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Cap was drifting through time. He was racing, beating the old dirt tracks and inhaling crisp morning air through heated intakes. The human slouched behind his wheel made no move to stop his maddened rush, only complaining as Cap skidded in the dirt and sped down another turn. He could hear Angie around the bend, far below, mocking him good-naturedly for his old age in her fluting tune.
The human yelled something inarticulate but undoubtedly insulting as he whipped around the next corner, finally coming within sight of his daughter. Angie shrieked in delighted fear, sliding out a little as she sped up to keep ahead of him, both of them laughing as they raced.
Angie burst out of the winding hill and onto the flat, Cap close behind, the lights of home close by. She was yelling something to him, the trace of a grin on her lips.
"Unhand me!" she shouted, except her voice was deep and angry and frightened. Cap's own smile dissolved, but Angie's eyes were bright and sparkling with joy as she faded away.
Cold bit his panels, still air hanging around him like a burial shroud. Cap forced his tired eyes open as he woke from a better time, taking in the blurry shapes of pure white walls and polished corpses. The museum smelt so thickly of bleach that his intakes seemed to burn as they sucked the poisonous air in.
He was exactly where he'd been when he went to sleep, pinned into place by bolts and ropes. He used to always wake up facing a different way, always used to shift in his sleep, ever restless.
"I said get off me!" Someone yelled, echoing through the high roofs and silent graves. Cap dragged his gaze to the source of the commotion, the shapes finally resolving into a madly-struggling Willy’s Jeep and a horde of humans trying to control him.
The kid fought well, Cap observed disinterestedly, as one human fell beneath the Jeep's tires and didn't get up afterward. But he didn't fight well enough, none of them did. The humans prodded and lured him into a cordoned off rectangle and, tire by flailing tire, trapped him for life. The Jeep managed not to pause for breath or stop struggling throughout the ordeal. Cap knew the poor kid must be fighting hard, as he swayed ever so slightly despite the constraints.
The Jeep had long years of dirt hard-packed into his gears. His voice was hoarse from shouting, but he managed to drag up some choice insults as the humans set about cleaning him of grass stains and mud and desert dust. Cap's own plating tingled with want, decades of perfect cleanliness begging for the filth that washed away.
Cap sighed in pity for the poor little soldier. It was always hardest for outdoor cars, and the Jeep reeked of open air and free-roaming spirit.
He was also a little miffed, as the Jeep had woken him from a dream to end all dreams…
The humans were leaving, and the Jeep had finally fallen silent. He was facing Cap, an enraged despondence in his expression, silver glints in the corners of his eyes. A better car would have comforted the poor soldier, but when Cap opened his mouth all that came out was a rattling wheeze. He couldn't remember the last time he'd said so much as a word.
Besides which, there was no comfort here.
Cap preferred to sleep throughout the day, but sleep wouldn't come to save him this time. Instead, he settled for ignoring the inane humans as best he could. He watched the Jeep.
The soldier was half-mad already. He twitched at every prattle and small grasping hand, snarled and struggled to the limit of his confines.
He'll sleep well tonight , Cap thought.
The day dragged on, heedless of the two cars, time only showing its progression through the sea of faces that streamed and murmured around the military jeep and his companion.
Cap could feel the cold seep its way through his frame, a welcome disconnect from the world and one that he heartily wished to sink into. But he didn't. He watched the Jeep. The little soldier's spirit was nearly enough to rekindle Cap's own fighting soul.
The humans left, one by one, and the museum fell silent. Cap knew it would only last a short while, till the other survivors woke up, but still he wished they would play some music. When was the last time he had heard a melody?
A dance , his soul whispered, trying to drag him from the present into peaceful, happy memories. He refused, though, because he knew loneliness like an old friend and he didn't want to leave the little Jeep behind so soon.
Later , he decided. Later, he would let go, and maybe then he would be free. For now, he watched as the Jeep slowly relaxed, surely began to fall asleep.
It was best to become nocturnal, Cap knew. Sleep through the staring crowds and retain some small shred of dignity.
He tried to speak and wake the soldier, but disuse turned his voice to little more than a breath. He kept trying until words formed, despite the blood and oil tasting bitter and sharp in his mouth.
"Tell me… about… yourself."
The Jeep jolted awake, gaze finally landing on Cap in surprise. He'd clearly assumed he was alone.
"You first," He murmured, but Cap's voice was done. He tried his best to shake his hood, and even managed to twitch slightly.
The Jeep was silent for a long moment, but then he began to tell a tale. He spoke of things after the war he’d been made for, of open sky and gritty dirt and long neon-lit nights arguing over a traffic light with someone by his side.
He mentioned broken ex-racers and showgirls with a hidden passion for cooking. But it was the Volkswagen he talked about most. And the way he spoke reignited a damp spark in Cap's own soul; a desire to see his own family again, one last time.
