The tailgate glass is shattered, as well as the long window down the passenger side. When I open the hood I don’t see any air conditioning apparatus so a little breeze will be fine. The motor looks original, although the radiator is obviously new. It’s the only un-rusted painted part under the hood. There are two batteries for some reason, one on either side of the radiator. They must have removed whatever was to the left of the radiator to fit one in. I think there’s supposed to be a vacuum canister there? I check the plug wires, belts and hoses and they all look decent. It’s as safe as we are likely to find.
Slamming the hood, I see Izzy sitting behind a large steering wheel. There is a chrome knob attached to the wheel so a person could spin it back and forth with one hand. I’ve seen this type of thing on trucks, but never a car. Although, this car is bigger than some trucks. Slipping up to the passenger window I see her moving the stick shift around. A flat metal arm comes out of a ripped spot in the carpet, ending in a white ball the size of a billiards cue-ball. It’s bent at an angle to allow the driver to move it. Peeking under the wheel, I can see they added a pedal for the clutch. This wasn’t originally a stick shift. Izzy leans back and wrinkles her nose.
“What?” I ask, sure there is a catch.
“You drive a stick?”
“A little,” I answer, not wanting to look lame. “Or I did once in driver’s education.”
“Then you’re lucky I’m here.”
With this, she turns over the engine. It cranks several times before roaring to life. Each side has a fanned down exhaust pipe and dust blows about the car when she stomps the gas. I wave my hand in front of my face and frown.
“Right, got it, let me toss our stuff in and we can go.
She nods, happy to listen to the car run. We find a case of water in the house and toss our backpacks in the second seat. At least we won’t die of dehydration for now. A picnic lunch in a large paper bag from Donna goes in the front seat between us. I slip in, noting the ancient chrome rims and oversize wide tires with the name Bridgestone Rally in white letters on the side. There don’t seem to be any seat belts and I ponder the safety of nineteen seventies travel.
When she tries to put it in reverse the gears grind loudly. She tries twice and then utters several expletives.
“Problem?”
“Keep your panties on,” she complains, jamming the gear shifter down hard.
The gear pops and we shoot backwards out the drive and across the dirt road before she gets it stopped. Our rear bumper thumps into their mailbox, bending it over. Her eyes scan in both directions, but wind up back on me.
“Which way?” she mutters, now fighting to get the shifter into first gear.
“Donna said go right six or seven miles, then turn before Main street to avoid downtown. I think she said turn on Maple Street.”
“That runs to the highway?” she huffs, jamming it in gear and rocking the car back and forth with the brake.
“There’s another right after that to get on the main road, but yeah. Let’s avoid downtown if possible. I have the feeling the locals may have seen this car before.”
“You think the previous owners came through town?” she remarks, idling in the middle of the road playing with the radio.
“Maybe, maybe not, but this isn’t a very stealthy car.”
“True,” she agrees, turning the dial, but getting all static. “It works, but there are no stations broadcasting.”
Leaning in closer I see it has a CD player as well. When I push the blue CD button, letters scroll across a read out in green. This piece of electronics works? I sit up and wait. After a pause to load the CD, a loud bell can be heard from very large speakers somewhere in the back. It’s like a church bell in a tower. Izzy looks puzzled, and then the song comes to me. A guitar riff wails and then the drums join in.
“What is it?”
“Hells Bells,” I say loudly over the engine and sound system. “AC/DC.”
“Is it good?”
“It’s appropriate,” I shout.
Nodding her head to the beat, she drops the clutch and the car does a half doughnut, throwing rocks as we shoot down the road. I’m holding onto the door just to keep from sliding into her lap. She turns up the volume and winks at me. How can anyone not love this girl? We travel maybe five miles and then the dirt road turns to pavement. A half mile later we enter small town, USA. Regular city blocks with stop signs every other road. A speed limit sign reads 25 MPH as we pass at nearly 40.
“How far?” she demands as we swerve around a child’s bike abandoned in the left lane.
“Hard to say. Slow down so I can read the signs.”
She slows, but we fly past Maple Street. When I point back she slams on the brakes, before using the knob to spin the wheel to the right. Tires squeal as she turns almost a one-eighty. As we back track to Maple Street I notice several groups of people standing in their front yards. This car is really loud and Izzy isn’t shy about the gas pedal. We turn right onto Maple and she tears past driveways full of dead cars. These people came out of their homes a week ago and the world had stopped cold. And yet, they didn’t start eating each other like lions. At least, not yet.
When her foot comes off the gas the difference in sound shakes me out of a daydream about Lion Country Safari. Up ahead is a barricade of dead cars. The Town’s people have pushed them across the road to keep anyone from entering downtown. Several cars are in the yards on either side just to make sure no one can avoid the barricade. We slow to a stop midway down the block from the line. A half dozen people stand by the barricade and it’s clear they are armed.
“What’s the deal?” she huffs.
“Town pulled together. They blocked off roads to keep people from drifting in off the highway and raiding the downtown area. They probably have all their supplies in there.”
“We’re trying to drift onto the highway not off it,” she argues. “And we don’t want their supplies.”
