“Oh...hey! It's YOU again.”
Her face turned serious for a moment when she saw me pull out the big gun, then she started to laugh as I struggled to carry it. Jake's friend weighed a damned ton!
I looked around for where I should put it, but there was nothing but open grass and the woman's home. Did I have the right to impose on her?
“Excuse me, Professor. Jo is coming here with some...trouble. I need to set up this gun so I can, umm, help her.”
The professor waved her arm, inviting me in. “And call me Marjorie!”
I climbed the few stairs of the deck, ran through the small kitchen, and found a place at the front window. I moved an end table so I had a support for the big gun, but once it was set up I saw a huge problem: she wouldn't know I was there. If she arrived but didn't see me or the car, she might drive away. I might not see her again. The penalty for stealing that car would be steep.
Marjorie was under the influence of something. Or just really happy in a hippy-relaxed sort of way. Not at all like I'd seen her before. For a moment I wondered if Jo had delivered something at the same time she picked up the briefcase.
There were too many variables. The only one I could trust was myself. So, I walked out onto the front porch. I'd make it so she knew I was at the house, then take it from there.
“Do you know how to shoot this big thing?”
Marjorie had wandered over to Jo's gun and fiddled with it. I knew it was loaded, but now that she'd said it I didn't have any idea how to fire it. I must have telegraphed that with my silence.
“Well, dear, you just click this little thingy here.” She was doing something with it. I ran back inside, afraid she'd shoot me through the screen. When I made it inside, she had her eye on the scope and said, “And then you pull.”
The room exploded with the most violent concussion I'd ever experienced. There was a hole in the front screen and the bullet she'd fired headed for Missouri. The bitter smell of the fumes was overpowering.
Marjorie was on the floor. A large welt grew above the eye she'd been using with the scope. Almost as I watched it turned blue and ugly. She silently cried while she gingerly touched it.
“I don't have time for this.” I knew she couldn't hear me. I could barely hear me. The gunshot had sent my head spinning.
Content that she'd not do that again, I ran back outside. I heard the roar of engine noise coming from the gravel road. It didn't even strike me until just then that Jo was driving on the one surface she hated more than any other. Of all the places to go.
But she flew. Maybe because it wasn't her car. She approached with a huge billow of smokey road dust behind her. The bottom half of her car had become white with it. The trailing car was probably all white. I giggled at the thought of the tiny victory.
She saw me. I could tell by the shift in her driving. She slowed down as she approached the house up the long straight road. Then she jammed on the brakes and slid the car in a perfect execution of a parallel parking job. Her car came to a rest just in front of Marjorie's home, just below the barrel of my gun.
I ran back inside.
The police car decelerated, but didn't do anything fancy. They parked well away from Jo.
I saw Jo jump out of her car and go running behind the house.
“Thanks a lot!” It was a snap judgment, but I knew she saw me go in the house. Why she ran behind was a mystery.
I lined up my shot. The officers were still in their car. They were HUGE in my scope.
“Got ya!”
I pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
I fumbled around for the safety, thinking it had fallen back to “safe” or something.
“You looking for this, dear?” Marjorie asked. She, too, was talking loudly.
I stood erect and turned to face her. Marjorie held the missing magazine.
“Shame I had to bruise myself, but I fancied myself an actress at one time.”
“But the police, they're bad.” I said limply.
“Is that what you think?” She pulled a little radio from her back pocket. “I've got the shooter. You're clear. The girls are unhurt, I hope?”
I was unhurt, I knew that much. And Jo?
“I'm just fine!” Jo came screaming out of the kitchen into the little front room. She'd caught Marjorie off guard. The big aluminum flashlight she carried fell on Marjorie's skull and she collapsed to the floor. “Thank you for asking!”
I stood incredulous.
“What's happening here?” I shouted it over the ringing in my ears.
She didn't answer. She went to her gun and noticed the magazine had been removed. A frantic look outside the window.
“Where is it? I need the mag for this or we're dead.” I could just hear her talking at normal volume.
“Umm, she had it.” I pointed to Marjorie, but I didn't see the little steel box. We searched under the sofa and the little curio cabinet. That's where it was.
With great violence she turned over the cabinet, grabbed for the missing piece, then worked to get it into the gun.
“This is going to be close.”
With a flourish she patted the top of the gun like it was alive, then lined up her shot. Unlike Marjorie—if she wasn't pretending—Jo acted like a professional. She held the big gun close to her shoulder and braced herself while looking down the scope from a safe distance. I was prepared this time, and even put my hands over my ears, but the sound still startled me.
“One.” She said calmly.
I watched as her finger tensed, then let up. Then, when she was ready, she squeezed again.
Gunshots from outside. The window above the open screen shattered. I stood there, not realizing the danger...
Another explosive burst. My ears thanked me for covering them, but they still buzzed and rang madly from the first shot. No more shots came in.
“Two.” Her workman-like dealings were completely in contrast to how she acted the rest of the day. Far from being a flighty, flirty girl, she was a totally focused killer.
Again, my face betrayed me.
