Pitch

But this story isn’t about me. This story is about them. The Drinkers.

No one knows where they came from. Not exactly. Our government blamed the terrorists. The terrorists blamed the government. The government blamed the Jesus freaks. The Jesus freaks blamed the sinners. The sinners blamed the hippies. The hippies blamed the owners of gas guzzling SUVs. The owners of gas guzzling SUVs didn’t blame anyone due to the fact that they were the first to die. Turns out gas guzzling SUVs can’t go very far before they run out of gas. Go figure.

Personally, I am of the opinion that the Drinkers have always been here. Lurking in the shadows. Biding their time. Waiting for just the right moment to strike.

Curiously enough, they decided on a Tuesday in the middle of August to destroy mankind. Just a normal day like any other. No holiday to speak of. Nothing to make the date significant. At least not then. Now we call it Death Day, but before that was just plain old Tuesday, the seventeenth of August.

I wish I could say I was doing something life changing on the day the world came crashing down. Saving a life. Coming up with a cure for cancer. Rescuing a cat from a tree. Instead I was stealing a car.

“Lola, are you sure you want to do this?” Travis, my best friend and reluctant partner in crime, peeked over the top of the dumpster we were huddled behind and ducked back down. “I think it’s a bad idea.”

I glanced at him sideways. Tall and thin with bright red hair, brown eyes, and crooked teeth Travis hadn’t exactly won the genetics lottery. He was a geek of the first order, but he was my geek and so I tolerated his chicken shit ways. Most of the time.

“Don’t be a p-wussy,” I said, amending my word choice at the last minute. Travis was wound up so tight that any cursing would send him right over the edge. I reached across the gravel between us and patted his hand reassuringly. “It will be fine. It’s not as if we’re taking the car anywhere. We’re just starting it.”

“But why?” he said miserably.

“Because we can.” It was my new mantra for everything. Why steal one of my dad’s cigarettes and smoke it out behind the apartment even though it made me sick? Because I can. Why toilet paper Missy the cheerleader’s house even though we used to be best friends in the fifth grade? Because I can. Why make out with bad boy Everett James in the boy’s locker room at school even though he sucked at kissing and tried to feel up my boobs? Because I can.

“Come on,” I said, grabbing Travis’s arm and hauling him to his feet. “We have to go now, before the street lights kick on.”

The car I had decided to hot wire was located on a quiet suburban street ten blocks away from my suck ass apartment complex. Here the sidewalks were litter free and every lawn in front of the copy cat houses was mowed to perfection. Even the garbage bin we were hiding behind smelled nice. Like Chinese food and Febreze. I took a deep sniff as we slowly edged out to the street and my empty stomach growled in reply.

“Shhh!” Travis hissed.

“I can’t help it if I’m starving.”

“What! We just ate, like, half an hour ago.”

“I didn’t eat that much,” I protested.

“You had two cheeseburgers, an extra large fry, and a milkshake!”

I elbowed him in the ribs. “What are you, the food police? You know I have a fast metabolism.”

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘pig’ before he clamped his mouth shut. I let the insult pass. I have plenty of problems, but body image isn’t one of them. I am more than content with my height to weight ratio. I’ve always been able to eat whatever I wanted without having to worry about adding extra pounds. Just lucky, I guess. That’s me. Queen of Luck.

Pulling my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans I consulted it one last time. It was surprisingly easy to find out how to hot wire a car on the internet. One site even had step by step instructions complete with pictures. “You have the screw driver and wire strippers?” I asked Travis. He reached behind him to pat the orange backpack he had slung over both shoulders. “Okay,” I said, cracking my knuckles. “Let’s do this.”

Two weeks ago we had picked out the car. It belonged to a man who lived in the third house down on the left, a split level rancher with scary little garden gnomes scattered all over the lawn. According to his mailbox his name was Mr. Livingston. He drove a 2003 black Toyota Corolla. According to Kelly Blue Book it got thirty five miles to the gallon and was a top safety pick. Whatever the hell that meant.

Side by side Travis and I walked down the sidewalk, trying our best to look like two regular teenagers out for a stroll at eight thirty on a Tuesday night. From somewhere across the street a dog was barking. A woman yelled and the dog shut up. Halfway to Mr. Livingston’s driveway a car pulled up behind us. I felt Travis tense and tightened my grip on his arm. The car’s lights flashed as it swung wide into the other lane and shot past, tires squealing.

“Jackass,” I said.

“Do you think they know what we’re doing?” Travis asked nervously. The poor guy was already sweating bullets. I squeezed his arm.

“Calm down. This will be fun.”

“Fun?” he squeaked. “You think stealing a car is fun?”

I sighed. “Need I remind you that you agreed to this over a month ago? And besides, we’re not stealing. We’re just… starting. It’s not like we’re going to drive it anywhere.” Probably not, I added silently.

“What if we get caught?”

“Then I’ll take the all the blame, just like I told you yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. You know Travis if you didn’t want to come you didn’t have to. I’m not twisting your arm or anything.”

“Uh,” he said. “You kind of are.”

I looked down to where my fingers were making little red marks on his skin and immediately let go. “Oh. Sorry.”

He rubbed his arm and managed a weak smile. “It’s okay. A little nervous too, huh?”

“I’m not nervous,” I scoffed. “This is going to be easy.”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone sitting in jail said too.”

I shot him The Look. He made The Face but stopped talking. We walked right past Mr. Livingston’s driveway, just like we planned, and went to the next street up before we turned around and walked back down. Two teenagers. Out for a stroll. Dressed all in black. Nothing suspicious here.

The Toyota was sitting right in the middle of the short, slightly sloped driveway. I slinked up to the driver’s side and Travis hovered just over my right shoulder, his breath hot on my neck.

“Okay,” I said, mostly to myself. “Okay. First step is to get into the car without setting off the alarm. Travis, hand me the wedge and the coat hanger.” I held out my hand expectantly. Flexed my fingers. “Travis? Travis!”

“I don’t think it’s locked,” he whispered. “The little nub is up.”

“Of course it’s locked. What idiot doesn’t lock their car?”

“We’re not on the West side, Lola. No one locks their cars here.”

I clenched my teeth and counted to three. “Travis, just give me the damn wedge and -”

Instead Travis reached past me and opened the door. His teeth flashed white in the encroaching darkness. “See?” he said triumphantly. “Told you.”