Texas, up to Wednesday
It had been a rough patch of several weeks. John had veered slightly from the original game plan, at least in the eyes of his employer. This was more important. The actual job was over quickly; bit of on-site work, a few hours with a keyboard, and back in business. Everywhere else? Not so much.
"Joe? I'll give you five hundred bucks for that rusty shitheap you call a truck, as long as the engine and trans are good."
"Bite me. Three grand."
"You couldn't get a grand for that thing even if it wasn't full of rust, which is is, or had less than a hundred thou clicks on the ticker, which it don't. Four hundred."
"I just put a new engine in it last year, and a trans the year before! Bullshit. Three grand, cash."
"So the guts are good. U-joints? Diff?"
"Last summer. Both. And new brakes. Changed the gears when I lifted it, fluid's good."
"Back up to five hundred, Joe. Take it or leave it. Cash."
Joe sighed. "Fine. Title's in the glove box. Bastard."
John chuckled. "Pleasure doing business with you." Joe would be pissed at what John was planning for the Chevy, and he would be more pissed if he wasn't a part of it. "Drop by the shop tomorrow morning. I think you'll be surprised."
"Let me get everything out of it, and I'll see your bastard hide in the morning, John."
He smiled. "I count on it." He nodded over to Mack, the project head. "He's in."
John spent several hours that night organizing what parts were on hand, and sketching diagrams, Sparky holding a flashlight in the dark of the 'burban to help.
It took a few hours just scavenging the parts, but eventually the plan came together. Square tubing. Pontoons from a junked-and-pretzeled boat. Sealant. Foam. Barrels, freshly welded shut. Welder/generator, still in the Suburban, as was the air compressor.
They arrived early. Joe, first in, chainsmoking in his new(er) truck, waiting, glaring under his hat. Mack, Team Leader t-shirt. Ang, jeans and Metallica shirt with the sleeves cut off, showing off her tattoos. And John, already laying out chalk marks on the garage concrete.
There was a lot of swearing, and John's job, livelyhood, and life were threatened. His sanity was questioned. The question of "why?" was asked, and his answer was the same: "Because we can."
The Chevy was transformed; front fenders removed while John laid out the rear platform. Design plans questioned. Doors removed. Bed bolts ground off and the bed removed. Platform welded in place of the bed, ten feet wide and ten feet long with barrels underneath each side like pontoons. Outriggers and rudders welded up front. Propellers installed, welded to the rear axle. Second platform as a tow barge, with pontoons underneath, and trailer hitch at the front with scavenged trailer wheels. Custom front bumper composed of barrels and a skid plate. When it was completed, it was ugly, it was rough, but it floated high enough to keep the cab dry and the engine working well and the front was protected. One rolling and floating rescue vehicle, a cattruckamaran.
"Well, I think it's time. You ready to roll?" He flashed a grin, tossing the keys to Joe. "Do the honors," he said, swinging up into the bed. "Let's see who else is out there. Fucking storms."
Wednesday night brought John ready to leave, everything packed into the 'Burban, ready for sleeping one last night on the beach. He left the solar charger on the dash plugged into the laptop and set the phone on alarm.
"Joe? I'll give you five hundred bucks for that rusty shitheap you call a truck, as long as the engine and trans are good."
"Bite me. Three grand."
"You couldn't get a grand for that thing even if it wasn't full of rust, which is is, or had less than a hundred thou clicks on the ticker, which it don't. Four hundred."
"I just put a new engine in it last year, and a trans the year before! Bullshit. Three grand, cash."
"So the guts are good. U-joints? Diff?"
"Last summer. Both. And new brakes. Changed the gears when I lifted it, fluid's good."
"Back up to five hundred, Joe. Take it or leave it. Cash."
Joe sighed. "Fine. Title's in the glove box. Bastard."
John chuckled. "Pleasure doing business with you." Joe would be pissed at what John was planning for the Chevy, and he would be more pissed if he wasn't a part of it. "Drop by the shop tomorrow morning. I think you'll be surprised."
"Let me get everything out of it, and I'll see your bastard hide in the morning, John."
He smiled. "I count on it." He nodded over to Mack, the project head. "He's in."
John spent several hours that night organizing what parts were on hand, and sketching diagrams, Sparky holding a flashlight in the dark of the 'burban to help.
It took a few hours just scavenging the parts, but eventually the plan came together. Square tubing. Pontoons from a junked-and-pretzeled boat. Sealant. Foam. Barrels, freshly welded shut. Welder/generator, still in the Suburban, as was the air compressor.
They arrived early. Joe, first in, chainsmoking in his new(er) truck, waiting, glaring under his hat. Mack, Team Leader t-shirt. Ang, jeans and Metallica shirt with the sleeves cut off, showing off her tattoos. And John, already laying out chalk marks on the garage concrete.
There was a lot of swearing, and John's job, livelyhood, and life were threatened. His sanity was questioned. The question of "why?" was asked, and his answer was the same: "Because we can."
The Chevy was transformed; front fenders removed while John laid out the rear platform. Design plans questioned. Doors removed. Bed bolts ground off and the bed removed. Platform welded in place of the bed, ten feet wide and ten feet long with barrels underneath each side like pontoons. Outriggers and rudders welded up front. Propellers installed, welded to the rear axle. Second platform as a tow barge, with pontoons underneath, and trailer hitch at the front with scavenged trailer wheels. Custom front bumper composed of barrels and a skid plate. When it was completed, it was ugly, it was rough, but it floated high enough to keep the cab dry and the engine working well and the front was protected. One rolling and floating rescue vehicle, a cattruckamaran.
"Well, I think it's time. You ready to roll?" He flashed a grin, tossing the keys to Joe. "Do the honors," he said, swinging up into the bed. "Let's see who else is out there. Fucking storms."
Wednesday night brought John ready to leave, everything packed into the 'Burban, ready for sleeping one last night on the beach. He left the solar charger on the dash plugged into the laptop and set the phone on alarm.