“Fifth.” Steph piped up, from the seat behind. “It’s my turn for shotgun, Mark.”
“You can’t wait until we stop?” Ginny suppressed the urge to rub at her temple or pinch the bridge of her nose to ward off a rising headache. God, please let us stop at a hotel tonight. I want a door I can close, and a mattress that isn’t made of foam. “Fine, just…be careful, for God’s sake.”
Traveller scrambled, his tail blurring, intent on herding Steph into the seat. She’d taken to sneaking him tiny bits of Slim Jim, which led to more bathroom stops, but all the gentle scolding in the world wouldn’t stop her dosing the dog with oversaturated pepperoni. He likes it, she’d say, her chin settling defiantly, and sneak him yet another.
He would be round as a pig soon, Ginny was sure. And the inevitable result of all that preserved grease hitting his stomach was going to be hideous. Maybe she could talk Juju into taking him for the next stretch. Steph settled into the passenger seat with a satisfied sigh and set about getting the dog settled.
Juju slowed, ahead. Ginny rubbed first at one eye, then the other. Another rest stop coming up. Juju hit his blinker, Ginny followed suit, and they crept along a slow-yourself-down stretch. She was faintly uneasy at disobeying the RV arrow-signs. It didn’t matter, the world had ended and traffic wasn’t a consideration, but still.
It irked her to break a law, even an inapplicable one.
This particular rest area was a lot more ramshackle than the last, and the parking lot was a broad expanse of weedy, cracked pavement without lines. Ginny hit the brakes a little harder than she meant to, and the RV rocked, protesting a little. “Oh, wow,” Steph said, softly.
“What?” Mark was suddenly there, leaning over Ginny’s shoulder to peer out the windshield. “Holy cow!”
“Get back in your seat!” Ginny snapped, and realized it was the same tone her mother used when either of her daughters did something potentially unsanitary and definitely unsafe. “And put your belt on!”
The lot wasn’t empty. A gigantic black and white truck with man-high tires and an RV just as shiny and new as their own sat right in front of the restrooms. Ginny could see at least two wide-bottomed men in camouflage pants and jackets standing at the rear of that monstrous truck. They wore matching camo baseball hats, too, and both had very businesslike, very ugly-looking rifles.
Ginny let the RV slow to an idle. Juju had stopped, the 4x4 pulling slightly to the right. Lee’s truck swung out and he goosed his accelerator, bringing his vehicle between the RV and the parked ones. Ginny’s heart leapt into her throat and stayed there.
Oh, fuck. I have no idea what to do.
The RV’s engine purred along, wheels slowing. Ginny glanced at the far end of the lot. The exit was there, partially blocked by a the wreck of a pearl-grey Subaru. Something about it bothered her, turned her stomach to mush and filled her chest with uneven, unsteady thumping.
The old song—should she stay, or should she go? It wasn’t just her. It was the kids in the car too. Bad apples, Ginny, remember?
She twisted the steering wheel. “Is your seatbelt on, Mark?”
“We’re not stopping?” He sounded much younger, the end of the question spiraling up into something perilously like a squeak.
“Is your seatbelt on?” She sounded like Lee, she realized, except without the drawl.
“Yes ma’am.” Mark’s voice cracked in the middle of the second word.
Steph clutched at Traveller, who whined uneasily. Ginny eased down on the gas, and the RV wallowed for the exit. The two armed men watched, neither of them moving, their rifles pointed loosely at the ground. Ginny’s palms were soaked, and her breath came high and fast. The world tried to shrink, and Steph let out a soft, strange sound as the RV straightened itself, drew forward—and the burned-out hulk of the battered Subaru, blocking the right half of the exit, came fully into view.
It was still smoking, and the only way past it was to scrape a concrete divider on the opposite side.
Ginny pressed down on the accelerator, and the men, their mouths dropping open, brought their guns up.
It happened so fast. Afterward, Ginny wasn’t quite sure of the exact timeframe, but she knew one thing: they shot at the RV, bullets pinging and popping over concrete, stitching a line awfully close to the right-side wheels. Steph cried out, and Mark swore with breathtaking creativity Ginny might have raised an eyebrow at if the world hadn’t narrowed to a pinhole and her foot stamped on the gas.
