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“And now, the weather! And now, the weather! And no- eather! And and- and now, the weather! Weather! Ether! Reather! And n- KRRKGTKSZ.TTZZ.tttkzlzt.”
Rain.
The boy fiddles with the old radio, alternating between propping up the antenna, and carefully pressing the flash drive around the port of the old laptop with his tire. He seems to have figured out that prodding them changes the output of sound all on his own.
There are no speakers left on the old laptop- the radio is hooked up to it in its place. Lightning doesn't know how computers work and never did, but the flash drive has to stay plugged in for the laptop to work, somehow (Something Operation System ? Something about corruption ?). And Oiltown needs that flash drive.
The internet died nearly two decades ago; data transfer is all manual now. That little drive needs to be brought all the way back down to Texas, for some reason or other. Something very important is stored on it. They wouldn't tell Lightning what, though. Certainly they will, when he gets back with it. He helped found Oiltown- no one has forgotten that already, he hopes. But he also knows how quickly everything can change. Maybe Oiltown needs a reminder- maybe this data situation will rub the dust off.
“You got somethin’ to prove?” an old grovley voice says in his head, and Lightning shakes it off.
Then again, Lightning McQueen is just some old runner to most these days. One of the damn best ones on earth too, which is why he’s here in the first place. This mission can't afford to go wrong. Lightning is still alive after all these years- which means he’s never failed to return. Whether or not in possession of the bounty is another thing, he worries with a cringe.
The radio being used as a speaker has the byproduct of picking up old background waves. The background radio noise doesn't seem to come through as anything other than static, which interrupts the loop of audio, making it hiss obnoxiously. Lightning himself used to try plenty with his own radio to listen to the dead, empty world- but there isn't anything, anymore.
Various other broken things are saved on the old computer -it’s valuable because whoever had owned it had downloaded so many things- and the kid keeps clicking on random buttons with the little tire-trackpad, filling the silent old garage with broken-up noise.
Noise from the past.
Lightning can't help it. Bits of music, commercials, old news reports, it keeps breaking his focus. He’s trying to keep watch- they're stuck sheltered in this lone garage from the rain, hardly big enough for the three of them to move about- and the door won't go down. Every time the wind blows, rain washes in, right at his nose. They're partly exposed, so he has to keep watch. Chick is asleep this shift- at least him and the kid are staying dry, in the far corner.
Lightning sniffs. Beneath him, water drips off his headlights, his bumper, and collects in a puddle on the concrete floor. He’s been sitting for hours, and his radiator is starting to feel soggy.
“Use- use- GASK-ITS! Creme-filled! Vanilla! V-v-vanilla- receiving reports that a plane has robbed northtown union bank with- WASHY WIPERS! Get squeaky clean in no time at all! -y skies over the midwest today, moving into wednesday where we start to see cooler temperatures and scattered- HOLIDAY SAVINGS AT WAL-CAR! SAVE THREE PER-CENT WITH -side effects may include green sludge and vomiting, consult your mechanic if- And you may want to bust out the all-seasons, because this weekend the forecast- CAST- KzSKZZT.kkzzt.KCHSZH.”
He lets the kid play with the audio. Distracting as it is, the boy has never seen a laptop before. He was born after the blast.
He just clicks random things on the memory card with the cursor over and over, deeply fascinated. The screen is so old and dead it's mostly purple, with multicolored lines streaked through it in patches, the rest dim and hard to see. The kid is at least being gentle with the tired old tech. The frayed old laptop cable is snaked under his hood, tapped into his battery. “‘Long as you don't get it wet,” Lightning had allowed. “Computers can’t get wet.”
Besides- there’s nothin’ else to do out here anyway.
Lightning has long since had to make peace with the endless, agonizing stretches of nothing . The months that used to go by with nothing to do other than eat, sleep, and refuel, without ever seeing any other live soul besides his pack or the occasional prion-tilted deere. He swears he went mad from it, turned inside-out in a twist so deep that he wound up rightside-out again, but all wrong and bad. He has to check his shimmering reflection in broken shop windows and puddles, just to make sure he still exists. The whole of him burns sometimes, right down to the seal of his joints. Well, maybe his joints just need some TLC.
Today is a little different than The Nothing , admittedly.