A dance, a lullaby , his soul persuaded. Cap forced his own pity aside, and listened to Sarge talk about his love.
Both of them slept through the day, Sarge exhausted from talking, and Cap tired from remembering. They woke to a shrill wailing, one that Cap knew and Sarge feared.
The soldier tried his best to wriggle free as harsh peals of laughter echoed through the mausoleum. And if he'd been as strong as a truck he might have stood a chance. As it was, Cap could only watch in silence and wait for the Jeep to calm himself.
"What was that?" Sarge whispered, instinctively twisting his axles away from the bolts that sealed his fate. Cap tried to shrug, then remembered he couldn't.
"A car," He replied, still cracked as old bitumen and oil trickling from some break in his voicebox. He paused, biting his tongue in thought as a vague fact made itself known.
"She's been getting quieter."
The Jeep was silent almost long enough for Cap to think he'd lost interest, both of them listening to the old girl's last attempt to be heard.
"She's dying." Sarge muttered, a strange inflection to his tone. In the twilight, Cap could see pitiful disgust etched into the Jeep's grille. Another peal of shrill sound split the air between them, but it felt weaker, softer.
"We're all dying," Cap replied.
The two listened in silence as the laughter faded away.
A week, and everything had its routine. Just as before, Cap would sleep during the day. But now, at night he would listen.
Seven days and nights in, Cap recalled his old buddy. Joel would love this little Jeep, he thought.
Cap tried to rouse the old bird, but after a moment realised that Joel had left him behind. It was strange, to realise so late that his best friend wasn't there any more. He hadn't even noticed. He hadn't said goodbye.
The world shall end not with a bang, but with a whisper , Cap thought to himself, and tried to remember where he'd heard that before.
He listened to Sarge talk about Radiator Springs until there were no stories left. Time had reverted back into its meaningless norm. A month, a year, a decade could have passed, but within the museum it dared not touch.
Sarge looked at him, one silent night, out of things to say. "Your turn."
What was there to say? He remembered nothing but a lullaby and his daughter's name, and the feeling of dirt under his tires like some distant ancestral memory that proved he belonged somewhere he was not.
Cap spoke of the museum's display.
Here was Joel, the friend he'd forgotten, the fighter with a penchant for pecan pie and an Irish accent they used to make fun of.
There was Davis, who had not once spoken below seventy decibels until didn't speak at all. He had given up the fastest.
A thousand stories, none of which were ever written. The humans cared for what they were, not who. The plaques in front of their stands had no names, only dates, only acts of service.
The Jeep was going to leave him here. Cap could see it in his greying eyes, his slurred speech, his listlessness. He had seen it all before. Outdoor vehicles always took it the hardest, and Sarge was no exception. He was stubborn, but he would give up eventually. They always did.
Sarge tried so very hard. He murmured fragments of stories, insisted that these people must be properly honoured by being remembered. Cap knew that the dead had no care for memory, but he watched the Jeep fall apart and wondered what they had done to deserve this.
It was torture, he knew, what Sarge was doing to himself. The Jeep forced himself to stay awake, to avoid the sleep that he wouldn't come back from. To what end? To stay another day in the silence and the crowd?
A lullaby , Cap thought, and decided that it was time. He summoned the words from that last memory of his daughter, remembered the tune that she would hum as he sang.
Sarge listened as Cap told a sad story through a sweet song, and his eyes drooped and his frame sagged as best it could. He fell asleep to the gentle melody echoing through the halls until it, too, faded away.
---
The museum was a grave, not a history site. A mass grave, of polished steel and shining wax. Fillmore did not hate many things, but this.. This was unforgivable.
"Sarge?" He called, but no one answered. He searched the halls silently, slipping past the stoic faces as best he could. Each one of them had a crease in their brows, a plea on their lips. As the night wore on, he imagined them reaching out, begging for him to set them all free.
There! Fillmore would recognise that canvas bumper any time. He tried his best not to skid on the polished floor, knowing the cleaner didn't deserve to have to clean that up.
"Sarge! Man, I'm here!" He whispered, finally seeing his old friend for the first time in such a terribly long time.
Sarge didn't reply. Cold, fearful regret seeped throughout Fillmore's tank. The old Jeep was as still and silent as the rest of the mausoleum.
Gently, Fillmore moved the cordon ropes aside, began fiddling hopelessly with the bolts that held his Sarge down.
It was useless. It was hopeless. Sarge was gone.
Fillmore sat beside his old friend for a long time. The last time. Only when he sensed the twilight begin to lighten did he stir, and looked at Sarge before he left, wishing things could have been different. Not that wishes had ever done anything.
His only comfort was that Sarge looked peaceful, for once, like he really was only sleeping.