Post Apocalyptic Ponies: Revolutions Per Mile, Book 1 by E.E. Isherwood Page B
Authors: E.E. Isherwood
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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.
Jake's
friend
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
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.
Jake's
friend
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
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