Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Worthless ❯ Speed 1: At The Edge of Death ( Chapter 1 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

By: MellyN

Worthless

By: Melissa Norvell

Speed 1: At The Edge of Death

I've sat here for a while and I was past the point of being afraid, or wondering when my marking time will come. I am not highly stacked as some of the other cars around me. If anyone would be chosen to die, they would come far before me given their elevation. However, a car could stay in a place like this for many years and never be crushed.

After a while, the fear and paranoia goes away. I would rather sit here and remember the days of old than think about my current situation and listen to the rhythmic crushing of the car compactor, with the fear that I might one day turn into a cube of twisted metal and meet my unfortunate fate. Reminiscing happy times made the wait easier to cope with.

When I looked at my accomplishments, I've managed to overcome a great deal of obstacles and I've escaped the cruel grasp of this place before. I've had it better off than most cars, which had made this their permanent home long ago.

The junk yard- by definition, is the location of a dismantling business where wrecked and decommissioned machines are bought. Their parts are sold to fix other machines that work, leaving most cars skeletons left to meet the cruel fate of a crusher.

Because of the rarity of my make and model, I have only had a few parts removed, and I can still take off when I feel free, but many cars here are immobile. They simply sat and rusted or deteriorated over time, growing senile with age.

It was such a shame to see some of the vehicles that were here, merely rotting in a depressed state. I suppose I can identify with them, I'm not exactly happy. When you face your final moment, are you really sure of what to think about? When it feels like you have eternity, do you run out of things to think about, or do you question old theories? Everything ran together after a while. One thing blurred into another and my thoughts became erratic with no true path.

Many of the cars that came here were the result of unfortunate wrecks and were usually severely damaged, malfunctioning beyond repair, or deemed not worth the money it would take to get them repaired. I've also heard stories of the cars that broke down on the side of the road and were left behind by their masters to be hauled away by a wrecker. The wrecker itself can either be a good sign or a bad one. On one hand, it could give the car hope that its master has come back for it and will take it home or to a body shop for repairs.

On the other hand, it could be the premise for a trip to a place like this. No car ever wants to make this trip. It's one of shock, dread and horror. Complete abandonment is a cruel and harsh reality for any mechanical thing that has shared memories with its master. For a machine, being sent to a place like this makes you feel a little betrayed, for we machines have served so faithfully to our masters over the years. We toiled all of our lives and never complained about our tasks.

After the cars come here they are usually arranged in rows, or stacked on top of each other, like they are here. Cars come to this place with many different conditions and circumstances. Their reactions were all various in emotion. I've heard many stories from cars here that have long since passed about their former lives under their masters. Some were good and some were bad.

Many makes and models have come to this grave yard. We're all different, and yet we share a common fate- to be stripped of our valuable parts, like lights, seats, parts of our exhaust systems, mirrors, even our engines and transmissions are removed and sold to the auto parts companies that will rebuild and sell them themselves. Here, however, they do it themselves as they need things. The lucky cars that have good bodies that had not been damaged by wrecks or abuse were sold to amateur car builders and collectors.

In my condition, I don't have a chance of becoming that car, even if I am considered a classic. My back end is smashed in, my wing has been clipped and flung from my tail end, my hood and trunk are jammed up and would no longer shut, my back axels permanently slanted to the left and one of my retracting head lights was stuck in mid-way position, only allowing me half of a view on my left side.

Because of what I am, my parts are mostly intact, but a few collectors have taken things out. A part of me was happy that I was not completely worthless. My windows, tail light, radio, mirrors and a few hoses had been removed by the junk yard staff and installed on cars that will use them to keep performing for their master. My old parts saved another car of my type from being sent to this place.

If I am doomed to this fate, then I can be happy that my parts will at least, not be considered as useless as my frame. However, once I have no more usable parts to give, I'll be thrown to the scrap metal processor, crushed to my demise and turned into a square of twisted metal by the hammer mill.

The only thing that saved me from a fate coming all too soon is the fact that I'm a very rare type of car whose model population is a little less than 2,000 and even then, due to request, those models were converted into different ones to appeal to the consumers' needs. It seems, at this point, I'm doomed to die out, just as my model has. The fast paced era of the muscle car is dead and gone, and my place on the road has come to a chilling end.