The tires barked, the engine gulped, and the RV lurched drunkenly as physics fought with all the different forces, came up with an answer, tossed it back, redid everything, and shoved the entire collection of V8! and LUXURY OUTDOOR LIVING! for the exit. The smoke from the torched grey Subaru thickened as they drew closer, and Mark whooped in a breath and yelled another string of colorful language. Traveller barked, Steph clutching the dog with hysterical strength, and Ginny’s brain struggled with gauging the room on the left side of the wreck. Glass glittered sharp on concrete, cheap diamonds, and she measured the distance again.
Oh, that’s not good, not good…
It was too late. She was committed now, and the RV had finally found its balance, potential energy transferred to kinetic, the tires chirping again and the engine making a deep-throated sound as gas flooded its factory-clean chambers.
Juju and Lee were both behind her. If she wrecked this giant piece of overpriced sleeps-six shit, they’d be oh God trapped, oh, God, the guns barked, safety glass shattered, and Steph outright howled, more from surprise than hurt. Or at least, so Ginny hoped as she hunched over the gigantic wheel, Steph folding over Traveller who thought this was all some sort of wonderful game, not even dimly understanding that deep shit had landed and the humans might not be able to fish themselves out, let alone him.
Metal crunched, the big blundering vehicle shouldering the wrecked Subaru aside with a deep, nasty sound, and Ginny heard someone whisper-chanting, “Please don’t pop a tire, please don’t pop a tire, God please God please don’t pop a tire—” She barely realized it was her own voice and the speedometer’s needle jerked, rising steadily. Wind whistled through broken windows, cold and bracing, and she didn’t dare look at the mirrors—were Juju and Lee still behind her? Oh, God.
The interstate ribboned in front of her, another tangle of suspiciously placed wrecked vehicles at the end of of the ramp, but she squeezed past those as well, more metal crunching. And it’s practically new, she moaned internally. Sorry, sorry, sorry…
Traveller wriggled and yelped in Steph’s clutching arms, and the RV lunged past the last obstacle. Mark kept cussing, hysteria rising under the words, and Ginny, her constricted lungs sucking frantically at enough air to keep her conscious, kept mashing the accelerator.
And hoping.
Momma Has To Eat
“Well damn it.” Ritchie slung his rifle and narrowed his baby blues, scratching at the back of one hand as soon as he had both free. He was shorter than his brother, but far more powerfully built. His love for processed sugar in all its forms no doubt helped. Couldn’t even hit a damn tire, Jack.”
His brother, scruffy blond almost-beard gleaming at the tips, considered the fleeing shapes for a long moment, finally taking his finger from the trigger. “They were already turning.” He enunciated each word crisply. Their cream-colored six-sleeper, parked a safe distance from the truck, rocked a little on its springs. Webs of dull grey duct tape reinforcing the windows were holding up just fine, thank goodness, especially with the sheets and blankets taped on the inside too. “I told you firing that wreck there was a bad idea.”
“We can move it. Better than havin to talk ’em up. I hate that.” Ritchie glanced nervously at the RV, digging in his jacket pocket for a smooshed Ding Dong and realizing he'd already eaten it It was his turn to go inside next, and if they’d managed to bag a few, it would’ve been sooner rather than later. “You think…” He shifted, shaking out his hand and rubbing his right boot-toe low on his left
calf, a holdover from childhood.
“I do, Rich. Leave that up to me.” A deep, guttural cough shook Jack’s entire body from surprisingly spindly knees to hard little beer gut and camo America's Great baseball cap. Red splotched his cheeks and his nose was full. Still, his own blue eyes were piercing-sharp, and narrowed. “You weren’t going to suggest we do something about Momma, now, were you?”
“No! Unless it’s feed her.” Rich stepped back in a hurry. “You’re the boss, Jackie.”
“Damn right.” Pickings got slim in town, that’s why they rolled out here. The most nerve-wracking bit was driving the big ol’ six-sleeper with Momma taped and tied; once she’d almost wriggled free on the interstate, and the last thing you wanted while you were piloting a big old bus was something mean careening around the inside. Plus, there was that grinding noise she made, deep in her chest. Like a purr, except not nearly as nice.
