But I was mad.
The police cruiser seemed to drop back, perhaps surprised their move failed, but whatever the reason it was lucky for both our cars because I slammed on the brakes. My crew wouldn't be happy I used up so much rubber on a milk run, but I wasn't thinking past my trembling hands.
When I rolled to a stop, I was out and yelling at the police before they'd even stopped their car.
“Are you jackboots insane? What the F-Francine do you call that, numbnuts?” Yeah, I was thinking worse, but my dad was listening. He could cuss, but not his precious K-Bear.
Yelling at the police has always been a bad idea. It's even worse when the badge they're wearing isn't real. I was halfway to their car, and running out of my version of expletives, when I felt the wind and sensed the empty spaces from my feet to each horizon on the prairie as far as I could see. I was at the mercy of the armed men in the car—they were all men—and I was doing everything I could to get them to come down hard on me.
In another life I might have argued I was having a blonde moment, but I knew that would never pass muster with those guys. In fact, it might have had the opposite effect.
I stopped talking as the two men got out. For some reason they reveled in dressing all in black, probably to make themselves as scary as their cars. Each of them donned their black cowboy hats as they strode forward. Without the engine noise of their car, their boots clacked loudly on the hot asphalt.
Both of them were built like bricks. I briefly considered if I could outrun them, but another look around told me I could run ten miles and they'd just drive up to whatever road I finally made it to. There was nowhere to hide out here. That was another bad idea. Murphy finally found me, tripped me, and tossed me against this situation to see how I'd handle it. The letter “F” was hovering over my test paper.
I changed gears, hard. “Oh sorry about that! What seems to be the problem, officers?”
I could switch from bitch mode to charm mode on a dime, but I could tell it wasn't going to matter.
I took some steps backward as they silently approached. “I didn't see you guys back there, sorry.” I used my ditzy blonde voice—something I remembered from the TV shows I used to watch before the Great Power Down of the world—but the expressions of the two men didn't change at all.
“Step over to your car, miss. Spread your arms and legs.” The corner of the driver's mouth turned up, like he was in on a joke. His mustache twitched as if to get in on it, too.
My stomach swirled, and not in a good way. I was in more than trouble out here.
“I uh, why?” My charm gone, I began to stammer. It didn't stop until they grabbed me by my arms and dragged me bodily over to my car. They pushed me up against the white paint, and I looked in the rear window. Nothing back there could help me.
“You made us put you in danger, miss. You shouldn't have done that.” The other man spoke as the driver adjusted my hands where he wanted them.
I didn't dare repeat what I'd said while shouting, I prayed they didn't hear everything I'd said as they were pulling to a stop, but the fact is they endangered us both by trying that maneuver. I was willing to drive all the way home without incident. They wanted to play rough.
I gulped involuntarily.
With my hands and legs spread, it dawned on me I was at their mercy in every way. I felt the fear in my chest, but also pangs of sadness and grief. Life wasn't supposed to be like that. My dad was a police officer. It should have been an insanely expensive ticket, nothing more.
“Look at those long legs, boss. I think those could teach us a thing or two about fast drivin', don't ya think?”
I couldn't see either of them given my compromising stance, but I could sense the other man's eyes on me.
“Oh yeah Nicky, I think you're exactly right.”
Both men snickered.
“Sirs, I'm sorry. I'm running freight to captain Ross. He'll vouch for me.”
For the first time, they responded to me. “Ross, huh?” I hoped they realized I would be missed. “Why don't you show me what you're running for him?”
“I'm dead-heading back to Hays. I just left Wilmore. My hold is empty.”
Dammit! I did it again.
My mouth was always my worst enemy.
“Well,” he said with an exaggerated drawl, “mayhaps you can show me where you keep your cargo and I'll check if you hold is empty.” He pulled me off the car, then pushed me toward the trunk.
I could see how this was going to go down, and I couldn't stop the tears from coming.
