whispered over discarded machines and their now useless parts. Something glinted two cars over and one row up, past the crumbling Caddie perched on a decades-sagged Lincoln. Long, narrow windowwith a slight downward curve. Two faded, telltale racing stripes. Short, sharp fin flip. I mentally marked it, then flexed my hands, stretching the cracked knuckles, before skidding to the end of the bench and dropping out through the truck’s other side. My boots hit oil-stained gravel with a crunch.
Then I jogged around to where I’d spotted the Mustang. Probably not what I needed, but I had to check.
“I’ll be damned,” I breathed out, grin spreading and triumph building.
Blocked by an SUV that looked as if it played chicken with a semi-truck and lost, was a ‘66 GT350. At least, I was pretty damn sure it was a ‘66. If I lucked out, it would have the carburetor I needed. If my luck was horse shit, then it would be an automatic equipped with the Autolite 4100. The Mustang was perched haphazardly; its paint a ghost of what it once was. No vibrance, faded and chipped, the only life left clinging to the racing stripes. Half the grille was caved in; the passenger side looked like it got sideswiped too. At least the hood looked relatively unscarred. I navigated the zigzag mess of broken glass and jagged fenders, using my gloved hands to steady myself as I shoved my body into an increasingly small space.
Finally, I was close enough to really examine the car.
The Mustang’s stripped-down interior was a crying shame—dash split in two, seat cushions corroded, floorboards dotted with rat shit. I was glad I didn’t need to source any of that; I’d come up empty if so. I wasn’t sure I had enough room to lift the hood, but I wrestled with the release always. It took me brutally jamming my hand under the cowl to pop the stubborn, rusted catch. Eventually though, I was able to lift the lid about two feet and tilt my head to direct the headlamp down.
No carb.
No fucking engine.
No nothing.
I barked a hard, humorless laugh and slammed the hood. Sure, I’d expected disappointment—it was the only way to avoid getting your hope murdered by life.
Wasted fucking time. Wasted fucking energy. I slapped the hood, not caring that I'd scraped my knuckles or that the boom echoed through the junkyard like a gunshot.
"You're a piece of shit," I informed the car. It didn't argue.
I backed away, forcing myself through the tangle of debris, swearing when my jacket caught on something sharp. The fabric tore with a sound like surrender. Perfect. Another thing to fix. Another thing to add to the endless list of shit that needed doing.
The moon had risen higher while I'd been searching; I debated continuing. What if the part was in the next mountain of crap?
What if I'd missed it? What if I was just one goddamn pile away from the part I needed?
