"the a-team: road trip" (fan fiction)

8/2/2019 "THE A-TEAM: Road Trip" (Fan Fiction)

http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/the-a-team-road-trip-fan-fiction 1/12

“Road Trip”

By M.L. Zambrana

[Author’s note: the last half of the story is Dwight Schultz’ actual story about how he

was inspired to play Murdock in “The A-Team” --by meeting a gas station attendant in

Beaumont, Texas. I thought it would be fun to play with that in fiction form, and have

Dwight meet Murdock instead!]

“I sure do appreciate the ride!”

H.M. Murdock dropped in to the passenger seat of the car, slammed the door shut

with a tired whoop, then coughed into his fist and sniffed. The rain continued to come



down at a ridiculously steady rate, and pattered against the metal body of the red

Volkswagen beetle that he found himself in. Once upon a time, the car must have been a

little beauty. However, time and East Coast weather (if the New York license plate gave

any indication as to its origins) had worn it down; large spots of rust had spread over the

body, and the rear engine had a case of the knocks. From beneath him, Murdock felt the

distinct poke of a seat coil against his upper thigh.

The driver, a tired-looking man in a dark brown newsboy cap and a black

Members Only jacket--a fashion choice that seemed to be all the rage, Murdock noticed,

though he loathed the thought of giving up his A-2 leather jacket--held his hand out to

Murdock.

“I‟m Bill,” the man introduced himself.

With a compulsory wipe of his palm against his damp trouser leg, Murdock shook

the man„s hand. His skin felt soft, and looked remarkably unblemished--not a laborer‟s

hands, Murdock concluded.

“H.M. Murdock. Pleasure to meet you.”

Bill released Murdock‟s hand and gave a quick laugh. “Well, now that you‟re

out of the water... welcome aboard, sailor.”

“Soldier, actually,” Murdock corrected him. “I used to be in the Army.”

“Oh!” He pushed up the wire-rimmed glasses on his face, gave Murdock a quick

look, and noted that they seemed to be about the same age. “Did you go to Vietnam?”

he inquired.

“That I did.” He pointed one thumb towards his back. “You can‟t see the

jacket, but it reads „Dan Nang, 1970.‟ I was most definitely „over there.‟”



Bill nodded and put both hands on the steering wheel, then looked away. “I sort

of lucked out. I got the right draft number, so I never got called up.”

Murdock reached out and gave the driver a quick, comforting pat on the shoulder.

He‟d seen Bill‟s particular reaction enough times to recognize it right off. Their

generation had returned from Southeast Asia with shattered bodies and shattered psyches,

but even those who never put on a uniform had been touched by the war. While others

went off to fight and die, guys like Bill had been spared that fate--either by marriage, a

college education, or by nothing more than luck of the draw.

“No shame in that,” Murdock reassured him. “Good for you, I say. You got to

stay here and be safe. That was the idea we were fighting for, after all.”

The other man smiled with relief. “Anyway, on behalf of those of us that didn‟t

go… thank you. Glad you made it back.”

The man spoke with a light, high voice--an unmistakably East Coast voice, its

origin like that of the car, but with a slight touch of… Virginia, perhaps? Delaware?

Maryland, maybe. Murdock didn‟t ask, more interested in trying to determine Bill‟s

state of origin on his own than by posing outright questions.

With a sharp turn of the wheel, Bill pulled the VW away from the soft shoulder

where he‟d picked up Murdock, then proceeded down the two-lane stretch of road. He

chuckled and gestured out at the late evening shower as they drove on down the

rain-slicked road.

“I almost didn‟t see you standing there with your thumb out. What were you

doing, walking around in the dark? And in weather like this?”

Murdock hummed. “Trust me, it wasn‟t by choice. I had to ditch my plane



back at that little bitty airport back there. Although,” he said with a slight turn of his

head, “I can‟t really say it was my plane. I was just borrowing it.” He gestured vaguely

towards the window. “I had to fly some friends of mine out here. Problem is, one of

„em don„t like to fly, and even though we made it out here okay, we had to make an

emergency landing. Anyway, they‟re gonna stay the night and rent a car in the morning,

but I‟ve got to get back west as soon as I can. There‟s somewhere I have to be.”

