Post Apocalyptic Ponies: Revolutions Per Mile, Book 1

by Isherwood, E. E.

  Post Apocalyptic Ponies:

  Revolutions Per Mile, Book 1

  © 2016 E.E. Isherwood. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

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  For now, enjoy the story!

  E.E. Isherwood [April 2016]

  Introduction to the Revolutions Per Mile series.

  Being a writer gives me all the advantages of being a picky reader. If I can't find a book that is exactly what I want to read, I can write it. My first series of books dealt with zombies and the survival of a 15-year-old boy and his 104-year-old great-grandmother. That allowed me to explore the world of the young man as he was faced with the challenges of an unfolding emergency. They aren't traditional heroes nor are my zombies traditional zombies. But they are the types of stories I love to read. As of April, 2016, I'll have four volumes in Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse.

  The Revolutions Per Mile series takes place after America's collapse. Instead of zombies, the culprit of the world's demise is thought to be nuclear war. My heroine, Perth Hopkins, is a young girl who grew up wrenching with her father as he worked on his sports cars. That knowledge gave her the leg up she needed to escape the mushroom clouds and find refuge on the high plains of Kansas.

  But as a reader I wanted to focus less on the cause and more on the result. I imagined Hays, Kansas as a focal point for people fleeing the big cities at opposite ends of Interstate 70 (Denver and Kansas City). Those with the fastest cars would arrive there first, be in the best position to make the rules, and so on. Speedy modern muscle cars would find a place in the ecosystem of the post apocalyptic high plains. The cars are well-maintained, drawing spare parts from the multitude of vehicles abandoned on the highways, and fuel is plentiful because of the relationship with the oil fields of North Dakota. Drivers like Perth would do well in such an environment, though the challenges would only grow as survivors became more desperate and the cars themselves began to break down.

  America's lifeblood is its highways. I believe Kansas is where that blood will flow the longest. See if you agree. I hope you'll find this introductory story exciting as we take a look at this New World through Perth's eyes.

  Welcome to Post Apocalyptic Ponies.

  E.E. Isherwood

  Revolutions Per Mile Series

  Post Apocalyptic Ponies

  Post Apocalyptic Mustangs [May, 2016]

  Post Apocalyptic Chargers [June, 2016]

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Milk run

  Penn and Garth

  No one can make you pull over

  They nicknamed you 'legs'

  Where's the fire?

  You got issues

  Save the car

  You seem competent

  She's just a little reclusive

  Up over a hundred

  I wasn't a pony anymore

  I thought there'd be a gate

  Breathe, K-Bear

  You always did what you wanted

  Jake's friend

  And then you pull

  It's all pretty much gone

  Show me the way

  Post Apocalyptic Mustangs

  About E.E. Isherwood

  Other books by E.E. Isherwood

  Connect with E.E. Isherwood

  Prologue

  The long ribbon of pavement brought me to this place when I was fifteen. It chewed on my leg like a feral dog for two years until I was old enough and talented enough to get behind the wheel and tame it. Once I tasted the road, I bled gasoline.

  I now live in high plains Kansas. It's an island of safety between the glowing nuclear pyres. Girls my age must work to survive, same as everyone else. My unfortunate sisters have to toil in the fields or wrench in garages. They go slow.

  I'm one of the lucky few: I spend my life going fast as a courier. I feel the wind through my hair. I get to see what's over the horizon. I do everything in the top gear. Without us drivers, this place would be nothing more than tumbleweeds and hawks.

  I never look back, except for my dad. He perished with the rest of the world. Truth be told, I wanted to die with him. But some days, when I drive very fast, he returns to me. Tells me I'm pushing too hard.

  He always forgets. Out here, there's no slowing down.

  Milk run

  My foot beat down the clutch as my hand rattled the shifter in between gears. There weren't a lot of choices when you're moving close to a hundred miles per hour, but I always sought out my car's limits.

  “Take it easy K-bear.”

  That's my dad. Koala Bear: my nickname since birth. It went with my given name, Perth, though I'd grown to hate both as childish nonsense. Everything was “Australia” with my parents. Blech! He knew I hated being told what to do, though I never understood why he waited until I was going dangerously fast to start up with me.

  In response, I downshifted and crushed the gas pedal to the floor as I rounded the sweeping turn on the desolate two-lane blacktop road. I leaned against my bucket seat and hung on to the steering wheel as the powerful car shot me around the bend and up the gentle hill beyond. If I'd kept on the gas I could have probably caught some air going over the next rise, but I finally listened to my caution and let the speedometer return to safe pastures.

  Wilmore was a hundred miles south of Hays, my home. The windswept plains between the two was the area of safety where the youngest girls drove as couriers. They kept us there because it was safe. Thus, we were called ponies. Get it? I know: totally lame.

  The town was one of the most distant settlements in the south. More of a village, if you ask me. They needed me to run some parts up to Hays and have the machine crews fix them. I arrived with the repaired parts in my trunk, and all I had to do was dump them off so I could get back out on the road.