Somehow, on this important data transfer run Alex asked him and Chick to do, they got saddled watching some kid who doesn't know tire from tread, wedge from ballast. WestCo almost scrapped the boy, using him as bait to try and steal the drive from the Lightyear runners. Too bad for the Lightyear runners, who are dead now.
Lightning has to get this stupid drive to Texas, otherwise their allies would have died for nothing.
The kid can hardly read, sounding out regular words on the laptop screen to himself in confusion, which sort of pisses Lightning off in a new way he hadn't thought about until now. WestCo isn't teaching their kids to read?
That, and it gets worse: there's dogs on their tail. Hence the keeping watch: they could be found at any moment. The Lightyear flashdrive- and whatever’s on it- isn't just valuable to Oiltown. It's valuable to everyone left in the goddamn world, apparently.
Lightning just hopes that taking in the boy doesn't end him, too.
Chick punches him in the rear-quarter-panel just then, eyes still closed and half-asleep. “'U’re makin’ that sound again, quit it,” he grumbles. “Annoyin’ me.”
Lightning lowers his RPM, and the whirring noise quiets. Flywheel.
He grunts at Chick in acknowledgment, then stares back out at the empty, grassy-overgrown road, trying to re-settle.
Rain. He still fucking hates the rain. It fills him with inescapable despair, like the way a Direwolf writhes at the sound of a Dire-horn. He’s never grown out of the fear. He used to imagine himself older, braver and wiser, but no: here he is, half a century old and still afraid of the damn weather. He wants to scream from getting rained on for so long. The water is gonna wash him away into nothing-
Chick is just awake now, it seems. He paws at the kid next, far gentler then he had Lightning. “Hey, hey. Don't wear down your battery, alright? Take a break soon.”
The boy nods at him. Chick has always been better with children ( or in this case, teenagers ). He has a weird knack for making them smile and giggle, genuine and relaxed. That’s rare, in this world. The kiddos back home love when Mr. Hicks is sitter for the day. Lightning will never get tired of watching the way the bitlets swarm the old boxcar, climbing his panels like he’s the comfiest perch in the world. It's a relief to be able to see Chick so happy after all these years of hardship.
Chick turns to him then, standing up with a stretch. “I’m up, move over. You can sleep.”
Lightning hums. “Not tired,” he lies and waves Chick off.
“Oh, good,” Chick says. He's already settling back into his corner comfortably with a creak of his suspension.
“Real polite, you are,” Lightning says.
“Okay, Mister Naps. Naps Guy, who is saying ‘ No ’ to Free Naps,” Chick bites right back, before cracking into a yawn and smacking his lips.
Seeing that no one is sleeping anymore, the boy pipes back up again, chatty and overflowing with questions. “I can’t believe these sounds are really from the Dead-World. What does any of it even mean? And why does some of it have those other noises-” he pauses to mimic-hum a commercial jingle, but in an off-way, like he’s never heard anyone sing before, “-mixed into them?”
Chick makes a face, like he ate something sour and can’t hide his alarm. “That's. That’s music, kid.”
“Music…” he repeats, the word meaning little to him. “What's a ‘ per-cent ’, then?”
…WestCo isn't teaching their kids about music? Are none of them musicians?? …And he doesn't know math either!?
Chick punches Lightning again. “Hey!” Chick says, and whistles through his teeth at him. “What are you growling at, grumpy-plates?”
Lightning pouts. “‘M not grumpy,” he lies, voice still a rumble. “It's nothin’.”
The kid steals a tense glance at Lightning, and quickly looks back at the laptop. Great. Now he looks like a crazy old man who growls at nothing, doesn't he.
The radio-speaker starts making noise again, the boy having opened another new window of old corrupted downloads. “Chhk. KtzKCHtz. Ttck. chtkc.chkt!”
He reaches over with a small wheel and pushes the antennae to a new direction. The laptop makes a spinning sound, and the audio comes in clearer. “-FORMER AND FOREVER PISTON CUP CHAMPION-”
Lightning and Chick both jolt at once before they can hide it.
“-CHICK HICKS HERE- CHICK HICKS HERE WITH TODAY’S TRACK TALK- RACING SPORTS NETWORK PRESENTS- CHICK HICKS HERE, FORMER AND FOREVER PISTON CUP-”
Lightning’s insides plummet like he’s lost his entire powertrain off a cliffside, disconnected and spiraling, watching it crash. Chick has been by his side since day one post-blast, his voice never far- but Chick hasn’t mentioned their old life of racing together in nearly eighteen years.
