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

as she
tilted her head down so she could look at me over her hideous
designer shades.
    “Why are you looking at me, this is your car.”
    “Well...sometimes they accept trade on other payment
plans.”
    I knew she was joking because we just got done stumbling on, and
putting an end to, an underage sex traffic ring being run right under
the nose of everyone in our town.
    “Ha ha. That's not how I roll.” It was true, though
I'd been propositioned almost every time I'd gone to get fuel since I
started delivering freight with the Prairie Express. It made me
uncomfortable every single time, too. “Maybe you have some
wares you'd like to show the boys?”
    Oh yeah, almost all the fuel truck drivers were men. I think they
picked the craziest of the lot because they were such high value
targets for bandits.
    “Tsk tsk, Perth, I'm the driver. You're the co-pilot. You
have to help me , not the other way around. Now get out there
and shake your moneymaker.”
    She was sniggering, but it made me mad. Instead of complying, I
reached into her cargo area behind our seats to see what I could find
for trade. We came to a rough stop by the truck.
    “Oh no. You're not taking my good stuff.”
    I could imagine all sorts of “good stuff” back there.
I'd seen her transfer all the crap from the back of her other car to this
Death-black police Mustang, including the mysterious suitcase she'd gotten from the now-deceased professor. I know I saw bottles of
liquor. She also had the oversized sniper rifle, though I came around
to our need to keep that.
    We were still arguing with varying degrees of seriousness when a
kid knocked on Jo's window. We both jumped, but with amazing speed
she pulled a pistol from somewhere on her, and pointed it at her
window. The boy held up his hands, looking truly frightened.
    When the threat was identified as harmless, Jo put the weapon back
into a holster she'd had hidden inside the waistband of her pants.
She didn't make an effort to hide it when she put it back.
    “See?” I like to be prepared out here. That's lesson
1. Always be prepared.
    “Like a Boy Scout,” I said. I'd learned about Boy
Scouts from my dad. He was fond of his time with that group, and
still recited their mottos, grails, or whatever. I remember nothing
of it, except “Be Prepared.” He always said that.
    Jo opened her door.
    “Sorry, we thought you were a bad guy,” she nodded to the boy. “Where's
the OO?”
    “M-me. I'm the own-ner and operator.”
    Jo froze while holding her door wide open. I couldn't see her face
from inside the car, but I suspected she must have a look of
surprise. The kid couldn't be a day over thirteen.
    “You drive this thing?” Her tone was skeptical.
    “Yes. I'm tall.”
    He was tall for his age, I gave him that. But he had no business
hauling god-knows-how-many tons of explosive fuel around.
    After a long hesitation, she leaned all the way back inside the
cockpit to whisper to me.
    “I guess you're off the hook for a trade.” She winked
at me, then pulled out the basketball and a bottle of hooch from her
trash heap of a back seat. Unlike most of our cars, the police
cruiser still had the original seats. Probably so they could haul in
prisoners.
    Jo went to talk to the curly-haired boy while I sat and waited. I
looked at the bobblehead dog sitting on the center console. The one
she thinks I talk to as if it were my dad. I knew better. My real dad
usually sat in the passenger seat, though now I was in his spot. He'd
get it back the day I got my car back out on the highway. Right now I
was Jo's co-pilot while I learned the ropes.
    I tilted my head back and rested. I didn't need to look outside to
know what was going on. The boy would accept Jo's trade, then he'd
use the big red canisters to transfer fuel from his supply to Jo's
gas tank.
    I woke up and we were already moving.
    “How long was I out?” It was early evening.
    “Not long. We have a new mission. You excited?”
    “Does a chicken lay