  It's what the other girls called a milk run.

  I saw Captain Ross in front of the feed store when I pulled up.

  “Ahoy, madam Perth!” Ross wasn't the captain of a vessel; by some agreement early on, town leaders were called captains. Some took the title more seriously than others. Even though he came in the with refugees, locals tolerated him as captain because he managed the town's supplies like a “big city accountant.” Those were his words, anyway.

  When I looked at him I saw a tired old man with a left eye that always seemed half-shut.

  “Ahoy captain.” No reason not to humor the man with the nautical nonsense.

  “Did you bring them to me?”

  I handed him the box of parts, but he grimaced. I read the disappointment as he set the box on a nearby table. So much about dealing with people revolved around things left unsaid. I'd just delivered the parts he needed to run his farm equipment, or machinery, or whatever, but he was worried about something much less important—at least on the grand scale.

  “No, silly girl. I'm talking about the other things.
”

  I looked around to make sure no one else was watching us. There were people out and about in the one-block row of storefronts, but everyone appeared consumed by their own problems. I kneeled over to fiddle with the laces of my driving boots and I threw the badly creased brown paper bag near his feet. He pretended not to see it.

  “You're a lifesaver, Perth.”

  “You just like me because I'm fast.” I laughed, thinking I had made an innocent joke, but my own words soon left me feeling cold despite the July heat. Though my shrug's long sleeves were already tight, I cinched up each arm in turn, as if to make it clear the skin underneath was not for sale. If the Captain read anything into what I'd said, he made no show of it. He was all smiles.

  Note to self: never tell a strange man, no matter how amiable, you are fast.

  Before the awkwardness engulfed me, he grabbed the bag, bid me goodbye, and went inside his shop.

  As I walked back to my open door I wondered if it was all in my imagination. I tried to believe the best in people, and the Captain was one of the few men on my routes that seemed normal by apocalyptic standards, but everyone had needs—thus the bag. Maybe he was already planning what he'd say on our next meeting. Of course, I realized I was already planning what I'd say at that meeting.

  That's why I liked driving. I always knew what to do. I could always get away from trouble.

  I hopped in my Old World IROC-Z and made my way out of town.

  My dad, always patiently waiting to point out the obvious, said, “You need to watch what you say out here.”

  I looked over, shocked that he'd lecture me in anything less than fifth gear. I was also angry because the man was right. Just because I was a pony didn't mean I had to act like one.

  Penn and Garth

  I didn't get far out of town before I saw two young men walking along the roadway's shoulder. They were holding hands, but something was wrong in the way the taller one walked. I recognized the shorter one as I closed the distance, so I slowed to talk to them with my windows down.

  From across the front seat I yelled to them. “Hey Penn, how's things?”

  I knew Penn from our time in the relocation center. Kids were grouped and called to meals by first names, so we were buddies.

  The nearer boy bent down to look into the cabin. He had stormy gray eyes and well-cropped hair, which was the style of the men and boys up north. Part of me registered him as not unattractive. “Oh hey, Perth. Things are...” He looked tired. I expected the happy Penn I knew from our prior meetings.

  “You guys want a ride?” It was the friendly thing to do, though it wouldn't be comfortable for someone to ride in my backseat—I had it ripped out.

  Penn considered, eying the back and perhaps picturing himself in the cargo area. He would have to squeeze back there, given the size of his brother.

  “No, I do appreciate it, but Garth here needs his exercise.” His words conveyed the sadness of his eyes, though he was ever-trying to smile through it.

  I got a good look at Garth, who naturally turned toward the car with the conversation. It was clear why he was holding the hand of his brother—he'd been grievously wounded on his head. A large swath of his brown hair had been shaved. The still-red wound scar was impossible to miss.

  “Hang on a sec.” I goosed the car ahead so I could pull over, then I jumped out and walked back. Out of habit I grabbed my leather jacket and pulled it on.

  Next to us, a small stream cut through the pastures and provided enough water to support some large cottonwood trees. They dropped shade just off the roadway. We all made our way out of the sun.

  “What happened, Penn?” I looked at his brother, and got the sense he wasn't there. It wasn't that unusual given the state of the world and mental health, but anyone who could survive such a wound had to be a survivor. I remembered seeing Garth—he played protective older brother—at the relocation center, but hadn't seen him with Penn in the two years since.

  Penn sat his brother in the shade and faced him so he could look at the waterway. He then came over to me. I felt myself take a step back as he neared. He spoke in a quiet voice.

  “Garth was driving with the oil convoys up north this spring. After the deep snow of the winter, the town captains all wanted to get up there as soon as it melted. It was clear down here, but too much snow remained in the Dakota's—the convoys had to go slower than normal. Lots of losses, but we got our damned oil and they got their food, right?”