I heard people in the distance, having another discussion about some car. I could barely make out the sound of defective rolling wheels through the oppressing noises of the car compactor. It seemed that there was another car being rolled up beside of me.

I wonder if it's just been taken here, or if they're taking it away to be put on the conveyor belt to be crushed. I feel sorry for it, if that's the case. As it rolls up, I'm kind of surprised that a car of its type was rolled into this depressing grave yard.

It was a drag racing car, a dark sky blue in coloration and judging from what I know about it, the model seemed reminiscent of a Revell Dragster. What in the world was it doing here?

The body was dented and it seemed to be missing two tires, one on the right side and one on the left. By the way they were rolling it; I'd believe that a lot of its internal workings were removed. It sat there for a while, unmoving as the men who pushed it beside of me were engaged in conversation regarding it.

The drag car seemed to be a popular subject among their conversation. One of the men commented on how he had seen the car in some of the races that were televised, and the group began to converse on their love of the race and stock cars. I heard one of the members of the group talk of possibly buying the dragster and trying to rebuild it, just to have a nice project on the side of his other works. He occasionally took the nicer cars from the junk yard and fixed them up. He seemed like a good guy, and he's saved a lot of cars from going to the compactor. Even the car he currently drove was once nothing but a hull, sitting and awaiting its fate until it was selected to be rebuilt, and only a day before it was scheduled to meet an untimely end.

He does tend to have a lot of work on his hands, and a part of me hoped that he might take it into consideration. Most of the cars that came here were afraid, uncertain or depressed and felt betrayed by their masters. They felt let down and wondered what their existence had been for. Observing the blue car, I knew very depressed.

I couldn't help but focus on it. Glancing over to me with orange headlights, it sighed to itself before it spoke to me in a dejected manner. It was a little shocked to see me sitting there, just as I was to see it sitting beside of me. I think it was too caught in the moment of its life ending to notice me before.

"You're a Plymouth Road Runner Superbird. Why are you here?" It asked, clearly knowledgeable on what I was.

"I've led a long life full of hardship," I explained. "In the end, I was worthless. I'm just waiting for my time, just like the other cars." I had been far too easy-going with the matter, but how else would anyone react in a place like this? There's nowhere to drive, and no one can hear your tears.

"Can you imagine what it would be like if our masters had a systematic elimination of their old and obsolete like this? They would probably be afraid," the other car seemed thoughtful about the apocalyptic aspect of the junk yard. This was a subject that bored deeply into its internal workings. Even though it was run down and defeated, accepting its fate was a little hard for it to do.

Even after all it's gone through; it still maintained its racing spirit and drive to overcome its obstacles.

"I think they would find it to be," I agreed, "but the human world isn't like ours. We were built to serve a purpose, and when that purpose is done, we end up here." I knew that it knew this sad fact, but perhaps hearing it would make it accept the fact a little more.

"It's hard to believe they'd scrap a car like you. I'm surprised that you're here." It quickly changed the subject. I got the feeling that the sound of the crusher only made the sinking feeling in its engine worse.

I honestly don't think it made the dragster think any differently when it heard the man talking about restoring it. Then again, who knows if it's heard it all before? A car goes through so many hands, acquiring the ways of many different owners. Every car has seen different sides of society and they all have different outlooks on it. A car's life can be full of empty promises if the owner constantly procrastinates and makes false promises about fixing it.

"You'd be surprised at the age and model of cars that I've seen crushed. When you're considered worthless, I don't think that fate makes an exception to your type and model," I considered my words a wise outlook on the situation. When your time comes, it just does. Whether you're right off of the assembly line or you've existed for decades. "Since we have time, I thought I'd ask you how you ended up here. It isn't like you're a type of car that should really be here yourself," I replied. Usually dragsters were highly regarded. No doubt its parts had been taken off and sent back to the racing circuits. Any of them would be illegal if they were put on any of the normal cars in society.

Not to say some hot rod kid wouldn't kill to get their hands on an authentic race car part. Although I think there would be special speculations with anyone who wanted anything from a car like the one beside of me.

