Post Apocalyptic Ponies: Revolutions Per Mile, Book 1 (7 page)

That got me going. Jo put her trust in me to take her car, her
gun, and hold her life in my hands. While part of my brain wanted to
feel overwhelmed and go find a rock to crawl under, another part came
alive at the understanding someone was counting on me.

Yes, the life of a courier is all about people counting on you to
be where you said you were going to be. But delivering hydraulic
fittings to a sprinkler system is a far cry from trying to save a
friend from power-mad ex-police thugs.

I was in sixth gear and moving along, but I had to slow down for
traffic inside Coldwater. Another courier—I recognized his
older Mustang GT because he painted the thing sky blue—pulled
out in front of me was still taking up both lanes of traffic just
outside of town. It wasn't uncommon, especially with newer drivers,
to be more or less oblivious of what's behind them while driving; at
90 he probably figured no one was going to pass him.

I downshifted and the engine howled, then I mashed the gas pedal
as I came up behind him. I took the opposite lane and passed him with
a foot to spare like he was stopped. His old Mustang was fast, but it
had no hope of catching me, even if he wanted to.

I opened it up and threw off all my personal safeties. I kept the
pedal on the floor and didn't let up as it the speedometer ran out of
numbers.

“K-Bear, what if there's rocks or debris on the road?”

“Then I die.”

“What if there's an animal or person in the road?”

“Then we both die.”

Dad was back in the passenger seat. He wore one of his goofy
racing t-shirts. I leaned over because of my terminal curiosity. As I
suspected, his shirt showed a pickup truck with a donkey or something
in the back and a long-legged woman standing next to it with the
saying “Haul Ass” plastered on it.

“You could have just asked.”

“No, Dad, some things you just have to see for yourself.”
I laughed despite myself.

The speedometer was hovering just off the numbers. They stopped at
160. I literally had no idea how fast I was going. The engine
screamed at me with high RPM's but it was less stressed than I was.

I saw the cars ahead of me. Jo had slowed down, or the other
Mustang was faster. Either way, the pair were very close to each
other. I remembered my own run-in this morning—and guessed
they'd be less hesitant to use their nudge maneuver on a vehicle from
their own stable.

She wasn't able to bob and weave, not at such speeds, but she was
tapping her brakes to get the other car to back off. I was less than
a quarter mile behind.

And closing.

I felt the pull of the front end. The weight of the car itself. I
felt that dangerous flutter in my tummy as I careened toward the
trailing police car. I could just run into it and end the whole
pursuit. End it all.

“Koala? You in there?”

I ignored him.

I had closed half the distance. Still I was overtaking them at
speed.

“I'm so proud of you. What you've become out here. After all
that we've been through.”

With a glance—it was all I could spare—I replied in
haste. “That's it? You aren't going to try to stop me?”

He laughed. “You always did what you wanted. I loved that
about you as much as your mom hated it.”

That did it. I downshifted and stood on the brakes. I bled off
enough kinetic energy that when I hit the back of their car it was
only a love tap. Enough to get their attention—and mine—but
not enough to send us both to our deaths.

Now, with enemies in front and behind, they had to know they were
in trouble.

At least, that was my hope. The police driver moved all the way
over into the left lane, giving me a clear look at the man in the
passenger seat. He had spun around so he was leaning up against the
dashboard. He was hunched down in the tight space. His window came
down and papers flew wildly in his cabin. I struck me as funny.

I must have smiled despite myself, because the man smiled, too.
Then he pulled out his pistol and aimed.

I jerked the steering wheel. I intended to jump behind the police
car so the bastard couldn't shoot me without blowing out his rear
window, but—and here's something that I hate to admit—my
inexperience behind the wheel of the powerful Mustang caught up with
me.

I managed to not get shot, but I was less adept at making high
speed lane changes. Instead of smartly moving from the right lane to
the left, my rear end broke loose and soon it was in front of me. My
car entered a flat spin.