Bill didn‟t ask, and Murdock knew better than to mention the

“somewhere”--namely, that he needed to scoot back to the Veterans Administration

hospital before the psychiatric unit got in too much of a tizzy over his absence. Even

“crazy old Murdock” knew that when you picked up a stranger out of the rain, the last

thing you want to learn is that he‟s a mental patient.

When he‟d started walking away from the airport, formulating a plan for travel,

Murdock calculated that it would take two and a half days of traveling by bus to make it

back to the V.A. That still worked out better than waiting at some backwoods airport in

the hope that a generous pilot would not only show up but would also be able to fly him

west. The odds didn‟t settle in his favor in that regard. So he‟d started walking.

Bill‟s eyebrows went up and he glanced over at Murdock, then turned his

attention back to the road. “Your friends couldn‟t drive you somewhere?”

“No, they‟ve got a schedule to keep. And that airport back there is so small,” he

added, “that there ain‟t any other planes scheduled to land. So I figured I‟d just catch a

ride to the bus station, and either get to another airport or maybe ride a bus out to Los

Angeles. So if you can find me the local Greyhound stop, I„d be much obliged.”

Bill shrugged. “Well, as it turns out, I‟m on my way to Houston. You can



probably catch a bus from there.” He grinned. “Though I can‟t say my car would be

much more comfortable than riding on a bus.”

Murdock smiled in return. “I was kinda noticin‟ that you‟ve got a bit of a

clunker, here.”

“Yep, but it‟s better than nothing.” His lean, pale face took on a strained look.

“I‟ve been having a little money trouble over the past few years, and it„s about all I„ve

got left. It‟s been a little tough lately, finding work.”

Murdock nodded. “Yea. I go on, ah, sort of… odd jobs with my friends. But

they don‟t always pay what they should. Lots of times, we just end up doin‟ what we

have to do in order to help people. Profit takes a back seat. Good for the karma, I

guess, but it sure is tough on the wallet.” He gave Bill a friendly look. “But don‟t you

worry. I‟ve got enough to cover our gas the whole way there, so that‟s one less thing to

have to deal with.”

“I sure would appreciate that,” Bill replied with obvious relief. “Thank you.”

“Don‟t mention it.”

Bill gave him an odd sideways glance. “So you‟re from California? Not

Louisiana?”

“No, no.” He chuckled. “I know, I do have a bit of a southern drawl.”

“Just a bit,” Bill joked.

“I‟m from Texas. Give it another couple of hours, and we‟ll be back with my

people.” Murdock laughed. “Some things you just can‟t shake, I guess. Now, what

about you?” He cocked his head to one side. “I mean, your license plate is from New

York, but--”



“But what? What you sayin„?” Bill grinned as his voice slipped in to a sharp,

albeit slightly clumsy, New York accent. “You tink I ain‟t from New Yawk?”

“Sorry, but no.”

“Hmmm.” He sighed. “Well, I have to admit, I do have to work on it a little

more. It‟s not my best accent,” he added.

“Oh. You do accents?”

“Yea, I‟m--”

Bill gasped and cut his words off in mid-sentence as his grip tightened on the

steering wheel. The bug‟s tires squelched along something dark and lumpy, then the car

suddenly spun out of Bill„s control, pulling a full three-sixty before it fish-tailed off the

road. With a groan of wood against metal, the car came to a heavy thump of a stop

against a clump of bushes.

The two men sat there in shock for a moment, and then Bill launched into a long

diatribe of profanity, the likes of which Murdock hadn‟t heard since his days in „Nam.

After a full minute of cursing, the man folded his arms over the steering wheel, leaned

forward and put his head on his forearms, breathing heavily.

Murdock, for his part, could only let out a sharp laugh. Too many times of being

in danger within the delicate shell of a helicopter--often while being fired upon, fully

visible and in the air--made a minor car accident like they‟d just experienced nothing

more than light entertainment for him.

