I slide my scuffed All Stars off Katherine’s dashboard. She shuffles into the driver’s seat, a huge gas station slushie in her left hand, spiked lemonade and Newport cigarettes in the right. She’s silent, seamlessly pouring one drink into the other, giving herself a light after moving one hand to the wheel. I sigh, hinting at a slight chuckle.
Even though I’m her best friend, I still can’t believe she’s thirty. I cross my arms. “You can’t drink while you’re driving,”
She shifts her janky pickup into reverse. “Big brother is out to get me for much worse.” Her shoulders fall. “That man inside did give me a weird look, Leslie. If this trucks bugged, better be safe than sorry.” She plops her drink in the cupholder.
“He looked 70-some. Didn’t he have glasses?”
“How do you know they weren’t the magnifying… no, x-ray type?”
I roll my eyes and raise my hand to my forehead. “If he’s a special forces soldier, maybe. Guess you never know.” I huff a laugh, signaling I only agree with about a fourth of her statement. About six hours lie ahead until we reach the Canadian border.
I flip through the conspiracy pamphlets sitting in the glove box. They’ve become less entertaining as the drive has drawn on. “How’ll we know Henry will give us a place to stay anyway?”
“He may be my ex-husband, but he’s the only other person who knows how much danger we’re in besides me.”
I look through a side squint at her. “He’s for sure the only person as sci-fi-oversuspicious as you are.”
The year 2000’s approach is the only thing nullifying Kat’s divorcee rage. Her overdramatized tangled ramblings about the “extreme Y2K incompliant technology crash and burn” have been off the wall enough to tempt even me to actually trust the government. The biggest real threat to Kat and me is the lack of Wal-Mart stock due to our town’s panic buying dilemma. Kathrine’s concerned the future lack of power will attract aliens. I just want some toilet paper. We’d both been planning to take a road trip anyway.
Kat turns down the Jewel lyrics booming from the radio and drones on. “The water will cease when the clock strikes. There’ll be mobs at the houses of those who saved up jugs. The national guard will have to fight em off. Or, perhaps, the extraterrestrial tv broadcasts at midnight will zombify the mass out of panic.” She says.
I grit my teeth. The atmosphere of our isolated adventure has sucked her ludicrous blubbering dry of any humor. “The whole populous will be watching for New Year’s, I guess.”
I reach for another one of the pamphlets, but a popping jostle thrusts the car forward. My chest crashes into the dated, useless seatbelt. Kat’s slushie spills, and she hunkers up against the steering wheel. “They’ve made interdimensional contact. This won’t be our getaway car for much longer, Leslie. They’ve got control, Leslie!”
Jumps and bumps continue under both of our peeling leather seats. “You’re still driving, woman. Steer.”
“I should’ve installed an ejection seat here—”
I throw my arm to the dashboard to force myself still. “Drive, Kathrine. There’s another station up ahead. Pull over there.”
The truck’s bucking and backfiring refuses to quit while Kat forces the wheel into the squatty little gas shop. She double parks our bug-out-bunker-on-wheels wannabe right near the door.
I relax my hands on my knees.“Letting this thing rest might just fix whatever that was. Maybe they have a phone inside. We could call Henry,” I say.
Kathrine’s now on her last cigarette. “Alright, but you better zip it about our route to anyone inside.”
I try to walk through the gas stations doors calmy enough to contradict Kats sneaky demeanor. I gesture to the haggard woman behind the counter. “Do you have a phone, maim?”
“Phones down.”
Kat flinches. “It’s starting early, Leslie. Taking away power to charge their super solar brainwashers.”
My eyebrows fall, while hers rise. Kathrine jumps behind me, ensuring no eye contact with the slightly unapproachable backlands granny. I stomp my left foot into a pivot, and whip around to face her. “Why does everything have to be a put-up scheme with you? I have half a mind to take those keys. I’d cover more ground alone.”
Kat fists her hands onto her hips. “My best friend would never say that.”
“Well, maybe I——”
The register woman bops the counter bell. “Looks like something needs fixing.”
I cock an eyebrow. “What?”
“That truck. Made a cacophony your whole way in here. If you get back in your car, I’ll take a look for free.” She waddles toward the doors.
I exhale. “Yeah, that. Sure.” I motion my head to the entrance. “You heard the woman. Let’s go.”
Kat follows me, shivering in her own paranoia and anger, eyes darting as we buckle in again. She pops our hood for the granny. We sit in silence, but the next half hour ticks by slower than our entire impulsive venture has. I scan Kat in her scrunched-up position. A worm of guilt buries itself in me. I’m waiting for Kathrine to apologize, so why do I feel at fault?
I pick up her slushie. “You still want this?”
Her voice cracks. “Guess so, if you think big brother’s nothin’ to worry about.”
I place it back in the cupholder. “Nothing? Trust me, they’re everything to worry about.”
“You really think so?”
I look her in the eye. “Obviously. I’m sorry.” I smile, remembering why I’m here in the first place.
A knock on the window startles us both. I gasp, but it was the backlands granny again. “Trucks good now.”
We give her the midwestern nod, and back out. The truck starts up just fine. “You think she gave us a weird look?” I ask.
“Pupils looked lizard-like, unreal—”
“Don’t push it,” I chuckle again, staring out onto the open road. Pretty sure there wasn’t much wrong with the truck in the first place.
| Kira Mata is a fifteen year old Torah-believing Mexican-American author whose writing has focused on eclectic and strangely original flash fiction since the age of 12. Initially specializing in odd short stories and controversial poetry, she has further developed her likeness of the unordinary by organizing haphazard and irregular or jarring themes into legible creative prose. Her fiction lives on a spectrum of haunting yet plausible tragedies, and semi-humorous unorthodox dramas. Aside from her identity as an author, her practiced artistry extends her labels to also include photographer, Illustrator, portraitist, watercolorist, graphic designer, and (arguably, the most fun) character designer. Her stories will surely send you on a rollercoaster, or at least, leave that funny feeling in your stomach. But, although some areas of Kira’s literature may be a little too descriptive, the romance never will be! |