Jack would never admit he actually liked kittens. Not cats—those fuckers pissed ammonia on everything and swiped at you with their claws. They were only fit for drowning, but kittens were another ball of wax, as Momma used to say. He almost wished they didn’t grow up, the same way he wished Ritchie hadn’t. Things would be so much simpler if his baby brother was still a kid, instead of two pounds of idiot in a pound-and-a-half sack.
“You okay?” Ritchie gave him another one of those irritating sidelong looks. He’d been doing that a lot, lately, ever since Jack began coughing and blowing his nose. The entire world had gone wackadoo, Momma was Not Herself, as they said, and there was nothing on the radio.
Nothing at all.
“Just fine.” Jack finally slung his own rifle. They’d managed pretty consistently so far. Last time his brother had made trouble, refusing to shoot that one blonde cheerleader girl, and this time Ritchie’s bright idea of burning the Subaru blocking the exit had turned out half-baked. He wasn’t looking forward to dousing the wreck and winching it further into place, no sir.
Something would have to be done soon. Momma had to eat, after all.
Jack coughed again. His head hurt, and even though it was chilly enough to turn their breath into clouds sweat greased him all over. It was only a cold, he’d told Ritchie, not the bad flu that had done for Momma and every other blessed soul in Crampton, Kansas.
It was a good thing Ritchie was stupid enough to believe him.
To Be Continued…
STAY TUNED
Keep reading for a taste of Pocalypse Road, Season 3 of Roadtrip Z…
I Killed the Car
A brand-new, bullet-spattered RV rollicked down the freeway, swaying dangerously as it slalom-swerved past abandoned cars clotted near exits and onramps. A black 4x4 and a white and red Chevy truck followed in its wake, anxious herd dogs hanging back only because cutting in to slow their charge might lead to its foundering. Melting slush splashed from miraculously unharmed tires, and after a good fifteen miles of wild motion, the RV’s brake lights came on and stayed lit, ruby eyes in the glare of an early winter afternoon. Smoke and steam boiled from its front end, streaming along its brown and white sides.
That much mass was difficult to halt, but the RV was barely going at an aisle when it kissed the shattered edge of a jackknifed semi reclining across the heavy concrete divider. It jolted to a stop, and the hazard lights began to stutter. The sun slid behind a scrim of grey cloud, and the other two vehicles came to a cautious halt as well, both with plenty of room in front of them, their noses pointed unerringly for the clear lane heading east and slightly north.
“God damn it.” Juju Thurgood slammed the black 4x4’s door, all but vibrating with fury. “Look at this! Just look at this bullshit!” The four-by’s spare, held on its metal arm, was riddled. Juju flung his arms out, his pink-palmed hands knotted. “Fucking crackers!”
“You hit?” Lee barked, his window all the way down and a high blush on his stubbled cheeks. “Juju, you fuckin hit?”
That settled the man something wonderful. “No. Ain’t hit.” He glared, hazel eyes wide and wild but full of sense, and the pompom on his blue knit bap bobbed as he shook his head. “You?”
“Watch the road.” Being under fire again felt almost normal. Lee glanced back into the Chevy’s cab, and the bruised blond man huddled in the passenger seat glared at him, too. Idiot. “French, grab that first-aid kit under the seat.” He set off for the RV, steam and smoke boiling from its front end. Ginny had kept it floored for a good bit, slewing around abandoned cars whenever they appeared, showing a fair bit of fancy driving. She was probably in a state, and Lee’s shoulders were about to crawl up near his ears. He wasn’t breathing quite right, and he’d been swearing under his breath for at least five miles. That was probably why he felt like he couldn’t get a good lungful in. Probably why he was sweating, too, under every layer meant to conserve body heat.
What had tipped Ginny off and made her hit the gas away from the trap? Probably the still-smoking wreck blocking the rest stop exit. The murderous assholes had put it too far up the curve, it was plainly visible if you were in anything higher than a sedan. Lee hadn’t been sure she’d make it, once they started shootin; Brandon French was fucking useless, whimper-yelling in the passenger seat, without even the sense to return fire even if he’d had his damn empty carbine.
Miraculously, none of the tires on the assorted vehicles had blown. They were goddamn luckier than they had any right to be, every single mother’s child of them.