“I must say, that‟s some pretty fine swearing for a civilian,” he said with some

admiration.

Bill shook his head, his face a confused mask of disgust and shock. “What the



hell did we just run over?”

Bill fumbled for the door handle and got out in the rain, and Murdock followed

him, crawling out through the driver‟s side door (given that his side of the car had been

the one to impact with the bushes). They moved back to where the red glow of the

taillights illuminated the flattened forms.

“Lizards?” Bill guessed, squinting down at his feet.

Murdock kicked at one of the dark amphibious bodies near his feet. “Frogs,” he

declared. “Well, how about that? We just ran over a whole mess o‟ frogs.”

“What is this?!?” Bill gestured around him, mysteriously covered by both live

and dead frogs. “They‟re all over the road!”

“It happens,” Murdock replied. “Weird weather phenomenon probably dumped

„em here. You get that once in a while. You can have a gust of wind or a tornado or

water spout or somethin‟ come tearin‟ through a swamp or a lake, and it‟ll pick up and

dump all sorts of things-- birds or fish, or…”

Bill let out a high keening note in his throat, and Murdock quickly went to his

side. Under the odd red glow of the taillights, he couldn‟t help but notice that the pale

man before him had grown significantly paler.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Murdock pulled him back to the car and had him sit down

on the driver„s seat. “Take it easy. Just breathe. You„re okay.”

Bill nodded, swallowed a few times and took several deep breaths. He pulled off

his cap and turned his face up to the rain, eyes closed, and let the water flatten the

thinning brown hair on the top of his head. Murdock, by contrast, pulled his blue ball

cap further down over his face to ward off the rain. He crouched in front of Bill, one



hand on the man„s knee, gauging his condition. After a while, Bill put his cap back on

and wiped at his face, then moved over into the car and sat in the passenger seat, still

trembling and rain-soaked, but a bit more lucid.

Murdock slid behind the wheel and pulled the door shut, then simply sat with one

hand on Bill‟s shoulder as he waited for the man to stop shaking. It took quite a while,

during which time Murdock distracted him with all sorts of random conversation. He

told Bill about the A-Team--not the fugitive part, as that would‟ve probably landed him

back outdoors almost as fast as confessing to being a mental patient--and talked about the

group‟s latest mission to stop illegal wildlife hunting in Baton Rouge.

“Not that Hannibal‟s ever been above wearing a good pair of crocodile boots,” he

finished.

Bill let out a warm laugh, and Murdock smiled in relief to see that Bill had come

around from the panicked state he‟d been in earlier. Bill checked his watch and drew in a

long, slow breath, then let it out in a heavy sigh.

“We should get going,” he suggested.

“And I agree,” Murdock replied. “But I‟ll drive for now. You just take it easy

for a while. We don‟t need no more poor, innocent frogs sacrificing their little legs on

our behalf.” He dropped the car in gear, then paused and looked at Bill. “Well, okay,

maybe a few more,” he added as he drove over a few dozen more frog bodies before

finding a clear patch of road.

About four hours later, Bill stirred from his slumped position in the passenger seat

and let out a long yawn, then stretched himself and reached for the dashboard, where he‟d

left his glasses. He slipped them on, then peered out at the dark, damp world beyond the



confines of the car. The rain had stopped, but he could see nothing but trees outside the

windows.

“What time is it?” he mumbled.

Murdock gave his watch a quick check. “Ah… about three o‟clock.”

“Where are we?”

“Beaumont, Texas.”

Bill gave him a sleepy, confused look. “Where?”

“Don‟t look at me. I‟ve never been here. Well, not in a car, anyway. Though

it kinda sounds familiar, so I„ve probably flown in to Fort Arthur at least once.” He

winked. “Hey, Texas is a big state. Just ‟cause I‟m from here don‟t mean I went

everywhere.”

Murdock lifted one hand off the steering wheel to look at the gauges, then put it

back down.

“We‟re almost out of gas,” he announced.