"I don't remember much of what happened, but I used to run in drag races all over the world. I was in a race that was considered the most dangerous in the world- the Green Hell known as the Nürburgring. One moment, I was flying down the race way, gaining velocity. I was in third place. I don't remember anything past that. Everything went black and before I knew it, I was being hauled away. I don't even know if my master was alright. I heard people talking about how bad the crash was, but I never saw him past that point. Some of his blood stained my interior and I've always worried about him," the sad expression that registered on his front end was all I could bear to look at. I could feel the sinking guilt that the car held, and how much it truly loved its master.

Unlike me, this car was a special case. It was probably in the International Hot Rod Association, and custom-built for its profession. Cars like dragsters were in a class of their own, and would never be sold the public for use. However, if this car was deemed too dangerous for the road, I could see why the racing circuit would want to have it scrapped, especially if it killed its owner

"I'm not sure of what to say to that. It must be some feeling to know," I replied with a great deal of sympathy for the race car. I couldn't offer it anything more than that. "What would you think if he did die?" I dared to ask. I only received a silent stare in return. I saw the horror riddled in its head lights at the very thought of my words being true. There was nothing more frightening in the world than uncertainty. I knew how that felt from situations in the past.

I felt sorry for the poor car. It had worse circumstances than my own. I had met many cars during my existence, and few I've come across have had it as hard as the blue wonder that has graced my presence. What those head lights must have seen on the race way…To be both loved and hated by the masses…

It must have been thrilling to lead that type of life, but unfortunate for it to end like this.

Uncertainty and sorrow rode deeply within that steel body. Not knowing whether or not its owner had died and if the death was due to the car's malfunction or not. I could only imagine how it feels.

As a sports car that was a follow on a stock car's design for the 1970 season to the Dodge Charger Daytona, I can identify with how horrible any vehicle would feel for killing its own master, the one who cared for, took pride in, and loved it for all of those years. It must have been hard to deal with.

"If that's the case, then I'll drive myself onto the conveyor belt," the dragster's words were truly heartfelt and his loyalty to his owner touched the deepest parts of my internal workings.

"He and I have been racing partners ever since I was built. I was created especially for him. We've been through everything together. So many races, so many victories…I was the top of my line. I was out of sight and out of mind. So much for fortune and fame," the dragster relived, through memory, what was probably the finer days of its racing life.

"Everyone has big dreams and when you're living them, you feel like you can live forever," I explained, for I once knew that feeling, myself, "the mechanical world ends under a car compactor." As much as I was sure it didn't want to be reminded of that factor, I felt that it was important to say.

"You seem pretty accepting of your fate," the blue car was concerned for me and my state of mind. Should I be so accepting of such a thing? Is it wrong to come to that conclusion? Maybe I've just sat here in this place, hearing others stories of coming here, for far too long.

Am I really that depressed and hopeless?

I suppose I am.

"I was told the truth about this place a long time ago by several cars. If there is one thing I've learned, it is that every car eventually ended up here. Nothing lasts forever and it's something we'll all have to face sometime. As a drag car, you've only had one owner your whole existence. You've probably never been in the presence of other cars that weren't like you. I've seen this place once before, and I've encountered a lot of different types of cars. They all gave me a lot of advice. I couldn't forget those that I've seen drive in and out of my life, and their words of encouragement and wisdom. I may not have wanted to accept what some of them said to me, but it helped me come to this point with acceptance," I told it. Often times in life, you are told things that you don't want to hear or refuse to accept but as you age, you come to terms with the truth in words. Now I kind of know how those cars I must have encountered in the past must have felt when I was in denial of their words.

"Tell me, Superbird, what was your life like before you came here?" I heard the drag car ask me. That would be a long story; then again, both of us had quite a while to sit there. It would be far better than merely rotting to the oppressing sound of the crusher. I decided that I would tell the dragster about my diverse life and the things that I had learned from other cars that have driven in and out of my life. We might as well get to know each other, since we have all the time in the world to become acquainted.

It kind of made me happy, I had someone to talk to and we both led such remarkably different lives that stories of the past would definitely be interesting between us. I wondered if it was fate or irony that brought two sports cars together in such a twisted destiny.

"I've experienced a lot of things in my life, both good and bad about the world that we exist in and a car's place in such a world," I began to inform the blue racer of my life's experiences as visions of a wonderful past filled my senses. Now a days, I tend to look at my past through rose-tinted glasses. "I'll start from the beginning, when I first came off of the assembly line."

…To Be Continued