  He pointed back toward the creek. “And Garth got a hole in the head as a souvenir. Now I have to take care of him, or he...” Penn was only slightly taller than me—I've always been the tall girl in school—and he was an epitome of strong and confident, but when he looked at me I saw nothing but heartbreak in his soul. Loss was expected out here, and us outsiders all lost pretty much our entire families during the early months after the war, but I could tell Garth was suffering something worse than death. Someone who couldn't contribute would not have a long life. Penn knew where things were heading, and what he might have to do to his brother.

  I changed the subject. “Are you still driving?” There were few good opportunities for kids who gave up driving. Unless you were older, it was farming or wrenching, take your pick.

  “Nah, I need to take care of Garth. I moved us into a farmhouse not far up the road. We work with the other families there.”

  I wondered if it was true they both worked up there, but I didn't press.

  I was starting to get fidgety. They didn't want a ride, and I was caught up on Penn's unfortunate life. I'd been standing still for too long.

  “Well, I have to—”

  “Wait, before you go.” He also seemed anxious. While he rubbed the back of his head he looked at me with embarrassment. It was kind of cute. “I, uh, thought maybe you'd come by sometime and I could look under your hood.”

  My eyes must have lit up with surprise because he was quick to continue. “No! I mean look under your car's hood. Oh, man. Sorry, no. Let me start over.” He took a quick breath. “I've spent a lot of time up in the big garages working on cars. I could look under your Camaro's hood and help you tweak her.” He pointed to my car. “Find a few more horsepower. That's all.” His red face practically glowed.

  I imagined my dad's response if he heard us talking. “Danger K-bear, danger.” Always danger.

  I'd almost never turn away help with tweaking my car's engine, but seeing his brother, knowing the situation of them both, and feeling the strange attraction despite all that was too much for me at that moment.

  I took one last peek into his eyes—I hesitated beyond my comfort zone—before I turned around with a stiff wave. I shook my head no.

  “I'll see ya round, Penn. Good luck.”

  I practically ran to the car, jumped in, and drove off.

  “You should belt in K-bear. It isn't safe to drive without a seatbelt.”

  “I know, Dad. Damn.”

  I was up over a hundred before I finally listened to his advice. My mind was still a quarter mile behind.

  No one can make you pull over

  My dad used to always talk about Murphy's Law. “If something can go wrong, it will,” he'd say with his deep laugh as he worked on cars in our garage. “You think this bolt was just gonna come out on it's own, all nice and prim?” he'd say. “Hell no, this thing is rusted on, and because Mr. Murphy is watching, he's going to make sure that damned thing is going to require me to grind it off, even though it's in the most inconvenient spot you can imagine.”

  He'd laugh of course—he was an optimist—but he would cuss for the next hour while he did the job that should have taken fifteen seconds with his impact wrench.

  That bastard Murphy caught up to me on the dual-lane route home.

  I saw the lights before I heard them. At the speeds I was going in my beater '97 Camaro it would have taken a normal police car a long time to catch up to me, and even longer to convince me to pull over. But out here, on these roads, the word �
��normal” was long forgotten.

  The Kansas Highway Patrol ran an office out of Hays in the old days. As the world died they stayed at their posts long past their ability to do their jobs. It was a desperate time on the roadways. They became targets for the anger of those with nothing left. Finally, the few that remained walked off the job. Those that took over were in it for entirely different reasons than law and order, but they kept the guns and the cars.

  The pursuit vehicle was one of the last models to come off the production lines at Ford before they shut down forever. The KHP Mustang was pure black, and if it were possible to look malicious, it oozed it. The sirens on top were sleek and low profile, and in the end, unnecessary. Everyone in the courier service knows to stay away from them. “Just let them pass” my mentors had told me.

  Here's the part they didn't mention: when you're going over a hundred miles an hour, no one can make you pull over. I was already halfway home, I hadn't broken any laws—no laws existed out here, and I wasn't in the mood for a “courtesy safety inspection,” as I've heard them called.

  So I did what any girl would do in my situation. I ran.

  I'd like to say I was so skilled at driving I was able to keep them off my bumper for forty miles until I made it safely back to my garage, but alas, that isn't what happened.

  I got about ten miles. I had the wind in my hair, my music was blaring, and I had found something approaching love of life. Then they did the unthinkable: they nudged my rear bumper.

  Do you know what happens to a car when it's nudged at such insane speeds? Nine times out of ten it means the car loses traction and bounces off the narrow road in a twisted steel rollover. It's ugly to watch and horrible to feel—I can only imagine, but I'm sure it's a horrible last feeling. More rarely, the car will lose control and spin in circles until it comes to stop on the pavement. Only the driver's nerves and panties are ruined.

  I did neither. I experienced a miracle of high speed aerodynamics. My rear end nudged to the side, and I steadied the wheel almost at the same time. I felt the back get all squirrely on me, and it did slip and slide, but I held it together. I wasn't twisted metal or pissing myself.