Bill nodded towards some lights up ahead. “Good timing, then. It looks like

that‟s a gas station right up there. Pull in.”

“You got it.”

Murdock eased the vehicle in to the station, pulled up to the pump, then killed the

engine.

“It‟s sixty cents a gallon,” Murdock said with a slight wince, “which is a bit more

than I‟d like to pay, but we‟re runnin‟ on vapors so we ain‟t got no choice. We‟ll have

to fill it up. No telling how far it is to the next place.”

They stepped out of the car and Murdock went to the little shack to pay the



attendant, while Bill waited by the pump. Once the attendant flipped a switch, Murdock

gave a thumbs-up and Bill pulled the nozzle out of the pump and filled up the vehicle.

As he finished and put the nozzle back, Bill checked his watch and pursed his lips.

“Damn it. I‟ve got to make a phone call.” He gave an irritated shake of his

head. “We‟re running behind schedule. Thanks to me freaking out over a bunch of

frogs, that is.”

“Don‟t worry about it.” Murdock spotted the open telephone booth and pointed

behind Bill. “Looks like the phone‟s right over there.”

Bill nodded and turned in that direction, then gave an odd glance to his right as he

noticed that Murdock had begun to walk with him… in step.

“You know, we don‟t really know much about each other,” Murdock observed as

he kept pace with his new co- pilot. “You‟re from Maryland, right?”

Bill cleared his throat and nodded as he stopped in front of the phone, picked up

the black receiver, and dialed a phone number that he had written on the back of a

receipt. He paused, listened to the instructions, then plugged the required amount of

dimes into the metal box.

Murdock stood right next to him, head cocked to one side. It had been a long and

rather boring day, frogs notwithstanding, and he hadn‟t had the chance to mess with

anyone; he missed bantering with B.A. and teasing Face, and otherwise screwing with

people„s minds. Bill, by simply being the only one available for such a thing, therefore

became the perfect candidate to mess with.

Bill‟s eyebrows went up as someone picked up the other end of the phone line.

“John! Sorry to wake you so early. It‟s Dwight.”



Murdock leaned in. “I thought you said your name was Bill?”

Bill put one hand over the receiver. “Dwight‟s my middle name, and my stage

name,” he muttered quick ly before turning his attention back to the phone conversation.

“I‟m stuck in Beaumont, Texas at the moment. I‟m running a bit behind schedule. My

car went off the road in Louisiana because I ran over a bunch of frogs.” He paused.

“Yea, that‟s right. Frogs. No, I should be there in time.” He paused. “Yea, I know.

I am sorry. „The theatre waits for no man,‟” he quoted with a crooked grin. “No, I

should make the rehearsal. No problem. Bye.”

Bill hung up the phone, and Murdock gave him an odd look and held up one hand.

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Did you say you were goin‟ to a theater or

somethin‟ like that?” he asked.

“Yea. I‟m working at the Alley Theatre in Houston. I‟ve got a job there, as a

resident actor--”

“You‟re an actor?” Mur dock interrupted. He shook his head in mock confusion.

“Now, wait a minute. Wait a minute.” “Um… well… do… do people come and see

you?”

He nodded. “Yea. Uh, yea, you know.” He swept his arms around in a circle,

then behind him, as he spoke. “You‟re on a stage, and they put up scenery, and you‟re

directed, and people pay to see the show--”

“Now, wait a minute,” Murdock broke in. “Wait a minute.” He scrutinized Bill‟s

face. “Are you famous?” he inquired.

Bill shook his head. “No.”

Murdock chuck led. “Well, if you‟re not famous, why would anyone pay to see



you?”

Speechless for a moment, Bill puffed out a laugh. “Well, that‟s a pretty good

question…”

Unable to keep a straight face any more, Murdock grinned and waved a hand in

the air. “No, I‟m only kiddin‟ you. I know where the Alley Theatre is.”

Murdock winked, and Bill released a loud, relieved laugh at realizing that he„d

been had. Bill stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned back.

“Murdock, you are a character…”

"the a-team: road trip" (fan fiction)

Documents