“Come on, see what this is about.”
It's all pretty much gone
“How in the hell did you drive on that gravel road? I thought you were scared to death of it?”
“I closed my eyes.”
She left me to ponder that as she walked ahead and checked on the two dead officers by their car. I followed, with reluctance. There was no doubt they were dead. They had huge pieces missing from them.
She stood behind the car the two dead men had been driving. “You aren't going to believe this, but we just saved four lives today.”
She was right, I wasn't going to believe it. By my math more than four people had died today.
But when she opened the trunk, I was looking at two young teen girls dressed in dirty nightgowns. Both were much younger than me. They still had the faces of children, though their bodies were more mature.
I helped them out, and they cried in my arms.
We all walked back toward the house, and the second car. When Jo opened that trunk, two more little girls jumped out. Both were hysterical.
I felt like I was repeating myself, but I needed to know. “What, exactly, is happening here?”
“Everyone inside.” Jo ushered us all into the front room, where she kicked the professor to jostle her awake.
She walked the short distance to her gun and aimed it at the injured woman. Marjorie was disoriented, but her eyes bulged when she saw the big barrel of the gun near her face.
“Talk,” Jo insisted.
“What do you want me to say?” She no longer had her hippy attitude. “That we started a few house fires to distract the natives so we could make a transaction with our southern neighbors? That we—”
“You killed Evans? You knew I needed him!” She roughly poked the barrel into the chest of the professor, though her woozy look made Jo pull back. Blood trickled over her face from the crack on the skull.
“I knew you'd go right to the sheriff with news of the fire,” she said with a grim stare at Jo.
We did go right to the sheriff.
I'd never seen Jo look taken aback. Like someone tossed her car keys in the lake.
“But why are you involved with these girls?” Jo continued. “It's horrible.”
“Everyone is looking for escape, Jo, you know that better than anyone. These girls were helping me do that.”
Jo put the gun right up into Marjorie's face. I thought that was it. I can't explain why, but I tried to keep Jo from shooting her.
“Maybe the girls know,” I ventured.
A long pause.
“Right...Perth. Let's ask the girls.” Jo turned to the four little girls standing near the front door. They seemed hesitant to get near Marjorie. “You four, have you seen this lady before?”
They all shook their heads yes.
“And where do you know her from?”
The tallest of the four may also have been the oldest. Her long hair looked long-unwashed and her overall demeanor would best be described as hopeless. She spoke up for all of them.
“She sometimes works in the welcome center in Hays. We all saw her when we came in. She helped us settle in. She told us she was our friend. But then...”
The tears told the story.
“I talked to them on the drive in,” Jo continued, “these poor girls were kidnapped by this bitch and were going to be traded to the south for fuel. They couldn't answer why the deal went sour, and I don't think those two will talk either.” She motioned to the dead men outside with a gruff laugh.
The taller girl quietly excused herself to go deeper into the house.
“You're some kind of undercover police officer, right?” I asked. There were few police, and most were fighting to keep the peace in their little villages. She would be something new, but who else would steal a police interceptor on a whim?
“No. I had no idea these girls existed. I ran across that field to get...something else. When I saw they left it running, well, who could not take it?” A small laugh peeked through her stern countenance. Her aim was still on the woman, but she was looking at the three girls. “Don't worry, we'll get you to safety. She can't hurt you guys anymore. None of them will.”
The tall girl rejoined her friends and they talked among themselves.
I sidled next to Jo. I was happy to have helped with whatever she was doing, but I had to keep my eye on the prize. “So, partner, we make a good team. Still need a co-pilot up north?” I didn't want to go back to doing the milk run, not after all the excitement and time behind the wheel of “Penn.”
“I gotta be honest with you Perth. It's really dangerous up there. More dangerous than this.” She swooshed her arm around the room and out the window. “And, I was more looking for someone with more experience for something I gotta do up there. You got a lot going on down here. You've got your cherry pick of cars though, huh?”
I looked outside. “You mean, I can have one of those?” The afternoon sun glistened off the black paint, beckoning me.
“Well, I'll take one and you take other one. That's how we trade up, right? The girls can return in my car.”
My eyes swirled. Owning a top tier car fresh out of pony runs was unheard of. I'd be a rock star.
I listened for my father's rebuke. Braced for it.
Nothing.
While I was turned around talking, a piercing scream came from behind. Jo raised her weapon, slowly since it was so heavy, and I spun myself around with my hands as my only defense.
I couldn't believe it. The young girls all had steak knives and poked them repeatedly into the already-injured professor. Her neck was already open and shooting blood onto the floor. She flailed her arms weakly. I took a step to help her—
“No, you can't. It has to be this way.”
I couldn't look at anything else. The girls were thorough and worked with hatred. Anyone who stuffed little girls into cars of men who were—on paper—there to protect them, deserved to die.
“You know, anymore, this is how things have to be. Courts. The Law. It's all pretty much gone. The only rules that matter are the ones plastered on the walls of garages.”
She tapped me so I would look back at her rather than the bloody death of the professor. Her screams had become a gurgle, then a hissing.
