Get Doc Quick Intro. & Index

When everything’s come out sideways, there ain’t nothing but to take what’s left and get clear. But when a man ain’t got nothing left, what then?

Get Doc Quick–Mad Max in a Model T.

First, an introduction.

Hidely-ho, reader. I’m the writer best known as David Mark Brown and the infamous RedneckGranola. You may know me from such websites as or www.onetruepants. But currently you have stumbled upon my greatest achievement.

Reeferpunk is my self-created genre description (a sort of weird-Western, alternate history, 1920’s, humorous adventure thriller thing). Go here for more on that. These short stories take place in the same alternative history as the novels and sometimes involve major and/or minor characters. They are supplementary (but not necessary) to reading the novels and vice versa.

Join the Revolution!

No longer do good stories have to comply to the button-down world of publishing! You won’t find these bad boys behaving themselves under YA Paranormal or Mystery/Thrillers. Reeferpunk stories are written to blast apart retrictive confines of convention while still adhering to the classic elements of story-telling, the tried and true practices that carry us to the edge of of our seats, make us laugh and make us cry. I’m particularly fond of the characters that you will get to know and love over the next decade’s worth* of Reeferpunk.

*The first book will be cataclysmically good. The next three will be somehow even better. I’ll grow fat on my wealth of penny rolls (I like my money in shiny form) leading to a blase fifth book, then rebound for the sixth, seventh and eighth. The ninth will be a terrible attempt to take the characters into space on a diesel-powered locomotive (only read it if intoxicated). And blah, blah, blah.

Reading Get Doc Quick

Doctor Quincy Quick is a Company doctor helpless to stop a raging plague known as the Twitch from consuming the mining town of Thurber, Texas during the winter of 1920. The only thing left to do is to escape along with his wife and young daughter. Get Doc Quick is a heart-thumping Model T chase scene wrapped around a juicy center of redemption and second chances, revenge and moral duty. It’s Mad Max in a Model T! I pity the fool! (Oh wait, wrong T.)

Divided into 10 scenes bursting with thrills, spills and chills, Get Doc Quick separates the quick from the dead. So get your hands where I can see ’em, and enjoy the show!

Follow these links for more on ReeferPunk or Fistful of Reefer, the first novel in the series.

Get Doc Quick: p.10

Immediately after my shoulder collides with the frozen ground, the stone house detonates. I crumple and skid before being tossed like a ragdoll in the shockwave pursuing me out the window. Fragments of the tattering roof whistle overhead and disappear. And then I hear nothing but ringing.

Billowing smoke and dust settles over me as I struggle to lift my battered body. Seconds later the heavier pieces of roof collide with the tops of the trees on their way back to earth. Dragging myself away from the house, I pick glass out of my arms until I reach the clearing where I parked.

Luckily the idiots ignored my auto, choosing to head straight for the stone house. Sliding through the gaping hole on the passenger side, I crank it over and gun the engine. After tearing a donut in the grass I shoot back out the way I came.

Everything goes blood red with thoughts of revenge, as the memories of my dying Dot and my murdered Liz are joined by the rotgut feeling of holding Abby’s blood-stained shoe in my hand. God dammit! Even Job had been allowed to start over!

Swinging wide around a tight corner, my watch floats across my field of vision. The frozen hands mock me. The time’s come, but I’m not going alone. There’s only one thing to do first, and it so happens it’ll fit nicely into the plan. I let up slightly on the gas, allow my racing heart to slow along with the auto.

Finally I see lights in the rearview mirror. Nodding my head in approval, I continue toward the only fitting place for it all to end. Thirty minutes later I bounce onto a dirt road, less than a mile ahead of Vezzoni and his men. I intentionally shoot gravel in an arcing rooster tail, tearing up the ground worse than a deer in rut so Vezzoni won’t lose me.

I speed up to give myself time, whipping past mesquite branches that cramp the little-used dirt road. Skidding to a stop under the giant cedar elm, I rifle thought my satchel for the bundle of letters tied off with string. It’s you and me, Dot.

Gimping toward the tree, I collapse near the rock at its base. With a grunt I tip it over and brush off the metal box I’ve kept underneath it for over 40 years. Tears are flowing freely down my grizzled cheeks, lightly slapping the slick surface. Guilt, regrets, grief, anger, loss, all colliding in the moment. A locket, a photograph, now a bundle of letters—and J.T.’s wedding ring. Just a few years ago, he’d returned, taken it off and buried it with the rest.

When he doesn’t hear from me, he’ll know. He’ll come here first. And he’ll finish the job. Hell’s gonna get crowded.

With the rock back in place, nothing’s left but to blow out the candle. And I got the perfect method in mind. Somewhere distant, cloaked by night I hear the company cars closing in. They smell blood.

My carbide lanterns were crushed on Ranger Hill, but the carbide reservoir is over three quarters full. I’ve already picked the spot—the wash. Thirty yards back, the dirt road turns sharply and crosses a dry wash before creeping steadily uphill to the edge of the bluff shaded by the giant cedar elm.

