Bob crawled out from car and began trudging back down the steep hill. “I don’t suppose one of you fuckers want to volunteer to take me down there, do you?” he asked the line of cars. None stepped out of line. Apparently, they’d all been in the military at some point in their mechanical lives. “That’s what I figured.”
As the sun rose, the tall trees ensured there was no breeze. Bob suddenly felt very warm, the thick paste forming in his mouth making his tongue feel three sizes larger. He could feel his feet dragging along the dusty road, and although he was still checking door handles, he had long since given up hope.
He remembered reading an old western book where a fella had got caught in the desert and his mouth had gotten so dry… The fellow had bitten his tongue to force his mouth to water. Bob tried it and cursed the writer of the book for being a damned liar. All he got was a bit tongue, and, he was almost certain, a bug in his mouth from having his tongue stuck out. And the worst part was, if it was a bug, he couldn’t work up any spit to get rid of it. Whatever the gritty bit was, it would just have to stay trapped to the sticky stuff until he could find real water to rinse his mouth.
Bob paused on more than one occasion when he thought he heard something in the woods. He’d listen intently for a bit until he was certain that nothing was moving, then trudge on again. More than once, he heard gunshots in the distance. Once he thought that maybe they were firing at him, but no puffs of dust around him assured him he wasn’t the intended target.
It seemed to take forever before he came to the rolled pickup that caused him to have to backtrack. He stood and looked at the truck for a moment, wishing he could roll the damned thing back over and use it. He could see the keys right there in the ignition. So what if the truck was bent like a pretzel. He was almost certain it would start. It had keys…why wouldn’t it? With a muttered curse and a slow kick to the tailgate, Bob trudged past it and continued his journey. He checked doors and sunroofs, tapped windows and rear doors of SUVs. Eventually, he came to a minivan, and, without thinking, he pulled the door handle and it popped open as he continued staggering by.
Bob paused and turned his head slightly. Was he seeing things in his exhausted state? He stared at the door, slightly ajar. Nope. It was open. He turned back to the van and pulled the door open even wider. It actually felt cooler inside. He noted that the car was sitting in the shade, whereas he had been walking in the sun.
Duh.
Bob chuckled slightly to himself and slid open the side door. He rifled through the interior and didn’t find anything promising. “Son of a…,” he began, then paused. A glimpse of white plastic in the rear of the minivan stopped him. “What is this?” he asked himself as he climbed onto the backseat, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. Bob pulled the ice chest closer to him and felt a thrill as he realized there was something in it!
He flipped the lid up and…Glory Be! Tears tried to run down his cheek, but his eyes couldn’t really form them. There, floating in a slurry of mostly melted ice, sat sodas, an unopened package of bologna, a bottle of mustard, and a soggy loaf of bread.
Bob shuffled around to the rear of the minivan and opened the rear hatch. He sat down heavily in the back and turned the ice chest toward him. Pulling a small chunk of ice, he sucked on it as he popped open a lemon lime soda and drank greedily. It was so cold it gave him a brain freeze.
It hurt so good.
Bob was nearly giddy as he pulled the partially soggy loaf of bread from the cooler and began building a very basic, but quite awesome sandwich.
As he sat in the back of the van eating, he glanced around the interior of the car. If this thing came standard with a machine gun and a spare set of keys, he’d think he had died and gone to heaven.
Bob couldn’t find the machine gun anywhere. He did, however, find a set of keys, but none that fit the van. Probably to an office or an apartment somewhere. He continued to dig and found the tire tool. It was light, had an almost pointed end and a large lug wrench on the other. Handy defensive tool. As long as the other person you were going against didn’t have a gun. Or a knife. Or a crossbow. Or hell…a baseball bat. Bob shrugged. It beat having his dick in his hand, and that was all he had before he found the tire tool. He wasn’t going to bitch.
He dug around a little bit more and pulled out a Dora backpack. He stared at it a little bit before shaking his head and shoving it full of sodas and the bologna. He crammed as much of the dry bread as he could fit into it and slung it over his shoulder. “Say map!” he chuckled as he stepped away from the van. He stopped and stared at his reflection in the tinted side window of the van. “Damn, Bob…you’re losing your mind,” he muttered. “But you do look good in a Dora pack.” He tapped the window with the tire tool in salute to himself and trudged off.
“Time to make some soldiers pay.”
“What the hell is he doing out there?” Hatcher said as he continued to steal glances out the window.
“Hatcher?” Candy whispered from the rear of the center. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s on some kind of phone.” Hatcher continued staring
