Free Post Apocalyptic Ponies: Revolutions Per Mile, Book 1 by E.E. Isherwood Page A

I think she kept that big rifle
around for sentimental reasons. It was on my list to ask her about
it.
    It made me happy to be in the saddle with Jo, even if I didn't
much care for the interior of her new car. It was like taking Death's
horse and riding it in the summer parade with big happy flags hanging
off the sides. It felt wrong. But, out there, only horsepower
mattered.
    I also wasn't comforted by the presence of the black suitcase she
wouldn't let me near. She'd tossed it in the far rear with a knowing
look that said, “don't touch.” But, she also made a show
of ignoring the odds and ends—including a brown paper bag—I
threw in there. I guess the professor was right, we were all looking
for escape.
    Later, on our way back to Hays, I marveled at how fast she bounced
back. She had a smile that couldn't be washed off. “I know we
just scored this amazing car, but you look happier than you should
for a couple house fires and busting a sex slave sting.”
    “Why not? I'm the happiest and luckiest gal down here in the
pony pastures right now. I've got my bad ass ride, I've got a gal who
knows north from south and can fire the fifty, and I took four
assholes off the road. Plus, well, all I'll say is that I finally
feel like I know where I'm going in this world.”
    Her smile was infectious. I didn't correct her that I'd never
actually fired “the fifty.”
    I pulled out the small bobblehead dog I'd ripped off the
dashboard of my IROC back at the fire. I held it out to show her.
“Mind if he rides with us?”
    “Is this your dad?”
    “What?”
    “You know, you said you were looking for your dad—back
at the fire. You thought he'd gotten injured in the wreck.”
    It all clicked.
    “Yes! I talk to this like he's my dad. It sounds stupid, I
know, but—”
    “No, not at all. I get it. Put him up there. He'll liven
this place up.”
    I plopped him on his butt right at the top of the center console.
The little golden retriever started to bob and weave with the road
below us. I fell back into my seat, feeling better at the whole turn
of events.
    “Girl, we've got the wind at our backs, the big city ahead
of us, and more horsepower than two girls need. You ready to ride in
the fast lane?”
    “Show me the way.”
    The bobblehead dog nodded at me.
    “Thanks, Dad.”
    ###

    On the next few pages, please enjoy a snippet from book 2 of the Revolutions Per Mile series.

Post
Apocalyptic Mustangs
    [This is the first chapter from Post Apocalyptic Mustangs:
Revolutions Per Mile, Book 2 ]
    The fuel tanker was pretty typical. It was a probably less than
half full—they seldom top off because of the trouble driving
them here—so figure 4000 gallons. In the Old World I would
never have noticed trucks like that delivering their precious cargo
to my local gas station even if I was parked next to it. I
just didn't care.
    Out there it stood out like Thomas the Train chuffing through
Strawberry Shortcake's village. That's because it was sitting on a
gravel road under the wide open sky of central Kansas prairie rather than dropping fuel in the city.
    My childhood television viewing sometimes bleeds through...
    “This one's an official tanker. We're good,” Jo told me as we
pulled up. There was a significant black market for fuel, though quality varied. Finding an officially recognized carrier helped.
    Fuel was a dangerous business. Up north, where we got our gasoline, people
literally killed to get it. That's what we called the Northern Run.
It went from Hays up to somewhere in North Dakota. I'd never been
there, so I didn't know. Only the older boys and a few insane girls
drove on that route. However, down in the south—the pony
pastures—fuel trucks had a much easier time. The drivers were
usually greeted with food, supplies, and other goods for trade,
rather than bullets or the mercenary's knife.
    For us, after a day of hard driving, we needed a full tank. That
meant trade.
    “What do we have to trade, today?” she asked