Quickly I use the camp shovel to load the trunk with a couple inches worth of gravel. Then, unraveling several feet of fuse, I rip up the cushion behind the seat and feed two feet of the wick into the reservoir welded to the bottom of the Model T. Using my forearm I measure the length of the fuse left, run the numbers through what’s left of my mind and come out with 18 seconds. Eighteen seconds.

Headlights dance through the skeletal mesquite trees and live oaks still clinging to life. I estimate the distance to the bottom of the wash. I wanna make sure I surprise the bastard, get close enough to see the piss soaking through the crotch of his pants.

With the fuse coiled on the roof, I scamper around front and start pushing the auto backwards until its rolling slowly of its own volition. Vezzoni’ll be in the lead car now that he thinks I’ve curled up under a tree to die. He’ll want to finish me himself. Headlights shine into the opening just on the other side of the wash.

I climb onto the hood, strike a match and hold it to the tip of the fuse. It sparks to life, sizzling quickly. With one last grunt I hoist myself onto the roof of the Model T on hands and knees. Vezzoni’s car slows to make the sharp turn and angle down into the wash. His cabin lights are on. The fuse burns past the edge of the roof and drops inside the auto. As I stand, stretching out to my full height, I see the man’s eyes following the road across the bottom of the wash and slowly up the other side until he finally sees me.

At first his face reveals nothing but a gloating arrogance, his work-a-day expression. But then something switches. Fear and anger crease his brow as he hits the brakes, stopping dead center in the wash. Rolling toward him at a fast run, I simply smile and nod as the flickering tail of fuse drops through the floor and into the tank.


Get Doc Quick: p.9

For a brief moment I hear nothing. Nothing at all—my mind and my senses blank, and it’s the most peaceful I remember feeling for the last thirty years. Through the corner of my eye I spot my satchel riding on the seat beside me. The burdens of the moment flood back in as I return the bag to the floorboard.

Straightening up, I grip the wheel with both hands, finally realizing the engine isn’t running. I take a deep breath and crane my neck to look back up the hill. With no signs of pursuit I turn the key. The baby starts right up, never skipping a beat.

After a blessedly uneventful couple hours, I arrive at Fort Belknap. Abandoned since shortly after the Civil War, not much of the place remains, but it makes for a meeting place I can control. Driving past the crumbling stone pillars of the entrance, my mind replays the same thoughts it’s been brooding on for the last hundred and twenty minutes—whether Isabella and Abby were able to make it. Whether they were safe. And healthy.

I hadn’t seen any signs of the plague since Breckenridge, where a sign had been posted more or less telling people to stay the hell out. I roll past the stone building that served as the magazine and park behind it. Three times I tap my dead watch, hanging again from the mirror. Turning off the engine, I step out onto the frozen ground with effort—my old body stiff, frozen and bruised. The groin pull forces me to drag my left leg like a cripple, leaving a trail through the light powdering of snow.

I duck under low-hanging live oak branches until I reach the mostly intact remains of a small stone house. In the past it might have been an officer’s. At the moment, it’s wrong. I told Isabella to light a lamp. A shiver ripples through my aching body. They didn’t make it.

I limp up to the front door. Lifting my hand to push it open, I hesitate with my fingers resting on the rough wooden grain. The clouds break, pierced by moonlight for the first time that night. Something’s not right. I glance at my feet where tracks lead to the door. It takes me a moment. A heavy boot print sunk a quarter inch into the spongy ground couldn’t be Isabella’s, and I know it ain’t mine.

A branch snaps in the trees behind me. Putting my shoulder down I burst through the door and three strides inside the single-room building before slipping in a puddle. Re-pulling my groin, I dip awkwardly to one knee and barely catch myself before tumbling into the far wall.

A skittering object comes to rest in the far corner, swept there by the door. Men’s voices drift inside, barking gruff orders and getting closer. My mind is afire with anger and fear. This isn’t the plan. Why won’t they leave us alone? Why couldn’t God honor one solitary man’s plan to protect his family?

I scuttle toward the far corner, groping for the mystery object, groping for a scrap of hope, anything. What I find is little Abby’s shoe—pink with a white buckle, her favorite. My fingers stick to it, the shiny surface smudged with blood. My whole hand and my foot are dripping with coagulating blood.

My mind screams, then my lungs, my throat, giving voice to the rage, the grief. The darkness that had been hibernating within my soul, licks the insides of the stone walls like tongues of fire, like dynamite tearing at the surface of the earth bursting through a hidden seam and into the light of day.

“Go in and get him!” The voice is Vezzoni’s. And if there is a hell, I know in that moment that it’s my new mission to put him there. Even if I have to introduce him to the devil personally. Ignoring the signals sent from my exhausted muscles, I pick myself off the floor and lunge for the back window and the trip wire set to spark off 35 pounds of TNT.

Part 10