Free Slow Burn (Book 7): City of Stin by Bobby Adair Page A

Internet said this thing will do over 170.”
    I laughed and had to take care to quiet myself quickly. “There’s no need for us to ever go that fast. So, we won’t.”
    Bracing himself in his seat, Murphy said, “But don’t you just want to see what it feels like?”
    “You mean right before we run into a road jammed with abandoned cars?” I asked. “Or right before we hit some shit in the road that blows a tire and we lose control and roll the car like thirty-seven times? I don’t think so.”
    Murphy sighed. “You sound like my mom.”
    “We just need to be able to drive faster than the Whites can run,” I told him. “That’s it. Besides, going slow reduces our wind resistance and will extend our range. That’ll probably be the most important thing to us, going the maximum number of miles on a charge.”
    “Shut up, Professor,” Murphy told me. “Let’s see if this thing will move.”
    “Okay, get out and unplug the car.”
    Murphy made his way to the back of the car, removed the plug, then got back in.
    Seeing that I had a good ten feet between the front bumper and the garage door, I put the car in gear, or whatever passes for that in an electric car since they’ve got no transmission. At least I assumed this one was like a Tesla in that respect. In theory, it had a simple electric motor with an axle running through it. To go faster, you just increased the voltage. Easy-peasy, in theory.
    There were some unexplained switches, buttons, and a dial on the console behind the shifter, and on the shifter itself the letters usually there to indicate D for drive, P for park, R for reverse, instead spelled out “O SHIT.”
    Murphy and I looked at that. Neither of us had any guesses. Oh, well.
    I tentatively pressed the accelerator and the car rolled forward on a carpet of utterly silent magic.
    Murphy laughed out loud.
    “Dude,” I scolded, pointing at the insulated garage door. “If any Whites are out there they’ll hear you.”
    Murphy shrugged. “Fuck ‘em. This thing is as quiet as a ghost. I love it. If we take this thing out after dark and use our night vision goggles, the Whites will never even know we were there. This is the ticket, man. No more scrounging around for Humvees with no keys that shitheads steal from you the first time you look the other way.”
    With two stolen already, I couldn’t help but laugh at that. I jingled the keys dangling from the ignition switch, which on this Mustang was a two-position on/off switch. “We’ll need to check around the shop and see if we can find another set so we both have one.” I turned the key to the off position, then got out of the car. Murphy did the same.
    Examining the vulnerable windows on the Mustang and looking at the sleek lines of sheet metal on the hood and front fenders, I said, “You know, just in case, we should weld some kind of metal cattle guard across the grill.”
    “A brush guard?” Murphy laughed. “You mean a zombie guard.”
    “Yeah, whatever.” I walked toward some long metal tubes and pieces of angle iron by the far wall. “Maybe we should also attach some strips over the windshield to keep bodies from going through. You know, in case we have to run them down while we’re going pretty fast. And on the side windows too so they can’t get in.”
    “Man,” said Murphy, shaking his head. “You make it sound like welding some extra metal on is as easy as gluing a model airplane together.”
    I looked at him with raised eyebrows. “It’s not?”
    He shook his head.
    I spotted some kind of big blue welding machine by the stacks of metal. “Really? I mean I’ve seen ‘em do it on TV. You just hook up the electric parts and stick the metal together. Sparks fly. It fuses. Right?”
    “Seriously?”
    Yes, I was serious. “It looks easy on TV. Didn’t you ever watch that Gas Monkey Garage show? Those guys made some really cool shit.”
    “Sometimes you can be such a dumbass.” Murphy shook his head.