As I stood over my own trunk and prepared to release the latch to lift it, I saw another vehicle arriving at high speed from the direction of Hays. I wasn't sure who it was, but both the officers stepped away from me; a glorious couple of steps.
I'd seen the car before—it was hard to hide a car in a town of a few thousand souls—but I'd never seen it up close. It was a Ford Mustang, new, but not quite as new as the pursuit police car behind me. It had a custom green sparkle paint job with shiny rims and a custom hood scoop.
I wasn't surprised to see a young girl behind the wheel. She killed her motor before she spoke, though I could hear her electric engine fan continue to spin.
“Hey Officer Nick. Hey Officer Taylor.” Her voice was friendly. Flirty. She was one of the older girls doing the east-west run. I didn't know her, but she sure as hell wasn't doing milk runs with a car like that.
“What brings you way out here? You're a long way from the highway.” He spoke in monotone. Not exactly unfriendly, but it had an edge. He didn't want her around, but couldn't tell her to leave.
I had no idea why. Nor did I care, as long as she stayed.
“Oh, I'm on official business. You need to frisk me?” I expected them to order her out of the car and soon we'd both be crying. Instead, she made a big show of noticing me. “What did this bitch do? If it's not too serious I could use her for an emergency haul as my second, if I can get her. I'd hate to go all the way back to town and have to ask for a replacement.” Then she looked at me, “You're Perth, right?”
I had no idea how she knew my name, but I nodded yes. The tears were frozen on my face. I hoped she saw them. I was screaming for help, though my body was rigid as ice.
“She was going too fast, right?” She laughed as if it was the funniest thing she could imagine. There was no speed limit, so speeding was impossible. “She's exactly what I need. Thanks for stopping her for me.”
She had an expectant look on her face.
Officer Nick got close to my ear to speak. I could see his face out of the corner of my eye, though I didn't turn his way. “Perth, huh? Got it.” He said it quietly, and then continued in a much louder voice, “You drive safe now, miss.” He finished his charade by tipping his hat to me.
I didn't dare look back at the cops, but their footsteps were enough of a relief. In a minute the deathly-looking black Mustang drifted by on the shoulder of the road. The crackle of tires on gravel was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard. The driver was behind his dark sunglasses but I could feel the eyes burning into me. My earlier brashness was a ghost, willing itself to stay invisible.
I could think of a lot of ways to die that didn't bother me in the least, but the torture they'd telegraphed to me was a new horror I didn't want to tempt again.
When the police cruiser returned to the pavement it accelerated away with a powerful roar of its top-of-the-line motor. The driver didn't peel out like you see in the movies—rubber is too precious for that—but they pushed the limit. Soon the sound of the beast faded even as they became a dot on the horizon.
I was left with my savior. With a big sniffle I tried to pull myself together, ready to give her a big hug and become fast friends; two things I otherwise would have driven far out of my way to avoid.
Instead, the girl got out of her car, walked up to me, and planted a big painful slap across my face.
They nicknamed you 'legs'
She stood close, though she was
almost a head shorter. She studied me like I was a lab rat.
The girl wore most of the typical driver's getup: cowboy boots, black leather pants, and something lightweight on top. Most girls wear tank tops or t-shirts, but she had on only a bikini top. It was red, white, and blue, like the old American flag. She had a black shirt wrapped around her waist. Her stringy dark hair was in a bob which framed her narrow face. She wore too much makeup, and while she was pretty, her brown eyes were hazy as if she too had been crying.
I waited for another slap. I deserved it, and I wanted the punishment as a reminder of how stupid I'd been.
“Perth, you are either the bravest, most crazy-stupid girl I've ever met, or you have a deathwish.” She laughed, and the relief in me wouldn't be contained. I leaned up against my car and began to cry.
“OK, not a deathwish. That's easy enough to come by out here...” She let it hang, though we both knew it was true.
