This section is from Derrick's Perspective
Persuading Gator to let me lend a hand with his truck was easier than I'd anticipated. I simply laid it out for him, "You can either wait a week for your hand to regain strength, or you can let this grease monkey help you out."
His laughter echoed in the apartment as he responded, "Well, come on then, just don't go using them sticky fingers on anything." He wagged his finger at me like you would at a dog.
I shot Maria a wide grin, a silent promise that I'd be okay. Her eyes were wide, a mix of horror and concern etched on her face as I followed Gator out of her apartment. I could almost hear the gears turning in her head, wondering what kind of mess I was getting myself into this time.
I'm sure she was praying for me not to kill Gator as well.
The moment the apartment door closed behind us, Gator's tone shifted. "Didn't want to worry the girl," he began, his voice low and conspiratorial. "She's good for being an illegal. But I reckon we both know this ain't just a power outage."
I felt my fists clench at his words. "She's a citizen," I retorted, my voice sharp, a hushed growl coming from my stomach. "Born and raised in this city, you racist piece of shit."
Gator just shrugged, seemingly unfazed by my outburst. He continued the subject, his gaze falling on the tattoo on my forearm. "I know you know what's happenin. I see that ink on your arm. My daddy had one just like it. We both know what's really going on with the power and the p-"
I cut him off before he could continue. "And you couldn't pass basic?" I asked, mockery at max power in my tone.
His response was a smile, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Didn't have a taste for crayons," he quipped. His humor caught me off guard, and I found myself chuckling despite myself.
But then he turned serious again. "Anyway, this has to be an attack," he stated, his tone matter-of-fact.
I shook my head, still skeptical. "What makes you say that?"
He shrugged again. This was going to be a tic for, wasn't it? "Everything not in my Faraday cage is fried," he said, his voice carrying a note of finality.
I mulled over Gator's words, my mind wrestling with the implications. "I gotta be honest, man," I finally said, breaking the silence. "This doesn't feel like an attack."
Gator looked at me, surprise etched on his face. He shrugged, his go-to response. "How come? The power's out, and communication is down. For all we know, the coasts and the Gulf could be overrun with commie forces right now."
His words, as much as I hated to admit it, made a disturbing amount of sense. This hillbilly was saying logical things. "I'm not going to admit you're making sense," I grumbled.
He chuckled a deep, throaty, pack-a-day sound. "You don't have to. What would make it feel like an attack to you? We're so far up each other's rectums that the powder keg is exploding on its own with the provocation of no power. They save on ammo and fuel, let us kill each other off, then swoop in and finish the job. Take the land for themselves."
I couldn't believe I was having this conversation with this hillbilly, and I couldn't find a way to just dismiss what he was saying. "Okay, let's say you're right," I conceded, "What's your plan?"
Gator's face turned somber. "When my wife left me, I went through a rough patch. Ended up buying a chunk of land in the backwoods of a small town. About fifty acres or so... mostly woods... with a stream and a lake in the corner... Beautiful place." He trailed off, his gaze distant as if he was seeing the place in his mind's eye.
I waited, letting his brain reboot as we walked up to a garage, and he fished out a bangle of keys.
Gator finally snapped out of his reverie, his gaze refocusing on the present. He fumbled with a set of keys, his eyes scanning over them as he continued his story. "When I decided I wasn't going to blow my brains out on that piece of land, I decided to build a cabin there instead. Then I started watching the right parts of the internet and began stockpiling supplies out there for a time like this. Whether it's aliens, enemies, or Mother Nature herself coming to kick my ass, I'm prepared to hole up there until I meet my maker naturally."
I raised an eyebrow at his declaration. Given his lifestyle of smoking and drinking, I wasn't sure how 'natural' his end would be. But who was I to judge? "So, where's this thing you wanted to work on?" I asked, changing the subject.
Gator finally found the key he was looking for and unlocked the garage door. As it creaked open, I was greeted by the sight of an ancient truck. It was the kind of vehicle that was built when American steel was the standard and railroad metal was used for bumpers. A camper shell was attached to the back, and it looked like it was just short enough to barely fit into the garage.
I let out a low whistle, impressed despite myself. "Nice. Did you buy this off Moses?" I joked.
Gator chuckled, a sound that echoed in the empty garage. "Nah," he replied, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Noah gifted it to me."
As I stepped into the dim garage, Gator followed suit, closing the door behind him and plunging us into near-complete darkness. I growled my thoughts out loud, "Hey, numb nuts, how are we supposed to work in the dark? This is probably why you hurt your hand, dumbass." I braced myself, my muscles tensing in anticipation of a possible attack from this racist redneck.