The young car’s face lights up in recognition. “Hey! Hey that sounds like you, Chick! He has your name- it's …you? It’s you!” he smiles so wide, bouncing on his wheels in pride to finally understand the old TV audio clips.
Chick just stares at the radio with his mouth slack, flinching every time he hears his own name.
“CHICK’S PICKS WITH CHICK HICKS! WELCOME TO- CHICKS PICKS- TODAYS PICKS WWWCHT- SWIFT LOOKING SLOW- POINTS TIE- DONE THAT BEFORE! -ZZKTCHT- CHICK’S PICKS-”
Chick raced for nearly thirty years and worked for RSN for another ten. It was his entire life, before it all went wrong. Chick’s career was triple that of Lightning’s, Lightning tries to soothe the old, bitter edge. He was a racecar, through and through.
The boy is babbling. “I can't believe it- you got recorded in the Dead-World? That's so cool! What was it like? Did people hear you? How many cars were there? Wait- racing. You said racing, in the- did you race? Like, are you a racecar who actually-”
Lightning snaps himself out of his own daze, entire body floating in radio static. He swallows to find his voice again. He looks at the kid. “Turn that off,” he says, uglier than he means to.
“It must have been amazing - What?”
Lightning can only see Chick across the garage, whose eyes have gone glassy and unfocused. “I said, turn that shit off. Now!”
“Wait, why? What did I even do?”
“Why, because I said so,” Lightning mocks. “Shut it off!” he yells.
“FOREVER-FOREVER-FOR- PISTON CUP CHAMPION- THIS SEASON WE SHHHHHZKT- EASY WIN FOR YARDLEY ON SUNDAY-WITH LIGHTNING HIDING IN RADIATOR SPZZZTGKT- KSHHHHHH-”
Lightning has ripped the laptop cable off of the kid’s battery before he realizes he’s even moved.
“OW! What the hell!”
The laptop goes dark, no battery strength left of its own.
Chick still hasn't moved: he sits frozen in the corner, eyes far away.
“You listen to me when I tell you to do somethin’, you understand? You're not with those idiots at WestCo anymore- you're with me . Quit playing around with that useless piece of junk and focus on the mission.” Lightning turns back toward the open door and tries to regain his composure, belts and camshaft racing. Fuck.
“I didn’t even do anything!” the kid argues, throwing up his tires in exasperation and moving back into Lightning’s field of view just to be annoying. “And focus ? Focus on what?! There’s nothing happening! We’re sitting in a garage in the middle of nowhere, hiding from nothing!”
“ Ohh ,” Lightning starts, like he’s figured it all out, “Well, since ‘ nothing ’ is happening, I’m going to go take a nap, and you-” he shoves the kid towards the open door, where the rain is blowing in, tone turning fake with cheer, “-can keep watch!” Lightning turns around in the garage and heads toward the driest spot. “Nighty-night!”
Lightning faces away from the other two cars and throws himself on the floor, oil pump still skipping pulses. Don't tell him this is how Doc felt, standing in his garage with him thirty years ago. Why does it have to hurt so bad: hasn't it been enough time? Isn't time supposed to heal wounds, or whatever?
“Really?” the young car’s voice cracks. “That’s it? Because I asked a simple question? How am I supposed to know about the past, I wasn't even alive! Oh this is awesome,” the kid rants. “Can’t believe I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere with the only two old racecars in the world that hate racing!” he kicks a shelf in the corner with his wheel with a bang; the shelf wobbles and collapses in a racket. The sound reverberates across the deserted landscape.
Well, that didn’t last long. Lightning stands up again, fuse still spitting, and turns back around. Chick still looks frozen and lost across the room, and the kid is even baring his little fangs at Lightning: but his expression and whispy growl both falter when Lightning meets his gaze.
Now, Chick might not be able to talk about racing anymore- but this does not apply to Lightning. Repressing the past makes it dead- and Lightning hates when things die. He’s sick of everything dying, actually sick in his soul from it, which is also pissing him off right now.