“It doesn’t appear any drifting is permitted.”
“There’s no gate,” she points out as she jams the shifter into reverse and starts backing up. “The cars are end to end. It’s a dead end, not a check point.”
“Agreed. Options?”
“I bet there’s a gate on one of the other streets,” she mutters through gritted teeth, turning sharply and heading back to Main Street. “They have to get stuff in.”
This rolls around in my head as she cranks the wheel hard at Main and we skid into the intersection and go left. Is going downtown a good idea? I’m ready to tap her on the shoulder to ask, when I see the next barricade. The one into downtown is impressive. Two huge semi-trucks are backed right up to the buildings, wheels on the sidewalk. The two story wooden clapboard houses look surreal with semi-trailers touching the front porch. In front of each truck sit two sedans making it impossible to break through. The remaining gap is maybe two car lengths blocked by two long saw horses.
“I’m guessing you’re not going to stop and ask directions,” I blurt as she down shifts and hits the gas.
“Past here we turn left, then a straight shot to the highway?” she states, but it’s more a question as the song Back in Black begins.
“It’s safe to assume there is at least one other direction with an exit. This is like a Keep at a castle. Once we are in however, there is no way to know what will happen,” I bark over the whistling wind.
“Agreed,” she nods, upshifting and honking the horn. “You might want to get the shotgun handy.”
I pull the shotgun from between the seatback and our backpacks as they lay in the back seat. Four men stand guard at the gates, all wielding hand guns. Several warning shots are fired as we approach, but between the horn honking and the radio it’s hard to tell. One more aggressive shot hits the windshield, leaving a spider web. Caught a bit by surprise, they have to scatter to either side and Izzy crashes through the saw horses. We travel one block and I point frantically that this is the turn.
Cra
nking the wheel with the knob, she skids us sideways until we stop. We narrowly avoid the rear tires hopping the curb, but the car jolts as they hit it. Our car is pointing down the correct street now, but the motor rumbles and stalls. It’s either her letting out the clutch too soon or just a low idle, but we are sitting ducks just the same. In the silence of the stalled engine the AC/DC song blares. There are people holding their children against the walls of buildings wearing shocked faces. Looking across Izzy, I see the men at the barricade dusting themselves off and heading this way.
“Well,” I shout, waving a hand at the dash. “Let’s go.”
Nodding, Izzy turns the key. The motor cranks slowly, but doesn’t fire. With wide fearful eyes she cranks it again. A gun shot echoes down the valley of two story buildings, hitting the tailgate. I’m thinking hard, but all I can imagine are the two batteries under the hood. Scanning across the dash, I don’t see anything helpful, but then I notice the ripped carpet around the shifter. Pulling it back there is a suicide switch labeled BAT2. When I swing the brass colored guillotine like handle down there is a spark. Izzy cranks the motor, which turns very quickly now. A glance in the side mirror shows black smoke puffing out of the exhaust pipe. A second shot rips into the front fender just as the engine roars to life.
“Giddy up,” Izzy shouts, slamming the shifter into first leaving two long black marks on the pavement.
As we race down the street, a group of three men wielding baseball bats step off the sidewalk. Izzy choses to avoid some families caught in the wrong place at the wrong time to the left, but then can’t avoid the bat wielding men. The first guy swings his bat and connects with the windshield, but it strikes the post at the corner and the barrel flies back, striking him in the teeth.
“He clearly never played mailbox baseball,” I wince.
“Do something about this guy will you,” she barks, nodding her head at my side.
An older man wearing overalls and a green cap is winding up with a huge hammer. I stick the business end of the shotgun out the window as we pass. He fails to throw the implement, but shouts something foul.
A half block away is an identical barricade as the last, only with all the noise they are pushing a neon green Kia Soul across the part previously blocked by saw horses. I only know the vehicle’s name from commercials where Hamsters dressed like teenagers dance around. I put a hand on Izzy’s arm and squeeze, not wanting a head on collision minus a seatbelt. She spins the knob and the car turns sideways, tires screeching. Once stopped, she pulls the shifter into neutral, grinding the gears as she pushes it down with both hands.
“What gives?” I blurt out, but duck when a brick hits the car from above, tossed from a rooftop.
“Just hang on,” she orders, punching the gas with one arm over the seat.
We travel slowly at first as she lines the car up, but then she’s wide open in reverse leading up to the car recently pushed across the gap. In an odd moment all I hear is Shook Me All Night Long on the CD player as we hit the Kia in the passenger door and drive it 20 yards down the road. We wind up sideways having pushed the hamster mobile onto the curb, then into a telephone pole. The Kia flips when it hits the lip of the curb and is now roof to the pole, underside facing us through the tailgate.
The long window in back on the driver side blows out and showers the inside of the car with safety glass. Other than the windshield, the only windows left are the four manual roll ups in the doors and they are all rolled down. The car has stalled once again and Izzy cranks it over and over. The man at the barricade steps out and fires a shot that passes through the windowless back of our vehicle and strokes the underside of the Kia. I see the black smoke in the side mirror leaving me hopeful it will start.