Gator's chuckle echoed in the dark garage, a sound that was unsettling to my strained nerves. "I told you, the stuff in the Faraday cage didn't go bad. At least, I don't think so," he said, his voice coming from somewhere in the darkness.
Suddenly, with a soft click, a lantern flickered to life, its bright light momentarily blinding me. Instinctively, I raised my hands, ready to defend myself against any potential threat. But as my eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, I saw Gator standing there, a smug smirk on his face as he held the lantern, its warm glow illuminating his features. He was clearly enjoying the moment, the element of surprise working in his favor.
Gator's mocking voice cut through the silence, "You really are a big scaredy-cat for such a big effin' Afro n-"
I didn't let him finish. My hand shot out, grabbing him by the neck, the other clutching the front of his shirt. I lifted him off the ground, my grip firm but not bruising, just enough to make him uncomfortable. "Listen here, listen close," I growled, my voice low and dangerous, my face an inch away from his. "Watch your mouth, toe the line, stay alive. I've killed more people than you'd think, and I sleep like a baby. Your racist blood just might erase at least one of the deaths I actually feel bad about off my soul." I released his neck, letting him cough and gasp for air. Stepping a bit back from the stench and spittle, I added, "On top of that, I'm Samoan Pacific Islander, not African."
Gator finished his coughing fit, a smirk playing on his lips even as he dangled a few inches off the ground. "Oh, that's even better. I like you even more now. I knew you were one of the good ones."
I hung my head, sighing deeply as I dropped him to the ground. "You can't help yourself," I muttered, preparing myself for the inevitable.
"Not any more than you can help yourself," Gator retorted, dusting himself off. "Nature is nature. What we do with our nature makes us good or bad. You're a good one. At least, I think you are with how you are protective. I'm... well... me. I think and say shit, but I do the right thing when doing what needs to be done." He paused and rubbed his neck, "But since you're from the islands, I'll need to change my insults up a bit."
I froze, taken aback by the thought, his words hitting me harder than they should have. My clenched fists relaxed, and I found myself tilting my head, studying him with a newfound curiosity. Was he racist after all? Or just a dumb ass? I'll need to figure out where the slider fell before doing anything.
Gator shrugged, uncomfortable, "What?" he asked, seemingly oblivious to the shift in the atmosphere but sensing something change.
I let out a laugh, a genuine, hearty laugh that echoed around the garage. "So, in other words, we're two scorpions, just following our nature. Circling each other, waiting to sting and be stung?"
Gator chuckled, a sound that was surprisingly warm this time. "Yes, sir!" He turned his attention back to the truck, his tone shifting back to business. "Now, let's work on this bad boy before you get hungry and try to eat the islands."
I shook my head, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "That's better, but that's a Hawaiian myth. I'm a third-generation American."
He shrugged, a grin playing on his lips. "I'll get the right kind of insult sooner or later." He pointed towards the truck, his tone serious once again. "I was trying to get the fuse box open. There's like twenty fuses total in the whole truck, but my blasted hand decided to screw up my whole week."
I moved past him, accepting the flashlight he handed me. Leaning into the truck, I examined the fuse box. "Looks like you were using the wrong tool. That's a Philips on the floor. Got a hex? Looks like a 5/16?"
Gator looked surprised. "Really? Damn, I must've had too much Jack while working on it."
I shook my head, watching him move to a toolbox. He pulled out a drawer and rummaged through it, pulling out a few drivers. "You had enough to be your own lighter if you tried to spark up."
He chuckled, handing me a few drivers. "I gave you two sizes, smaller and bigger, just in case. And I don't got oil in my veins like you Texans do?" He raised an eyebrow, a questioning look on his face.
I laughed, taking the 5/16 driver from him. I swiftly opened the fuse box, revealing the fuses inside. All of them were blown. "Nah, your Texarkana ass is way off. I'm from outside the Big Easy."
Gator fell silent for the first time as I stepped back, allowing him to see the fuses. I glanced at him, finding his expression equally off-putting to his racism. "How's your crawfish ass not bundled in fifty layers up here?" He asked, leaning in to take a closer look at the fuse box.
I couldn't help but snort at his comment. He'd actually managed to get a good one in. "Don't worry 'bout that, cher," I replied, my New Orleans accent slipping through unintentionally. "Where you gonna get new fuses?"
His smile widened as he shot me a finger gun. "Well, I'll tell you what," he drawled, "I don't have beignets or Old Bay in my Faraday cage. But I do have ten times the backups of all the fuses I might ever need."