“You've got a lot of nerve bein’ rude about shit you don't know a damn thing about.” He rolls closer and carefully pushes aside the laptop from the center of the room, where it's still resting on a little overturned shop-crate next to the radio. Easy, Lightning. His wheels stay steady as ever.
“What's your problem? How am I supposed to know if no one tells me anything!” The boy stomps his little tire in frustration.
The kid isn't wrong. Lightning sighs, but it comes out in a tired snarl. “Fine. I'll make you a deal. Shut up when I tell you to, do as I say, and when we get back to Texas, I'll tell you whatever you want to know.”
The young car pauses to consider it. He glances at Chick, but it still doesn't seem to click for him, because then he asks, “...Okay, but why not now? There's nothing going o-”
All at once, Lightning’s hackles raise. They aren't alone.
“ Shh! ” He silences the boy.
“Huh?? You literally just asked me a ques-”
“Shut up!” Lightning hisses.
“What the fuck is wrong with y-”
“You're real good at readin’ the room, huh? They’ve found us.” Lightning strains his hearing. He knows what he heard- approaching engines . He scents the air, but it's difficult to parse out scent in this weather. Endless reason to hate the rain! He manages to pick up the smell of carbon… and gun oil.
“What?” the boy at least lowers his voice.
Lightning is moving again. He grabs the laptop, scooping it into the case carefully without jostling the flash drive. “Take this, and don't make a sound!” Lightning shoves the case at the kid, eyes glued to the drive, obsessed that it might somehow vanish into thin air and that all of this would be for nothing.
Lightning spins around to face Chick, who looks like he’s hardly taken a breath since he heard his own past-voice on the speakers.
“Chick,” Lightning says, anger from before melting away. “Hey. Look at me,” he searches his mate’s frightened eyes. “We gotta go. You gotta get back up.” he leans in, mouth pleading against his. “You gotta keep gettin’ back up.”
Outside, headlights flicker through the rain, closing in on them. Behind him, Lightning hears the boy gasp and duck out of view.
Chick still isn't moving. Lightning presses his mouth to his in a kiss, pleading for a response, anything. They're running out of time. “They're callin’ the racers to the track.” Lightning wants to shake him. “Come catch me, Thunder.”
Out in the rain, a gun cocks with a click. Distant voices shout. 26 cylinders burn. They can get out, they can run-
“Come on Chick, where did you go?” Tread pops as it rolls through wet, inching closer. They need to run, now, or all three of them will die! “You can't leave me, too.”
That does it. Chick’s eyes refocus on Lightning in a fury to be accused of failure. Fear lances his face at the idea of Lightning going anywhere without him.
“I-” Chick gasps a little, “-I didn't do it,” he says upon seeing whatever expression is on Lightning’s face.
A bullet whizzes in and nails Lightning in the rear quarter-panel, tearing through his plating and fuel neck beneath. The bullet stops lodged in his chassis with a deep nerve-twist.
Lightning curses in pain, but with Chick back to his senses, the three racers are already moving, drive wheels spinning hard. They burst out into the slick of rain, immediately pursued by the enemy.
The shot was decent, but it does little to affect Lightning’s ability to drive. At least, until he needs to stop and refuel…
“You alright?” Chick yells over the wet splash of the wind against their wheels. Usually, he just laughs at Lightning whenever he gets hit.
“Yeah,” Lightning hisses. “Are you?”
Chick’s mask is coming back up. “Y-yeah, yeah duh. Let’s just lose these fuckers. Don’t get tagged too, Wally-boy!” Chick shouts back at the kid with a grin as another round of gunfire sprays up wet mud around them. He whoops as it misses them all.
Wally. That’s his name. Lightning glances to his side to see that the kid has kept pace with them. Good. Lightning pierces him with a look. “You've got it?” he asks, still paranoid.
Wally nods frantically, eyes darting to his cab, where he carries the sealed laptop case.
“Whatever you do, don't drop it,” Lightning yells over the roar of their engines. The roads are only half asphalt at this point, overgrown and ruined, and they hit a rut, catching air in a spray of dark mud. Headlight beams dance behind them as their pursuers hit the same rut moments later.
He looks at the dark landscape ahead. South. They're running South. Towards home.
“And don't get lost,” Lightning says, eyes on the dark horizon.
***