“Don't they teach you about the cops down here in pony land? They did when I was here.”
I had so many questions, but I couldn't form the words over my violent sobs. I tried to keep them down—no one wants to cry in front of the older kids—but, well, I had no choice. I felt five years younger just then.
“You cry it out, I'm going to move my car or we might both end up in a fiery wreck if another hauler comes through while reading a book. I'll be right back.”
I watched her go back to her car. She wasn't much older than me, hell she could have been the same age for all I knew, but she had an air of sophistication about her. A confidence. That swagger came from driving on the dangerous roads up north, and living to brag about it.
Me? I fell to the pavement and sat with my back against my rear bumper. I was nearly cried out by the time she parked behind me—facing the other way—and walked up with a cigarette hanging from her mouth.
My eyes must have betrayed me. My dad's views were hard to erase.
She pulled it out and held it off to the side. “What? I'm eighteen. I can smoke, right?” She laughed as she re-affirmed the obvious fact there was no law out here.
I shrugged my shoulders. The more I thought about it, I really didn't care.
She put it back in her mouth and took a seat next to me. We both wore long pants—required to drive a car—so sitting on the hot pavement wasn't an issue. “My name's Jocelyn, but you can call me Jo.”
“Hi Jo.” I reached to shake the hand she offered, then she sat back and took a deep drag. “How do you know my name?”
“I probably shouldn't tell you this, but a lot of the garages keep lists of drivers they want to recruit after you've done the time on the milk routes. A few have pictures, too.” She chuckled as she let out a cough of smoke. “They nicknamed you 'legs,' which makes you popular with the boys.” Another deep drag. “Naturally I'm jealous.” She pointed to her legs, the shortness evident next to mine.
I continued, as if I didn't hear anything about nicknames or photographs. “Assuming I want to move up.” I was being silly, though she couldn't have known it. Many of the young drivers stayed in the safety of the farmlands. Nothing was certain anymore, but you could be pretty sure you'd have more close scrapes up on the interstate or, god forbid, up in the oil fields. But I wanted more than this. I wanted a faster car, bigger roads, and longer straightaways.
She laughed a knowing laugh. “Well, I happen to know you're a liar, Perth, my friend. Someone playing it safe would not have tried to outrun the flying monkeys.”
We're in Kansas. The people here try to tie in the Wizard of Oz to every damned thing. The flying monkeys from that movie serve as the resident bad guys in our local Oz. A shiver passed through my bones after my run-in with said monkeys.
“I had a blonde moment.” She, unlike the officers, understood.
“Next time, pull over, play dumb, let them pick apart your car. It's not like you're running contraband—” she turned to me and hesitated for ten lab-rat withering seconds, before leaning back against the bumper next to me.
We sat together in silence for many minutes while she finished her cigarette. My tears had dried in the hot, dry wind. The sun was nearly overhead. A hundred yards up the blacktop a tumbleweed lazily crossed from one side to the other.
Finally, after a final puff and toss of the butt, Jo spoke. “I'm heading south. If you got the gas I really could use your help with something. Might help get you noticed by them boys up in the big leagues.”
She'd said it matter-of-factly, but the possibility was tantalizing. She was offering a job and I was on someone's list, no matter what they called me. The thought of getting to drive somewhere exciting was suddenly much more real than it was before I got pulled over.
With as little enthusiasm as I could squeeze into my reply, I said, “Why not.”
On my feet, she grabbed my arm before I could head for my cockpit. “Wait. There's something else. Have you ever seen the KHP down in these parts?”
My dad always said I looked ugly when I put my mind to thinking on something. It was our joke. He'd never say I was ugly, but he had a point on this issue. My face would scrunch up and my eyeballs would always look upward as if the answer was on my eyebrows. I knew I was making that face now.
I couldn't say I'd ever seen the highway patrol south of the town. In fact I only knew of them personally from seeing them drive around the town itself, though I knew they ran east and west and often accompanied the oil convoys up to the Nebraska line.
