Free Our Home is Nowhere (The Borrowed Land, Book 1) by Luke Prochnow Page A

through here was before the war. And I ain’t seen apple pie for a long, long time.’ He stretched out a hand to Joe. ‘Name’s Dick.’
    ‘Joe.’
    ‘What’d you think of my blues?’
    Joe shuffled his feet over the dirt-covered floor and eyed Dick’s guitar. ‘It was great. They don’t play music like that on the radio.’
    ‘Sure as hell don’t. Now they got all sorts of noise pouring through. Rather listen to static. So, you’re needin’ some gas.’ Dick went to the window and scrubbed his hand over the glass so he could see the parking lot. ‘Nice bike.’
    He motioned towards the black tarp. ‘Let’s go outside. Too damn muggy in here.’
    Outside wasn’t much better. The temperature seemed to be rising by the minute, and the flies launched at them with the intensity of starving carnivores.
    Dick led the way to Joe’s bike and stooped to look it over. He looked up from the wheels. ‘Fine piece of work you got here. Where you headin’?’
    ‘Slushland.’
    The wind picked up, carrying with it the smell of rotten flesh from somewhere along the highway. Joe scratched below his nose, trying to ignore the stench.
    ‘What the hell is there for ya?’
    ‘I read about a job opening as a mechanic and thought I’d try my luck.’
    Dick went from pump to pump, sniffing each for some remnants of gasoline. He shook his head. ‘You gotta be brave or just plain stupid to willingly strike out for Slushland, job or not. The old manager of this place, he was the latter and he was dead within a week of livin’ there.’ Dick slapped Joe on the back as he made his way to the station. ‘But you look like a tough kid. You’ll last longer I’m sure.’
    Joe knew he wasn’t stupid. He had no unrealistic expectations about Slushland. He’d read plenty of newspapers, most he’d picked out of the trash; Slushland was a topic of discussion in at least one article per week. The homeless, who they called Slummers, were constantly touched upon, and so was the rise of the Guttermen, a group that had taken to the sewers some years after the war.
    Slushland’s legendary poverty was another common subject in the papers. But Joe was quite accustomed to hearing about deprived territories. Hell Paso, being so close to the Mexican border, had been ripped in half after the war. Joe had been part of the rebuilding process, sometimes going with as little as seven meals a week. He was used to sacrificing worldly wants when it came to obtaining worldly needs, like a roof over his head and a cup of water, however filthy.
    Dick pulled up a flimsy garage door to reveal a beaten car standing lopsided on broken shocks. A workbench crowded with unused tools sat beside the car, along with a flat tire and a stack of tattered comics with sun-faded covers. Joe noticed a pale pink smear on the floor behind the car that looked like it had been scrubbed multiple times.
    ‘This is Betty,’ Dick said. ‘And don’t get to laughin’. I’m sure you got a name for your bike out there. Betty died on me year before last, and I ain’t much good with tools. I was born with a green-thumb, not an oily one.’
    ‘Why are you introducing me to Betty?’
    ‘I’ve got some gas stockpiled,’ Dick explained. ‘Enough to get you to Slushland.’
    ‘So what do you need from me?’ Joe asked, already having an idea of the deal about to be struck. He’d learned in Hell Paso that mechanics were as sought after as doctors when it came to bartering services. Almost everyone had a broken-down vehicle, and they thought the key to their new fortune lay in the revival of that auto. On many occasions, Joe had been happy to trade a small repair for a meal, cigarettes, or a couple beers.
    ‘Instead of buyin’ it, how would you feel about a nice, clean trade. You get Betty runnin’ again and I fill up your tank.’
    ‘Let me take a look at her. You mind?’
    ‘Go right ahead.’
    Joe popped the hood, wiping the sweat out of his eyes, and propped it up with