I lean the shotgun out the window and fire, not really trying to hit him, but hoping he will dive for cover and he does. The car roars to life, blowing black smoke out both tail pipes.
“Go, go.” I shout over the engine noise.
“Yeah,” she smirks, turning the wheel and rolling the car slowly away from the accident scene.
The Kia we had pinned between our tailgate and the pole falls over the minute we move. The roof is bent in like the letter U on top. Several gunshots echo as we escape down the street, but none strike us. The wind howls through all open window frames, blowing glass shards out the back.
“How far to the highway?” she inquires.
“Two or three miles according to Donna.”
“How’s the back end looking,” she chuckles. “She’s still running straight, but there’s a tremor in the wheel now.”
Looking out the back it’s obvious there’s some damage. The sections that make up the fold-down seats are jumbled and out of their tracks. The rear tailgate is bent in, although I doubt you could crash through it given its thickness. The window frames are out of round, leaving little doubt the frame is tweaked.
“Looks good,” I assure her. “Nothing to worry about”.
She bobs her head, keeping her eyes on the road. We pass a half dozen cross streets, then come upon an overpass. The highway runs over this road with entrance and exit ramps on either side. Another barricade covers the ramp on our side. They are probably keeping anyone from getting off the highway here as well. This is a well-organized community. Izzy slows and looks over at me.
“Well navigator,” she sighs. “What say you now?”
“We are north of the highway so a left turn is west,” I think out loud. “Hang a left at the service road. It will run parallel to the highway.”
“Then what?”
“Drive till we get to another entrance.”
With no other plan to work with, she slows, cranking the wheel to the left. We skid, a maneuver I am used to by now, and pass within ten yards of the armed team manning the ramp. There are no radios so they have no idea who we might be. I wave as we pass, seeing the confusion in their blank stares. The service road weaves around as it follows the highway. At one time this was the main road no doubt. It’s quiet country today and we pass no houses for several miles.
“You do a lot of driving in the future,” I inquire, turning sideways in the seat and leaning my back on the door.
“No, electric cars are expensive. I mostly rode a bike.”
“You drive like a mad woman.”
“Out at the worksite, T-Buck and I race sometimes,” she admits. “It’s a big dust bowl with nothing for miles. We turned a few fast laps before I left. That’s why I had the keys to his Mercury.”
“What on Earth are you building out there?” I groan. “A big concrete bunker or what?”
“Oh, we got a few concrete buildings, but that’s not what they need.”
“Enlighten me?”
“Inversion Reactor,” she discloses, leaning her head down and widening her eyes as if this should mean something.
I shrug for lack of an answer.
“What the world needs now is power and lots of it,” she suggests, waving around at the wilderness. “They had it up and running a month ago, although only feeding at 5%. When it’s done it could power a dozen New York cities. He who has the electricity, controls the technology and he who controls that dictates the future.”
“Nice, what powers it?” I ask. “Uranium?”
“Lord no,” she balks, shaking her head. “I’m not a techie, but I’ve been out to the site quite a bit. It’s a huge depression in the ground like half a sphere. Then there’s a ball that sits inside and turns. The depression is covered in pure silver. It’s huge, nearly a hundred yards across.”
“But what powers it?”
“Sunlight I think,” she suggests, and then pauses, “and water. There’s plenty of radiation, but no plutonium or anything.”
“Virtually unlimited power,” I mutter. Why running at only five percent?”
“We can’t get enough water out there,” she groans. “Some ranchers are giving us fits over water rights. We tried trucking it in, but we need too much.”
“To
do what? Cool the Inversion thing?”
“Not really. To run an Inversion Reactor safely you need a man-made lake sitting next to it,” she explains and waits for me to nod acceptance, which I do. “The reactor is underground and if the cooling system fails, the lake empties into the ground and prevents a large explosion.”
“Interesting, so you can’t get your hands on enough water in the middle of dusty old Texas?”
“That’s correct.”
I ponder in silence for a bit and then we come upon an entrance ramp. We approach slowly, looking for barricades or traps, but see none. When we start up, there is a woman hiking back in our direction from the highway. As we pass, I recognize her.
“Yoga Pants,” I blurt out. “Stop the car.”
“Huh,” Izzy groans, hitting the brake and stopping us with a jerk.
“Yoga Pants,” I repeat, stepping out onto the entrance ramp and looking back.
She turns slowly, looking as if she might make a run for it. Then over a minute’s time she begins wagging a finger at me. Izzy climbs out on her side and a smile breaks across her face.
“You clowns,” Yoga Pants shouts. “Thanks for nothing yesterday.”
“Sorry about that,” I offer, walking in her direction. “Can we give you a lift now?”
“Hold on Romeo,” Izzy orders. “Who said we are picking up strays?”
“If this is some sort of three-way thing, then I’m not into it,” Yoga Pants mutters, half joking, half not.
“How did you get away from your fan club?” Izzy smirks. “Your future looked grim in the truck as your prom dates drove by.”
“I think they were waiting to stop for the night before the real fun began,” she rolls her eyes and puts a finger down her mouth in a pretend barfing gesture.
Tourists of the Apocalypse Page 17