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

his arm. He leaned over the engine covered in cobwebs and the remains of some small animal’s nest. He’d worked with cars like this before and was confident he could figure out the problem. He only worried that Dick might not have all the parts required for the repair. A car could always be jury-rigged, but Joe preferred his repairs to last for the long haul. With the proper tools, Betty wouldn’t take much longer than thirty minutes to fix, but Dick’s resources were slim and Joe had to work around that.
    ‘What d’you think?’ Dick asked.
    Joe lowered the hood and pressed it firmly back into place. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
     
    .........
     
    An hour and a half later, Joe mounted his motorcycle. When he started her up, the needle on the gas gauge swung around violently to settle on ‘Full’. Joe smiled and patted the side of the bike.
    Dick stood beside Betty in the garage’s shade, admiring her beauty as she rumbled with newfound life. As Joe rode past him, with his full tank of gas and the three comic books that Dick had tossed into the deal at the last minute, he nodded at the old man. Dick reciprocated with a broad smile and a hearty wave.
    While Joe had been working on Betty, the idea had surfaced in his mind that he and Dick could become partners—turn the gas station into an auto shop for travelers clearing the gap between Hell Paso and Slushland, and all the other small towns in between. Dick could learn the trade easy enough with a teacher like Joe; they had most of the equipment that would be needed for basic fixes, and what they didn’t have could easily be picked up in nearby towns. But Joe’s daydream had come to an abrupt end when he remembered why he had abandoned his home: to get as far away from Terrance as he could; to make it impossible for anyone to find him. The winding streets of Slushland were a perfect spot for anyone to disappear.
    After driving several miles down the highway, Joe once again caught the scent of rotten flesh carried on the wind. He slowed down, drifting to the edge of the asphalt, and looked out at a field of dry soil and corn husks on the right. He could see a wooden sign sticking out of the soil in the middle of the field, tilting lopsidedly at the sky. He pulled off the highway and killed the engine, dismounting slowly and checking back the way he’d come. Dick’s gas station shimmered hazily on the horizon.
    He climbed the rickety fence that enclosed the field and made his way towards the sign, the putrid smell growing stronger the closer he got to it. Soon, the air became so rancid, he had to put his shirt over his nose and breathe in his own odor. He read the sign from a distance.
     
    HERE LIE THE UNBURIED DEAD CLAIMED BY WAR
     
    Gingerly he stepped forward, his shirt still tented over his nose, and looked into the massive pit. Bodies upon bodies crowded the immense, bottomless hole. Dirt had fallen from the edge of the pit, filling the gaps between corpses. It looked as if vultures had already had their way with them: many were missing eyes, ears, and noses. Blood dried long ago by the sun had crusted over the anemic bodies.
    Joe stumbled backwards, retching inside his shirt. The sign, baking beneath the sun, blared at him, demanding that he recognize these lonely souls. Joe backed away from the pit as quickly as he could, unable to take his eyes away from it, until he bumped into the wooden fence. Pulling his shirt down from his nose, he leapt the fence, started his bike back up, and tore away from the graveyard as if he’d been at the mouth of hell itself.

13
     
     
    Another twenty minutes passed beneath the blistering sun and Joe felt his fingers begin to slip off the handlebars. The highway had taken on a purplish, reddish hue, with waves of heat sizzling from the mangled road into the air. He licked his chapped lips, trying to summon moisture without success. Why hadn’t he asked Dick for water? It seemed so obvious to him now, but the thought