I shook my head no.
“Well that explains why you failed your first pullover test. But why are there here, do you think?”
There were few laws anymore. When the lights went out, so too did 99% of the penal code. Some of the biblical codes persisted since religion ran strong in these parts but even Thou Shalt Not Murder has enough nuance to be a slippy slope. Not that I'd ever seen a murder, though I'd heard about many.
That's why the new version of the KHP mainly focused on keeping order out on the highway. There the rules were much clearer. They catch you, they take something from you. Get into an accident, they take something from you. You die, well, you get the picture.
Every once in a grand while they would be around when you needed them to help fight off marauders or pull you out of a ditch. After taking something from you.
The fact that they were down in the bread basket of Hays did not bring warm feelings to my soul.
But Jo saw the dumb look on my face. “Hey, don't bust a nut over it. You have nine lives apparently. Today's your lucky day!”
She released me and we both walked to our cars. I tossed my jacket between the seat, keeping it close. Despite everything, I felt the thrill in my blood as I fired up my engine. I was back in my element.
My dad said nothing. I could tell he wasn't happy.
Where's the fire?
My '97 was no match for Jo's screamin' Mustang. Besides being twenty years newer, it had an engine so large it literally stuck out of the hood. If she was being pursued by the police, I imagined she could give them all they could handle. The sun reflected off her custom paint and it almost made me cry to believe I'd someday be driving a car like hers.
I was thankful she didn't try to ditch me. The roads were so long and straight out here she could be over the horizon before I could downshift. It was juvenile to think she'd do it, but I wasn't the most popular kid back in school. I was always on the lookout for someone laughing at my expense.
A slight exaggeration, no doubt, but her car was fast.
I trailed along for many miles, drifting in and out as we coasted along. Actually we were doing 90, but the landscape was so barren it was hard to gauge speed. She was on cruise control, though I hated to use it. I wanted to keep control of my car every second...
I was in my head when she threw on the brakes. I eased down and pulled up next to her, my window already down.
She wore a ridiculous orange pair of designer sunglasses, though she didn't seem troubled by them. Her smile was gone when she
turned to me. “You see that?” She pointed ahead.
In the distance, toward the patch of irrigated land we call the Water Wheels, I saw a thin ribbon of smoke rising into the sky. Fire was a nightmare almost anywhere outside of Hays because there were no longer any fire departments. Mostly anyone who saw the smoke was—if they felt like it—encouraged to bring a bucket and hope some water was nearby. Many times fires satiated themselves until extinction.
“Funny, don't ya think? Police never show up down here, and when they do there's a fire?”
I would have never made the connection.
“Let's check it out.” She held up a black pistol as she pulled away, perhaps to reassure me. It had the opposite effect, since I didn't have anything more dangerous than my fingernails on me. I reached into the rear floorboard area for my little toolbox. A screwdriver was better than nothing. As I held it and then set it on the passenger seat next to me, I thought about my personal safety in a way that, until today, had been lacking.
Even the end of the world wasn't as threatening and scary for me as the two oversized jerks in the black Mustang. Yet, perhaps I was being unfair. Back then I was younger, and the threats were probably all around me—I was just too naive to see them.
“Well, I see them now,” I thought.
I sped up to catch Jo. She had moved up through the gears and pushed her pony hard as she raced to the fire. I tried to think of all the little emergencies I'd witnessed over the years, including a few fires, though I was ashamed to admit I always let myself be the bystander. This was the first time I was heading for trouble.
I glanced at the wraps on my arm as I held the wheel, then steadied my car over the yellow dashed line down the middle of the road. While it cost me gas to catch up, I had plenty left from my easy day so far. And, as I expected, she kept her speed low enough I could sneak in behind her and draft along.
Post Apocalyptic Ponies: Revolutions Per Mile, Book 1 Page 2
