“Won’t it start?” Alyssa asked when she finished the windshield.
“I don’t know,” I said, staring at the gearshift. “The gears aren’t even marked on here. And there’s no place to put a key.”
If Darla were in the driver’s seat, we’d have been rolling down the road at top speed by now. The dashboard was confusing, covered in labels, symbols, signs, dials, and gauges. After a moment, a handle to the left of the steering wheel caught my eye-it was labeled Off and Ignition. I turned it, and the truck started making a low whine, but it didn’t start.
“What’s that?” Alyssa said.
“I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t sound good. Turn it off.”
I cranked the handle back to Off, and the whine died.
“Let Ben look at it. He’s into military stuff.”
Alyssa stepped off the running board and held the door open for Ben.
“What do you know about this truck?” Alyssa asked him.
“It’s an M35A2,” Ben replied. His voice was deep, which surprised me after his high-pitched moaning. But it still sounded odd, flat. “A multifuel model. That means you can drive it on gasoline, diesel, vegetable oil, heating oil, or jet-”
“Focus, Ben.” Alyssa interrupted. “I don’t need to know everything about it. How do you start it?”
“Turn on the ignition.” Ben pointed to the same handle I’d turned. “Then push the starter button.” He leaned into the cab, pointing at a button I’d missed to the right of the steering wheel.
I cranked the ignition handle over, starting the whine again. Then I mashed the starter button under my thumb. The truck roared to life.
Ben clapped his hands over his ears and stepped down from the running board.
I jammed the clutch to the floor under my left foot and fiddled with the shifter. I wasn’t sure if it was in gear, or if so, which gear it was in. There were no markings on the shifter. I started to ease up on the clutch, but realized I’d forgotten to buckle up.
I pulled over the lap belt and buckled it. I eased back on the clutch-my face felt hot, and I realized I was holding my breath. When my foot came clear off the clutch, nothing changed.
“I think it’s still in neutral,” Alyssa said.
“Yeah.” I grabbed the gear shift and shoved it upward. The truck made a horrible metallic grinding sound.
“You’ve got to push in the clutch first,” I muttered to myself.
I tried again, but the truck must have been in third. It lurched forward, buried its front wheels even deeper in the snowbank, and stalled.
“The New Guy should use the chart to the left of the steering wheel,” Ben yelled.
“Chart?” I said. Then I noticed it, exactly where Ben said it would be. It showed all the gear positions.
Despite the chart, I stalled the truck twice more before I found reverse. And even then, the truck didn’t pull free of the snowbank. The back wheels spun on the icy road, spitting snow and digging in a little. Ben showed me how to engage the all-wheel drive, but even that didn’t help. The deuce was stuck. And thanks to my infinite genius, we had a limited amount of time to get it
Chapter 50
Ben wandered around the truck, muttering.
“What?” I asked.
He didn’t reply for a moment. “Was that intended to be a question?”
“Yes,” I said. “What are you muttering about?”
“This truck has been badly maintained. There is no winch. The tires show excessive wear.”
Lot of help that was. Alyssa and I traded places. As she got into the cab, she shuddered, staring at the blood smeared over the passenger side windshield and dash. I walked to the front of the truck and wedged myself against the bumper to push. The mountain of snow behind me reached above the cab of the truck. I heaved on the bumper with all my might while Alyssa spun the wheels. Nothing. I remembered how Darla had rocked the bulldozer free of the creek last year and tried pushing rhythmically to set up a rocking motion. That didn’t work, either.
Now Ben was standing partway up the snow berm, a little ways off, watching the proceedings. “I could use a little help here, you know!” I yelled at him.
He turned his back on me and started trudging toward the top of the snow berm. “Where are you going?” I shouted. He didn’t reply. Great. We didn’t have time to mess around. By truck we were less than fifteen minutes from Anamosa. I wanted to be long gone before Clevis got back to the prison and informed the Peckerwoods that I’d stolen their truck.
Alyssa shut off the engine and climbed out of the cab. I chased after Ben, moving as quickly as I could on the slippery berm.
I caught up with him just as he started down the far side of the berm, heading toward the crushed barn. Alyssa was nowhere in sight.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I need a lever,” he replied.
“What for?” I asked, but he talked over my question, ignoring it.
“Like Archimedes’ lever, but it does not have to be that strong. I do not need to move the world; I only need to move a truck.”
“Hey, that’s a good-” I started, but Ben kept talking over me.
“Archimedes was killed by a Roman soldier. General Marcellus had ordered that Archimedes not be harmed, but Archimedes refused to accompany the soldier. He was working on a mathematical problem involving seven circles. His last words were, ‘Do not disturb my circles.’ Then the Roman soldier killed Archimedes with his sword.”
“That’s int-”
“The lever-action rifle was invented in 1849 by Walter Hunt. The first important model was the Spencer Repeating Rifle. It had a seven-shot magazine capacity. It was used during the U.S. Civil War by Union forces only after Abraham Lincoln test fired one in 1863. But it was too late for the rifle to make a significant difference in the war.”
By this time we had reached the remnants of a crushed barn. Ben started rummaging through the rafters while he lectured me. I helped him shift the rubble, having some idea what he was looking for.
“The principle of the lever allowed E. M. Darque to invent a compact can opener used by American troops during World War II. The first military model was called the P-38, developed in 1942. Not long after, an additional model named the P-51 was introduced. Some people believe the can openers were named after the aircraft that share the same designation, but that is a coincidence. The can openers were named for their size; the P-38 was 38 millimeters in length, and the P-51 was 51 millimeters in length.”
We’d found a suitable board-a broken two-by-eight. It was fourteen or fifteen feet long. Ben pried scraps of roof decking off it while he talked. He made it seem effortless-clearly, he was as strong as his size suggested.
Alyssa huffed up and more or less pushed her way between us. “What’s wrong with him?” I whispered.
“Nothing!” she hissed back.
“Why’s he going on and on about levers?” He’d continued talking-now he was giving a long dissertation on the importance of levers to the landing gear and ailerons on F-14 fighter jets. I was pretty much tuning him out.
“It’s his special interest. Not levers, I mean. Anything to do with the military.”
“So he’s one of those, what do you call them? Idiot savants?”
“He’s not an idiot,” she whispered. “He’s smarter than you are. Or me. And he’s the kindest, most gentle-the best big brother anyone could have. Don’t hurt. . Just get us somewhere safe. . Please?”
“I’ve got to get to Anamosa. But I’ll give you the truck and all the supplies I can spare. You didn’t answer my
