“And they say sharing what we got with sick people and old people is why we were facin’ extinction. If you ask me, it was from assholes like this taking all the damn resources for themselves.” Quint clicks off his flashlight and tosses it back into the glove box. “I saw on TV that one percent of the world’s population owns ninety-nine percent of the wealth. If anything goes against nature, it’s that shit.”
“You’re right.” I nod, trying to keep my eyes on the road instead of the mansion my mama and daddy helped pay for with their hard-earned money. “I remember watchin’ an episode of Hoarders once where they said that no other species on Earth hoards like humans do. I mean, animals will store food for winter or whatever, but they never take more than they actually need. Not like us.”
By the time we get to the end of the property and pass the fully illuminated tennis court, I’m convinced that Governor Beauregard Steele’s house is more than anybody actually needs.
“Turn left onto Northside Drive,” the GPS lady says.
“How much longer?” Lamar whines from the backseat.
I glance at the glowing screen in the dashboard. “That’s weird.”
“What?”
“It says we’re only nine miles away, but …”
“Ten hours?” Lamar yells, his face between Quint and me as he reads the dash for himself.
I assume it’s a mistake until I come around a curve and have to jerk the wheel to avoid hitting a stopped car. The truck bounces as I careen over the curb and onto the grass, slamming on the brakes and coming to a stop inches away from a telephone pole.
Lamar flies into the dashboard and lands in Quint’s lap. “What the hell, Rain?”
“Look!” I point through my broken window at the sea of parked cars stretching all the way down Northside Drive. At first, I assume there’s just a bad wreck up ahead that never got cleared, but then I hear the sound of bass in the distance.
And screaming.
And gunshots.
The streetlights are still working, but that’s more than I can say for the businesses lining the road. Smashed windows, busted neon signs … the bank has an actual car sticking out the side of it.
“We still have nine miles to go?” Quint asks.
“Uh-huh.”
“There is heavier than expected traffic up ahead,” the GPS lady announces.
“Yeah, no shit,” Lamar grunts as he peels himself off the dash.
“I have an idea.” I flip on the high beams and decide to try to drive down the side of the road. There are a few cars and mangled, twisted bumpers blocking the sidewalk, but I think I have just enough space to maneuver around them in the truck.
“Rain, are you sure we should go this way?” Quint asks.
The br-r-r-r-r-ap of a machine gun in the distance answers him with a resounding no.
“This is how the GPS said to go,” I snap. “You got any better ideas?”
Quint shuts his mouth, and we creep alongside the road in silence, the sound of thumping hip-hop and excitement and fear and desperation growing louder with every passing second.
“Where is everybody?” Lamar asks, securely buckled in the backseat this time.
“I think we’re about to find out.”
We creep over the top of a hill, and the scene laid out before us looks like an anthill after it’s been stepped on. There are people everywhere—fighting in the street, having sex in the street, standing on cars while watching other people fight and have sex in the street, shooting up in doorways, firing guns into the air, and walking around with homemade signs advertising whatever weapons, drugs, sex acts, or snacks they’re selling.
I see two guys holding leashes and fistfuls of dollar bills while their pit bulls maul each other.
I see a guy pushing a grocery cart full of colorful bongs.
I see a man holding a machine gun, guarding a naked woman dancing on the corner in clear six-inch heels.
Then, I see a body lying facedown on the sidewalk in my headlights, and I have to slam on the brakes.
“Dude, are you crazy? You can’t stop here,” Lamar whines.
“I can’t run her over either!”
“That bitch is already dead!”
“What if she isn’t?”
“Maybe somebody should go check,” Quint offers.
“One, two, three—”
“Not it!” We all shout in unison.
“Ahh! That was you, big bro! Go do it!”
“Whatever! We all said it at the same time!”
“Nuh-uh. You said it late.”
“Ugh!” I groan. “I’ll do it, okay?” I go to pull the gun out of my waistband when the sound of motorcycle engines perks my ears.
I lift my head and stare through the windshield as a group of neon-orange skeletons on motorcycles rushes down the street toward us like an approaching tidal wave. They crisscross between the parked cars, bashing them with baseball bats and shooting out their windshields with wolf-like howls.
Br-r-r-r-r-r-ap!
One of them mows down a group of semiconscious junkies leaning against a dumpster with a machine gun that’s been mounted to the front of his motorcycle. Their bodies jerk and fall to the ground as screams fill the air. The folks on the street scatter like rats, diving for the alleys and huddling in vacant doorways.
“What the hell are y’all waitin’ for? Let’s go!” Lamar yells, pushing on the back of his brother’s seat.
I reach out to grab my door handle when I notice the neon-orange bones painted on my sleeve.
“No,” I mumble, letting go of the door.
“Rain!”
“Just … just shut up, okay?” I wave Quint off while keeping my eyes locked on the leader of the pack. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.
“Fuck this!” Quint goes to open his door, but my hand shoots out and grabs a fistful of his T-shirt.
“The Bony kid said to tell ’em we’re from Pritchard Park, remember? Maybe they can help us!”
Quint stares at me like I just sprouted a third eye. “Are you fuckin’ crazy?”
“You’re crazy if you think they aren’t gonna shoot you the second you jump outta this truck!” I yell over the sound of approaching motorcycles and gunfire and howling.
It’s so