My world became a blur as I lost all my speed doing sideways
loop-the-loops, all the while hoping I stayed on the pavement. I kept
on the brakes, mindful that a better driver could possibly know how
to fix this. When I stopped, I burst into tears.

I was also facing the wrong way.

I'd let myself get distracted.

The one time someone counted on me to be there for them, I spun
out in defeat.

I raged. I banged the steering wheel like a teen girl with a
father who turned my date away at the door—true story. A dozen
stories like that one surged through my veins as the anger surged,
then broke. I'd give anything to experience just one of them again.

I gave myself sixty seconds, then I forced myself to pull it
together.

The car had died, but that was about it. Through the tears, I
pushed the button and got things going again. I spun him around—I
was going to re-name him Penn until told not to; I listened for my
father.

Nothing.

“Well then, we have an understanding
about a boy
.”
I said out loud.

Nothing.

I rolled with it.

With both my arm wraps—I covered my arms no matter what
season, don't ask—I wiped my eyes before starting into the
gears again.

At top speed I knew I could catch them, but it took me much longer
this time. When I finally caught up I knew why. Jo had opened her
Mustang up, too. She had reached the magical speed where it became
too dangerous for either car to maneuver to run the other off the
road. I stayed safely behind, looking at my options.

Jo's CB radio sat snug against the center console. I could see she
used hers about as much as I did. But maybe the police radio would
pick up if I called for her.

I turned it to channel 9, not know if it mattered. “Jo. You
up there?”

A man's voice jumped on. “Who is this? You are in serious
trouble for interfering with law enforcement officers and being an
accomplice to theft of police property.”

I so badly wanted to jump on and point out he wasn't really “the
police,” but was instead a usurper wearing the costume of a
bygone organization of honorable men and women.

“Probably not a good idea.”

“No, Dad, even I knew that.” I couldn't help but laugh
at the audacity.

“I hear ya, Perth. Remember how many rounds were in each of
my mags? Subtract seven and go to that channel now.”

“How many rounds?” How the hell should I know. She
showed me the box-things and had me carry them. But how many bullets
were in each one. I knew she said it, there were two boxes, she
called them magazines, but—

Ten! She said they were ten-round magazines.

I skipped down six channels and waited to see if I heard anything.
I finally called out.

“Jo?”

She shot back. “Yes! They scan all the frequencies, but we
don't have to make it easy. I have an idea. In sixty seconds go to
the channel with double the number of letters as the person you
described riding in your car with you this morning. And we can't
wreck these cars!”

“She remembered me, how sweet.”

I looked at my dad. “Dad, this is serious. Can't you help me
with this?”

“Well I could help you, but what fun would that be?”

He smiled, though his eyes conveyed sadness. I wasn't able to
really study them as I could do if he was across the table from me.
Back in the day I could read him like a book. Now, I had to watch the
road.

What
would
she do?

I remained far enough away they couldn't easily shoot at me again,
but there were no margins of error at those speeds. Whatever she was
going to do, the potential was there for all of us to end up in fiery
wrecks.

As if to test this theory, the road gently curved to the left. It
was a ninety-degree turn, but was designed to be taken at 65 miles
per hour, not 165. I watched as Jo entered the turn first, slowing
but not by much. The other car backed off just a little bit more,
then entered the turn behind her. Jo was being reckless, or
desperate.

I switched to channel 6, then waited a suitable time.

“I'm here Jo.”

“Go to the weather station lady. Set up Jake's friend.”

She said no more.

“Roger.” I'd said it almost as a question.

I decelerated. We'd already passed the professor's turnoff miles
behind us. If she wanted me to go there, I could only assume she'd go
there, too. I watched with sadness as the pair of cars sped off into
the distance. In moments, they were gone.

I had many minutes of windshield time to think on her statement.
She'd called her car Jake, naming it after a boy—I wanted to
ask her about that sometime.

“But then who is Jake's friend,” my dad wondered.

I'd already figured it out.

I arrived at Professor Skellert's house and parked my car so it
was hidden behind her home. As I got out, she came wandering out onto
the back deck. She seemed...odd.

“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?