Lee skipped the regular door halfway down the white and brown RV, stalking for the front. The passenger window was broken into glittering chunks, and his guts seized up.
A bluetick coonhound was barking furiously. Lee grabbed for the passenger door’s handle. It was locked, and the slumped form in the seat was Steph, her changecolor hair free of its usual scrunchie and blowing every-which-way. “Steph.” He didn’t even sound like himself, it was a dry croak. “Steph Meacham, sit on up and unlock this.”
It just proved he was a real bastard. Because what he was thinking was, fine, let one of the kids get hit. Just not Ginny. Just let her be all right.
Steph twitched. She uncurled, slowly, and her big, haunted eyes peered over the windowsill at Lee. “Mr Quartine?” she whispered, a smattering of freckles glaring across her nose. “Is it…is it over?”
“Seems to be.” They could be comin after us, in that big old truck. If so, we’ve got a few minutes, but I don’t like our chances. Still, it was one thing to trap the unwary, and another thing to go after forewarned and possibly armed prey. Juju’s swearing drifted past, borne on a cold wind. “But we’ve got to move. You hit? Anyone in there hit?” Please, God. I don’t care what you have to do.
“G-Ginny…” Steph straightened further, turning in the seat, and Lee’s heart hit the bottom of his guts with a splash. Christ. No. Please, no.
“I’m all right,” he heard, from deeper in the RV. Hoarse, husky, and sweet. “Mark? Mark, say something?”
There was another mutter from inside—Mark Kasprak, proving he was still among the living. Lee hopped up on the runningboard, peering into the brand-new and now mangled RV.
Ginny Mills, deathly white, still clutched at the steering wheel. She stared at Lee like she didn’t recognize who the hell he was, her pupils wide and black. Her lips, slightly parted, were bloodless, and her black jacket almost swallowed her whole. Her chin trembled a little before she gulped in a shallow breath and her gaze snapped back forward, and he realized she was practically standing on the brakes and clutching at the emergency brake as well. The engine bumped and thumped, and more steam boiled free.
French banged on the door midway down the RV. Steph jumped, her pupils swelling, eating at her irises. Lee almost swore, swallowed it, and reached in to get the door unlocked. Traveller, yelping and yowling, was careening all over the inside. “Steph.” Gently, but firmly. “Let’s get the door open and that seatbelt off. Come on, now.”
“O-okay.” The girl fumbled at her belt catch, and Mark Kasprak peered around he
r, his eyes huge and the rest of him cheese-pale, dark hair standing up like it wanted to make its own break for freedom.
“What happened?” The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He looked scared enough to pass out.
We can chowder-to-cashew it later, kid. Lee settled on the most pressing question. “You hit?”
“I…I don’t think so.” Mark swallowed hard, again, and swayed, almost falling onto the center console. “What was that?”
“Someone who didn’t want to play nice.” Lee hopped down and wrenched the door open. Steph spilled out, clearly in one piece, and Traveller scrabbled right after her. “Shit.”
“Language,” Steph said faintly, and swayed. Lee propped her against the vehicle-side and was about to climb back in, but next came Mark, his hands trembling. Lee grabbed his elbow and helped him down. Back up on the running board again, almost barking his head a good one on the top of the doorway, he pitched forward and got his feet in. The dog was running loose, but right now Lee Quartine didn’t give a single damn about anything other than the woman in the driver’s seat.
“Ginny. Ginny.”
Slowly, dreamily, dark curls working free of her French braid, Ginny put the RV in park, set the emergency brake. Twisted the key, and the engine died with a thankful wheeze. Then, she stilled, staring out through the windshield. It was a wonder the vehicle had kept going as long as it did, there were bullet holes stitched along the side. More than likely at least one had tumbled into the engine, and that was enough to make Lee sweat.
Lucky, again. Goddamn lucky. Unless she was hit, and just didn’t know it. “Ginny.” He grabbed her shoulder. “Darlin, come on. We’ve got to move.”
That got her attention. “Move?” Her lips were downright chalky, and she didn’t even shiver at the chill coming through her own rolled-down window. Both were bad signs. “Oh. I…sorry, the car won’t…it’s not running well.”