“Bring back the car. Bring back the parts. Bring back the driver. These kids are drivers, or will be. We did a good thing by bringing them back. Marjorie was breaking rule 3. Death was always going to be her fate if she was caught.”
No one gets banished anymore. We all knew it. Too many came back. It only took a few dead ponies at the hands of banished and revenge-minded criminals to establish that.
A switch turned off inside me. The interstate wasn't an exciting and adventurous place. It was dangerous and hard work. Jo handled herself better than I ever could, and we weren't even up on the big highway. I knew what I was heading for if I tried to jump ahead.
I made a decision I knew my dad would appreciate.
Show me the way
When I woke up that day I never would have guessed how much my life was going to change. I went from zero-to-one-hundred. I started my routes as a pony and ended it in ownership of a true thoroughbred racehorse. I could have been a superstar.
But the silence of my father made me understand the gravity of the situation. If he had been there counseling me to avoid jumping right to the big leagues, I admit, I probably would have done it. It would have been childish and stupid, but he's my dad!
Instead, he left it up to me. I hope I made the right choice, because I'd hitched my wagon to the brightest star I'd ever seen in those dusty pastures. I discussed everything with Jo. She'd take me on as her co-pilot, teach me the ropes, run a few routes together, and practice under her watchful eye driving the same model of car that I had waiting for me when I was ready.
By the rules of New World, the house became vacant when Marjorie died. I claimed it so I could park my evil-looking Mustang there, but I offered the place to the girls, too. It's kind of small, but no one would bother them.
We found a cache of weapons from the cars we inherited; we gave most of them to the girls so they could defend themselves. Jo and I both took a couple for ourselves. I think she kept that big rifle around for sentimental reasons. It was on my list to ask her about it.
It made me happy to be in the saddle with Jo, even if I didn't much care for the interior of her new car. It was like taking Death's horse and riding it in the summer parade with big happy flags hanging off the sides. It felt wrong. But, out there, only horsepower mattered.
I also wasn't comforted by the presence of the black suitcase she wouldn't let me near. She'd tossed it in the far rear with a knowing look that said, “don't touch.” But, she also made a show of ignoring the odds and ends—including a brown paper bag—I threw in there. I guess the professor was right, we were all looking for escape.
Later, on our way back to Hays, I marveled at how fast she bounced back. She had a smile that couldn't be washed off. “I know we just scored this amazing car, but you look happier than you should for a couple house fires and busting a sex slave sting.”
“Why not? I'm the happiest and luckiest gal down here in the pony pastures right now. I've got my bad ass ride, I've got a gal who knows north from south and can fire the fifty, and I took four assholes off the road. Plus, well, all I'll say is that I finally feel like I know where I'm going in this world.”
Her smile was infectious. I didn't correct her that I'd never actually fired “the fifty.”
I pulled out the small bobblehead dog I'd ripped off the dashboard of my IROC back at the fire. I held it out to show her. “Mind if he rides with us?”
“Is this your dad?”
“What?”
“You know, you said you were looking for your dad—back at the fire. You thought he'd gotten injured in the wreck.”
It all clicked.
>
“Yes! I talk to this like he's my dad. It sounds stupid, I know, but—”
“No, not at all. I get it. Put him up there. He'll liven this place up.”
I plopped him on his butt right at the top of the center console. The little golden retriever started to bob and weave with the road below us. I fell back into my seat, feeling better at the whole turn of events.
“Girl, we've got the wind at our backs, the big city ahead of us, and more horsepower than two girls need. You ready to ride in the fast lane?”
“Show me the way.”
The bobblehead dog nodded at me.
“Thanks, Dad.”
###
On the next few pages, please enjoy a snippet from book 2 of the Revolutions Per Mile series.
Post Apocalyptic Mustangs
[This is the first chapter from Post Apocalyptic Mustangs: Revolutions Per Mile, Book 2]
The fuel tanker was pretty typical. It was a probably less than half full—they seldom top off because of the trouble driving them here—so figure 4000 gallons. In the Old World I would never have noticed trucks like that delivering their precious cargo to my local gas station even if I was parked next to it. I just didn't care.
Out there it stood out like Thomas the Train chuffing through Strawberry Shortcake's village. That's because it was sitting on a gravel road under the wide open sky of central Kansas prairie rather than dropping fuel in the city.
My childhood television viewing sometimes bleeds through...
“This one's an official tanker. We're good,” Jo told me as we pulled up. There was a significant black market for fuel, though quality varied. Finding an officially recognized carrier helped.
Fuel was a dangerous business. Up north, where we got our gasoline, people literally killed to get it. That's what we called the Northern Run. It went from Hays up to somewhere in North Dakota. I'd never been there, so I didn't know. Only the older boys and a few insane girls drove on that route. However, down in the south—the pony pastures—fuel trucks had a much easier time. The drivers were usually greeted with food, supplies, and other goods for trade, rather than bullets or the mercenary's knife.
Post Apocalyptic Ponies: Revolutions Per Mile, Book 1 Page 6